Bob Marley's Father had his roots in the Jewish world to that of Syria.
What do we suppose in the expelled more contiguous communities with a sensitive West emerging from that part of the world?
Edward Said nurtures us in a fluid world of the Fertile Crescent with his Palestinian logue and composure from the hills covered in cedars in Lebanon to Jerusalem, his cosmogonic four corners; cedar trees whose scent clarifies us as it revokes animosities for libertine sake.
Ralph Nader's family comes from the Levant, might shine on our technocracy's identity crestfallen to something more iconoclast.
Frank Zappa. Playing his mystics in another Arabia, could plant the dreigh land of Americana, wary in service you better recognize.
The languages which first record human trends in our slavish crawling toward transformative thought and resource gathering would feed us the history appending our present to see them as this link of give and play with our stories and the healing in common by their incantation.
Get a Bop Gun o hoplites of the burgeoning warrior class.
Dance for Peace closer to home--breathe like you've done something to open your mind about the obvious threat of Global Climate Change--while taking care of the small things apposite possibly a reflection of self being implied by more creativity & philosophy in this hopefully developing core-culture.*************
Trump says hideous things about folks doing us wrong, and it's conceiveably wielding an axe into the climate of those powers, but about their creed wherein others suffer their shared deliberative irrealism by choice even in possible middling probities accepting the West or happenstance hopefully not disingenuous of progress and 'pon his American prescriptions of insensitivity. I'm asked to go along like we've never been colluding of any alternative.
Any dissonance to his project so compelling because he deprecates with such spite and leisure as we see base instincts erupt precisely from his rhetoric--please imagine young Muslims alighting with potential out of this pluralist Dream--has the F$&king ignorant stamp of some stupid jargon that somehow Democrats don't believe in American homeland security.
Plainly the Israelis for the most part reject Trump--read the uneducated Conservative trend thereso in contempt of Israel's understanding--in his thinking--so haughtily wishful--they'd concur with his menacing of say another billion of our shared world's Muslim population where one would still have to conflate their issuant wariness on security that another six-seven hundred million were the barbarians at the gates.
Which isn't the case till Trump sanctions a clash of civilizations with more hate speech.
************Nabokov would have called his small memoir Mnemosyne, Speak, though calls it Speak, Memory, which adduces anyone's expectation that memories are more a part of something rather cosmic in nature, those skies that shelter us in the reasoning of temporal spaces, and thus crowd consciousness which is all poured into the sea of those times teasing with sips by reaching back getting only tantalizing drops, barely cleaning our grappling hands of the present.
I like being reduced to memory too--that there is ground beneath my feet even without invisive content where I would pretend I've become full-up and immediate.
I imagine a person diseased through the effacement of the present linking up with the past. Here I'm allured into my playlist which is excellently sequenced: Temptation by Prince, The Sun by Burning Spear, Train to Skaville, the Ethiopians, some folky balalaika of the Little Odessa Soundtrack...
What do I do finding some avian bare arising in these thoughts' idea, leaving a strand of poignant and pleasing sense of merely what I'm listening to but then drawing a blank - I'd been exiled from a certain continuity, still thrumming in nice sounds, the thing (song currently cued) I'm familiar with, while forgetting what came just before or before that?
Knowing that I've forgotten brings me quite prostrate to the giant's feet of a Universal Theme. I think, well, my body isn't moving by enlistment to the change of bands and personalities streaming in their "black plastic speaking..." Lee Scratch Perry portrays, and so to imagine being on the flow and in the present I visualize, expect air, watch closed-in walls' disappearance, the art of forgetting that it redounds by illustrating any number of things otherly, that I'm not captured by a mind that is proscribed or chained by completion.
************It is the best counsel and a great poetic device reading the verily Socratic Krishnamurti, lifting up his otherwise sorta plain and tacked-on thinking to the patient scan of the reader who discovers that she or he has begun observing their own thought's flow with the metric of content that would only come from they themselves.
Krishnamurti suggests getting-beyond.
