In & Around Bluegrass Airport/ gentrification not availing us yet, on Parkers Mill ln.

Coffee-water colored, next to the median-way/fields between the back-roads & THAT stream, we sussed out between rocks & spiderwebs looking for beercans...later to be washed & dipped into oxalic acid to remove the rust that never sleeps. Corruption of REMs, which this rust made-up oF the dreamt repose of those hilly-country roads, lying across fields of corn, horse meadows--I saw paths only proffered under-foot in nighttime vision yawning ahead just as my feet sought its hold--as the unveiling dream flowed forward in undulating ambulations like I have never left these things I sought=beercans, Country-air w/purple thistle stickers corn-flower smells, & exertions from distances on trodded roads. On Frogtown ln. a farmhouse settling ever deeper into the firmament, invited us to explore in our stealth: timelessness for One, & a buena vista social-club (to coin a phrase) in its patience for our membership once removed from the harsh light of schooldays then encumbering our world. We'd eat peanut-butter sandwiches on roman-meal bread & drink warm sodas, if we had them, all carried in our backpacks, or tied in Kroger bags onto our handlebars--A day in the life from restless youthful consciousness.

Apropos of an actionable Academician

Wandering images on campus, upstairs, into hallways--transmogrifying into a squirrel--then defying physical categories, becoming the usual shapeless mass & a book-of-rules, again. By saying again, I mean a coherence of a shapeless-mass=a body consciousness w/full attention say upon the elements of outward fact. It is a derivative idea, originally implying something not of my assertion. This would be in opposition w/some fragment of self-image competing w/my better intentions. If I had not been a sh.-mass, self-image would obviously have been frustrating/derivative, in the dream. All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocuttor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which avail my eyes only whence the eyes focus upon the opposite pg. "Forest of life underfoot" (Patti Smith) as I get to the perimeter of campus into My own--a Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. KING library would close for good (on the Univ of Ky's campus). Assuming some thoughtless Asana pose, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages--R. Gere's thing, tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting resignation on earth--my telling of it. The posture could be colluded in the yogiclike practice of Abraham Abulafia--13th ce Seferad (Espana). My eyes' recused vision of ancient times always seeks Hebrew symbols, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. Nirvana may just be that chamberOFwisdom, hekhalot, that presumes an advantage in intercession in the form of the community we identify w/most, OR that crowd we channel that may not be an organism of One-mind (like gems refracting from the illumination of a flashlight, rather than the burnishing of the ultimate Solar-disc)!--as opposed to the zeitgeist of the media driven world. So there I find myself, a khalutzim, pioneer or pilgrim, on the way to the temporal kingdom. Only to find patterns of language, the way we constitute the onlyAttributes of G-d we may otherwise have no way of articulating. The Glory, as Gershom Sholem relates. When I was 6yrs old at the neighboring st. in Laurel Grove Austin, Texas--I sought to be conveyed in a few moments the thoughts that constituted what was to me My lifetime. So to be articulated into something not so easily defined, I thought I should start At-the-End of the path/those thoughts/that day/This life. My question is this: we tend to sort out the last 5mins in any kind of constancy, our life's totality i.e. generalities supposing some inertia that there is some Grand design to our efforts,...usually means something epiphenomenal like the image of the rabbi, in my mind, that has the dust of archetypes upon it (life's exquisite dust, assumed in "the tea-maker's pose" -P. Smith, again)--rather a motivating emotion I suppose in meditation. Is this K'fitsas haderekh? translation: Skipping, what one does w/visions & thus the experience of presence.

The way they use you, live big today--tomorrow you're buried in a casket

George Harrison says, in some interview about self-realization--this interlude within the context of more topical stuff, "one has to sift thru the grains of sand to get to the sugar...." I like getting my mysticism from other arabias, rubbing out symbolic thought while finding that stark monad in some immense void--(a Kerouac-ism, in terms of ARABIAs), & this is thoughts on why there is no imminence front. What all is the fuss about? The very real constituent activity I undertake daily IS knowing what I'm leaving behind. But, not acting in its stead. There is definitely radical forces--institutional entities that creep into our thinking. --Lying on my bed, back in the house I grew up in, then in the 1990s, Bionic Rats was playing on my turn table, reggae, --I knew that the one effort that informed my mind w/o cessation was weeding out improbable notions THAT I had a certain amount of control over just what was now before me...! "...in the garden..." (lyric'd theme commonly heard in Rasta music, think Iraq now--war, war & rumors of war then as now--& only a desire for "Certain-skies"--Arthur Rimbaud) meant just that spiritual on-set of victory over any supposed responsibility to deliver myself upon the threshold of common zeitgeist gnawing at the corners of the emptiness I maintained--in my concealment. The churning riddims of Lee "Scratch" Perry's Open the Gate, did this for me. A field of light WAS as casual as glances beyond this kaleidoscope in front of me, but for the moment the gaze into shadows w/florescent animicules, like a varicolored veil, kept my concealment from advancing. No longer would I seep further into empty chambers; everything now would be a constant departure. Hard to understand, I know. Just imagine white noise & vibratory properties as a visual. Exuding frenetic energy, turning upon smaller & smaller experienced forms, I was quickly turning off and tuning in. (this thing I projected was visible) Utterly indescribable isolation, those days, my condition was everything just short of monkhood--minus the doctrine, though it would come. Turning off everything I could, 'til the zealous projection of light energy was all a contagion before me.

Masr or Mitzraim to the Ostyuden disambiguation

Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man, though conditionally not theist bent, brings me into the fold of memories about a tambourine man, an Arab, Muslim as much as one would consider any one body sentient within Arab lands (...that includes animals--according to the Qu'ran, and the characterization of the T. Man==More, animals, as I've read, have already "submitted"--define "islam" here, but Man must take upon himself the Shariah, therefore identifying himself as an adherent--I think the word "witness" is appropriate, here, in his forebearance). But to expand upon the poetic nature of confliction over theism, tremendum and fascinans, the adult playing the tambourine down the butcher's street, on the way to the train station--in Luxor Egypt--Just his giving voice and weird credence to the pity borne of ritual/religion--his music, like mine: vanquished! -- animated the dust coloured walls to chaotic fly-ridden meat (halal-!)--laterally his domains--into tacit moments otherwise not warranting this Westerner to get all that close. The man was clearly transcendent (the local masjid in vicinity, by the way, its door let out upon that dirt road) to typify his insanity (=majnoon in Arabic, one posessed by a demon, a jinn), probably not to the nether regions, but more closely toward disease & propriety in his next breath. Now we see the Mumin's or Musselmanner's treatment of his kithe & kin or my misunderstanding of it, along w/whatever we'd see in the following. (Muslim detractors called Muhammed majnoon, inappropriately--I reflected on this word working construction in Southern Israel, amongst the other Palestinian laborers, unknowingly, & got punched hard in the shoulder over & over again for my indisgression. I had only thought of its similarity to the Hebrew word Meshugga=same meaning--words aren't cheap to some!!)--Covering all bases, to continue: In Visions of Joanna, Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. In what seems to be his telling of unique histories, the fiddler is he--the so-called fiddler of E. Europe, On the Roof...it has to be. And the whole Judeo-Christian ethic, New Jerusalem (from maybe the Jerusalem of the east--think Litvak) on trial--is of One product, as he tells it from its report, meaning his conscience exploding--the fish is emblematic, Rt? If anything I'd bid his perspective at the equilateral-ness of the monotheists. It wouldn't be conceptually, except in some very essential ways, but definitely socially/politically--as Downpressors? (a Marley-ism). We could take the whole context time-line of the last 2000yrs & brandish its beginning as a deliverable context in itself. Called the Axial age, we now see, and the impetus of the degrading human condition thereafter. **See Unripe Walnuts below for schizophrenic allusions--my take on the supra-normal, short & sweet.

Once intimidated, twice Intimated

Standing out on the log pile in our half-acre backyard, just a yard away from farmland & more bluegrass, off the wet ground--a balance from the tethered past 'til that purple night--all a handshake w/the homewardness I'm leaving... The stocked kindling used to be over at the front side of the house, & there had been a couple of bouts chipping away at dull wood w/hand on an axe blade & no handle--just because! Toil, I guess had to be equated--mind to languor in the late night hrs. A yellow breeze from long ends of the days puts yet another attenuated sense between me & the Ky star-lit sky. I'd come back from Cinci earlier that evening & thought about the midnight sky as something to be excused from the Will its path conjured, because I foundered on the dialogue w/it thru its impermenance now solving the crisis I'd be heard by those vast distances. A young fellow had been belched out of the smog & din of Bogarts frequenters, I asked him for that ride, which stretched in a kind of asking throughout the ride home, conjoling him I'm not too far from downtown Lexington. I'm tired of looking at the antiquated biblical familial nods, but this just-out-of-h. school dude looked like my older bro, 1970s & all, in h.s. in Texas--I'd call it beatnik, or more wholly--vital & beat, like Kerouac would say. The late in the am. hrs out around the neighborhood, w/my bestfriend yrs earlier, had heavy skies throttling my composure, as if we were at a kind of bottom layer of atmosphere, walking into the field enclosing the church. & for a moment backing off--in recalcitrance, I sought my friend, wondering if he too felt burro-ish...? Our primary regard for what we had become, midnight ravers, meant ignoring an escalating sky & committed us to groundlings: some strange headless sense, just part & parcel Of the arbors' flat earth in the burbs--sunken. That is why the voice I heard, mired in solace up outside of Bogarts, struck me as entirely appropriate. "I'll see you up here, tonight," to which some bird-song crow-vox informed me I'd be arisen from what was a kind of opposite rung of, rather, people's lightened load.

