Spelunky, but starry aloof, propioception in good description

I LIKE READING when my weary repose takes paces in the fewer lanes endorsing nothing immediately derivative, looking ever more to retell the bliss getting the better of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rather than sticking to it is quite an interesting box of rules throughwhich we compartmentalize, adjust or dissolve in throes of unloosened imperatives. And what uncarved fields of conceptual feeling hoping what the author imparts actually lasts. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, averring effort but traipsing a poverty of time, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? If I would have to get past my rather provincial corner just adapting to new information, new information may only be ...well hardly comfortable intuitions, an Objective Reality, this recession relative mean, consciousness by whatever I adjudge of its nature as an exoteric ambition, the ground beneath our feet, our aerobatic moulds. As mechanics of observation, the fascinans ept clasps hands between sleep and mean shores, spelunky or starry aloof.**********Immensities rank in source and light evanescent of the world you once shed and yet endures as a model for an alacrity to our school of life, that our past is coming-on having grown-up smooched repeatedly by you as all your children and grandchildren, so fundamental that we should know how much you loved us, we love you as a possibility that cannot be turned-off.***********If you were asked to tell the tale what it is you think is life's bitter pill as to How Do You Live with Yourself, I can only imagine taking a strong, deep breath, told out of watery contented and redolent conscience that only recently I had woken up to a dream from a lullaby Mom illustrates in my thinking. Living with oneself is always in peak observation wondering about the grace of change to the freedom of our future. Playing as Absolute marionettes to that of some greater will, pieces of the past and all that goes into our decisor relevance, I am all the absorbing energies of Life, and sometimes unilaterally looking on toward self becoming a slim choice of complexity as an ambition consumed homunculi. Dancing as apparitional as dust motes with self corralled into small egoities, only you are the approbator of self-worth, the manufacturer of motive.***********In what way am I outside my actions while noticing my inner-conversation, thinking, '...do you wanna drive,' imploding with a vicarious daimon, retreating with, 'you already are.' Like someone within is answerable and yet in-that-continuum road winding, lodged in traffic, no-other-place-to-be, I wouldn't just turn-over and sleep. And still some escapist to mundaneity shelters the lens on a rather complex manufacturing of confidences: pacing under the anthropos of monstrous clouds in this penumbral present, the shadows braced by the currency of an elliptic 'submit,' only to make plain, I imagine hardly votive endurance to the impermanent record. Capacious of beginnings, the world improves the gainsaying of identity, all the guarantee of its potency and otherness to characterize this becoming as fleeting 'divines' (the making of...) get thee out, this second person of my senses. Just my senses.*************The world of blind potency and radiant otherness characterizes our lives becoming as fleeting, and yet committed to the imposture of ready encouragement one proscribes Get Thee Out, this second person to our senses.***************While I wander in this cosmic house by day devised by objective reality and its abracadabra, I scale its facade by night forging the key to the coming doors of perception denying somnolence in its consolation of a deep-aside and declaiming its spiritual half-light.***************Well, even the materialists recognize withwhom it enlists to break institutions, who it is that would derive reflection on Law which clearly is limiting of their own political machinations while arguing for no distortion in what they see. Begging for a philosophy pled for Reason against the more ambitious, id affected, in their monstrous clouds uncertain of their Sunlight contrivance, and yes fighting folks on the table of g*ddamn parsimony, asking, "What does it look like to you ...?" To my eyes, conservatives are now so distorted in their Red technocratic Americana, Power isn't alarming to them in their social ignominy; they don't consult empowerment with their closest luculent on Culture and identities' movement. While progressives can see themselves in the climate of that power in its A to B dialect living amongst such unthinking, sensitive to elaborate on relationship by denying an Us and Them continuum, I can speak for myself, my abandonment of ego, hopefully if I'm astute, is this duality with the need of less a decisor or divider than more reason discoverable to develop Human Rights, Health Justice, truth, art and culture, jobs and vocations, rehabilitations and creativity respected which trickle down only from whom that would hope above, across sameness, round these places of our making.