Walt Whitman, Sam Harris, Potok, Wade Davis

Walt Whitman said, "We were together. I forget the rest." No, only to say that, man, I do but I'd kill air to repent. In that lure absconding realism driven by real confidence there but suspicious of the hidden coves to our condominium, you and me, Lo, blind earth to Love's zenith in a season of blooms in sprawls like orchards enjoined as this paradise, nation of two, I say to Susie: "I ran away from home. And you suspired in warmth and were outsetting there sublime in thereness. I ran away from home. And you were never out of bounds."*************I can imagine lying in the target from ascendent gradins of an ancient temple, like I've been turned inside-out then left upon a flotilla of space while the small ocean of spirituality within me is conflated to a conscious pocket still murmurring in psalmodies of holiness to the flora of Sundarbans lush and fertile, an ecoregion of Mother India's self-reliance praxis in the volition of my dreamscape, palimpsest of waking state's fetters. According to Salman Rushdie "palimpsest" means what-is-erased-beneath. I'm aloft past interogating pop of things never really consuming me, but to lift an artful cliche making it this verse of poeses, wondering 'how soon is now,' is my confinement here to an anywhen wedded to this voluntas of presence in the assent of more imminent figures to its challenge draws our dispensation sometimes evitably felt before seeing Time in my physical success where I imagine it not so subtle. They are the things far over, way over, enumerating me in their weary distances, that ratiocinating a state of being would be impossible on some level at some point, only that I think this now. I'm an evolving young mind, anecdotal and outsetting plain age merely from this looking glass, but I feel I know my beginning conscious map allures and recreates realistic ones and started as clear as in my clever five year old persona dreamily supine at the ruins of some now overgrown thought's passway whose refinement to my reversion of loss demanded enduring an august and careless world, just as you and everyone all too ready to re-dream it all.**************A conversation in a kind of change inmost developing my view of the morality I imagine as practical, chohan-like new logoi en mantra makes loops in my thinking, that I only want to encourage the pellucid air of wine-dark histories. I give over the pronoun "meh," civilization's beginning subject to core-culture in all manner of consciousness ill-framed as one thing, but rather an egoity reproven to consensuses then as now, knowing I am a product of history, telling of anyway through immanently crowded tales as the project of its worth. Round new corners to give and play with their crapulent halloo of yesteryear and a few words adjuring quickened identities amid their late concordant roots, I'm given its phantom economy enriching the mindsore of our near perceptual loam, and with stone on my tongue, yeah, "Underneath the lording of an empyrean blue, suspired in warmth with her pollen-messenger received in the self-same cosmogonic garden, we were outsetting there sublime in thereness."************From an inmost preachment confident of the dreamstuff withwhich the world must be made, I can imagine lying in the target from ascendent gradins of an ancient temple like I've been turned inside-out then left upon chimeric sands while the small ocean of spirituality within me is conflated to a conscious pocket still murmurring in psalmodies of holiness to the flora of Sundarbans lush and fertile, an ecoregion of Mother India's self-reliance ether sprawled in the volition of my dreamscape, palimpsest of the fetters implying the interdictive change of waking reality. Wondering everyday how soon it felt before ratiocinating a state of being would be impossible started as clear as in my clever five year old persona dreamily supine at the ruins of some now overgrown thought's passway whose refinement to my reversion of loss demanded enduring an august and careless world, just as you.*********

***********Seneca said in good verse, here giving latitude with an askesic implication not as in Gandhian Mother, homeward bound, morality, but instead seeing his patriarchy, this Iberian philosopher of 2000 years ago, while unpacking the mischief of his more mutable language. He says, mostly, 'Read a few authors well, and with a hammer to the iconography of excess, deny the library of distraction.' The place I'm moving from is his proscription on one's "random" approbity to 'his' interests, to that of an "excess" which also likely fetches a syncretic reality to the world beginning this Common Era. So magnified, this is a declamation against a standard for meditation as students of life to the vapors of vanity: an ambition of more than looking-out from terra-firma for the report of an oceanic episteme fecund to her wine-dark depths, toe in, at some safe shoreline when the combustion of one's spirit had all along performed with subtlety, less ...even primary garments of existence. Yet subsuming in vanities, running plenteous of inner-dialogue, replete in mimicry, are only implying the reins on plain slow-fidelity needed, this comfiture of contemplation as our crowded wist which becomes as liminal as a coveted sense of otherness, or the other so like us, excelsior somehow.************I wonder with nativist propriety over knowledge in its contest with some more subtle dialect in my nerves. My electric is mapped in glossy sight and revision of impulse and movement and back over itself as rhythm training change linked, stammering and yawned to last lights changing. Thence with tokens spent of a spirit's suzerain in a strange land through the sort of focus demanding new ways of its telling I've just endured my Mom's very prayerful whiling-away penetrating Crossword puzzles like the things I could discover with a gathering of instruction that is reappointed. Trying to unpack a mess of history and identity tamed through symbolic permutations is an analytical meditation. Lettering is issuant in plenteous forms in your writer's implied hand, voice and legs of the same empiricist in and out of our communication glands and still dun colored in passporte glyphic antiquities of some raptured road-maker black furious print woven in an immediacy of white fire, just reading, and it is an addiction to a pathos of attention. One of health and perseverance. We hurt in thoughts' movement, studying one sip of the ocean at a time in remonstrations of hopefully self-poignant things that ought to be lifted from the page. It is painful being so careful traipsing the art of forgetting. Sometimes I may glimpse at the denial of a rather persistent present, anything lens heavy pon thus and such author's report - distraction, stimulation. This would have followed the operative direction of the appositive newly turned-over article that I watch slurring in my desire for its culpability, though I only want to improve their reach equally only realizing now and forever ago in the forest of life underfoot, a world of dust-steeped dreams, tea of my living composition.*************

