Doing the Right On

That we are all made of the same stuff as almost everything round these temporal haunts and just as the invented homiletics from celestial primacies to the enumerators partial to an eternal or apeiron factory sometimes or not in my Greek Ionian Anaximander best I wonder about Fire purgating with Good within us and Water awash our empirical depths in dreigh interstices of one's pain and loss applied with Mercy. Fire and Water. Solemn rite in pre-history's proto-Australoid world would establish epistemologies come later to a vedic vehicle with liquefaction in hypnotic ceremony while consuming a mushroom tea called soma - red fly agaric, this mushroom interprets flames eternal and plollocks perdurably with phantom prayer's expediter as the cosmic seas. Transcendence, and why not with a fiery brew? Literally, fire-water. Both appositives at play, the world is on fire with the reversable project of mundanity, and human perception is equal to its endlessness, no longer one drop of the ocean of incremental lurping reports over what-is, but the distance strung in parsimony to nothing at cardinal variance, everything is swallowed whole.*************Fragmentation is the first state of mind. Then whetted from the affect of distraction, this condition falls away becoming buffered from the provisional weather in generalities to any day, relishing the factory of sight and sensation while variously unrecordable as an encounter its intercalation of forever has an improving sense. Our minds are capable of elucidating nothing rhetorical. While all rivers run to the sea, their continuum is ever in a solarity's aerobatic retrograde, their destiny is impossibly full and then taking more. That we just fractalize in moderating moods or thoughts' economy, language lives through the only few words expediting such anticipation ever so deeply contented in reflection, while it really is the anchor presuming the safety in less going-on. At the ground of our beings we're called on again and again to propose our measured memories, an idea competing against sense-content definitely instructed by the heavier hand of our monarchical subconsciousness. So through minds so elliptical to presume continua with objective reality, seeing a hunter-gatherer wanting to confide meaning, that resource becomes also the story of resource, capsulating this world mostly mean of resource or agonisms in learning how to divine that one doesn't get the big picture, there is no big picture or piece of universal meaning in the carriage of our spirits, it is just how well oriented to it and open to change we become.************We're promised the story of belief system as a purity rite and circumstance inflamed by and conceived through ill conventions contending new information as merely unwillingness to change. A game of identity nodding to imply the gaps in one's intelligence. And certitudes in purgation of an off-putting contention to know better, the direction is multiplied through kenosis, this great and sublime self-emptying by elucidation living as we do in such helplessness in temporal heights granted within an Eastern context is appending a better meditation than just the last, meditation as an abra-cadabra of specters warming chill fields all away - all the world of sense inveigling slightly erased beneath - and if Abrahamic doxologies bring about a celestial plan the-way-they've-always-been adjuring an answer, making the subtle claim G*d is not only Higher Ground, but radically Other just as the case for this mean experience of our provisional imaginations, we are exiles till then. Then is an eschaton, the creative goal to esteem a would-be creative underlying order. Only that it saunters away from a rational spirit at the impoverishing of only one world's consent to an otherwise provisional sense-change in nature meriting this shadow of realization: we are all One to One beneath the same sky-vault of Nature, whelm of one awakening, these years mucking paths, mapping footfall that are like stelae remembering an acquisitive season just past our doors in weather with trees trying-on sun garments in right comfiture through their 10,000 coves, and beneath her canopies home and hearth of gray gnashings and hallooing candles. The Closing of the Western Mind, a great record on Church history, divines her congregation truly catholic ( = universal) and more plastique than the kaltida wood woven-basket in parturient drifting through Nile currents bringing the near-Hamitic coming philosopher Moses, Moshe, Musa into focus and record from our usual wisdom-traditions, or the same wood of the Cross and as a Noatic choice in building his arc, 'we're' more 'tranformative' and followers of reason - it is only history; spirituality is monist in that a believer sits at the feet of many gods - because now all grails aside from the few laudable primitives brandishing their own iconoclasm among us are technocracy's stupidly donned consensuses. I believe in the conversation. The Law, its Glory - the Word drives the ideation of logoi, the Logos not toward "reasoned account," but to a beginning time where ex nihilo Creation is summoned, sounding a lot like a story, one that should be an underpinning of myth, muthoi, which may achieve continua apposite psychological states of eudaimonia, complexions of social passporte and above all all the content-imperative to gainsaying evil-doers in a broad circumstance to the facts, like assigning elite values to plain knowledge or that certain knowledge should be feared. A story.