The DISTANCE strung,the THOUGHTS traveled

In Cairo there was a sweet decadence in a day where at one moment I felt I was unlimited, & I gained a reverence for the immensity of experiences travel had to offer. Vast & eternal because I was somewhat ill-received these faithless days & yet stood beleaguered by the profundity of distances & finality of that. I would have to say that smoking herb there in Egypt sealed the deal, but more importantly I was solidly assured that my liberation was at hand & no water (or High Sun) could put out that fire, ...meaning indulgences like smoking. I can't sit here & promote marijuana use & say it is a means to an end, but whilst we contently articulated a day's consignment of these meager illusionary moments--in repose of those Dec. days in Cairo, I remember some thing in my eyes which made me subject & audience of my own independent means to get Born under circumstances=having gotten away from the constraints of time & place e.g.hometown so remote & automatically assumed in its pressures, however abstract they may get. I carried this idea all week now, & thence I dreamt of an ex-patriot accord, w/an old head I know here from work. ==In this domicile we found ourselves in, I kept promoting reflection on the advantages of setting up camp there--Valerie now in the picture & here & there responsibility on making her comfortable--but my wandering mendicant of a friend wouldn't yield to me & was dubious throughout. This made the dream & its mundane possibilities that much more a recess I had to indulge in: I wasn't going to leave behind this place & reject the illuminating conjuration of New-bounds Unseen. Captivated. All domiciles (in my dreams) have the portents of a forested corridor as the people are the trees & I am destined to wander or trod. Even the illustrations in mind of my wakened moments there in Egypt--this unwooded Afro-Asian desert--leave me off at a quake of protective boughs.

The Climate of the Bee-Catcher=The Will of Higher Ground

I saw a passive environment there in Ontario, Iron Bridge, next door to Neil Young's hometown Blind River--we actually went by his sister's house, we thought. Though the feel was dormant/slow-like, it didn't have the pretense of winter coming on though it is. Now in the stale office air, looking out to the road trafficking students & associated agents of this town's school yr arising, the humid winds (of Aug/Sept) sweeping past in gray skies look awefully Autumnal from here. Here's the rain now in a new shower from only 15 mins ago & it actually looks bright out. The seasons are kept in a deep well pocket of mine, & now I elicit the respect from lone days spent as if I have some kind of will tied into a climate of change/& the greater Will. I remember going to Mark's--my oldest bro, & summery heat of an apt this casual no central air was at least bearable & mostly just where one would want to visit to think of the emanations of headiness of healthy foods & soaps & incense. That is the times-in-between, & the identification of a fixed state of mind to make it jumping-off pts, & leaving the negligible responsibilities to the moments when I'd do THAT too--it just wasn't THEN.... This is when one sees a sort of composite of unyielding time just out of reach--he or she would claim that crystaline air as effortlessness--a karmic resolve. You'd think one would get the "news" peripherally indefinitely. Accurate force of what we reckon we need to be hit with, IS found a 100 pgs into a book when you're ready to put it down for good. Still , one's back pgs is the acquisition of persons' manner we're more easily going to antiquate. Those 4 corners in some room decorated w/projections of whomever would understand you/ we will never know--not really... but I throw dust on images of self-reflection until I see that nothing looks back. AND then the whole winter solace is ahead of me: one man one plain; nothing derivative.

Call it biblacy, but this read was New yet Old

This is probably my first book, besides a Beatles bio, which I had never thumbed thru--this book is called The Rastafarians. (ras=rosh; tafari=tiferet goes from translating the Arabic to Hebrew=head (of) the creator/ Ras tifari+ but I'm no adherent.) I importune a feeling of complacent lounging on my bed or floor in the rooms I grew-up in, as I looked upon this book in my bookcase. It is literally an edifice of those moments, remonstrating perfection in contentment & clarity, though unachieved, claims me as an adherent--toward a noumenon. I intended a vista through walls coming down from there in my solitude into the shelves at Sqecial Media, yes sQecial, where I bought it. It is the advantage in identifying space as a power spot, just as in Don Juan's, A Yaqui Way of Knowledge: It seemed someone had led me to my room & said find where you belong in it. I composed myself until I broke the recluse bounds & tore off pieces of titles languishing in repose, there for my assessment. The BLACK abstraction that was an emanation of word beginnings imparted by Mom, is just that sort of gathering of concepts as my gaze moved around the room & landed upon maybe in OTHER cases, like Gershom Scholem's writings. I am mystic, I am fistic, I am hiss-tic.

The Smell of Unripe Walnut Rinds on Your Hands...

Hill & dale down the walnut tree'd main rd into & between my neighborhood (Beaumont park area) toward suburban ubiquitous devolution behind the local shopping cntr (Gardenside), I'd sometimes walk in the wee hrs, maybe for a juice up at the market. My schizophrenia full-blown at the time, at least, remained laughable to me--even in the seriousness of mind-sore imagery, in this case an auditory hallucination. Literally, dormant interiors to people's secluded rests faltered the broad-scape visual (behind well-kept yards) I sensed...anticipating my own respite, while only being the convergence of their's. Like a whine, patterned from row upon row of houses, I thought the thing I heard was nocturnal communication= people in dialogue in order to sustain a dream state. (I was privy to...) And this (dream state) included the path's vistas I carried forward upon wondering if the language would translate into maybe a morning that this time wouldn't get away from me.

A hobo got to hide--Williamsburg rd. for 27 yrs

First, to step rt into the deep, I saw a chasm of ams, just as many do--seeing active pursuant thoughts that defer us to relationship-social amiable distraction. I'd get up & the meager earnings I accumulated for my lax communication w/others had me question why one would be so willing to be filled up w/such surface affability. I knew that a man who had wrenched his senses thru either his own faults or ultimate suffering had only the blue empyrean to thank, a tree, the smell of breakfasts, the laundry smells wafting thru the suburban-scape--had no abiding & gave no thanks to streams of social interaction, which could no longer suffice for his longing. 2nd, to evade relationship is neither here nor there, relationship IS regardless if the dynamic is presented or as in my case the projection of personas becoming as real as the object reasoned WILL to find an intercessor for my longing (a potential, Yes?). I guess at this pt I might as well admit that I had hallucinated. From the front door of the house One would step out & the grand ash tree of my growing up held the promise of achieving rootedness as nothing else could. People I knew sometimes flew into my wonder, & I sought the fulfillment of imagination, kind of instructing the sense we are ALL present in the threshold of the day, at that very moment. The thing I felt I saw, at once, was ephemeral imagery of my dad, but only in that something that was taking place under the tree. I imagined an elliptical hand-held mirror, kind of hovering as if it was held before a face allowing for a look into what was behind the statement of my projection=me walking by the appended identity of my father.

In Eilot, Israel==Autumnal couple of days

We'd come back from Dahab only hrs before, showered--I extricated the hidden hashish from my ass, & felt a little lost in a homeward-kind of present. I wanted to feel linked up w/complacent reflections of the Danish girls there in the apt. They, at least 2 of the 3, were hooking...flowery still, something nice. I went out to the deck (in the dark desert sky), we were upstairs, laid my head back on the cool rain swept tile & tried to lure a Fall relevance to distance traveled & a back home revelry. The others, my friend Rob (of Red Fly Nation) from here in Lexington, our comrade a British cat about our age, & those women, were all sitting around drinking beer & wine, which didn't interest me, fever was coming on. One really striking chic from Denmark, unusually darker than the others, & I went for a walk the next day--I wanted to go by these solitarian picnic tables & watch traffic, across from the airport near the Red Sea (Yam Suf--actually the Reed Sea). I had earlier in the week seen a morbidly obese wanderer--some woman w/splitting wounds running down her ripped stockinged legs, sitting there mayhem-like. Life had motion, just being w/the Danish chic, however--there was clarity in her attention of me, presuming there was a there there. I fancied Yes, but in reality, I merely thought this out of distraction. Back the night before one of the girls--her--came up on me & pointed out my anti-sociality, then threw a pot of cold water in my face, laughed, and left me alone.

THere's nothin' really, nothin' really to turn Off

Keenan Lawler said from his Myspace, frustration or anger leads One beyond the traditional. (& in the view of the Reviewer, his was a third alternative) TicTOCteac (Lee Perry) thanx G-d for making him mad. We always conjure Order (making a distiction from those things our focus becomes delimited). We see a freshly mown lawn & say, I want it to go like That. But it is like that. But again, I want it to go like that--still it is like that!! (suburban death, is quite another idea) A child whose energy which convalesces in the mundane outside his/her provenance seems wholly possible. And maybe we all projected energy from other planets (...VU's electricity comes from other planets recognized here) Lee Scratch says the Spiritual man IS mad. But I'm certain the MF (namely reprehensible conservative jips) detailing me how he'll make my monies work for me, is as mad as a reckoning of some Absolute will make some One. And yet I am on the front lines of a battle I wage to compete w/Ego...it's all ego, yeah, but when I let go I observe just that deficit in awareness, rather than fill up w/some kind of social status--

On the way back from Canada=Toledo Ohio, in August

We stopped by the graveyard where my wife's Grandma's parents are buried--in Toledo. This is a mostly Polish graveyard--though we were there for her Hungarian grandpa & Canadian great grandparents. The Poles traditionally were extremely perversely prejudiced against Jews. (google Anomoye Potswo; their lable of an anonymous Empire--a derogatory term to explicate what little humanity they'd assumed of their Jewish neighbors) It is a reality to perceive a threat when we cohere a community still living--this relativity that Otherness is Imminent. But this part of the Polish community lies ineffective, & out of my control or forebearance. And yet I mingle head & shoulders among spirits now that their reckoning is the kind of Ultimate demise in which we all relate. They are at peace, & I solemnly care that they are. I reach to clean the gravestone, someone reaches back in reaction to a constancy I maintain from dialogue toward things here & Not-so here. I forge a People'd pantheon of relationship, and they discover a new participant to the Crowd's end-game.