*************A lesson really, it was tough love and my teeth would hardly cut nor sublimely recognize it as mainstay or certainty. To the ends of self, thinking I may witness the heaviness of being, what fine few notes of contentfulness lurps from this exclusive idea's gland where everything worldwide is velocitous and retreating from its actual value, the value of some promise of my escape. Discovering the ground beneath my feet is fully otherness ronching to imply its mire-sensate coming, then over as I would do what I do here realizing just the occasions to be plaino me there too. She's evocative, this One-World, her mutual emergence with the near slurring creek of our minds is fecund and rich upon the surface, just elements and a complexion for light imperatives within.***************To sense and jettison distraction in making a record of moments under the splay of a favored tree canopy better than 45 years ago, then something else yet another view just mitigating the contentment to wandering my Quail Creek neighborhood while standing there in my five year old feet, I'm merely this little Texan thinking empowerment to the bigness shouldering to my cosmogony, big world where I come from, imaginable. It is just so surprising to me that somehow proprioceptive stuff, phantom but interior light shows, emerge from those spaces like I've looked again, hidden-away even more above me into those stridulant boughs with thoughts proffering the Tiger Stripe gum I chewed round those years of green youth and just more glint of voluntas from the Sun peeking out of periwinkle blue skies. Following the creek where I plodded at the steep drawling end of our road I have a mind declaiming answers worldwide. I'm an actionable spirit across that proudland, a marauding agonist of nature misunderstanding nature's hoplon of self that will always be of this encounter in some affection to that little world conjured in her shadows of rescue and wholly defanged by an earthen vehement anonymity. A lesson really, it was tough love and my teeth would hardly cut nor sublimely recognize it as mainstay or certainty.*************Amongst white clouds waving-on in bookish-ethos, a few things run me into more reserved shores, prone to yon looks into conceptual thought. Sometimes, if you stay ept into the sweep of the past you have to react as guarantors of history. Schooled of life in rhythmic loss or fruition by re-inflating identities so they'd become emergent like tentpoles of their conferant more recent application to this circus act of today's social-political reality obvious in this dispensation, whence everyone with a brain sees, 'It's never been this bad before,' more from acosmistic cognates and phantom comforts, they almost can care for you developing through this and that. That what you do becomes an overstanding to low-common denominators bouncing your sensitivities on being into their haunts having the impetus of an undone history the goal of our academic and creative reach into lots of books, and lots of identities to plenteous antecedents, reaction to change rather against difference. The crease of page upon page opened to streams of instruction is where eyes reify anyspace and seem like remittance to blinking bites of the author's lure to our whetted esteem proportional through studious extent in realism's spark of swath agreement, having-gotten-it only prepared to think it as access to our nature. I am all about the black fire streaking into the waters of many a book, into their blue pages awash in remedy, white fire tableaux burns concomitant of conscious props festooning history and the whiling-away one discovers there.*************Stagger into the gates of the forest, careen into its dank floor tasting the cool hypnoses of being present. Everything shows the might in self-reflection accumulating there, and the shadows of just-because become its capacious smothering. To paint accounts of our glad mind nomenclature is nothingness little iconographed through proprioception. With clamored over, funk-eliciting glass of inner-tissues, the looking-glass of our decisor nature to our becoming is no one identity explaining its lucence**************Thought this was rather contemplative from a year ago, so I'll tighten it up some here, sure to become reflective, looking way away, really on. ***** You've come-correct construing your time wisely sauntering into preoccupation and contentment. I'm glad I'm looking. Believing that the case is nicely laid upon - intimating with what lucence must be born, fly to a proliferate heaven untying the thinker from the mouldering body inappetitic to things, as to say 'You're calling something an answer,' life of exoteric inquiry enjoined wholly, generally, all of its ocean. Fully the essence of indefinite choruses would bloom in amens and apeiron aums and yet surprise me in heights to their spiritual feast eaten