There is a more usual concern of this American saluting of low-brow liminal intellects slavering like the boredom evinced in their cultural project to the degree inwhich assuming a provincialism to this problem with the Other can't alloy with experts and textperts always ready and never heard warning of misapprehensions to that of the thugs that would gain control of the reins on our government.
Go beyond the sense that mostly the hawks on our security on either side realize the damnable problem--calling a spade a spade--of Literalism in Belief, that as Sam Harris notes, Guns are made precisely to kill people like Uday Hussein, and by that thinking name your Islamist henchmen, and yes I want them dead too.
But a Nazi like Trump who obviously runs around demonizing Hispanics, Black Americans and those young Muslims whose help in this Dream's Experiment we would enlist, makes it impossible to comprehend the implications and futility at the door of this American political conduct which I think will only turn our "sometimes" (more usually) fellows into evitable deniers if agressors against the plurality that most of us agree we're here to explain.
The daesh wayward want us to "reimagine" in all our howling machinations that the clash of civilizations would have us regard all Muslims as becoming our enemies. You're a fool if you're not getting beyond your own contrived cessation of humaneness over the barbarians at the gate.************In your beginning you thought there would always be the one thing and seeing you as part of the one thing, everybody else saw to it their conjurations of meaning were an apex and retiring same promise of reserve and perhaps not so much the subject you might confer to your looking-glass.
Monism is different than monotheism in that other gods are acknowledged as arising into the extension of authorial creative forces, though the standard that they have nothing to filtrate in terms of superlatives offered into the climate of that power illustrates the tenuous plateau of Belief as if there couldn't have been lush run-off ready to soak the proudland of standard-bearers.
Imagine your monist attachment to experience as the only way to reflect that you've entered the one door of what-is as you are life's first purveyor through its jamb, for every door opened would elicit beginnings seemingly with all things possible.
****************I get going in the day, see the conjoling project of talking heads in one space of attention in the horizon, then everything assumed about them splaying like my wakeful thoughts advancing from threads of halflight.
Get going though after glances have reabsorbed me into our bedroom in need of dust-removal, the sky beckoning and Susie shushes me saying to sleep-in.
So I do and hopeful some root to an observer unfettered would transfer this whiling away into the hot iceberg of anything else sees what hasn't been seen before in my thinking shores.
My mouldering pale wall, dreigh as inquiring eyes irreal answer out of that space in my room with the outside pine too close, so retaining moisture, I reckon it's a one time a year situation.
And the self-same ambition for improvement is this annual surmise that I'm back-away matriculator to somekind of concensus on everything I've imagined as the greenlight for reasons to deny the usual.
*************Seek self duty, instead, way receiver to an inventive Literalist's agon?
This one time look at those powers' icon, at the power affective in such swathes of common folk left to their ruins smeared and sneered with the same vile reactions sounding like varietals of social corruption, whose first book of passage is gathered in the footfall toward any other well of the blurry doctrinaire to that of our antagonists.
My ole friend who sat in on the dialects before Krishnamurti, says to me today, "Long-live the counter-culture."
Sabbatai Tsvi::
*********It is interesting to me and I wonder how reasonable a consideration that spirituality is always, my contention, a rational event, always.
The concept of spirituality the thoughtful may agree is illuminable--a new conversation's endurance in parsimony or a fool's trial--and can evoke words like "the numinous."
And thus episteme is immediately one shoe first waried like an availing concern on an enumerating scale justso in reflection it is ourselves of levities and anticipating defenselessness in extremis if we take back consciousness strung 'yon as the horizon.
That you append your conduct only to suggest the magnitude of a would-be escape or that final you are things like you plus a release.
You are ever the awe-cooled foot dawdler to an ocean's shore, there at the hint of what-is, but can't get in.
***************
************I listen to my voice sound out always a sense that you've spoken the words I feel.
I watch my feet imitate unknowing in sleepiness as if I walk out from the dream of a strange land.
And realize my thoughts because you're alive in the patina to my antique lure over nature.