************So to record I'm lucky enough to take direction, see how to think things through, lucky to be around folks cultivating self-reliance, believing in change, that even here they watch and even forget conscientiousness as to indict what I'm telling you I see while through their social mission these words are designed to encourage one's self-worth: "Separate behavior from personhood." So that she or he must be oriented with emotional honesty for a reason, going forward, vapors to vanity. This dialect is appealing for conventions sake without our rank grasp of identity realizing it is not who one lures into an absolute of social laudation but what this life is becoming. One must adduce what box is checked only ready to discern his and her own reactions in situ stealing the horses of love, worry and change, examining it till we don't. You are the first out of the door moving into self-reflection - one certainly acclaims to begin the beginning at the replenishing waters feeding the more sublime and privileged Cervinae, yet she and her herd don't owe us their liquefaction, they drink but not for us.*****************In one story from her book "The Great Transformation - The Beginning to Our Religious Traditions" Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant out in a grown-up field with a sticky tipped stone tied to a string he'd whip and retract to catch grasshoppers and without fail ...to roast. It becomes automatic, and he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage, he's welcome in assignations to those seasons with prayers to his steady-legged grasshoppers. He's skillful, meaning benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or with energy to wield in a technician's finesse. Because someone could kill in an exacting way and yet that wouldn't be skillful because it goes against a would-be compassionate edifice that a world in her glided eternal repose purports, that she lies before us while 3/4ths of what-is is buried beneath appearances. An evenflow with observable reality elucidates sleep or dreams. So, perhaps true to folk conscientiousness, the author's One to One dialect in the guise of an old peasant's rational wont comes as his fabled practice, dreams evoked whose mind-hand grasps love with this subtle inquiry to Nature certainly not far-flung to Hillel's perennial wisdom or for us an imaginative narrative that respects this One-World in convalescence in a way and not greedily surrendered in another.******************I have to go into whatever can be said about category of mind, TOM, while defying impermanence, allegorized by naming one's spiritual money-in-a-pocket living in this world so evanescent in its arrears, just getting here, so to imagine, our abilities to record a life becoming is at best several becomings. Maybe knowledge is spirituality and they are equal only by radical enumerations. Over the last few years as computer factotum, spectral hours were spent, media abounded and I felt really at the seat of my own empowerment, absorbed, contemplative in some barely arising conscious prop looking onto rarefied frames within many a documentary's concept and affect, one called, Tibetan Book of the Dead. As it were, down from those observational peaks, such auspicious mountains have the plenitude of a plain world arriving, and its crystalline memorial performing in my attention as desire for survival is maybe receipt to my own sense-movement thus soughen in long-sleeping elements to a second-nature world. Projecting into centers from without, moving into consciousness, into buildings and down from mountains, are all plastique, all the makings of this mind-sore.************In the late slackdom of the 1990s I made a retreat into the Catskill Mountains to my Aunt's bungalow colony, an upkeep of several cottages. These places here are full-on Borsht Belt communities, the best part of Mom's spirit-suzerainty map, they're remote and beautiful, forested and vital with lakes and streams all around. Ascending from the Hudson Valley region in New York, I'm compelled those long days introducing some trance ethic, a listening convention, namely the Bang soundtrack (long buried, stolen, today unpublished?), the Little Odessa soundtrack, Ernest Ranglin, Ravi Shankar, Lee "Scratch" Perry, spare of Dostoevskii's inner-conversation, iconoclast with early morning radio. Nothing in the way of internets and like back home media documentary and literature had me track an encroaching "desert" of everywhen drawn from the content of culture and religion, their nihilistic plain space in the calculus of this mind developing expression from an impetus espying my subconscious voodun, realizing all I can ever know is truth of an inner-rhythm ...to take-on a rational spirituality. I felt refreshed when Gershom Scholem triumvirated the Torah, the Gospels and the Quran at the Pentecost, called Shavuoth in Hebrew. There were several terms for levels of focus, ideation on theoria, called kavvanah in Hebrew, which made me humble and awed. I liked finding-out Judeo-Arabic in their convivencian dialect near in time and place to Kabbalah's first seeds. And Islamdom spiritually in their holy if standard convulsions toward an immense G*d, a lesson, in ways apparent while without condominium in Jeremiah of the Hebrew Testament as convincingly impelled in agonism, a truth, as dusty as once collonaded temples gone like its sufferer indicating an even more distant contending prophet - yass, this - and not denied the Jeshua of Christianity dressed as a Roman Warrior, all so poetically impervious till inverted by an agreeable theoria, News more recently deprecare to biblacy other than the organism's Historical key-holes to doors erected around an architectural caprice and continua of proudland, dreamable as between varied enticements correct for contemplation, and for me only improving a meditation through a gate Eastways.