Elie Wiesel, Robin Williams, David Bowie, Prince. Please paint my horizon full again.

appreciating this sentence (last night's thread) - here's the sentence and sense philology of it: "There's some singularity, a view on evenness in toward the dawn of waking state that reflecting our footfall deft as Threshold's wonderment whither it seems interesting the pulse of an implicit forest transect becomes noticed, one would look down, the forest sparingly entangles our sight as to just what is before us." **** **** Literally since around 1995 I wanted to write that down out of a dream about more hill and dales I'd breach on the way through then my neighborhood than what-is, where I lived 27 years, back from its local shopping center, Gardenside, was the jumping off point in the dream. But more usually I had walked to and from late in the night anyway, here in the shadowy lure coming to Lansil Creek and the near old stone wall, densely colored brush of grasses and underneath them moulds and my pitch of mind. A Crowley thing from his huge "Confessions" I think got me down to perspective. He persists in his own dissipation describing Mara the Destroyer awaiting Buddha with the project of some temptation, while I read to alight a rather visual sense of moving-into-experience, that while an Other Shore draws one toward reception, "down" among the content to appearance things whelm the observer, folding up, around and over human intensions, furrowing into a completion of the encounter. So, I knew, in coming to the gates in the forest, I see out of my thought's translating mask and move first by instinct looking down, just before me I saw my foot falling ...certain of that at least that the ground beneath my feet is a signature move, a natural move. ***************I sometimes let the torpor in my brain and in the air finish my sentences. The thing is is that I feel full-up aside from the fact that I'm only expressing half-thoughts. An early "contemplation" which is just my young mind sorting out a lost distance between what I'd been up to and watching everyone in the river's flow made a sense of dread but worthy of me to compete with it, this realization, I'm not one to actually speak much. I only knew I may never reach the depth to understand how conversation appends so easily ex nihilo, days and experience erased but for your coming around me imagining it, defining continuities. I once couldn't talk; seemed to me cultivation of stillness became so matriculate it is where my inmost logician was making victory. This condition, though I felt some irony in it, meanwhile, had been my two steps forward, one step back moment to consider what meditation had done for me till then. Meditation is a good goal. I want to look as deeply as it made sense to me then in the place of all my changes.***************I believe in a Living Loam, a loving loam, whose resource to change is psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. A wide open land of plollocking rather deeply impressed cuts and demarcations of some meaning as our not invulnerable lives yielding a narrative parchment underfoot, the lure of being, but only upon these mind-sores to assign an observer's history with grave machines, architecture and excess, every day modern life, real reason to exculpate evitable encounters with Nature. The world goes with tradition and their tradition's apologists - tote that bale, this Job One ethic has come to the storm of wont on licit frontiers - so veers Right, putting business models out of reach from regulation, while I maintain dreamy and full-up, well heeled before vulnerabilities in the wavy habit of trees rooted Left, opened on you, my eyes are turned to plants. Though, this is all too much within me, beyond all reach and control still shown the door falling down in thoughtlessness. The sense that just enough reaches me and adducing plain facts fatten me, there's too much to know, too pendant a world decorates us in ceremonies of weather, sidewalks, fevered News and easyspeaking breath. So I'll breathe, watch it rise up in me and keep this fallen spirit walking the plank of humanity. **************

Once there were closed crowds whose ethos is winsome in that kind of club mentality still in assent with icon's stone-age martialling as connoiseurs of pathos, expressed by sacrificing persons emboldening sought believers by ever blindly effective gods. Now there is Citizens United as an equally empty reason behind giving personhood to a commodities usurer. The henotheism of grand gods wake their sacrifice down escalante passages of fire, the first being an ethereal god's human being, burned, but not before his plastique spirit is taken in by the horse, then burned, while transcendence already turned this musterion ghost into the next greed of wholeness bridged of fire into the next world, the ram to billy goat, then our earth takes all to flourish with rice or barley sacrifices that grow to one day please the absolute spirit appending its navigation in hierarchies of physical success and ultimately before whom or what it is that sought us. ****************