like mainstay rather than ambrosia. In one note of a day fecund with melody, imagine a feelable world, all that potency in our senses, its cartage to chances of color and light, coolness cooling, warmth igniting, the shore of experience which keeps coming, then when it's over ...you become its sense recovered. A most natural muse to this slow fidelity, I'm encouraged then absorbed among Light's reasonable furniture to the realm over memory and interior where Grandma's couch of consciousness let all my dreams portray their first door opened on this beat nerve, this lamenting mind, an' seeing Mom belching emblems of her myth and lightning lip conversation, love in the glad eye of a broken deer, my yard-sculpture on land where nature 'hopes' down unfettered to distance enlisting soul's safety in this or that niche, spirits averring, given-up then vying responsum across her loosening and escape, I think rather hopefully her spiritual being would be revealed of homey prayers left to its desiccate form before as yesterday's hands placed her, cornerstone apposite, Terah's toppled idol yet still in some career of one kind of doxology.***************People leapt from my skein of form. From my mouth was more easily their plank drawing my attention. Like weeping and wailing figures, black cloaked in tendony bites, gnashing between teeth like these cloaked hordes in expiation felt it unreasonable their last digs had become the boluses of my incorporation. Wildly, throes of populist valor from the scaling horde are set-free of tribute for their habituation in my mind's administration and I imagined my cadence written like glyphed Hindi ink tattooed across my head and face. The bum-rushing crowd in my self-possession made a circus of my pale shelter, churchy amens of nigh aums were eaten like victuals of literate thoughts, I'm the more vehement cannibal, I thought, or some manifest matriarch of an insect infestation, eat eat eat.**************Hamza al-Din plays his oud in an ethereal Sinaitic mood. Slacking attention then divining its reflection in paces while alighting as music in the Egyptian canal irrigator's meddle he supposes a hero of water who knows to quench supplications for mercy. His segueway provenance is lush in blissful condominium with the Sun, green as youth and impulse, mirthful only that a High G*d in the skies is listening, he's riding his waterwheel, far-over growing melechia and cucumbers fed from the White Nile. It is a proscribed heat remarkable as Peter O'Toole convening "Orientalism" as to coin an image in a place of a day's pretend affect to that of Man's chthonian and spare map he wanders wedded to histories and learned among the jinns.*************Is our world bad or good? Cessation stands out if one defies death as evil yet defines lives and those busy dying in confluence of penumbral guarantees of some goal to self-improvement. This adventure merits the survival of the wisest whose observation of stillness is applied in its apposite value, cessation, getting back to the climate of our more humble education to powers denied their impact (we are) too breachable by their distraction. Abraham's palimpsest journey given to evasion from a Babylonian cauldron makes the presumptive relief or fix to our suffering in being merely removed from its terror while remaining within it, a fire transforms into the cool lotus. I know if I run around imagining some part of the cosmos, = here and now, summoned through a high-bar rationale, meanwhile I can't deny that I've become impulsive of conditional, more materialist thinking and so of course our spirits are fully developed self-knowing or not in the material world. Conflated by interesting myth, Yes, only somewhat. What weird preachments in the reckoning of a world-to-come, living but reconciled to biblacy's leonine perceptual come lion's den meditation supposed with as likely a Shia sense of memorial and lesson as their Susa lands of Daniel's tomb refines also the reach of Bavli beginnings to Aramaic purveyors as Jews will have been.***********An hallucination - me thinking people were in my car. I'm parked. Not the phantom head in the traveller's seat kind of thing. I'd call it as benign as memories of probing in the neighbor's garden among bowed blooms condoling my senses from something I felt unready to encounter - that I am the clay, the shadows, phenomena. By myself then. While I sat in the back smoking, two figures appeared and occupied up front, charioteers to my Chevette. Once upon a time out behind the ole church by my house around the meadow from well-contented horses, it will never be the same foot of the mountain then half-way home unshrouding of a midnight sky deftly scaled this way again. The Doctor owner of the lot's adjacent property should have been this eunomies' dreamer of The Broken Bridge and the Dream dreamscape fallen to me the gatekeeper of gates prised open to their horses with reins sloughed-off, which actually frees them somehow in the blue night of soma