************Before acting all homiletic in self-knowing, I'm poised useless as this wise ape's two dawning ends of a moody rope. My creativity binds this transitional mask of things into lighted plateaux and trace hallways. The ambience of dispensations, two moods of peak then token redoubling, two ants upon a mobius strip merge like Santana's Caravanserai blue-orange of the 1970s and the neon fascinans of Remain in Light, Talking Heads of the 1980s.************In what world do we get to know the direction multiplied, rooted down to the funk of wanderings over long-meditated proudlands and upon whose shoulders chil'run grasped their forever-ness, awed at the red Sun that they were set loose to challenge intervallic and exilic paths, while they danced homeward, thereso to achieve destiny back through a Mother's underlying order, her intercourse of energies, this parturience of one whelm in awakening certainly retrieved from the DNA of a sentient greed, the great shadowy well of one's anticipation. A memory lives and a dreamy magnification of it is an ocean of outside light and a circular angel in the room when Dad handed me a dark pink Mattel dinosaur as I lie wakeful in my crib, and Mom gives me repair of my dreamtime's first duel with the rarity of a disambiguation of other. My greenstick bones aspire then out of her soul reliquary what reimagines me of her mercy and hope, this life in beginnings************The otherness to the other side of an absence of completion becomes the conscious edifice whose impulse through me compares more fully as its toppled effect. Two and a kind of Two equals more than Four. I like the allegory of a talmudic student - a talmid is one who studies the Jewish books of ethics well - who may be able to unpack and become proficient in some place in those tomes merely a couple of pages at a time. One drop of the ocean sometimes promises the unique report of its whole and my feet are through with paths, leaving all my wandering paces at her shores. And meanwhile if the quality of all I may introduce through luminarian doors is to sound like thus and such author, only that I've become principled to imagine my alliterating push at the crest of some rare consensus really "evitably" taking-on visualization in pure convenience establishing whatever merits my getting present for a library of books, they emerge in yet this give and play to mere titles convulsing from furrows of time barely amenable in the swoon of their deep-aside.************Xenophanes told Greeks of those looking glass gods - a horse had he been some kind of believer would see devotion only confidently ecumenic through a horselike deity. The Egyptians rationalized wealth and creativity from bovine resource, thereso a Bull god implies fate and reflection of the higher ground to just what they knew. These rural or metropolitan averse White men apprehend guns, their G*d and money, inventing little in the way of interesting culture, approachable only by their martial wist of paranoia given some ridiculous voice at the table better set with the lessons of an actual history rather than one of a consumer's appending wastefulness, denial of science, denial of a low common denominator that would give institutions and industry environmentally responsible mandate and regulation.*************That one is decisor and opportunist for change, while "Endorsing commodities is hardly the same as promoting revolutionary convictions or radical antipathies..." (William Solomon) its conflation is devastating and should drive social institution - Governance - with providence and discernment rather than toward these Earth Crises of near conflict hardly divorced from the actionably resourced consumer, believer, practicable executive in our lives becoming, vampire's materialist ...behind ethical certitudes, its amplification, that appreciate in psychological insight - knowing that facts tell stories too - may only be this perfectly invisive world in humanity's Mothernight apropos the cold lamp of historical endurance, more usually no different and as capable to declaim hatred, mischief or jealousy, just that her continua generally is gratified in better social realism, his in cultivation of securities' mechanic unto violence and rebellion, as we watch the watchman in his own woeful ways, educating his body also with convalescence, whatever stirs, it just seems obvious her self-same whiling-away would at least guarantee her more usual sense of whether the terminuses of safe environs merit her ways of more intimate pressures, an immediacy to be principled about the nature of resource.**************