Kinnuyim, you mekkavanim.

People tell me I wash dishes excellently, not just to get out of doing them, but after the dish-, silver- and glassware mitigate whether a new meal is up for preparation, sitting there mood-operative illumining home sweet home. Susie and I alternate getting our domicile's things done. She's keen with the compliments and I couldn't do anything again merely for myself, which I imagine in something piercing memory like evaded killing-floors among sleepwalking chattle and a fenceless precinct to my wandering is just been opened. Some neat tea cup or probably Mom's little Pyrex casserole dish emerges and I almost conversate with it - then telling my spirit I'm not actually this dish as my mouth in little unsalient or diminutional movement mummers unknowable phrases, pebble upon my tongue is visualized and birds of distress get lifted. Arraying of Mom's grace certainly these shined-out pots and pans, cleaned and ready with tradition toward diet consciousness and annual recipes are the foods I consume with culture as its revenue.************I think sometimes one might see where no one is on this ride and transportation with us. But I wonder if like the blue slumber in Rimbaud's now evoked breach to the gate onto the starved geists merely our shadows found deserving to the cornucopia of an actionable state that that is not only the deep-aside, but we're becoming its agonists as we learn to reform before complacency and sleep.*********** I dig it now. I am what I've done: I bent it; interpreting my clay lopped and fecund. Like Marshall Arisman's buddha-dog person, made of door screen material introduced to crowds of Americana filing through as the Spiritual Player's concept of Escher's hand divining hand, then let it be funked. Chil'run finger and prod his Smithsonian addition, and the project only then lives up, lights-on the artist's project of his mouldering forms in self-being. It has recreated a vulnerable inherence to category of mind: I am mind of broken reasons for the Earth to accept my roots, as she accepts my roots.. ****

"We shall live again," she assents it's been proscribed. Living must promise the hope for mnemotechnical endurance, then the survivor lasts awhile in the flame of reason, imperative enough to flourish, as if to imagine an All-Answerable being, a Sinaitic acacia alighting the ground beneath its limbs with ant expectorate, a desert of few encounters, strange contours to resource & spiritual wayfarers, or imminence of monadism, hither manna, sugar. "Stretch out your arms... manna falls from heaven, ...the Most-I," cared for those with eyes clouded of wanderers' consciousness, Patti Smith might have seen to it what I had forgotten. And it is this Tree. Living to adduce the contract with Good is the Beauty in the harmonious yoke 'pon our feelings. My mind is the feather come pen lying on its beplumed pillow reception nightly with an inky foreground, "dip in!" she revels like tongues of thought painting the neonic edges to its next invention. ************

My eyes wander past the lesser spaces of lesser dialects than that of this hustle and bustle most of us attend to daily. In-between places neighborhood feral cats populate whose freedom from human touch illustrates my yard in stillness so compelling that I know sun-bathing or wrestling with sleep on proudland in this unusually warm Winter is yet another license as to imagine roaming under her skies. As a boy then young man, living with Mom and Dad, I sneaked out of the house once among handfuls of time taking to the street only when getting home I realized I had been locked out. A lair for overnight emerged in my thinking, a full moon of destiny blankets me in purple coolness. So I went into the garage to lay down with Ruebel, my dachshund, dreaming of his traipse through this living world, so diminutive to uncover his mask as a story's hero, so little asked of him, all I can rally behind was that he had carried something of a message from the dregs of an ancestry expressed out of his little soul, like our friend had been a daemon committed to the spiritual administrators promising our forebearance, that he would tell me just how. His water bowl looked enticing with glittering star shine, reminded me that Carlos Castaneda watched and hallucinated that a canine drinking its fill became neonic and fractalized as it portrayed its energy united with a watery paint of colors determining presence like a world anticipating each move, each gulp and slaver of refreshment. With moonlight's last gleam through the garage back window, I only felt release into its remote flourish, slept deeply after a cigarette ...felt I at least wanted to cry, so lucky being here, I thought, to accompany my dog's libertine wee hours, that they were mine too.