In around 1979 I would've been 13 years old, a junior high school student, living with my three brothers - all pharaonic to my spirit body apace the shadows of fettering time - Mom and Dad raising us and I'm the youngest. I roomed with Eric and already he had distraction for me, only later evincing his computer service and forensics company giving up that lauded technology - O technocrats of classic social realism - seemingly then its roots were interpretive, where I lie down by that antennae'd TV wondering at the freedom I could review in this thought field, MASH playing late at night and I see what I'd rather do than the clearance of school and its langor. The TV stupidly plays-on ...couches my heart in a hurry to evolve out of the sieve of silent coolish shadows and realizeable or voidant but not complaining, something on the floor, something simply as part of this thought disorder I mitigate made observing the actors almost ghostly as to say a very real subtlety in their lines emplace me within the night's orb, behind my thoughts in character through some histories' shtick and responsum to mood or light or the dialogue availing with a sense that it's...it's now and on-board...this mothership, touching the earth...it won't even be you (me) looking from this side, I'll be graced by Loretta Swit in my world's gone-feeling, though I'm eternal - Right? Concede that to me, sitting prone to implore the black and white forever for awhile, yet doused of palimpsest moments, I think, "Where am I?"*************There is nothing surprising that a Jew would anoint a creative world, if you follow me, as the observable reality of an impersonel god, as Jews refer to the not fully written name for a greater reality, G*d, upon media that is itself impermanent. By a way of enjoining a respect and feeling of continiuity, making sense to a very usual consensus of cultural Jews, an idea of an endless god or the god of All or Nothing, called Ayn sof, is taking away the god that comes to court, rather like Job's occasion enduring his strickened world without a receptive demiurge, the artisan deity. So Wasserman Schultz as comfitted to Jewish ideas as I assume she is could have recognized Bernie as the Jew he imagines himself to be, and on the ease or complexity the liturgy permisses which is a studied sense of Meaning one can only anticipate but is traduced merely from Faith assuming a mission behind it, a mission making implicit suggestions about reality that are superable by Faith and mean nothing through Reason. Shelomo Gabirol is distinguished as having developed this idea (Ayn sof) around 900 years ago. He lived in Golden Age Spain under Muslim rule. Toward Jewish Mysticism, he had lived during the socially cosmogonic era in the first solid inroads discovering Kabbalah's essential meditations. ****************The One who was seated like your maven observer, poised like a bulbul, nightingale, in an orchard but of this world - where an angel in a lifetime's intercalating watch-tower holds the light sparing us over till another year - now runs apace me and you. The Down to You verses some world too distorting and not you that it must be captured or endured, consummate as the Cold I Up complexion of you, beyond all reach and control of self and still shown the door of chaos and thoughtlessness, peak resolve only to wait it out then to seek escape in perfect illustration, apathy and revulsion's counter, It's All Fine, there's less demanded of me than my suspicions ought to carry ...that sorrows You vending your soul's insight ...is me too, man.************** Breathe everyone, you have the volition of what's been cool, not the ardor of a decisor on fate and creation you thought you were. Listening to some modern philosophers wanting to see a model to the perceptual vantage over reduction of uncertainty, that staying in relationship with nature, semblance of truth and appearances is inclining self having become at least answerable through plain endurance. You are an answer to me, you speak, I feel. Which is sweet and my world but capsulating all the fray of Absolutes like Love or Mercy and awaiting reins on Time pendant upon our developing moral landscape, soon the thrum of what-is becomes our idea-force and voice.***************Talks a good populist game even curiously open-armed (if not open carrying). Eschewing science and feeling left behind there, blames all eventual mishaps on the battlefield as some principle of their purge through the ranks gone awry in their true Banana Republican colors. Oil and coal over Green Industry is the black and white of it. In all of their dehumanizing of the Other, which shoulda been a shoe to the head to Wake Up, and demonizing of politicos ever as low brow in his and her own reflection, here's an image of their single most monarchical principal, Ronald Reagan, visiting a Nazi cemetery giving memorial like sins of the past need just a little more shade. Kenyan, huh? Know your neighbor, for G*d sake, instead of inept ways of revering your leaders clearly making wrong moves in respect to our common valor operative in a Living History!**************Memory is the mathematics of our genes, a model for human instinct, our brains and second nature reality, culture et cetera. Metaphorically, belief as fate can memorialize input called mystery thereso identifiable while transitory as the thing evoked from earth's empyrean in her immensity, she laughs hideously and beautifully at once pealing like a gong upon a living planet's original desert, the void of oceanic star anonymities which may exaggerate and proffer reduction of uncertainty, how we feel to imagine meaning, so real information if alluding to expression through perspective calling for personhood and humane-ness to be an answer for people**************Only to win in the thwart of power, some people tread like dragonflies getting high on newly paved blacktop never realizing that its sun-glazed expanse has as much nutrients as bags of wind animating what gets brought home for supper. Flowers are