Yes, yass

Isn't it exquisite several steps upstream from one's nice Indian rug (my Afgani rug...) a sharp little something once tracked into the house that you're now clung to on the concourse of hardwood floors have met the swathe favorite place you prolly actually dream about, though Mind is active there and actual space and pitch of mind remain palimpsest, your sitting place, would-be asana rescue in temporal moods, clarifies footfall and even advancing this thought.

***************I'm immediately familial to the release of limbs and shrubs and sidewalks along through the approach toward coveted memorial halls and houses. They've portrayed the leisurely saunter into these places, halloo'd barely demonstrating a person thinking the world colludes and jives us into our appointments and galavanting. I believe the air then. The difference between my animate success and the cuff of the world, reporting it all shunted up while she's last seen before I enter a building of bllinking eyes comes from the cathartic evermore of being outside always the concept of changing my mind, always the light of its momentary domino effect of thoughts enjoined to the rest of the day, walls lid open and are readily invisible. Never so clear a model to bridge inmost realms with ambitions in making dream content embower viable temporal settings, one step and the imploring of time's hard reins in as many years passing my door are letters written homeward becoming empty bottles and anywhens once opened in a life's sabbatical, this day too.************Gave up. Fell to the bottom. Relearned to speak. Called memory something. Sung circadian emptiness. Intonations in your easy speak waved under horizons like blades dipped in contentful earth. Sought a lepidopteran and I dreamt away. Listened to Tic Toc Teac see Moses go down, so then called Jeshua an Aramaean yon event to a political Jesus, his usual posture somehow now gratifying the might is right crowd, in my small corner of the world less preponderant of those spiritual paints, all gone down.***************My ole friend Adel and I are coming home, did some dinner something certainly unhealthy ad assignations to that that make sense now ...belly grumbling, shooting down Harrodsburg Rd. and it had been snowing for a good thick hour which felt a-glower freezing up in the air, but an after thought because climactic proscriptions are done with polemics. We're under a glazy eyed bruisycolored dome, lush slush could have been this tacit chariot bound cloud embraced hypostasis, so Neil Young plays rock realization anthems, "Shadow on the things you know. Feathers fall around you...". The whiteouts were fracturing and benetted, dangling heavily with curtains that made our car merge forward like in staccato leaps, lights hit feathers falling casting phenomena like I'm shifting around misdirected and our black night yawns by peeks and unfurlings. A song from Off the Wall once complimented a solitarian neighborhood crossing here ...Michael Jackson's fu manchu face flecting eagerly. I'm driving but immured in my myth plain map of Lexington. A lot of walnut trees stood south west from here, I'd live under them as a native, I realize. Adel soothes himself with his looking glass gospel and Rasta music segues at the next light, some of it where he feels a bit unique with the ascendents' verily happy commonalities had they been explained, he explains ...while pathos and biblical laments are in the report of the whole ocean.***************It seems. The Big Man is this decisor of resource careening toward something essentially as if defending a new belief in that power, an indivisible god, true or defecating, if it could be popularly reconciled, that power can't wield superable to common suffering while demonizing uniquely sympathetic opponents. Ridicule should be in parsimony with a factory other than sneering anecdotes of those resolved with some reason to hate.*********^^^^^^^Susie and I coming out of more traffic thread down Elizabeth St., jagging our route into a shortcut back to Southside, it's early, we just did breakfast and I feel recollected in superlative mornings, Mom's cosmos, the planet of work spaces making my way through dreigh hard-to-endure hours, school days, fool days, my circadian mess how they can be as good as now, now all oriented to sundry leisure and so many dawn thresholds you'd think Earth's intercalations are always meant for us, and maybe they shall. From a change in listening to music the News Constant makes contemplative BBC sounds brace me in outlines of concern and worldviews. Razia Iqbal's lovely name mantrifies in my thinking - her voice appeals to me just as great Oxford's tea and cookies (bisquits) I tasted ready as class is about begin when I attended an Intensive Study in those halls once upon a time. Here we come - ehhhhh, vroom - and past what looked like one of our (Lexington's) University appositioned folks dreamily ascending his silent frontporch mutating freedom, his breath is animated, verily a dialect opens, he suspires, then hesitates handing me a corral of saints till then hidden in the cool of his clutter of bikes, tarp and yard equipment embowered by chipmunk homes, their bushes and more cool. In this natural willingness for encounter, my head paints in mere feeling the waking day's horizon so to populate my distant look of this world introducing its regularity, where her figuring and purveyors seem to thicken in my view at first altogether, characters of conversation or out of the shunt of plastique media, maybe phantom dream players, then only to materialize vapors to vapor, anonymities to an unsung, indefinite chorus.