This as Opposed to the World that once was.

My eyes grew like moving dunes into the exile of a Sinaitic sky, lept into the blue just as menorah candles and a nod to the home hearth or a light offered over to me from the Kahiri construction guy. I'm in a terrible fever, not noticing his hubbly-bubbly is coaled-up and our Egyptian fellow roasts his fish, shares a glistening onion moments before buried under some sweetly orange-illuminated brambles. This is my approach to something temporal if the complement vision in having been at the feet of an evinced antiquity. Directionless then so fed into Krishnamurti's Socratic "Truth is a pathless land" pronouncement, but I liked being roused to wonder, content within, that I haven't gone anywhere actually, still at the feet of giants. Just be humble before an experience of imagination's marriage with time, I think, but consider an anywhen's sabbatical as one's own mnemosyne decisor. Now I love me some Mumin expression; suras are a give and play in world news, products of knowledge, will have managed egoity with a plan of iconoclasm. Long over Jesus unblinding the ill-compassionate. Know better than to refute advice on cosmic initiations, because it is Wisdom to me and of the would-be Wise, that an expert on meditation makes healing definitely an education on the condominium between the inabsolute, something creative, and personhood (having humanity). But don't tell me my contract with good is spiritual and not religious. If you dig pop psychologies, have any ambitions to get out of the ways of yourself, or are certain to reflect in this musterion world deeply, even poignantly, then religion is a self-actualization effort. And spiritual.**************** Without a precedent in living another life, I find myself conjuring a place to jump from out of an interior ward subtlely where I'm wakened in the art of forgetting. Just by imagination I realize there's a Siamese cat possibly evident having seen it haunched up in its people's home window, mentioned as a rival cat (?) to our one-eyed Tiger cat or arising personality, terra-enthusiast, thus stalking the street over, kinda inventing the block in between me and my elementary school. Lived in my thinking now all these forty odd years just like the 7-11 at the top of our Quail Creek neighborhood, where I knew a gun battle would ensue, I was sure, whose shadow in fascinans would covet me in security but as prone observer, the one who got away. Tiger Red soda I knew could be retrieved there and it stained my lure in making a conscious map as most everyone is first apt to do at this developing age (psychologists record)--I'm five. Once I tried to hitch a ride from the guy driving his rather beaten icecream truck while he had been vending several houses up the hill from our somnolent domicile. The icecream dude was dirty and I thought too piteous, rarefied in the space people call their condition to decry nothing reducible to his libertine salutations of any illustration per everything liminal beyond the I & I encounter. My five year old comportment amounts to those ply encounters pulling someone outside that sense of solitarian continuity; I could take flight to the margins of social-living thinking I am too coarse to be understood. He said he wasn't aloud to take passengers, he could get in trouble: "Your folks wouldn't..." this and that, he says. Me asking him made me want to be intuitive about the world and the people in it; I was tremulously hopeful.

**************The lush trouble in being led to the corral of reification (by this thread) is that this untameable concept humbles and motiavtes me, demands new eyes. Out of some sense and pattern to a conscious crowd--being a product of many lives painting our condition--we are everyday people. I imagine a genius cue in our thoughts' ward that our families would have us appertain a belief in continuities. Relationships so swum us into the same sea, what magnetic forces illustrating sentience in its deepest reserve become the animate fact to even our minds never actually rallying to evince, rather passive in second sight, as if mind is wizened, slow in fidelities, but moves below it all from an athlete's courage. Everyone is a genius. After all the clamoring roads which chip away at our lives' megatransect in our simple nerves and sensory education, one reaches everyday in plain selves working with one and against better judgment their attention on physical success. Peter Rowan, a Bluegrass player, lyricked, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live." Mind and hearts in the tree of life bear fruit by the rivers of water, identity florid in resource and riddled through our individual reflections, we're changed licit in pursuance of blind pygmy islands after their flood of impermanence.************** To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this.**************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought.************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now can be celebrated beyond the hypostasis in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************I find an "out" feeling expansive as if to awaken in a snow-capped lair though rather somnolently seduced in I & I reserve, dreaming to stir in a dream having gotten up there impossibly deferent to any path. In some composite to the actionable state, electing actions to prepare the habituation in mountain's peak, I see the habit of trees coniferring in sweet pinion sap if only to freeze this purpose in perpetuality of fascinan's landscape. It gives me purpose with this sweet, kind chimera's license only to relent the clamor of instructions to arrive--no surprise--one is there before being there and now your gone inquiry to accept a mind character--the likeness subject to observable reality--is this tether of your would-be escape. Emplaced to my sides is a white smother of frozen ground over books exemplar to labyrinthine hands making spare synaptic gestures sometimes from elongated arms webbed to trunks of pure enervating world-maps, legs or feet reaching to reach or rather step-mogrify with diamond heels and magnify dreamy signs in flecks, wishfully within paces of what is opportune way over, far over in the present, other shore changing as you are from just the same splash off your own self-same clay definement.