pomp in lush scrutinies, landing on two feet, Homo ludens, the player, becoming a free agent is apace the mile of night - power undone in its climate - iterating an unfettering, looks to the vomitoriums' waxing lure where actors of power hide within political stages in chimeric veils sundering days of coolness and requiring light through America's night long vistas, realizing, the observer has his and her own role, retrieved like ground footfallen parchment impressed by leafy symbols, stone grammar and loamy redolent wandering. None of the eschatons undo reason or time, a mind can react but in a plain solitarian sport, and so finds out what belongs to self florid or dreigh is behind one's own eyes. It's not so much a sluice of all the savory meats coming to their brand of homogeneity in the least comfitting design on funkiness as it races at breakneck speed to a world of pathetic killing floors - while we imagine what happens in these mounting lifetimes unpacking each generation - but it has become a revolting problem of a kind of conversational pressure.*****************Wearing my Jaws shirt having seen it I guess the Summer before, allowed to sit on the floor at the front under the screen at Turfland's cinemas because of the crowds. Ah, and here we are in Technocracy. I know at least it seems healthy to imagine I am projecting the thing I am, as if in peak concern the becoming of this thing implicitly amorphous, that a conscious prop is transitory like the habit of a tree is an architecture to this changing mind. The science of it all works well into one midnight visage of plain media's vintage; a National Geographic-like documentary (TBS commercial?) is playing stupid-comely on the TVs above the bar at Wrocklage. Music. Kerouac once and forever diagrams the deposit memorializing all eyes of sad repletion and ironies arrayed before him while winds blew snow off the asana welcome niche, that he undoes time's chain and unreason, climbing in his Cons and wrong gear just to sit there and believe mercy, her and in that solitarian or florid court, taking tea. I walk from the back alley behind the bar. Think "sharks" and their murmurrations, Jennifer nods. Spirit waters are tapped and the wine dark sea fills the screen of only blue. Sharks inspire and shift into visual currents, giving directions to my focus through murk, clashing and rosy colors, seem to be underneath the moment and sprite seas, expediting with feelings and sentience. Evocative and aquatic, Noatic fish give way.***************I have a strong and I guess mandatory usual apprehension that I can communicate with any kind of ease at all. The sense, emotionally cycling, if methodical to relate listening inmost while falling to a schedule of encounters always hearing similar if not same feedback, just knowing how that might dunder new ways of living these same lives is what merits an entreaty with change, the difficulty we all might face. I like to imagine saying something always for the first time. The thing I learn from most is an imminence front, the surprise and sometimes rapine sieve we navigate to lift off through the colors or sensations in our statements of presence, getting there, being in the moment. Only to be present which would herald a breath in the gathering loom in sum of a natural rhythm to a day - this makes up our plain ambition, our corporeal study of the ledger in whiling away.*****************Running with plenty o'iconic shunts at once something out of biblacy's consolation, but then like comparing fires blading designs one night differently than the next, something absolute in the model gains inroads, circulates through tissues that are thus-gone and sometimes executed in the melody given evolved reception shared from the new yet old. A kingdom as applied space to a sovereign seems to be the drag about what is more demonstrative as a meaningful resource on proudland - cosmogonic of Sisyphean report - the face of ever amorphic creatures perceiving their fugue of sympathies in appearances, have plastique ways through it so much this natural counsel of our more humble more usually obscurred selves evinced as its surrogate. Visible reality is over 90 % of lights warmly interred that senses make redound, what our minds chime to as the content for the wonder of what-is.**************Wondering when the stream's capricious clot or to beck you with less acid as to say, the rigor of the patient cut around the proverbial bump in the road assailing and impeding a current toward a more complete statement of presence makes itself denied as something as negotiable that having done well among the tethers of our more candid tasks ...eschewed the thing about our plain inquiries in what this life has become, a "developing" thing (but among the dross every other thing) and with intuitive impressions like models on halcyon answers by way of assuming an approach to absolutisms, so as creative as we wanna be in this world - the surf of the more esteemable mind - may level continuity only doing that in the next - these things we laud to discover in our attention.***************Imagine receiving intensions from a sum of moral landscapes now possibilities in usual privations still the mean earth up to her decisor fate elaborated in us and distractions conflated within our 21rst century's more baseless literalisms that it can be anything like the plain wisdom available in cathartic pop psychologies giving way to raw if subtle appositives in the change we seek. Give me the box of antiquation, but on these local streets where I plan to walk forever.