Way over, way gone, the invisive emergence of the world defines my countenance.************ love this step to step's content of thought's dark sea.
Merely placating a gemstone's model of this mind made-up, that I'm gratified from anything consumate as a spark or usual suss out of this imagination, the glad next trace of light from the energy of consciousness must be a patient, secret blue idea-force, a victory.
************Nabokov would have called his small memoir Mnemosyne, Speak, though calls it Speak, Memory, which adduces anyone's expectation that memories are more a part of something rather cosmic in nature, those skies that shelter us in the reasoning of temporal spaces, and thus crowd consciousness which is all poured into the sea of those times teasing with sips by reaching back getting only tantalizing drops, barely cleaning our grappling hands of the present.
I like being reduced to memory too--that there is ground beneath my feet even without invisive content where I would pretend I've become full-up and immediate.
I imagine a person diseased through the effacement of the present linking up with the past. Here I'm allured into my playlist which is excellently sequenced: Temptation by Prince, The Sun by Burning Spear, Train to Skaville, the Ethiopians, some folky balalaika of the Little Odessa Soundtrack...
What do I do finding some avian bare arising in these thoughts' idea, leaving a strand of poignant and pleasing sense of merely what I'm listening to but then drawing a blank - I'd been exiled from a certain continuity, still thrumming in nice sounds, the thing (song currently cued) I'm familiar with, while forgetting what came just before or before that?
Knowing that I've forgotten brings me quite prostrate to the giant's feet of a Universal Theme. I think, well, my body isn't moving by enlistment to the change of bands and personalities streaming in their "black plastic speaking..." Lee Scratch Perry portrays, and so to imagine being on the flow and in the present I visualize, expect air, watch closed-in walls' disappearance, the art of forgetting that it redounds by illustrating any number of things otherly, that I'm not captured by a mind that is proscribed or chained by completion.
************It is the best counsel and a great poetic device reading the verily Socratic Krishnamurti, lifting up his otherwise sorta plain and tacked-on thinking to the patient scan of the reader who discovers that she or he has begun observing their own thought's flow with the metric of content that would only come from they themselves.
Krishnamurti suggests getting-beyond.
There is a more usual concern of this American saluting of low-brow liminal intellects slavering like the boredom evinced in their cultural project to the degree inwhich assuming a provincialism to this problem with the Other can't alloy with experts and textperts always ready and never heard warning of misapprehensions to that of the thugs that would gain control of the reins on our government.
Go beyond the sense that mostly the hawks on our security on either side realize the damnable problem--calling a spade a spade--of Literalism in Belief, that as Sam Harris notes, Guns are made precisely to kill people like Uday Hussein, and by that thinking name your Islamist henchmen, and yes I want them dead too.
But a Nazi like Trump who obviously runs around demonizing Hispanics, Black Americans and those young Muslims whose help in this Dream's Experiment we would enlist, makes it impossible to comprehend the implications and futility at the door of this American political conduct which I think will only turn our "sometimes" (more usually) fellows into evitable deniers if agressors against the plurality that most of us agree we're here to explain.
The daesh wayward want us to "reimagine" in all our howling machinations that the clash of civilizations would have us regard all Muslims as becoming our enemies. You're a fool if you're not getting beyond your own contrived cessation of humaneness over the barbarians at the gate.************In your beginning you thought there would always be the one thing and seeing you as part of the one thing, everybody else saw to it their conjurations of meaning were an apex and retiring same promise of reserve and perhaps not so much the subject you might confer to your looking-glass.
Monism is different than monotheism in that other gods are acknowledged as arising into the extension of authorial creative forces, though the standard that they have nothing to filtrate in terms of superlatives offered into the climate of that power illustrates the tenuous plateau of Belief as if there couldn't have been lush run-off ready to soak the proudland of standard-bearers.
Imagine your monist attachment to experience as the only way to reflect that you've entered the one door of what-is as you are life's first purveyor through its jamb, for every door opened would elicit beginnings seemingly with all things possible.
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