**************To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this. My translating face knows the whetstone and the pathos of the blade and is honed at once as a diamondlike ornamented chandelier. It glows in our foyer with unknowable bumps, blips, so I barely look, flicker past a warbly mirror ...embrase even cross anywhens with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree. I equine-lip and meet the fruit. The plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick (powdery bloom). Dreams behind the tower of music are hillocks of culture jettisoning an enlistment. Its sense readied nowhere before me, here but underneath, redolent to convince the dreamer of eternities so like Egyptian pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow. They act on the human heart as splendid as clay like its dust-pure heat complex lucidity, a color religiosus blessed of resignation. And woe stable community: the ancients knew several things and they endured; do they teach it? How did a civilization exist for 3000 years? Why won't the ancients rain down wisdom of prudent survival? Literalist avenues won't invent an alley toward laudable accretions of her neighbor and more inflating tears--one world of everyone saying it's all but done in banal deprecare sips of coffee, while all our Western Traditions, the big capitulations in triune ill-condolences are all eschatalogically stupid (end of days scenarios). Redeemed, mmm no, sought mercy, thought, well you know, the Wailers (Bob the Wailer) making room in a united suffering, sufferers nigh, Abdullahs or Obediahs, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in measurement of illusion toward new patterns of history, visual theaters, our reflections in the splendor of iconic maps.***************Breathing-in the creative or "black smoke" and watching it dance in the shadow of our thoughts, then exhaling the "white smoke" (Maitreya Buddhism) where suffusing curtains plaque onto our window to the world is the key to meditation: I'm saying your heart gotta love to live, depend on that. The vashtu discussant, pleaser of space, assigns one tone in the arising of negative thoughts, then skillful thoughts are marked as compassion apposite a willing meditation. First posturing that you may be in attention, eyes closed or opened. Second, breathe at slow paces while inwardly one senses the body taking over, welcomed in release just beyond the dream one doesn't want to leave blank the subtle tremor that escape is vital, could be soon. Breathing collaborates that we'd imagine our nature in responsum to senses cultivated through time, place and community, its composition. I'm mainly telling myself this, only that everyone's design on the little peace they deserve should proliferate, and into plain frustrations or worse, I know our meditation must ally.**************I inhale this clean institutional academia and social gospel, sitting and digging a book on rock & roll primacies, disco similarly, say the way Bob Marley could have alluded, the architecture to its inspirations etc so far, here in the foyer to one of the new BCTC facilities. Susie is asked to help photograph the young women's Be Bold conference, so I post up, watch the shrill exhortations of many, see others confer in the change they want to feel. I once had been jettisoned to these blinking buildings for six weeks back in 1993 restive over the funk in my worldview looking to be merely smudged on these inestimable walls whence Eastern State Hospital plies my vocabulary to be freed up in my own thoughts. Somewhere within probably 500 feet from this present perch today (then) I had lain on a library floor--irreconciled to the day room countdown to cigarette breaks--reading the only thing historical that they proffered inducing me to study which I dreamt in lush ambitions--picking up on analytical meditation beyond the doorless university in that kind of footfall--making me feel security now I couldn't have known then. Drown in supreme knowledge and meekly crawl to shores of new Wisdom with her esoteric survival. Kerouac quotes Yeats, "The best lack all conviction." Lacking nuance, institutional resource and advisement must ally to dreams seeding the manufacturing of motive. The one who knows can't speak, so conveyed by expression though they martyr founts of verbs awash, the ascendant feels glad to aerate as bubbles in bouncing rhythm with mystic music and its godly thing.***************I look on this world with these beat events because Mom made my eyes lepid cocoons in dreamstate, extricating the metamorphoses from them. I'm driving I think an '81 Ford F-150, black & red, shadowing Parkers Mill Rd out of whose lauded space mind-hand reaches for the glove box which helps me negotiate an answer there as in The Town and the City, Kerouac's first book, when one destined shrouded traveler sees his brother seek the bottle in that grappling move. Imagine Big Sur as dissipation also sourced in its starry-interior poesis and the coin of his woodsy realm--where he's falling out from behind his eyes--that reflections tear his flesh like bad music--though Jazz still has his propitiation in that sabbatical midnight sky. There is even a moment when in Mom's nature I see the impulse of good together just as I am her elaborated future, I am the purveyor to her chimera dancing around my home's nerve center, her teloi of cream & coffee, mornings ever-lastingly spare of those entangling days. The sculpter of my egoity as real bliss, like unknowably remote seasons upon a giant effortless inflation to the pleroma's parturient blue, she presented me with a conscience and I'm certain to doxologize without marionette moralisms if mnemosyne speaks.