*************My hippie anarchist friend and mentor for several years, while he fixed servers or web-hosted and I'd been the haulier of those computers and accessories, will have introduced Jiddu Krishamurti into my thinking while the both of us confer on Mesopotamian archaeologic and urban beginnings, that we would scrutinize those well-spring histories and doubt ourselves as thoughtfully fettered, respectively, trying to rearrange in rather Rimbaud's style to come to some meaning out from an exile of epistolary harmony. My chariot's referee on braking its egression before I'd gotten out of control said toward Krishnamurti's sorta chohan, Put the menu down, and just eat. A sum of his conversation will have come down to a simple prescription while attending to our plate of experience, that just anyone deals with the scrabble of his or her condition not any longer sometimes able to evade thought's condoling distraction, our goal on self-preservation is to stay in relationship. To the head of Sisyphean hillocks, at peak observation, the stone looks imperative to a dramatic fall, and as its purveyor we ask the question, does the will for survival explain this existential role as dreamers shaken from our chimeric garment, the night of our day's long end?*********** Kerouac relates that his body had taken form, that his mind will pass through. For rhythm in whatever is a sense that the surface of expression illustrates my Willful ways, his talk-talk unmesh a world of sounds arriving into something, as I understand the writer's sincerity, that only I would have said, assuming anyone ought to take up the task to mythologize self-being. I barely capture his impermanence poesis, above intro'd, and wish out of the same mind-sore like a fine mind, a flourishing hardly contained fuel of dreams, content to burn in cheek-cool skies. I said once, One moves into Consciousness, relationship, because outside of it, self-preservation remains unrecognizable in our thoughts' ward.************Bill Maher says, "Truth is dead because the internet killed it." So, this redounds with everyone digging that someone in his and her class identification--and consensus egoities--says as much about a would-be sensitive hearing as the next closest thing, the thing about it all, a classical illustration in being socialized. "Social Living is the best," lyrical and the truth of it, makes the intensity out of Reggae sound like the best way in getting full-up, Winston Rodney -Burning Spear- lights on. Light, truth, hai hai, you and you and I are readers in the complement of Babel's Library arguing and musing over our soul's concern in mote ubiquity still like always but revived in an electric sun's intimate smile of warmth. I look at you in cyber truth--though if there was consent one may imagine raw instincts, coveted impulses and some portal on spirit-- and everyone can give a real damn that our world stays compelling if idealized here--our share in media--but because y'all should know, in real love for you, it is good you are with it and of it in this dispensation.***********I'm not a soldier, like my Nativist older brother or former military brother and Dad, or like my brother closest in age, guns (o'plenty) don't provide solace. I haven't yet gotten drawn into CSIs like my Mom always watched and Patti Smith absorbs, as well as detective show genres, in their way of one to one psychology that thread narratives in and out of daily portals. Taking News is always iterating war and rumors of war, which give context for knee-jerking, fairly blind herd mentality and also license on techne--it would be wise to seek this unusual mind-set of such high drama, I know--our conduct are lights over it as passers-by the dead and willing sunderers to the living in rehydrating migrations as core-culture instructors and creators. However now the phantasamagoric Homo ludens can't hold his fellow player to any script, destruction plies effacement rather than reordering. The Directors are ignored; to believe in a god admits to a rite of murder, but fellow congregates can't name the same enemy at the gate. His weapon has already coupled such moribund self-being that we are all becoming swathes of his intimidators.************* I think to get-back, restore and resonate with this moment. And the funny thing is while I iterate or concretize by mantra so to imagine that Now-to-Then objectivity is sometimes easily in my sway, next to attention on breath and unbreakable wonder, I feel even the pattern in passive contemplation is a rabbit-chase by a shore powered in wholeness then only awed by letting-go in winsome rhythm like I'm attaining balance, a rhythm fettering however, lured by it beyond the mesh of the grappling ocean of what-is that it seems usual, relaying to the plain end of the living playground. Suspended by small solace to imagine however I could be acquainted with such and thus Mind, I only feel glad of it - here's my Thanks and Praises.**************I like the Australian questioner, asking imminent Darwinist Richard Dawkins whether "picking-on" folks with religious affiliation would aver those Believers toward their practice or rather it shows them the problem with the infinitely simplistic god that the creative things we do are what scientists are in the business of executing through reason as to why a complex set of physical rules set in motion the proximal living beings within it, making research, rhetoric and perhaps ridicule to enforce this understanding, would actually help.