Did my sentence, languished in Gehenna

I went to see Paul K & the Weathermen down on Main st., good club setting--dark dive=The Dame, actually rt across from my cuz's old loft, Red Fly Nation's practice auditorium, the band I sullenly played-in...meaning I was thick w/exclusivity then--beyond the bouyant immediacy, not as now; & also this band subject of this writing played there at a loft apt. Time. Its Irony, that of time I mean, is that all the fantastic hype of relationship w/the material void--the unassailable appearances which we seem to want to duplicate all the time, this hype has a kind of energy (maybe because it opposes our sentience)--& once we place that measure of force to be Reckoned Into a box, we see that our momentum shouldn't be consumed by it. So, here's my point: I'm standing out in the crowd, Paul absolutely throwing down, Tim no less on the kit... an exacting kind of hypostasis occurs to me. They have ever been upon the threshold of sound that conveys me, & I have ever been in the throes of ecstatic imminence watching. Just watching, like I was supposed to interpret a message from an ancient time. & Ancient times, by the way are a dime a dozen--just think for a moment that all symbols of eternity are in this Life. We know no other, & Otherness is before us as viceral-as-an-effort we'd muster to complicate the Ineffectiveness-trying-to-change-things suggests.
paul k's website is paulkweathermen.com

Under my brother's mural...looking to the light from the upstairs coming in

From the bed where I languished... once upon an afternoon-sunny bland-until-I-imposed-a-remedy I lay there w/the duality of serenity & dead-soul. I conjugated my 1 plus 1 effort, suddenly knowing my neighbor w/his spiritual machinations enthused a fusion of the ineffective-me to the vital now/I could be both! My conga drum at the foot of my bed, always w/a telegraphed presumption--this calling toward the blue outward fact & skies--yawned while my nephew (Aaron) puttered around upstairs. So I call him down to my basementCRAFT; an impetus to say something w/my hands & the voice would be secondary & readied. I said,"Listen it's something I learned, not to forget, on this drum.". So a slowed-down resumption of analysed-afternoon glum came to my hands w/a hesitation in the pattern half-way through. This is when I raised my hands even higher, closer to his face: Look at it linger, I thought. He saw it, & I am going backward in time...then in obedience to fixed notion that freedom of thought is his kind of atonomy--To relate w/ youth is formulaic FOR freedom & I wanted attention ON having always placed a half-full cup in the WAY of release, to sift into liking it for the context of an inner-dwelling.

NEAR KENTON'S bluehole--a spring on Parker's Mill

Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my neighborhood had to offer (after 27 yrs, I moved)--its extension out over by the farm on Parker's Mill not 3mls from the Bluegrass Airport. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossacks stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems of these yesteryears, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachancha, a kind of military wagon (Soviet), not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US--how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise et cetera), & horses--the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree looking off into their field on this ubiquitous KY horse farm. The doom of destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made IT important to me. I called it my own, LIVED up to my expectations, & gathered no more than wall-flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.

Living on REBEL rd.--RADIO-FREE-LEXINGTON djing then

The imagery behind "this" scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house here on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because I was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical ams, before getting-up & after the light of am. trapped my eyes from leaving my dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand on the stepping razor of blood images from my grandmother-(granny) emerging from my heart... (a black velvet shadow of projected self) if we begin to set the plates for the mindsore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly unrealism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

See April's 2006POEM** //THis one is a RED FLY tip

Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now yrs ago. The mayhem-tree (as such I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the CURRENCY of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--it's a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise which would leave me gainful of expression: I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of this life's edifice--a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial worshipped space) w/ expectations on par w/ the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief & knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other side" into Mother Earth & define their opposition to it i.e. to that of the "other side" the sitra archa--the ch is a Kuh sound as in cuss. I am the convergence of wanting in & getting out.

RED FLY NATION, dispensational

The new dawn faded, thither I followed the descending sun, while living in downtown Lexington. The band was inspiring, but not for me to do things supporting it, but rather as a cause-accompli in my reaction to the world, my fait. No one has regrets, least of all anyone knowing those times in distant cognizance, however something was unsettled. I needed only to turn corners, those being dusty & worn, unremarkable, but nuanced enough to say I had forward thinking. The 3rd st. house we lived together in, the 6 of us, had me undetermined where I'd remain--if only to get the ball rolling, a current taking me into the bounds in which my then girl-friend vested her critique of our relationship, to which the plain suggestion to me was get-on-board. Literally I walked out of the house(apt) toward the settling evening air, out across the st. from Lex. cemetery, & sat under a tree in the parking lot. Still enough sun was gleaming for an allowance of alliterative resolve--my esoteric book defied the lack of patterns I'd forsaken, & given me something at stake. (I think the author was Madam Blavatskii, her mysticism-something book I stole from Sqecial Media, which considering the beneficence of the place I felt almost blasphemous.) If the coffers of the compassionate void grants us a powerspot now & again, I knew it wasn't for the moment instructive to bide those places AMONGST--(too bad, I know). But I prized the connections in relationship as something to get back to, if only... & for me that was clearly defined in the stands of trees which rustled w/ otherness, & in which I sensed the impending thunder (which we all heard), & yet I was left naked w/o a rain dance.

Met a Ma-mun (Muslim) in my DREAM last night

WE were down over by campus (UK), specifically some place either where Two Keys is now, or right there across the street at Casmir Restaurant, but inside had a kind of Student cntr feel to it. The Muslim didn't know I was a Jew, but outed me as an Infidel anyways--though I began to rally him that the world outside of Islam is not the Dar al-Harb, world of war (this sense may be part of fiqh--a kind of jurisprudence, the institution of jihad). In otherwords my dreamt self was someone purporting a reckoning of what fear & paranoia, if dissolved, could then sanction. This thing unique to our quality of life is probably a sense that we are not impelled by others toward the happenstance of any religion (think biblebelt here, and beyond!)--simply put secular ideas let lighted streets take us to a pluralist understanding of you & me. And the street is the revealed sort of powerspot, this particular area, I have dreamt of many times. Rt by what use to be White Mt Creamery--which I glanced at it while it was established--yrs ago, coming out of my old girl-friend's apt for the last time, above Two Keys, made me think I was at the foot of some fantastic obstacle, a figurative "mt," which broke the thread connecting me to a past I can never go back to. Personality can be cult-like, to stretch the metaphor, whether it is a taste of how your own has lent to a dis-ease, or if someone or something has a kind of control over you.

THE gray-ce of MOTIVE

Looking off to a corner of the room, not really in digression of what is on TV, or enthusiasm thereof, but some message reeled in thru the nature of complacency & my visual from escaping it--I feel this visual though only in inaugurating the immediate, still-solutions an on-going effort. All this effort is a cognizance of a kind of stammer--a shutter like the mortal coil announces its residing atmosphere which cannot easily be transitioned. But obviously an observation gets me thru a door.
Just today walking back from the bank I had a California moment. In CA perturbed masses in movement can be objectified because I am only there--just there, I'm not participating. Here, I smell the diesel, hear the car tires--their adjustment upon the pavement and suddenly I'm earthbound rather than KY-homeward. I've gotten beneath the firmament of time & place to a graver atmosphere, the nerve core of civilization in ad absurdum transition. I think we would agree that ideas & ideals are on a collision-course w/ experimentation & normalcy to its pinnacle there - maybe elsewhere.

KRISHNAMURTI

kRISHNAMURTI name may seem to imply new age perhaps or cult-like reverberations, but his essays are not ritual-abiding blah at all, nor are they neo-traditionalisms via Hindu study like a reformer who is ever so MORE conservative in his own approach would be apt, or religious to any degree. He takes a point like his exacting departure from the Theosophical Society, an Orientalist group, founded by Madame Blavatsky (who happened to come from the same town as my Grandmother, but in her parents time=Ekatrinaslav, Russia): Truth is a pathless land, and shows thru an exercise of conversation where we generally are left holding on to visualization of some bit of rationalization in how we cohere our response to our condition. He cajoles his reader to self-scrutiny--and one might react like having martyred a sense of relevance held closest to the vest due to his sheer plain affect. I find his writing writings highly UN-radicalized, to the effect that all else seems excessive & over-wrought.

On Fallon rd. near Beaumont Pk.

That cat who lain on the road, down 'round the corner from my house, on the oldest street in the neighborhood, struck a note of empathy in me in a very finite way==It was dead, of course, but its spirit floated close by. I entered the soul of the compassionate void, maybe ITS DIMINUTIVE space its vitality once conjured. I was touching something & I thought of my hands in that moment, on the wet road, Spring am. A black cat crossing my path, w/ a bleat in a spiritual heart I knew was manifest in every dreamy sanctioned day of my growing up there--seeing these locals' critters meander around this place. This cat meant that. Its one eye appeared as a kind of extremity, sticking out as a protuberance demanding one last visual of the road of its neighborhood life. I was as dead as it, and as alive. Marley's "Running Away" ran thru my mind--"you can't run away from yourself!" & I acquiesced to a struggle right then, at least in that moment I wasn't running, so I only had me to deal with & why not RIGHT then. If Rimbaud could lean next to a Prussian soldier in a field adjacent to his village at his final peace, and decide he could know everything now, similarly we are the convergence of tremendum & fascinans & could identify w/ a complete sense of motive.

Opting for TORPOR

The meditative moments Saturday night had one of the things I put on-the-BACK-burner as being the thing that would typically impel me to construe a night ardor. This being torpidity, thence made realization a struggle but no less a pay-off toward now of course though I paid for this feeling then. It seemed all I could do was a vertiginous pose and all I wanted was a babe-on-the-lawn seeking the brighter atmosphere. I looked at my hands for what really is a conciliatory image, not unlike a geometric-ploy of a Mohammedan in their tantric response to a world of over-bearing images: scripture as pictorial design conveying the adherent out of the cosmic to the conveyance of that & Other things. Images symbolic of sound e.g. the language of G-d's mind, are just as UNIQUE as my hands as IF they were pug marks on a path in the Wilderness and explanate of an instinct to be consoled in the distances we achieve to consume an objective cause. This would be a spiritual exercise, if not for linear thought bringing me out of the angst of LOSS of inner-attention. Inner-attention is always a godsend, but as that Higher Ground is what it is--some OTHER place, I am typically deliberating on the exudation of some Lower Order of things. --a trifling ordeal, and the simplest to contemplate.

LUXOR, MISR==REVISITED, part II

When there is no consciousness or abstraction to grapple with, one would feel entirely compelled to finish the "waiting." --(speeding thru life's current) Like how I felt out by the Titi pension, in Luxor--only the balance between being utterly away from typical amenities/comforts into a situation where we would make do, made me feel any kind of gravity. It was totally momentary--I couldn't tote it around in a wheelbarrow. I declaimed my will to move forward by jumping laterally all the time, circling the castle so to speak, I was interested in torpor & categorically ill-considered its partner=silence. Named IT as I confided in the presumed atmosphere of my last mood/struck by this and affective discontent was thusly achieved. Walking around the Temple of Luxor, the stark Middle-Eastern brightness gave no deviating shadows--I felt like taking my shoes off, though the quality of its antiquity was unfathomable. This is where tourists were killed THIS millenium. My sense of unity & goal becomes fragmented as these places disappear over the horizon, my impermanence suggestive as it courses thru people's demise yon & hither. The Nile waking thru the village's edge (right next to the Temple), I would scan its civilized banks to find a perch just to view it for awhile--but anything as presumptuous enough of being a beautiful vista was wrestled to the dust by vendors, boat rentals, or appeared too close to traffic anyway. I thought of riots as having no potential, but crowds unbarred from their willfulness wanting to climb the walls of the old British neighborhood dwellings walled around w/ shards of glass acting as barbs seized into the cement at their tops.