soup and my wandering spirit like their anschluss probity not neatly offered captured by these near fences but would've given-up. An hallucination: so with schizophrenia, not called that anymore it seems, my main symptom had been my compartmentalizing ran afoul and I'd be dundered and 'confused.' But one solution was to imagine a visualized if emergent Thought Disorder strongly libertine to conceive selves this phantomic and buffered through good TOM in these thoughts' poorly funded economy making me feel plain, mildly objectionable as an entertaining concession to the depth of stillness inclined with ghostly reflections hitherto in dialect almost materializing ply aliens to a conversation till then I understood as an interior way of dreams. Comforted in otherness, angels, perhaps, I reconciled. Chagall's Blue Angel, ...or horses in circus lightning and flurry.**************Getting out of the business of having to act on identity, proving it in someway, is reliably Change becoming more definitive of our repair, a change of name, an indifference to schedules, given to a solution in constancy, Something in view of what seems to be my opportunity with myth only that I'm led and removed from the morning of what wanderings in history cross the plank sacralized of Nature's vehement crush, into afternoon and night, dances as sands wind-empty of dreamy footfall till one emerges amid its window of conscious success, an appearance too, equal in more usual moments of an ever-unknowing stuff imparted with the guise or persona of complicity to inquiry, that I should and would, I'm called to and adjured, to which I can only say woven in Rasta praxis, asking, whence these streets of wanderers transect a ghost town, why not scale the walls of an indifferent memory with the power of new distances fromwhich their spiritual embers might be felt?***************Quoting from Dan Brook's Tikkun Blog, "...Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir responded “I believe in the Jewish people.” Questioning and struggling with the concept of God are deeply ingrained in Judaism and literally part of the word Israel, the community of Jews, from which the country takes its name. Therefore, atheism is kosher and I am proud to be an “atheist of the book.”" What this decidedly reputes is the etymology of the word "Israel." The word means, Those who strive or struggle with (divine) god. An impersonal sense of meaning to the world is adjuring from this inner-agonic study (of the word, Word, in its denouement), only to hear what is come from Jewish Higher Learning. Our Ethical Writings, the Talmud, it has been presumed, takes an atheist to be the best student of its ocean's report. So I hope in someway evinced of the middle to cultural initiation, not a mission of belief as it is anecdotally and more broadly a sense of Knowledge ruling superable than keeping aphoristic images in mind, some wist of G*d, it is fair to say, Judaism is to the morning of Western iconoclasm as Core-Culture is in the night of its democratic reasoning as to say yoke or denial of the hierarchy to those who control symbols such as Justice, Liberty, philanthropy and the numen (O patriot) et cetera.***************By inquires in our stoic but most present ways when we really think about life - and I think vision and a way forward - is in taking-on the inter-personal proverbial 'bump in the road,' directing us toward its imminent attention on point of rational wisdom contenting us that things-just-happen. You live and should do as you will, while arguing out of Kung Fu tzu's Analects or Hillel's Talmud for the Golden Rule, a child's adage, "If you don't, I won't," (so to speak) where Big Men make their first destiny's call upon the moral landscape, thinking, 'would I dare persist?' A mind working with one and against itself and fooled by imagining and expectation, value statements are made as the first mistake on our ways to the Compassionate Void, while questioning one's self in his or her mellow come stridulant addiction to the other, that It Is All Ego, one may imagine social living coining our moods no differently than a drug and is an apex answer more usually in complement of something underlying our ambitions to be understood, or overstood, that easy self-reflection, probably always imputed to our encounters. Though it is for some only to imagine jumping from our reflective waters while faring the equinox to our minds, a sense of karma makes our shared world look deliberate, threadbare with this same existential attire, but through eyes speaking of the drowned and the saved in one encounter at a time.