*************I've never seen a month go by so quickly, Susie fatedly discovers for us this afternoon. We're levitated in our car dodging and passing down Nicholasville Rd corridor, work-a-day, as the horizon evokes several talking heads of courtship through dispensation as it merits their say-so ...I badly want to know. I start to imagine saying, however I can, the relationship between our subject self and nature brings me into confidence with all the educated minds corralled in a better world-view, only to get to it. In nature's embrace, whatever consensus opens the back pages of egoity, gone green with presence, thought's discernment in whatever quality is in our material success from the impact of an empyrean scaffolding of forever in the foreground and just beyond, careless in our provisional imaginations, we're blown-up in better and more deserved moments of this mitigation of self-reflection. Time: A thought isn't eventual any more velocitous than the imagined content in however satiate the Well of Time when I wear my efforts in the wake of an unlikely objectivity hoping that I would become redeemed and full-up with intercalation, and still without any control, I want to invent it.******************This image seems like where I stood, accompanying a small travelogue drawn around November of 1987 are these desert haunts, a place outside Dahab on the Red Sea. The mountains are the Wadi Gnai and look from my obeisant memory-speaking exactly like what's presented here just as I'd wandered these Sinaitic near shorelines. A shooting star marked one night part of about a week once upon a time of meritable belly-button window intimations ...and otherwise a month in Luxor and Cairo. Damn, the very gone-ness of needed sleep, hopeful of the balance then which I am beginning to cultivate even while I'm still grasping in forced-thought scenarios having been my more usual mental economy still is sometimes only inky dissolution, swallowed blue-meaning breaths, during a week here or there definitely in the places of most my change, reflections in a golden-eye. Enduring broken mirror's season of change, stellar conscious maps amongst the Believers pushed through doors en project as my sense of life corralled, tied off, surfaces to that waiting, empties to sense convictions, and crapulent from its irreducibility complicates wanting to go-away - and yet the world hadn't divided. So long, I thought in ways that I may yield and remember what is missed - sleep and re-dream - cover the mind in fresh waters. Robbie Loco and I had occasion to tacitly appreciate Egypt: her continuities indicating its otherness in pre-Western concepts, no irony of impelled temporal millennia, Egyptian longevity was one of steady locomotion - before Common Era there are 3000 years or 5000 more in places having done civilization, adagy as dunes of beat consolations, these handful of destinations ...along the Nile River, by the Red Sea for instance. I want to give back that enamored sun well of space needing repair post-fundamentalism, squeeze history's heart vein to vein conducive with the minerals of culture. I drink the language of antiquities whose letters will have directed me in and around these environs of auspicious study, Midian or Madyan (Red Sea regions) to Abyssinia, Ethiopia, noting the defoliation after civilization exceedth, is an actionable call over the moral landscape still reverberating from an Axial Age and their soulful doctrines extruding any definition for self till now consuming humanity is home to us then as now - mollifying time with a kind of tasawwuf hope, I mean I'm allured to an immediacy to something esoteric, and will have been readied for this old world's new day sweet butterfly in reflection as I awaken to the blue skies of Susie, my love.*******************Something of Rainer Maria Rilke's godtalk has left an impression on me. Probably all-told I may misapply his intent, while through his compassionate enterprise, I hope and feel I have good paces in his folksy approval here. In the Christian provoked Vienna ghetto where their cosmogonical Jewish chorale are forced to live, this tribulation having generation upon generation squeezed into restriction, once lived an old tsadik, a righteous man. He becomes bird's eye objective to the secreting of lives and with phantomic wisdom in core-culture sensitivity projects omnipresence while their dwellings and hovels are arrayed below his, they are ever promoting his habituation exceedingly higher and higher. Then what the reader may see are postulates of his freedom unbound after theirs, the Viennese, of lacquered intimacy. Imagine, reduced to skyward vision in his libertine heart, having no room left in temporal realestate. A microcosm might usually be the dream of in-between places, a sabbatical wish, though this ascendent seems to be cultivating release. His spiritual teeth ronching on the Otherness having kept him aloof, and prone as we all are to that Mystery, it is belied by class-biases and some impinging lens made-off from social execution and superstition, out of reach. Yet that exilic profound heaven g'warns more closely, he's pushed away through an inverted ground-of-being from the burgeoning crossroads outsetting old boundaries, everyone meshed upon his last footfall, his last respite.*****************This integer ridiculous schedule when assigning a personality in their presence made evident or all along as something else not principal, needing observation, applies aft wind characterizations appealing in good use of the False Positive hypothesis, meaning, there is 'a way to run with it' while the myth one serves isn't based upon a promise or mission over fate, but hope only amid pragmatism and curiosity, awe. Maybe it could be a naturalist bent toward what we are becoming, minus any kind of Creator's accompanyment - materialism does this thing of self-appointment, I'm saying - and yet many persist in the face of reasonable conversation - this world of meaning is strung to the feeling of "It" being like us, even for us. Sometimes relationship with Self and Nature suspends the otherness in the anonymity of plants, flowers and trees through the beck of False-Positive conflations - yes, everyone does - then we're only slightly put-off getting the key of intensions to work the lock of pure nonchalance and grandeur of forever plain as the unendurable beauty of the surface to a stream after rainfall, now impossibly full, their pregnant margins mute into our shared atmosphere. We live pon the rivers of life.****************