LUXOR--THE bank was more likely "du Caire!"

hiddenreceived

LUXOR, EGYPT

To the extent that we were using hashish &/or tobacco together or separately, one might assume there were periods when we lived in a thick dullness abiding the intensity from our brand of liberty, to its other extreme--a void, whence the harsh Arabesque sun of Ifriqqa shone past the CLARITY and into the mishap of confused reflections e.g. at the Tea House, presuming as I was, some dot of angst would color an otherwise unhealthy unknowing.*** There is a boulevard stretching toward the trainstation, our admittance to this village-town, & to the other side our pension, which we'd hoof down away from every day wondering at what non-paying wonders we would have divulged to us in our hikes around the village. It had a Banque Leumi (sp?) (wrong fact here, THIS bank happens to be Israeli--whoops!! ...everything else is as it was.) there on it, at which one Sunday we had our travelers cheques cashed. Everything seemed off from the current of modern access, as 80% of all you could see was submerged, but seethed. Toward my freedom of youth I'd admonish myself that big fish authorial entities would in fact show me how little they cared what sensitivities I contained in the contra-bearing for others in my path. Like the governmentally controlled bank we passed each day. The mosque on the other side of the side of the village where we stayed was another such place. A Midnight Express scenario played out in my mind, as much as I could think about it, while considering entering the mosque, which we did--& formidably w/SHOES. We actually looked around for some object to pilfer from it, however there was nothing within and still I would not have gone thru w/ it. By the coffee/tea house before the boulevard & closer to our youth hostel, the Titi Pension, the place was called Television-Cofe, Mahmud the owner told us that Jimmy Carter had been right by his place one day only a few yrs before, & then commenced to scatter a few glasses full of water out into the sand-ridden road? to keep? the dust down. Far from re-allaying a sense that this was memorialized space, it seemed as if this little African man looked to the promise of an immense cosmic polity which would help people & lift them up--and this was part & parcel the powerspot we sought & could sanction (merely his humanity, that is, not the content of his beneficent agitation--"Wow, J. Carter!" --I don't think so.) Power spot. No longer wearing his jelabiyah, Mahmud in his suit about the same day we were to leave, he was off to Cairo toward the granting of a loan. His securing a future was in his eyes, a certainty beyond the correspondence w/ us that was neither here nor there toward his ends... He was comfortable in his own skin & was beating the odds. We left Luxor w/ hope for him.

DANGLING man--I'm in PROGRESSION

The day unique to the freedom I've inherited, from whom I don't know, is distinguishable in a few old thoughts: the betterment of the general malaise around here. I think the eros of lies telling me I could PROVOKE my INTELLECT w/beauty, via androgyne, thus honor relationship with impulsivity, has everything to do with FREUD, though I can understand him only superficially: And of course what else should it take--we are driven to extremes in most emotions, but sorrow is largely, but evenly compromised. These guys? who said never police your own thoughts, left me unstaged as a youth, so I looked to postpone tangible successes of which "others" pretended to be so fond. I can think someone here & now, but why should I if they are only a step in the right direction. I grew weary of the thought, "I was on my way." No one could collaborate assessing my diminutive self, until what became relevant was static. And it was clear that there was no going back in time---there is no recluse moment of nostalgia in my head, but I had to say I'm not going anywhere! You proved IT, as all relationship is in EXILE.

Today's interplay w/ constant SORROW

Winter's air gathers my expectant mood in a failing resolve that I have lost something in a dark alley & then as if I find myself out under a street-light for reprieve, like it would be there for some reason. The coolness is sterile, & a free-fall thru its void leaves attachments unnecessary: No work, no time concerns, but maybe only a burnishing nostalgia. The residue of last night's foray into a somewhat sublime course thru my evening is an open playing field today. I am dying to put things at my center. At my most meditative moment researching, admittedly w/ calm non-indulgent practice, from a book Howie gave me belonging to his Mother, Russian Thinkers, I felt to be the convergent of all the nows: the book, the TV in the other room, the pulse of the shop in a particular generality (which is possible)--& this was like breaths whose report was the traffic noise outside of this front room. The immersion was complete. And then my brother says from his office, "That was nothing of what we're going to have to deal with." At the core I live in interpretive moods--NOW I think I start with nothing, & that was a place of murmured space in the back of my head, & this is what I use to step out into the fray of constant energy without it ever evaporating--a winter's trial. I could be a gallows's bird looking at the hush hush around some personalities, & the assetiveness around others. Why do we do this silent measure of affability?--we are pinballs shocked from the report of the bell's peal hammered submission from boring neon characters: it's excessive, we have to break the silence.

Running TOWARD midnight, backwards

The imagery behind this scenario is the kind-of-event I felt occurring to me down in the basement apt at the old house on Rebel rd. Like an uncarved block showing its potential, because i was insignificant in a way that I, alone, understood/ part of a greater whole no matter how far from relationship I became. In the half-light of chimerical mornings, before getting up & after the light of morning trapped my eyes from leaving their dormancy, I'd dream of the immediate, perhaps of the room in which I lain. Once I thought I actually laid my hand upon the steppin' razor of blood images from Granny (my Dad's Mom) emerging from my heart.... If we begin to set the plates for the mind sore of characters that occupy our world, particularly when it is strictly UN-realism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

The Tea-maker's CHIA-NIK!!

At a certain point I decide everything is game; not quite Do what thou wilt. I look at my cousin's sofer(scribe) husband and imagine he would determine something about his green-youth, unless he became mossed over w/ ritual. Even he would skewer insects in the formidable exuding floor of suffering for NO-g-d if THE G-d declaimed a world w/o the nomenclature of ritual & he'd have to live that way--so why do we (I) choose?. Following my mom from the recesses of my enthusiasm for the Old-World made recognizable (not the obvious one of E. Europe, but the Mediterranean one of Seferad=think Zohar, the Book of Splendor), while sitting under the shed awning or near-by under the apple tree (in the garden). I got up one time, all heady w/ colors w/o names for me embellished. An image of my mom walking to the backdoor comes to me in this strictly non-ellipses, no preliminary alarm-like humid summer's day. So like a duckling I was following suit & home in my head, like old brown tucked underneath my bed of acquiescence, then I pick a wall-flower from her shoulder. We may be blooms of poppies & the only religion is homeward rituals/our opiates. The most we can hope for is the finding of the pattern when the mind is rife w/ our hollow breathing. We absorb more, thus we are more acutely aware when we breathe in: the mind tells us the world doesn't know shit about the air, like we do... Now it's ritual--breathe in the black smoke exhale the white!! Black is the absence of color, so it must be the compassionate void.

Aimed toward Ahhhs/ Amos Oz, in fact!!

I seek myself in the moments in which I tarry. I was surprised to watch my mind float in & out of a surface of endeavor, whatever that may be. Getting a plate set to pile on the crapulence of fluid thought--unyielding time--spatial queries--shadowy persistence, I knew at once the dawning of articulated dreams when darkened lids like cinema screens lay desirous of relevance. All I wanted to prove is potential. If I knew that THAT was there, a restive self would be sundered into stimulated ideation/ NOWHERE to go but UP!!

I'M TALKING ABOUT 2 CONVERSATIONS

Say for instance there is an ensuing dialogue--you, however are attentive, conscious of the foci which is administered by, say, a posture of confidence, & IS HEART-felt. But rather your mind is floating on a myriad of conversations imagined & one that is realistic. Now your spirit is divided. And perhaps your head wins the battle, as the awkward silences demonstrate to you an awakening--a minor one, the one that always accompanies your daily travails. The only hint, literally, that suggests something has taken place is footsteps pattering in ascension, rather than the reality some one individual is going away but in descending steps. But a hint nevertheless: the following of the collusion of sounds arriving.

On Parkers Mill, near Airport rd.

A sweaty ride through that aromatic countryside, wind blowing into me... objectifying temporal thought in angst that my life was of some other place & another time. There I push off from worries, & the wind is hitting my face; I feel like congratulating it, she cries happy tears, my sweat. I'm still in my beak, hollering inside, "All this shit of self-deprecation doesn't move me anymore--just my heart full of blood & legs pulsing..." Rhythm: purple sticker thistles' smells; fields in their expanse; a car whirring by=no worries, I'm not going back so quickly; the solstice of June air; alone! I even ask myself why am I out there, as if I needed a reason one last time--leaving me prone & irksome: the diminutive self wanting to get out. I'm riding our neighbors Schwinn 10 speed, an old one, it looks like it has a gooseneck made of nickle, still not sure. There is an old raggedy home to the side of the road after Airport rd., which is all ahead of me on my way back. Then BLAM, a serious boom & I thought I was being shot at. I instantly surmise that some ole redneck from the porch of that house had to be the culprit--but nobody is around, there is no gun. But then I realize, too much air in the front tire made it explode from the hot pavement. So I get off the bike & walk the 3 miles home.

X-mas day--A Jew resides in his thoughts

What is it that speaks to us whilst we focus on experiencing just anything and something DIVULGING our insight gets to our cognitive BLAH BLAH? Like nothing stands out on one show we're watching, and then the presence of some one actor seems absolutely palpable. Obviously we get beyond the calling that life is imitated and we perceive absolute realism. I could paraphrase Camus-- He says that in order for the cognitive faculty of the mind to be in a healthy state a certain amount of dormancy is required. Watching an actor in a role, say live action or otherwise even, lets us on to a reality their respective identity imparts... & maybe if we are distracted and unfocused this (moment) can be delusional, recorded nevertheless thru our persistence, or not, and if not why do we not have the necessary down-time for our mind solvency (finding that identity) to occur (to us). If we are suicidal, something has brought us to the (in)capable moment of discordance and the ambiguity felt in whether we can go on. I say capable at once, because perforce we can never know what we could or would do. (Capable also could imply that we objectify death i.e. our ally and we can go on to the waiting now w/ the tool called impermanence -- only if we are in the known of transcendence!)