****************I want to make this concept even better because it really is stupendous albeit only advancing into no more a material advantage than to perhaps take-it-in fully compelled by an occasion's grace. The thing of Mind capsulating wist of self-approval all things necessarily an event of a few moments ago are telegraphed when I'm actionable then stammer into the day's medium flow, its usual shadow on the things I know, watching what observer self does comforted into its usual avenue, opening toward it as if I'd been waiting at the target wakened state as opposed to a unilateral emerging with what-is. How far I come off of this couch of consciousness, naming thoughts' movement as any movement in attention, and with content washed ashore a feeling like acquisitive asks and reanswering washed away too ...all was in my trance-like booty edging me into an encounter to what reveals itself as my sense of living at visual beginnings of being free and unable at once cold-up in moments wherein the mask I wear implies new candors. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient then wondering to act on the world, the world acts on me.*****************Articulated into some solitarian ritual over mere Thought in soul gradins far-over filtrate of image and present light bubbling up, sensory enabled with an eternity's prone brain run on a body's 100 watts come model of cauterized mind-sore, meriting more and more its plain atmosphere plainer still, thoughts' bounty edging me into an encounter toward what reveals itself as surmountable teloi - appearances - not even conscious of surface and residing somewhere in dreams' inmost rhizome of rational motives, inescapable though plastique, wholly and radically getting there operative as airwave's plank to leap from is perspective, identity's creaturely accompli, self-consciousness for an open nerve redundant internal conversation just to reserve coming to timely inquiries and self-emptying ...then to ask again meaning it to more and more devastating effect with intensity shaped keys applied to some nuclear distant estate of ancestry, humbly calling self alas me, one of mantic trees and symbolic houses, what is this life become.^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^The meditation I thought about operative in Abraham Abulafia's world is what The Golden Age speaks to you and possibly just me from the blessed transcendence emotive the glad discipline, an American Jazz art in vitality. Saeta, by Miles, from the Sketches of Spain album, a lot of folks well-intending listeners know to listen and formally ran into somewhere Dionysian, this one thing hidden amongst for me. The ram's horn used in Jewish ritual, we call a shofar, merits an antiquation of soaring and wandering souls. It seems to weave through margins and extremis, looping of heart ambient courtships, clean orientation to skyward presentiments almost become available from this spiritual saxophone. The whole album to be sure it's true is as good as this song's handful minutes apace a pocket of consciousness coming from Minds of meanwhile changes in our parents' near need to get this beat thing beyond the amatory few examples into this technocracy where we're prone like gongs in hesitant peal of classical social skills, say Listening.****************Yass, Old Bull Hubbard, there are "excisors of telepathic sensitivities." They are. They are sensory intimating prised to our subtle bodies. So. The first mistake the mind makes on the way to the compassionate void is to suffer value statements. True, false or whatever it is if we are getting-down-to-it these logicians on instigating people are appetites to the greedy tongue of carb hunters wont in people addiction for the sweet salience in our wishes for salve attention on these fray and tacit nerves. It's all ego, we're daimonic over anyone impelling hellion hoped for minds in florid complexions to a world view proscribed as News connoiseurs or gospels. Practical thinking gambles on the faith of the known. Pragmatic ways through all that language pointing to Change means to stop lauding Bionic Rats teased for their lust and copulation making the labyrinthine mind a garden living with ease and sallow processes through mood and every excelsior vantage on consensus. Tic Toc Teac toasted, "they're gonna raid you on the television set; don't let 'em." They get you in the valley of (in)decision, Bob Marley knows. Swore off the stupidest of inner-scrutinies though ravens land on our shoulders because they do - your velocity is a feeling of being On with wooden eyes - and their avian success is but a piece from dark Firebird reflections in their star lamp empyrean. Spiritually wandering, the middle man stands up in their eyes, Grandmother's soul reposes on pre-time's couch of consciousness ...with light like a pirate of the airwaves she digs 10,000 coves, calls their ascending way a direction multiplying for dream eliciting lepidopterans free to lend their form to the content of the next animated fact defining mind. Jinns (spirits, Sufi expression) throwing down meteorites toward those needing to be impressed with the language of the mind of a devastating kind of creator have a Blues guitar to thank.*****************Back under an awning extending from the roof of Dad's excellently hand-built country red shed - he calls a barn - an improvement in meditation was on ...his lawn equipment lain where among the backyard environs I would read awhile sometimes responsum in glances to a local spider. I'd Ode in that special mess what Russian culture meant to me so through her expediting in all the meddle of reason painting up the world with imagination, this spider friend purveys with chides and models true to my karma's staged ancestry hinting at my path meriting reprieve, maybe as some patient creature. As thoroughgoing a wanderer of spirit appends made up of conscious maps, a travelogue is always more deluged in mercy admitting to oneself what feels right but liberating while homeward. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient and wondering if I'm to act on the world, all I can know is that the world is actionable with nothing between what-is and selves' bridge to the moment - I mean sometimes barely dust for tea, but mostly a willingness to get there, slave to continuity.