****************On my early '70's then restored Schwinn 10speed in a Summer's dialect gliding through airport ways swinging further out apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas when a tremendous report from a gun blast tears past as if targeted to my wildman frame. I thought, 'I get to die now.' I said, "Jezzz.' - And it was forgiveably plaintive as Eli Eli lama sabachthani. Ending anymore conflation, I'm eye to nerve into bony head sutures pleading over my meddle at any moment come to this plain vanishing? Kicking it now down Fort Springs-Pinckard my adrenaline had left me wan, washed up from the intensity to escape by the end of yasss Dedman Lane - not just poetic device - I look at my arms and legs imagining full physical success and only just down the road fooled by a gat in some phantom's hand. 'Ha, only a name ...but I know I ain't any wiser.' A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by all-the-day-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right up onto the road's margins. Looking at my back tire it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - like the burning in my chest of ignorance and heat nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart and now a colour to the blindspottedness of impermanence, 10,000 coves, the gray refrain in every glance in all the days thence bloomed from the god of abracadabra's thwack to my impulses, an interior trance, objective reality all restored in almost an unrecorded earthly light.***************In the midst of this modern American impetus round the experiment to a worldwide technocratic free-for-all, why in the hell does the more Literalist observer, hardly transformative Traditionalist, in their oh so discriminating self-reflection of the product to core-culture inwhich they become, had they been so inclined, lure so blindly as to not imagine the banner dissent coming from more progressive intensions sounding out the same reserve and agreement from 2000 year old scariphare illuminating the antecedents to Christian peoples, their certain ministrations toward pathetic realities in society, by addressing poverty quite differently theoretically than that of the Christian Right now so acquisitive savoring power in the laudatory echo chamber that they would ever take-on in thus and such expression pon the moral landscape !! ...Women's health now in focus.***************I'm first coddled, brought home Mother's parturient to my first physical map intending pon this conscious one to an excelsior-town's Gardenside area rather appropriately, I feel, farmlands imbued closely under these same skies, creeks, creeks and a dank if heroic neighborhood pond. Living where my sweet Susie and I do now is only a leisurely walk to the Baptist Hospital ready then 51 years ago for my month early birth. That place of my making in another house for 27 years, I can freely imagine something of a creative monadic survey of my life becomes obvious. Round by a creek in Garden Springs park, just contiguous with Gardenside, I go and sit under a huge tree, deciduous and roughlike maple leaves, but I don't know my trees. With my book prone, arm sorta extended, I guess I'd be reading Scholem Aleichem's actually not boring Tevye's Daughters on this occasion, or Isaac Babel's Stories of the Red Cavalry, even Bernard Lewis like today. Sunny day like now, the splurb of the stream at my back disappears, I'm travelogoi allured here in this elapsing to good meditation. And then out of the tree, high-up most certainly because there isn't a possibility in reaching its first limbs, somehow an earthworm falls in my eye. My eye. Yass, an avian's misanthropic move perhaps, and yet I hadn't sensed the cloud-hand factotum in the boughs above.*************"I have a little meadow, I've kept for you in store And it's only due, I should tell you true, it never was mowed before." (Traditional, the Mower) And today it is become novel as ever to get out there, not to say 'refreshing,' though waiting and rather lulling around locked in my body, finally, sitting here now I imagine a rather cathartic deed done, push-mowing our backyard, handily but with a good whelm of pain. I walk in from the porch having knocked the grass from my shoes and Iris DeMent is outsetting with a bucolic mood, love sensate truly, and while imagining any next moment that I'm about to collapse "The country music station plays soft, but there's nothing, really nothing to turn-off." (Bob Dylan, Visions of Johanna) Only if I could, just tracing my breath rooted down into solemn mnemosyne - how deep is this concern and stress - panting like a damn dog who is forced to run with his or her owner, (which I never understood - the dog doesn't need it) I'm at least at liberty to perspire and hope for the flush corners of appearances to give me room to be conferant and wander again amid my redefined perseverance.***************Thinking through a project of more austerity may serve that poignancy to define meditation in confidence unblind to a more elastic stillness. Watching the eyes of a motivated observer averring lands in its mutilation to that of something symbolic, appearances in one's concept of myth seem more elect in detail. His eyes lured aft like a ship pointing into the star-oriented moment, illiterate, not sunk then anchored, indulgent as a book's crease to make more unknowable matters of Time suspend amid the emptiness contemptible by the heaviness of words. Lots of books, lots of identity to awe over with plenteous antecedents.