CHAPTER 1--REVISITED, AN ANSWER

Below in chapt.1 I take an idea of dying a 1000 deaths (from sitting in a particular chair amongst your families dwelling as in Kerouac's emphasis) and give it a more literal sense. The old samyasa (religious-wanderer to use a Hindi term) so to speak takes liberty from knowing the bible's characters are not quite present in this dispensation (i.e. only the morals, homilies etc. are available) as to say people have come before us and left graves and grave attributes to be memorialized (as he would choose)--& also personally for him, a man on the fringe of a more prosperous world, he has taken blows & heard the death-knell too many times FROM adopting the bigger picture: the secular world has opportunity but it remains abstract. You can look at it two ways in the day & age: (1) the opportunities are purposely not meant for him, he is left out, or (2) if a religious person is a literalist they excuse themselves rather than avail themselves of the "bigger picture" --(like the advantages in science/health/medicine, which is a commentary on the fight for a god, whatever that may be between those who cling to belief & those who see it as bunk.)

DYLAN----CHAPT. 1

People moving through this unestablicshed reward=life, seems his focus. He names names throughout. I see him in some unfurnished apartment, or taken in by someone, but solitarian occasions where the cognitive yields to the towering obsolete & it's just him & a book on the table (almost a typical scenario). He is calling himself something in the vast immediacy just to turn to his potential to see thru what he can never ally himself with, power. I'm reminded of the image of an old mendicant (wandering ascetic), in this case a Jew, and he comes to a small room in this ghetto, or tucked away village restricted from the rest of the region. To be free from the Powers-that-Be means at first to seek out the thousand deaths he maintained only to find, in his world the even more grave conceptuality of the Bible, or Book of Ethics--Talmud--more grave than anything the authority could do to him (in his mind). So he sits in a shtibel (study room) the open book swells his head with forced thoughts, he is across the room and the distance is a maze of gravid time resisted now forever 'til then. And all he can know is a Seperateness called Kodesh/holy. Dylan seems to claim loyalties, calling himself a Zionist, but again the world is out of balance & we are still younger than yesterday--think history!! The history of G-d is replete with a context of only one conversation with the Infinite that mattered. G-d said, "Hey?" & man said, "I AM!"

I know I know, why bother!!

Our minds demand order, order is in simplicity, & simplicity is in the statement our memory makes that something is feasible to THINK. So say we have a divisive moment, nothing to do with that one statement but to admit we'd go about our day w/o dwelling upon it, this one time. Now when I'm facing losing out on certain imagery, & only those occasions when that static quality to thought demands a blunder of space to deal with, I know I'm not going to pursue the "thinking" just for release. I refuse to consider my experience as if it could be any better or worse just from the influence of thought. Resultant imagery now remains accessible=that space is inside (vast), & not obviated in a way where time controls me.

beit (hebrew)=HOUSE; EIN SOF= G-d as the ETERNAL

The house is the symbol of the receptivity of the Infinite; & gives it a place, w/o negating & creating a sense that in another place Ein Sof wouldn't belong. I dreamt of a sidewalk flush up against a yard in a neighborhood of houses. But the sidewalk was a rushing stream, and to cross it was my prerogative. I saw it for what it is--the gap that contains me from imposing on an-other the just abstractions, incoherencies, & quasi-social thoughts in a half-light, was all within a fence (this stream) of mental imagery, and spanned only in expectation that the ulterior self, on the side of the house, will receive me. If energy comes from other planets, in the sense of scenarios we've built-up & made affable, home-like, like a job, a coffee shop, shopping cntr., an apartment et cetera, we gain solace REVISITING our instincts that made us make those places a part of us. The imagery is energy, in other words. And a planet is like the greater world now contained in OUR smaller world.

Walking to the BANK the other afternoon

I think it is kind of strange how we have an impulse to hone down a sensory moment. The wind was coolish and I was emptied of thoughts in intellectual pursuit (which is a good sign, because at those moments I'm wailing back to find its application) & I wanted to embellish the consciousness of that sensitivity with the desire for more of it--quantifying, that's all. I was at the peak of the deep, and I wanted to get it behind me: truly in this case hindsight was going to be 20/20. That is the instrument to my success--having felt presumptuous, if at a point of endurance from no longer being the spectator (observer) of the realistic--but of only illusion: my perception. & more than that not an intellectualization (like this) but rather an insensed moment *as an actor would speak of: the observation of neuro-activity, like that of a winter's day as a kind of competing for its profit (the existential thing-ism).

HEARING the conversation in the OTHER room

So the lolls are really riffs, a hesitation & expectation. When everybody knows the general course the conversation will take, someone grabs the floor & tries to give entrance to his peers--but loudly. It is like a bubble someone tries to blow up & take a gander at, just to create an edifice & lend to its demise. It really has stereotypical qualities I personally try to excise from my principled dialogue w/ others: kill the pattern!

I am ANTINOMIAN

The general malaise of purpose unites us all in polite contentment & seeing, in this case, Asian Indians, say, at the Univ. Library I find myself in a salutation deliberation, because well he/she treats me the same. The American Wasp is somehow different: perhaps I don't seek his purpose--in the CONSERVATIVE trend. I call going to an ethnic restaurant or foreign market something in line w/ the thinking of my bro Mark, or looking to a pluralist individual like YOU. I get there and look for clues as to what about this place suggests you all would be a part of it. You are me, we're blood, & I learn from the comparison/contrasting. But then like the annihilation of the ego I don't sense identification w/ the pack anymore, instead I am a stranger in a strange land. (or am I just merging w/ the whole?) --& my bros cannot brandish an understanding that this one world village contains me. I've surfaced. So now I want to claim the old way (that may be the affable self, & somewhat ineffective). I'm assuring myself until, yeah, that is gone too, thus the antinomian conceptuality=calling it what I fancy to perceive, while the reality on the ground, the logoi, is what I find at the surface, to which I cling--still w/o a sense of seperateness, allowing me to yield to the strange. The radiance of perception burns away the contours of mischief I'm apt to learn from in identifying this thing through your eyes.

It is a SNOWY KY. morning

I went out to Natural Bridge a few years ago, early Fall. I knew that it sustains more brisk air in the forest, than elsewhere. (It had snowed on me one March Spring break, there in Daniel Boone National Forest.) This one time Valerie was w/ me, and the cold on my face made it hard to talk. Now the obstacle I naturally impose thru communicating was obverted into something really now beyond my control. And since we absorb a modicum of absolutes, and endure them similarly, I projected into relationship that I am understood from incredulity: she's cold, I'm cold et cetera. This morning the weather eclipses my way as I am refreshed from the norm of it all--expecting harmony of spirit asunder. There is a silence, Im apophatic--9/10ths of everything is submerged like I am buffered from one day running into the next, this dispensation is not not-eternal. This day's angst is in the shadow of the SUN, it is cool & approachable...

ALL my THEISM is an AS IF!!

In the Synagogue back as a young person, I'd commence toward creative moments, geometric ploys in an understanding that the walls & halls of the synagogue--Ohavay Zion, the Lovers of Zion, had perimeters I was not opting to go beyond. I knew what it felt like in strange environs, to want to get beyond thresholds, & a house of worship is a reprieve from the frenetic world because it blankets our coveting externalities/ dims our alighting toward the material reality. I could look down the corridor of classrooms & the walls & floor seemed to bend in a circumambulation around gravid G-d thoughts. When else was I ever so mindful of an I & Thou scenario, or Greater Being? I can narrow it down to a breath. The arbor had a secular manifold--unshakeable, because Lexington can be tasted in the domains of the outdoors away from mysterious ritual/ nothing mysterious about play--in reality a stamp of liberty in childhood certainty of the skies above, leaves us off without placating Abraham Our Father, a consort of G-d... naturally we were designed to digest absolutes (in this subjective way--is that possible?), & no authority beyond those reaches had us absorb epicurean sensitivity to the outside world. **I borrowed this idea of geometry as a portal to a creative mind from the Islamic instance; it applies--Peace!!

RASKOLNIKOV via my underground

I felt sensitive, like all the incidental sounds arriving cut through me like a wooden bat swung against a leather couch. Someone showed up... as I neared the convalescence of hermit-like existence, finding opportunity in it. Why haven't you done anything today? were the words unmistakeable w/out movement in his guffaw, but drawing me out to the color blue, my floor, which I had only seen as black & white 'til then. I had an architecture drawing table, a cheap one, in the middle of my small room. & he slammed some piece of industrial metal, I found out in the garage, on its corner & broke a piece off. I felt it was a fist's report across my face. I see what Jimmy meant by saying the lights turn blue tomorrow: my eyes only looked inward, felt glazey, & I made the outward fact a center whose perimeter was infinite--I just looked like I haunted myself. I drew little abstract images on a journal then, felt rushed like each idea was kindling my intensity to prevent a fading away. There was a fire in my brain, but my cup runneth over w/loss, & time was being broadcasted from everything I railed against. To compound those "images" I read distinguished Flavius Josephus histories as if this book proffered the concolor of my effort with "road"signs, only I could read, & would make this strife personal & not derivative. The signs or symbols were the archaic projection of this 19th century book translated from the original Greek, & somehow still embossed with a truth from an ancient time, while defeating the relevance of immediacy. I took it out towards the airport, into a cornfield, sitting in the autumnal cool, the sun still high above, I needed space. I G-d damned my life in those moments--I g-d damned the lack of portals into the mundane awakenings I expected just through heated conditions of forced thought scenarios. I needed to taste shapes & to hear colors. the Muse:"Doest thou love the fog?" the Self: "I fear it!" the Muse: "If you fear it, you hate it..., if you hate it, you LOVE it!" (Evgenii Zamyatin)

Lay My Hands across the BURNING Sands

You know that limb we are taken to from reading? The passive exertion leaving our minds to contend w/ a more meditative "hold" or contraction from all the elemental residual torpor our day usually embellishes into our psyche, creates a darkened corridor into which we are no longer content to trod. I see the "gravitation" draw into the confines of that little center of contention, but now I wonder about being in the throes of that blanked out space, now I won't dismiss it, now I want all my space back. (Instead of being backed in a corner from moving around conceptually, & then staying there, I want to consume space.) I begin to scurry across images of the book, in a precise alluding towards my take on the author's intent. I begin to project motive like this--a little logical flurrying to get ahead in the book, making information now to seem more accessible. We may assume the fancy to maintain an interest, but actually indentifying having gotten lifted solidly, & becoming that movement, one becomes incredulous at the adaptive mind. And that is a prone moment, readied & established. I want something like a half-thought, so I won't answer back, then it's on me--the thing that I am a cause-apparition on the burning dunes. Is this an explanate reality enough? I know it is analytical, but really it is a simple idea!!