***************So at peak observation, that it's possible claiming I'd have a view with ideal acuity, I feel I've perfected this one sense understanding a conventional pattern listening to Mom paint in and out of conversation wakeful and worried. Kind Mom but in the immensity to her cosmogonia, there I am, lens on just one subtle inquiry that she may fancy I'm of that self-same sinuendo dream, mindsore, heart, heaven, night, reason and awakening from it. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. And I imagine in my thinking a library cluttered with feeling, first concepts gathered in repose at the foot her bookcases, where even in wee hours I'd get up from bed and find my way to them consulting letters, that I believed in magic, actual magic in symbolic universes. I thought if memory would impliment models of my alliterating self then I could use language acting on the world in continuity replacing by numbers this life becoming metrical with its anywhen, boundless upon the ground beneath my feet, open to a natural expression, all proliferate as egoity sorts us out, vapors to vapors.**************If you see an academician in your head and knowledge has become your friend, then as subject to wan fates in self-knowing or not, nature heightens the sense of principle in fealty to you as peak observer. The thing I'm sure about as episteme may confide in just anyone is imagining at one point I've climbed to the top of me, looking at a net thrust into empirical lurings, this same net of flat toned self-same language awash gathering all the usual conceptuality, but now behind each letter and impulse is every other possible word and mantram (utterings) that would agree in metrics and gravity merely elicited from a single symbol at the crest of karma, speech and mind, a wave drawing into its velocity the unbounded matter across an antithetical path. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. We are uncarved blocks (soulful), an unwhetted self inevitably despite the clamoring attempts at change one might assail, speaking with boundaries' silence, they're the educated walls where our expressions lean.

****************I'm struck seeing such intelligent eyes. An actress in Edgar Allan Poe's gloom emergent fin de siecle insane asylum portrays her concerns which lay with respect upon such a face, "the muse inside of minds of crazy faces," - Dylan once lyricked - I think till now, imagined deep within my nerves, a place I thought rather usual within me if ever there had been one thing driving the splay of passions given that some high functioning self-knowledge is my driver. My morning mind creates this survivor in me satiated from nighttime's well water and its taste of refreshing shadows as either a great logician of instigation, running for the bucket grappling of the splendor roused toward something different in the new turn 'pon this Earth, or a flowery mind and amatory fool of whiling away. Hitherto in the looking glass of self-consciousness, all the eyes of a world answering its subject, our world of dialects between I and Thou, I and Nature or say I and Selves become textures in meditation, an invisive concourse only illustrating the hang of appearances we share re-remembered, bending new corners around meaning on whose caricature of our nearest self is the dearest thing one can give away.*************This sage, lavender and a citrus blend tea, which had been neglected by me Susie recommended, now here midnightish, is finally cooled and nothing need adding ...this patient cup soothes me into long looks gratifying thought's ward on contemplation or its bluer flame theoria (I wish). I light on as perceivable uh world of things contesting approach and vision like inmost currents have accurate swathe in proudland aged but redolent, alive in looking glass bones, this spectral living shore persists to recreate walls within. All of us are conscious as watchtowers in ply moments and thus gone as sand castles of dreamy lasting ruins. Helba colored like the Arabic (sometimes) cardimom seed tea, but the sage in it and lavender makes for a good August light libation, and so here's to Hamza al-Din, oud player, the taste of a feeling for something in a near but plainly deep aside.