************I'll be watching maybe usually a documentary or any media's proffer of laudable space and feel my eyes imagine being in some odd and lovely stomping grounds to what all and whoever it could be, holding on to the precious sun opening up some citadel with lingering stairways into its embrace, holding, holding, timeless as it were just a few moments imploring an encounter that would have me stay just a little longer. I love good research, non-conspiratorializing histories, just as this one here and now a series over India, The Empire of Spirit, by BBC's Michael Wood really improves the viewer's recognition to spiritual cosmogonies with the sights and lives arising across central and southern India called the Deccan, and everywhere throughout the sub-continent. Several years ago I read P.J. O'Rourke's Rolling Stone's piece about northern India, up into Afganistan from Bangladesh its eastern beginnings discovering a travelogue about the Grand Trunk Road. Not as imminent with a visual escape perhaps as videographed documentaries, the sense of an antiquation still threatening evanescence but on-going actually is befitting the emergent memorialized human migrant and chattles' sleep-walking highway with more black and white of the article's revealing print while the slight individual sprites in a world of transformation ambulate in remote patience wave to the sad man prone like the world held afloat on the lagoon of an original paradise standing up in my eyes.**************My feeling on keeping ___?___ things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, while restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. Because to adjudge perspective makes every thought's stroke in the waters of consciousness an object of broken bridges to this phantom marathon--having taken the river as paces left off from ambitions of any threshold, finding its slow fidelity as my allegory--I only know an inquiry on beyond the beyond of "me" from moment to moment through half-known relics of root pronouncements. This could mean "anything.

"**************Salience is found in the long arm of being present, as surprising as our clay bodies of egalitarian wit to that of its complement in dust and the grace in just getting here. Yoke time, control whiling-away like the priest reining-in the King's horses as the King goads them on to no avail. The Chariot of spiritual allegories, like the Throne well-lofted by one sphere of incarnational probity, both respectively Hindu then Jewish take on impermanence, being restored to One (florid) World. A priestly nation, say, the adherents to Mosaic Law, may have a similar antagonism as the Vedic Ikshvakus of Andra Pradesh, interestingly the region fromwhich hails Krishnamurti, out of our ethical sociations since the populism of Chasidic thought is of untermensch beginnings, and even though community's conduct adduces our Literacy inroads, otherwise an assent to the plight of the unlearned and the mystical arises with them. Populism. My feeling on keeping Yiddish (Jewish) things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, and restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. The absolutes accomplish absolutes in the other here and impelling, but then may fail, thus a sense to improve oneself through a mean history, wary that a rhyme to yesterday has everyone believe it is the same song - blooms and heals as mythic salve to the storied psyche. Story-tellers' first gate, in my experience, can't be the only gate breached to the forest of my change.**********I'm a Being in lush service to the artist, lured to understand techne blowing in our faces with imminence or without its imperative mounting just so, it feels much like cool air on our eyes, so one blinks away--sight rekindled--adjures her last leisurely scan of what-is with only decrees of certainty. Santana is on the mix plays on Between Good and Evil, Practice What You Preach, another sweet land proud song. Soul aerobatic, not "acro...," airy and positive, symphonic but raw, individuality survives out of it as to proffer Americana mythic & creative impulses ameliorating cloudy then cloudless or pug marks on ancient trails to the writ of conscious maps all gathered to the tent of Aum.**********The priest who first fully developes the concept of Karma, Yajnavalkya, is reckoned in Wendy Doniger's book, The Hindus. Just as all manner of vice is given good amplitude, while something affirming one experience I've had in lucid dissipation gets done in full low-down, calling the high that really lasted, is elasting because theoria feels "big" concerning deep bounds in askesic wonder, giant spaces gratify like in dialect with the entirety of my being. Well, no, there is no regular feeling of monadist appreciation that I've become somehow universal. Still, one may be prone to the gravitas of plain knowing. The unusual feeling is having a reference in hopefully an observeable release from habit of self by the force or subtlety through shadows' discernment as I look within. Soma seems to be fly agaric, according the Doniger's research.