The man who fell to EARTH

Sometimes I feel like the man who fell to earth. Everything I can say or do is exceptionally homeward. If I think I have a link of reprisal to what is happening to me, it only spurs me on (sometimes) making me resolved to it--solutioned. Nothing to be helped. In Israel, in Petah Tikvah, I was staying with a Sefardic family (non-European, Iraqi-Morrocan in fact), very modern convenient situation. And to get out one afternoon to stretch my legs, maybe walk down to the beach was a way of LOOSING a BORN feeling of walking the PROUD land. (As opposed to a reasoned, weathered appeasement that hill & dale was gainful in my intensity toward it.) I got down the street & felt overcome w/thresholds & loss. Had I gone further, it was plain to me in those few moments I would have been lost & helpless to find my way back--Mediterranean neighborhood in all its modernity; I was desperate to rebound from the little sandy path leading me towards the unknown back to the apt. block & condo where they lived=homeward, no other choice. At this moment I felt like I had stretched to the limits of a starry cosmos, but a thousand points of lights (excuse the origin of those last words, seriously..., I read the same thing in "The Jew in the Lotus.") had me gathered all along with no way to get outside the box!! This is wholly symbolic of the Brahmanic reality, where there is nothing outside the known, & to think yourself outside the box leaves what is manifest only that much more the goal of what you seek. We are Positivists.

ATZ chaim OR da'ath/ the tree of life OR knowledge

This morning I have conceptualized time, which is always a good sign. It has to do with the quantity of input as greater than the expiating of what I have read. I like lying fallow, at least if I can keep this pattern in mind. As ideas come up in this book that would suggest a familiarity with the environs of Jerusalem (yes), I go to these images instead, as if I know... which the consummate effect of having been there is one thing, but looking into those images without that advantage is basically the same--it's all the immediacy of my bubble of experience, as that is just what IS before me. I know better than to spread the thick sedative of god images into an intercessing human reality, though the eschatological psychology has gone the way of cosmic man, rather than a Church, or Mecca surrounding our fervor. I.e. I'd rather call it a tree, as perhaps the one where chaos & mercy mutually arise.

GIVE your more, to receive your LESS

Think about whence comes perspective. If it is the floor & dregs of consciousness, though the grounding affect is realistic--it would take one longer to find the equinox where shared experience emanates, that of light-heartedness which is middling, where most others (other people) can be found. Do we sacrifice this ambience? Life takes sensitivity to its game because everything we can say about it falls short, thus the impetus to embrace the floor of our sphere of influence (whatever we can do to penetrate the bubble of experience surrounding others)--It is all allegory, but we have one desire, to touch a nerve!! What about deciding on your angst as the thing that makes you emote: that is sometimes all that we are, a dot of angst. If we pry ourselves open & leave us vulnerable to this deficit in thought I'm talking about, we could fill up with loneliness. I want to be born each moment until I see people's heads rolling at my feet in hysteria, ecstatic hysteria!! Look at them full of themselves. There is nothing funnier than that. Pride made them look at you that way. Soon we will be completely objective about it.

A RECORDED event, static in the life of the ETERNAL mind

The possibilities of seeing more in the half-light, is enduring the third option of something in between consciousness & the sub-conscious. A fictive reality is as conclusive as a doctrine of truth, but rationalism is not the last thing the mind wallows in, in truth. Desire is all-knowing transparency, even if it is the desire to speak the truth--ego is nevertheless the order of the day. Truth on the ground for me, is in terms of relationship, of course, & that being the extenuating biblacy of Abraham of Ur (or Uruk) into the facts of my Grandfather--Abraham, his vibrating on (if only in my mind), & my cognizance of that. We're all maneuvering through a complacent life, gathering our waiting as if we'd have a greater belief in its trial. Looking at the white fire of concept purported on the open book, I begin to see lettering in intangible symbols, maybe Greek in the Origen or Philo Judaization. Something w/ progressive possibilities, yet almost 2000 yrs. old--& is old & new at once. Something seems to eclipse my bono vox, and becomes decisive as the vital revenue of self-actualization thru Zadie's (grandfather's) voice. So now I think, as if brought by cognitive forces & mysterions that he has been recorded in the life of the mind & ever will be.

Misr-Mizraim-Egypt

Timelessness goes up on trial in the abandoned synagogue of Fustat (Cairo), standing in there (unless our guide has lied, we could of been in some other ruins) with nothing to be seen. Brittle pasts, shards of consciousness leave me exhausting dust motes creeping out of the attic, at one time having contained genizah documents of the Jewish communities' of the last 800yrs, in Afro-Asia. Like stale consecrated bread (matzoh), aged asceticism is the same mourn, whether or not a more perfect history/utopia (to jump from) suffices in one's self-actualization, OR the fight is lost on us to carry the exploded tear of Job on those who'd wince at such empathy. It is all given up to the Most-I, the One who intercedes before I'm received in any confederate way to my peers--like a house maiden who slips a coaster under my hotter-bottle (which gets hotter each time it is reached for), so it can never actually reach the table. And when the tables are turned, I can't believe its just a diminutive me I'm looking at--or maybe a macro-me? A gazelle-attribute, as is applied in the West to actresses is apropos for the mottled-schemed worshippers & slaves on the walls of various after-life pharisaic digs: the Sun seemingly stifling the contours of the adherents with its radiance. The Sun of Akhenaton. ......there has been Talmudic claims as well as from the Qu'ran that Job was from Egypt, in the company of Balaam, the gentile prophet.

The SAHARA of confinement

Say we use the image, the lit projection of our imaginative faculty. as stark as a message we glean from a passing cloud, or conclusive as the Muslim madrassah students writing in the sand of Niger or Chad or Tunisia, to define the thing recitation illuminates. I reflected on the blue light coming in my window, NPR playing, sounds coming alive & dancing around on my floor before me in an alliterative resolve. I would think my gravid thoughts were distinguished from symbols like the patterns of vocal-capacity, communicating knowledge without an embellishing image, on one hand--and just thinking that the life extinguishing the constancy of the last few moments trolling away was me flipping through a life-book, ever advancing, on the other. I knew it was two things in brief interludes with the present. The floor in its exudation of shadows was my memoir, soon enough I'd get to a pen. On my new futon I'd lie down early unresponsive to a night ardor, but listening to a phone call up the stairs & in the kitchen between my Mother and Aunt. I would fill in the gaps--intervallic silence with a lexicon of peronal history, mostly though just with abstraction. This was more truthful communication than I could then do otherwise: I wanted to object to images, therein lay my confusion. (Now doing more with advancing waywardness had its rewards.) Meaning it was not my communique' that was going on, until I so decided. However, in the end books & images were my deliverance.

Walking the dog on a rebel rd.

The filter of lights through limbs is tendrils of thoughts bidden in & out of my eyes, like a fountainhead or saint to cover my back.
The most feeling I could ever covet thru relationship (the I & I perspective) is me & the trees.
Not because they are sentient-reflective as if my life is conjured, but because I am (sentient).
Though you have established the drama, whose actors (you & I) are destined to leave the script by & by for only brief moments, otherwise our finesse is left to that which cannot speak back to us, and in this silence is where we find self-actualization.
The gray of night, painted spiritually true, muffles the contours of trees making them black scaffolds, with flutters of wings playing tricks on us,
as if the architecture of vista-scape would be policed by lights shed only from activity we conceive in the natural day of interplay,
shadows obfuscated into the density of grasses, urban animals abound, including us, breathing the better air--our eyes have turned to plants!!

ASANA (position) to Pranayama--prana=breath, yama=prohibit

I have a poison head-ache but feel alright--it's like night time is contiguous w/ dark symbolic thoughts of construed mysterions/mystic identification. In the tension I get a body conscious sense like it corresponds to lucid moments when walls have come down around me--almost imperceptible at the moment, but I've committed it to a self-understanding. The sounds arrive from without & I have co-ordinate thoughts policed by torpor. Torpor constructive as full-up senses yield to it from prohibitive breathing. It is all compassion and an appeal to the desire for my reckoning, however it may come. No hope. Only a stretch of path, made plain as if the Metatron drags my carcass to Higher Ground: Metatron proscribes & manifests the Greater Will--think Thoth in terms of Will.
For a story in truth see "Bug day... (gloom chic)." -- the March entry

Shem/JAPHET & their issuance

If time spent from point A., people in conversation around me w/ interests varying about Semitic studies, to point B., now when I entertain these ideas & unfortunately exposed to a bookish sensitivity to it--then there is a vessel with a kind of transient content in it from which is poured into an awaiting paradigm: the things of my experience, making them representative of this interest. (Though I can construct very little else to give me a basis of more of the same.) *** You know I get used to seeing some of the same ideas! al-Lah, as in El; Sanskrit as being the Hindu divine language--Greek & Latin, supposedly not reaching that level--(but why? just because of the vibe of self-actualization Hindi imparts??) Hebrew & Arabic do reach that level. Arabicized ideal of the Unapproachable, suggesting a similarity to our (Jewish) view, but lacking the collusion the Jewish ONe emotes of suffering as we know it. Other stuff stands out like I have been dropped in a foreseen plan. And if you link yourself by saying there is reason enough to know, then that is a broad step towards erudition.

RED river GORGE--HERE IN KY.