***************Tathagata, 'thus-gone' are the immensities in the climate of some greater will. From sensate to spiritual, the things whose box I check in this world more tacit are sometimes in Chaim Potok's characters. Subtlely the 'lil' brother' to Davey in "In the Beginning" inspires what isn't at all, I could guess, the intent of his author and instead with both the author's and through the incidental grasp of little brother, a lucid seance of inner-city wilds, nature outsetting with Big Sur like descriptions owing to Beat proximations, portend philosophical rapport as-if out of Ojai, California's precincts within these valleys, where Krishnamurti had written "...To Himself," for instance, and alludes to something more Eastern (I assert) while Potok also maybe in agreement to their bucolic spaces, round orchards and peace to progressive minds seems emplaced with symbolic promotion, generally perhaps, freely associated. The little brothers step up to an expired bird in the park's path on their way to a clearing poignant in covetous secrets - within a reachable past, war and rumors of war, the historically belched partisan Father, Max Lurie, of Poland or Polyn, as named in Yiddish, figures prominently - this 'demise' is not the only avian to bring pathetic ideation - the expired cloud-purveyor is shone like esoteric shores where Davey would alight. The younger of the two awes in near (older brother's) literacies of fractured if divinely supposed forces and just weird impermanence, calls the creature, "budee." So an alliterative musterion seems welcome: it makes my mind seize on the name of the transcendent Buddha implied. The imagery concordant is mirrory like Escher's forest overhead seen reflected in dallies of earthen blemishing and puddles, its rare ungrace - a sentient and two-tone puddle - is ideation of mind, a bird flown, a project of the reader's self-worth, becoming wanderers by wooded spirits where trees of scaffolding embrace the actors as a model for human perception.***********Bent over not as old men but as hunters pleading empyrean heaviness, I looked up and thought, 'Live big today.'***********Speech, breath, wind, eye and heart elect just this primary theater of everything that sensates and that I'll ever get to know. I think to conversate. Then just what-if upon the thoughtplain conscious couch. Garble it. Sometimes denied even easyspeak, I just ronch on conceptualization. Rhythm through the sound of a usual door appending the day chides me into evanescence - lo, it makes me live - though I call it an appositive, lent from mind-hand to world-encounter is the blue slumber in Rimbaud's now evoked breach in the gate opened up to me, onto starved geists merely 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'm mutable of forever, exoteric like an earthen thing and presumptive of voluntas, interpreting my clay lobbed to the present, fecund.************And this, like a stardate to endless Summer: In the mountains, Upstate New York, I took a hike into the woods and reclined next to a clear stream - these are the Catskills up from the Hudson Valley. Then rejecting nicotine succour to peal back the serenity in such a remote and lucid stream, I gainsay the emptiness and facile resolve to be stimulated. I saw the scale of alternations from emotional toll or intellection of my mind swarthy from what would have been a compelling chemical romance; after having endured the concreting of their pressures, I'm already patient to the extremes of my mind. Just in my mental-speak, I wouldn't level or reduce the gratuity to the liberty I had apprehended not to smoke. I remember how glad I was to find myself there - the forest - for self-actualization sake, so glad, but no one of my immediate family during this spare visit only to become my conferants as I wake in reaching the two threads of the horizon, my solitarian trajectory. In mopey paces around down from our Russian-Jewish bungalow colony equidistant to the Polish-Catholic compounds, called the Vistula, named here after the largest river in Poland, the woods were haunted, full and wandering, an imminence that I imagined nigh from shared clouds in an unspirited urban world, which is waiting for me, yawning in the prone meditation of this retreat. A fallen well past my wooded ambulation, off our country road in some blueberry patch by the Vistula, makes these rough, formerly inhabited other communities around it look peevish, even annoyed that by impulse and sight of benediction I wanted to populate the rocky, summer-browned grassy space with my nature-parturient concerns. I told myself it looked like a nice place to bury the misery of the world - looking over its broken-down stone gird, the shadows belched in unintimation at my wist - it wasn't a very mollifying Purveyor of my Hope and still I do. Consequently I felt even a bit more haunted and humored.