Deftly upon a rock I sit down on my haunches without using my hands, a couple of miles into a trail at the Gorge, by myself. I am matriculating with buzzing noise--a noise I always waned at my control at its emanation. I have a peanut-butter sandwich with me, which I eat though I am w/out any hunger to drive away. Up on Coomer's Ridge the forest floor descends before and after on either of its sides of its more determined peak, at the center. I am at the after part. Kerouac's Big Sur is my companion, & only if, if I could close the circle as to why the enclosing woods stands between me & its rescuing peace, I'd get a glance at omniscience--the bloodsport of meditation Kerouac leaves off unrealized by him & absorbed by us, his confidante. His wilderness is a tabernacle of loss; this sound pulsing in my ear gives to me my ineffective solitude, warranted in achieving pace wandering in Daniel Boone's woods. Widening eyes is his descript wakened moment up on some mountain, out West, in another one of his books. The appearance of the eyes, we countenance because the bubble of experience then, made measured words sussing out our kith & kin & friends alike--& they all (those eyes) are before me, like him, readied-explanate, but going away in a breath. (One would have to seek the unresponsive self to understand, as in Big SUR. -or just assume!!)

HERBAL remedy

Over at Howie's, he & I smoked a legal substance, a kind of sage called Salvia divinorum. The only sage plant having hypnotic properties, though ours was standard, one could still get 10x, 20x, 40x, etc.
Lou Reed seems to call OUT the crowd, its intimate persona, by saying heads were rolling on the floor, making him resigned to affability or whatever. I think it is more his having served up his head, like on a plate to those present with a sign in his expression saying, "enter here." The lull due to the herb was moody, not final, not strong, but condusive to subtlety because the sitar music w/ Ry Cooder's country-blues accompaniment made me look to box-in the headiness, which I did & it was gone, except for a dull solitarian night-time thereafter. I'll listen to these ole guys, Dylanesque in vibe (admittedly not exactly like him), and my inner-voice sometimes rails for that activity, saying, "don't leave." I have come or gone at these moments, in an awakening--it's the same thing--I know it is a departure, from what though? Dyaln's wizened, lazy head from his profile (like on that one blue G. Hits album), hid from me the translator-face-- I knew I was being introduced to a master (speaking of adolescence) still would give me no propriety, but wonderment. But this was the talking-head as a placebo, only I could determine thence its expectant mood, I was the drug, now with the other one gone, flushed out--I'm placated with seeking his, or do I just gather the momentum of departure?

Time IS what we NEED

Say in one way reading flow of consciousness type descriptive writing means to you only what the author derives. That can take you as far as enthusiasm allows, but how ever long that is will not suffice. But then take a look around you! There is a measure of ULTIMATE restraint the formidable time & place leaves off diminishing any prescriptive illustration for which you'd want to gain expression. Restraint. Now one would have to break these bounds--& only by actively, mistakenly, & dryly w/ half thoughts proclaim: I AM. For instance, bridging the gap to give security in your disconnect due to your condition. We want unity, and equality is outside of us. (The embellishing psyche always prevails, equality is not a state of mind.) We are enough alike to believe in this illusion (of equality) that your compassion is motivated from the same principles as another. It seemed others held for me the condition of my asceticism: "the rosy-colored mourn of old women" (Kerouac) holding court in the synagogue, & I half expected living in a valley of tongues i.e. under the spell of Aaron's blessing, as he was the one unswayed by miraculous events in this life's report, perhaps in sounds-arriving which I would illustrate, & they collude in a half expected half vainly pursued theophany.---The NOISE of Language. Time & place is a very odd thing (think restraint, again), at a certain point we see people who no longer vibrate on, they may not even define a path for themselves: they fall behind the threshold of time, they become late. These people then yield to & confuse the time element w/ place. They appear in YOUR world as reflections of you, & as individuals (?) who cannot be commiserate with doors in the Unity of mind-space, which have now been blown open. I drove down a treed avenue, a young fellow seemed squeezed out of pain, & therefore come to a peninsula of averages, my reflecting upon-him. Not that one could not observe MORE benignly, but then Aaron was the face looking back at me, and I said to myself, "Aaron," a station I toe-hold just like when I had a paper-route in Cardinal Valley & I walked the streets dreaming-alive the boy asleep back at home with no clue that he'd only be projections of others & cease to make his own gravity. We are in fact all judged with the comprehension of a one-organism consciousness. A black couple now walking behind me, whose feet I noticed stirred nothing on the terra-cognita (my word), had just touched the earth (descending), where I waited with my plans to live up, to be beyond exploiting my body-temple as a tool--...simple animals don't behave like spiritless machines, or if we do we become wisps behind greater ephemeral & AWAKENED BEINGS whose places act as guiding stars, which puncture one's experience had we deigned to ignore its quality.

Concealment

hiddenreceived== apocrypha/kabbalah--now you know! Due to my concealment I am able to bury my heart in the earth of otherness...

UTOPIA is in the doing

Kerouac lying on his back at the edge of the clearing, with Mt. Hozomeen in the backdrop & Kerouac on the incline leading down the ridge, upon which sits his ranger station he occupied by himself for about 2 1/2 - 3 months---thinks about solvency to his struggle for Higher Ground / his cntr. that being accrued by ascendency of Avalokiteshvara laying his diamond hand upon his subject, so that he might think himself outside the box. ...as close as I could get to the skies shared with the ones blanketing Israel before my trip there was to begin, was having climbed out my second floor window, in the house I grew up in, onto the motor home, then to the roof of the house, & over to the porch where I'd sit beneath the tree hovering above its roof limiting the cool prevailing winds in the early morning hrs. As I looked through the limbs like windows out a door of perception, to that of a sky I could only wistfully conjecture at its delimited space temporally: I knew I had legs, and I felt I was on the ground, like B. Marley numinously prevails upon us.

Sitting on the Back porch steps

Reading "What is G-d?" --Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife with adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissipation. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), and beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the SUN mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic with a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story and always a pattern to get back to.

On the Backporch Steps

Reading "What is G-d?"--Karen Armstrong's book, left me off less concerned with any spiritual headway at first, though I wanted it. I wanted to be concerned. The ideation of worship doesn't cause any offense in that I can't be mistaken for leaving my salvation at the foot of any church. Knowing we impugn the outward fact in our respective worlds, the object worthy of worship developed of its own momentum. The SUN is rife w/ adherents for this reason, so with circumspection I just assumed I should take it in therapeutically as if it would suffice only for obvious reasons, my dissaption. But why not immerse whenever, wherever into its fullness? Never identifying with it was never plain to me, just that it was our gravest resource and life-giver excused it from a life thriving in minutiae (namely mine), & beyond its healing. I'm managing from page to page in the book wanting to compliment the Ultimate Reality with a glance into the yard, or skyward, and then I get to an exegesis from a Sufi poem. Something with the sun mentioned in it and I felt NOW, then, and if my thoughts were intervallic w/ a lesser attention as I get sometimes, this kind of formidable moment yields to a vastness, creating a story & always a pattern to get back to.
(The Gospel of Thomas found out in the Sinia desert, in some cave, I think, says look within, this is the light of the LOrd--whereas the Gospel that made it into the canon says, look to the church, this is the light of salvation... so remaining beyond the reaches of any church theological conflict, which, I'm suggesting here, WHY wouldn't we? then how can anyone doubt the relevence of pseudepigrapha, though of course one would not thusly call it such!!)

I'm cold Lampin' -- Glimmer on the lamp

I keep honing down to the light source at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Disregarding all reflections that tend to distract or worse like Dostoevskii, himself or his characters, find themselves at the bottom of a well (figuratively) more likely to grant the source of light, but losing expectation of ever joining it. If consciousness is a gem in a field of gems, say, at any one moment the sun illuminates them all with an equal refractory. But light is what sets off his mystical theophany. Couldn't this be as if rather than the sun the outward fact is just a flashlight's light and the refraction is begun by encumbering one gem, & therefore has limited affect on the rest? I'm exposed, posturing towards hope, something creeps up on me--a poison headache, or more solvent really than that, but I feel alright: like a bridge it's the physicality of knowing, corporeal, because the dot of angst is enough for me to pursue the heart of balancing you & what delivers me. In his books the protagonist may say at some point, "Now you know everything!" If we were to assume there is nothing outside of the known, we are in fact the story unfolding & his/her companion to whom the statement is made really is the model for expectation, & yet we lounge by the river of sight thru the eyes of the one divulged.

VISION-SCAPE--I'm a soul Vendor

For every word, there is the accompaniment of an illustration--it's done intentionally, perhaps even superficially, but to experience the world & give it expression, the word in our mind is, beyond it, colored in--a different similitude to conjure the value we must obtain. It is also decisive to yield to the vision, rather than the ration. In terms of meditation visualization is paramount to the Arahant, to use Buddhist etymology. This is the individual who seeks the world beyond the surface, and becomes a product of it, i.e. Soul-adventurer. Just a shadow of the reckoned equinox between two minds, is the shadow of koddesh (Hebrew)-- a separateness, from that which cannot in & of itself instruct us. At least recognizing our solitude in this world, the power of observation will grant exceeding depth to the star showing the gap through which we are exercised, drawn into, & left to appreciate.

Y-H-V-H shalam (Jerusalem)

Words have no solvency in my Higher Ground, so I take the Lawd's name in vain... anyways. While in Jerusalem ('86), my friend & I were staying in this lousy youth hostel, and I, up 'til then, liked the headiness of coming out of situations from smoking cigarettes or pot (& in this case we had done a hit of blotter a piece--I promise I am not advocating using), because it gave me a sense of being impelled to do something different now that the later moments had arrived--& anything with direction or movement was bound up in positivist vibrations--mine & how I was tied into some worldly abstraction. The thing I noticed in dwelling on such a small world was how loud my inner voice seemed in galloping toward assumptions, that of release. I would be like, damn if I could smoke now this place wouldn't seem to be such a drag anymore, instead of seeing the diversity in the change of my conditions, as mundane as they seemed to be -- like figuratively sitting before the wall, in order to gather its relevance. Man, I want those walls now / its a better fight than the one against oneself.*****
Some thing vital was needing expression, but unformed in my mind's eye then-at age 21. Intrinsically I felt a need to attempt at conceiving what about me was Jewish in identity, as a young person. I could not draw upon an experience & just say, yes that is what makes me Jewish. So now I'm left with the desire of desperation's brain--desperate to get to the abundance of experience in a way that the void of ignorance would seem negligible. This takes active thinking, & reaction to the outward fact, which means nothing unless one becomes an observer, and believes in its value to your condition i.e. complacency. Yes, but my whole point starts out with being without experience (e.g. not having a Bar Mitzvah, like my 3 bros.) and with a goal of essential clarity--a desire to make it right. But this is the grit of knowledge as advantageous w/o any need for a particular balance between extremes, (say living in a chasm straddling secular on one hand, religious on the other). No decision (or conflict assumed) meant immersion, rather than bouyancy. The bottom of the ocean has just as much vitality as the gravid waves.

Scat-MAN on the Tube

Feeling less than essential, watching Valerie's expression of duty at her new entrepreneurship--definitely in those few moments I want action to multiply, but I'm looking inward as if I hold her at a deep resolve; looking to the corner windows, that now happen to be open, I fly out to the gravid world with nothing to match it. I fill up watching her, but I don't peak, so there is no verb to perform the effulgence of this contrast. I think about the nights adding up--over at her former bosses' house, watching the dogs (& now). We were watching The Shining there, and crows on my shoulders seemed to help me project into the cover of distracted moments in the house where I grew up. I remember thinking Dad's reasonable response, or not, to a certain amount of utility stress I seemed immersed in & no different than his daily deconstructing of identity, had leveled the endurance I had in balancing between my schizophrenia, & my clarity on the other extreme. The capacity to intuit fates beyond your control*, so hopefully if we're true to Kharmic law=all of them, seems more & more probable & realized as time goes on. I'll assume this is because we created benchmarks of otherness--those who we have begun to project their sense of things too. At a certain point, its the only promise of the movement of our spirit into materiality.
* Midnight's Children is excellent on this reference

The SPIRITUAL man is mad/ Tic Toc Teac

A mystic may say: go sit at the right hand of G-d, Be at His throne. G-d may say: you've entered the 7th heaven, didst thou expect to be absorbed into the Whole (cosmos)? "But Dharma, my dog, had me follow Him, this was Right thinking," Arjuna of the Bhagavad Gita, might say. G-d would say: Your body is the Temple, seek G-d Within, & the Light of Judgment & mercy will be found ...thinking (see Krishnamurti) is the addiction of thieves, they are only concealed because they remain at a distance. ---If you were to see the stones, you'd have no reason to throw them. The stones lie at the town's edge. Villagers perspiring in the dust collected as a seal upon any advance beyond the communities' measure. One Organism. Dust motes taunt me to swing verbs of contentment, in the air, in the basement. By the window, looking at the philosophy that held one race superior--but the individual knows better. No movement, legs akimbo. A tractor sleeps a blue slumber this morning. We dreamt it still runs, but nature will subvert plastic energy: there is only a dream to make it run. **** How do we justify the frenetic moment? There is of course release--& release is a way of life, just as internalizing our experience is just as much a response to the indulgence of experiential knowledge, whatever that may be - like relationship, or book smarts, or how we take in a vista of landscape, which is making up the pattern where we spend most of our time. But we have motives, and to let go of these symptoms (e.g. motives) of the outward fact is opting to reflect on how we make the scene (just talking about observation here). Why does the frenetic moment make us so unstable as to forgive intentions, and behave desirous of decision making, to which we are addicted? Nothing is the result of nothing i.e. confusion is the result of the wealth of stimulants to which we are addicted. The message here is to stop coordinating & planning etc. "Some people have hopes & dreams, some people have ways & means." (--Bob Marley, from Survival)

That which I READ, & its GOAL

AS I absorb these histories, I begin to suss* out the typical alluding to what, & why the researcher's style divulges the concept. Like vignettes I am responding in kind, as if I hold out for just so long, & then I know someone has directed me to move on. (interval-thinking) My counselor read something of mine & said it was poetic, a common critique of my material. I said I can't put it in a varied form to convey the ideas in any other way. Dr. Memsophi was like, true, because it would put variable rules on your intentions. But my intentions change, nevertheless. I cut into the fat sould of plenty that is my ignorance, willingly, to prove an Ultimate Reality is the concourse of the Mind. The seething infra-structure of my city, or any particular one, & seeing the mess of masses move throughout, are refractions of moments of the unbearable likeness of being. The tree we characterize as a reflection in identity-personified, is too simple--now I am literally PEOPLE, wholeheartedly the "group," & I burn in their vision-scape, no longer in their fray, but frenetically in the migrant mind-sore.
* a Rastafarian or Jamaican term, =to find out. Ras=Head, tafari=creator

By the Lamp, opposite of the burnt Wall

Caviar from that big lake in Iran, a sign of affluence yields to thoughts reaching toward something--nothing better to do than climb for the upper echelons of people occupying the cult of identities, adjacent to the mind-sore (hurt from the reading of the predominate excess) existence of mine. Four Hindus working: they have four places of shoe-cobbling, two on the ground, in this cubby of the bazaar (Mumbai), & two in the berth directly above--only room enough to sit/ shared livelihood/ tools of the trade all lying around. One Mind. Knowing that I find a society with a god, who has no heart, is a ditch full of blood to which I throw myself upon its banks, before I can know what is right, because the sufferer has a man who drowns in his eyes, and he/she wants him to stand up & salute. I exalt in the salutation for the Sun. A Jewish woman swarms her hands across the candle light (touched her eyes), it ripples like stains of ritual for which for her there is no exclusion. Lighting my incense, I pretend I attend to a fire at which I am chaste at its perceived violence, and find ways to demur from the hard shine of daily toil--breathing in the black smoke, exhaling the white.

The BROKEN transcendental Bridge & the Dream

Substance abuse indicts behavior, behavior that can not adapt because these people's will to get-over has to be reciprocity & not their own initiative. They are measured by what seems acceptable by those to whom they relinquish control. If the Greater Will like the rhythm of climatic, seasonal, cosmic sense of things is as the personal Will, that of the grazing deer, his/her dormancy as contentment in the hollows & meadows in a pattern of survival, is any clue to those of us whose eyes haven't yet turned toward nature, help can be sought looking out windows--the blue skies fragmented, but then coming asunder. My chimerical vision was an ultra-mundane one, surreal one, because it may well have had the Salvador Dali melting clocks & the hearth it sat upon was open to the yard and sky beyond; the fire becoming the one thing between me & oblivion--the fire is the feeling & I was chaste as I demurred from its perceived violence. Walls were merely slightly opaque windows, and the world was in its ultimate Unity.

JAZZ - seeking the inflated TEAR

When the band (Red Fly Nation) was together, Joel the guitarist/vocals construed direction typically at least from my convoluted perspective, which is this--as I see what mattered to me then. When would many times listen to various musicians' product as the session went on. Which as I couldn't perform myself, there was no leaning on any erudition that of the way things could or should sound like. So when things would dwindle down to discussion, at least then I courted sensibilities, "I am now amongst!" This was expectation. As the iconoclastic cultic expression evoloved i.e. we'll do better than our predecessors, I would link to the last remorseful confusion--this is what I knew I projected. So maybe now some Jazz was playing on our jam-box, & this is my reprieve. Jazz, with its distiguishing instruments--one can find what each of these artists means in a kind of voice, & I'd imagine the map of digressing emanations: drums up front, bass pondering expanse, sax like birds calling me outside. ** Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now years ago. The mayhem-tree (I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the currency of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--its a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise, which would leave me gainful of expression--I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of life's edifice, a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial, worshipped space-literally " in the desert"/ hebrew) with expectation on par with the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief and knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side" into mother earth & define their opposition to it. I am the convergence of wanting in and getting out.

The TALE of the TREES

The tree as a fable of the mind is given its story when we see it rush by our car window--immediately personified, & given its dignity as we jest that it is a reflection of us. I am literate so long as the impressions I sought just this one time led me to embrace this mystery. The yellow-green-brown matter looking like a lack of pulse - and at once circumambulates from its core as we have witnessed through time, remains in a master's teaching what is ever to be sentience on earth. Krishnamurti seems satisfied that the no-struggle to find ourselves the observer would lead to the dream that is life. The threshold is the awakening. And the tree changes its mood as the observed i.e. the yawn of the day gives out currents of shadows, twitches of its limbs from wind, & a nod toward the sun.

the Harder They Come...

With my cult book in hand, upon the floor exuding a punch in the gut surrealism, as if I laid before the stars - X-mas-like in orientation, this particular evening sought oblivion. I was outside home in the cold/cool garage. The psychology of homeward-existence is having found your way entering through a door. I only smelled the moldering earth. From the floor in the back of the garage, lying on a blanket with musk of dog on it, I smoked cigarettes lighting them from the electric heater I put in use: vibratory-properties of source-heat, like life itself and the irony of extinguishing it with my uncourageous smoking habit. The black of dawn or the dawn of black night was my witness I sold myself down river. Like a Beth-El moment I wrestled with an angel--my thick heart of stone, because it got the better of me, telling me I can't go where I ought to be, and the garage as time-memorial, which as an idol I respected because it wrested control of my thinking the patterns of traffic speeding past from the highway close-by. Because of immersion-moments like this, I at one time watched a fog drift & lift, like the gray haze of day leaving a note for its cause, and rising into the atmosphere. I'm left half expecting to see objects relinquish feeling gravity's pull--the sky is the limit.

In the CATSKILLS mts., in a place we call the HIDEAWAY

I see myself in utter isolation, utter anihilation, where at an I-IT moment I reject the field converging on my inner-peace--everything within my presence, and let go. I'm jailed--there is no reachable new environment I can go to anew. Then, so as to not feel abortive I conceive of the struggle, - now it is I alone & the Thou of presence received. My passport is tattooed upon my person, a veil which allows incognito surveillance of higher chambers where I'd meet a transcendent "being." (--verb) The iconoclasm of self-hood is acted upon & I am the current of the experential, the death of symbolic me. G-d is the insignificance of me. Imagine the dank halls of physical confinement: Papillon's story. He is hanging by a thin web & he alone sees how he is pinned. Like a green limb, there is no exclusion or objectivity to his source (of self-realization), he'll turn in upon himself. The imagination is the symbolic universe and it takes over & nothing is real. To evade his finitude he splits into two: the pain is acute & wrongly he imagines surfeiting the struggle into, again, the realm of representative relationship, but it is his dormancy. The sleep of the just is to whom he projects his loss of freedom, those who have died on the trail he is finding, the void of time.