The legacies supposed painting me in my youth in the corner

Da Vinci wrote right to left--in the "Orientalist" way--(with Latin characters). I know that includes Hebrew and Arabic, but also perhaps Asian languages as well. Using mirrors would be laborious to edify what ambient thing he was coming across with. In Madrassahs, young Muslim boys read from all angles into a single text. The alliterative resolve is a pathless land...comprised from any point of entry--in my view. In subsumed states of meditation, described thusly because in hindsight the impression left is gratuitous deep asides, I'd reflect upon the cool exuding basement floor and seemingly at certain heights of attention I'd discourage just how transparent I'd feel I had become. That we can only manifest what-is, the sense I'd gather from my immediate environment was in the penned-thought (symbols again--so think the "book" of the mind) of my mind collaborating, so without looking, the yard behind me through my ground level window began to transpire. The floor was intensely appealing, like loam in an arbor when the hush of earth makes urban-scape stimulation lessen its grasp upon our cool breaths--in & out of layers of humidity and filtering trifoliation. The BRoken BRidge and the DReam, a Salvidor Dali painting is on my wall--with whispy persons, ghost-like and I imagine the possibility of walking the streets forever just as it is captured in the bluish haze of the chimerical poster. Letters like in a repository was my heady response to "reading" the pug marks in the lay of the land---or actually my own footprints in nods toward a youthfulness unshaken...really something to be believed in. Sitting out the days at home, Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra. (last night, I did revel) Reading & hating my fixation on time "well" spent, I'd record a motive in mind, that of maybe a yr ago when I thought about-reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see & spitefully get my kicks equalling. The bulbul, nightingale of the Arabias, closes its eyes--its eyes alighted to the singular dweet of his repose in the Tiamah--desert, void. Nothing of the social organism is engendered- other than the rays of the High G-d who receives his meditation or "recitation" on Distance. The Reply is none other than the last look he'll take before the seduction of the prodigy of his self-possession. **Saul Bellow is the devisor of words "nightingale & self-possession"--but I flank it w/the Arabesque iconoclasm. Saul Bellow had a proclivity to wonder about his his youthful relations--and if the later emendation of self-scrutiny in my view was to be pasted over the ragged existence in my confused child's mind, the Musselmanner (Muslim) attribution from those in the Holocaust--the particular ones who'd been left in heaps of toil, was the description I assess my own running colors washed away from all that stuff in the filthy sink of existence...(yes, this is a stereo-type, but it was one that the victims felt attuned to, because, say, a bedouine would be wrapped in robes and that last convention to confront the elements, which is what clothing does, seems to be a buffer strangely encumbering and in my mind stifling when NO veil of existence left me in convalescence when I was a child.) then now, I study the Orientalist (a very dated word, indeed!) with relish.

Under the Autumnal tree w/ the D'jimbe drum on Rebel Road

I believe in ultimate compassion. The Narrow-minded might say, sure--I feel ensconced in sweet whiling away moments, too! I'd tell you the sky is the limit, and maybe moving from the Personal You to the Objective furthest reaches of what is numinous before You, IS Immanence & not an Indefinite Chorus of Mind's path & meter, but actually is a brave narrative, the best. And I'd yield to the Moment finally & with no reservations. I'd Go. I'D GO! And the sky would be met--not just the whisp from a log beneath the hearth. And for those who persist on the passport of epicurean designs as upon Responsibility & Mitigated schedules, I would tell you, It's True--my time has no reward and no punishment!! ~~I dreamt someone had asked me what it is I got out of meditation: I heard my motive in my head as I walked to the front door of the house I grew up in then out under the night sky. Something vaguely out of control and something like a pronouncement of lethargy, but given context. Those long yawns past a midnight seance would be a Point A, which is some "time" I jump from til I reference freedom of consciousness--Point B. In that rational thought is a subject of dream time even as much as fantastic imagery has antecedents in a cognitive adjustment I have eluded to as a kind of exudation of ground Zero. When I get ocular migraines I used to think cognition had lapsed somehow--and that relevance was less persistant. But as it occurred to me yesterday while listening to an Ojibwe article on NPR, to describe it - it would be intense light like caustic blaring fields of vision closing in on me. If I close my eyes, which sometimes is only done by placing a hand on my eyelids, the light intensity is weirdly pleasing, but plainly I don't imagine it ought to be trusted. Usually if I am among family or friends in this condition I can't quite find the liminal moment: everything is illuminated, yet uncomfortably so--and I can't find anything to add to the stream of conversation. Yesterday I was alone--which is the usual case! In the middle of this time-unyielding, the News article had the ritual drum playing and chanting as just one example of "meaning" conveyed in language unique from community to community...but there was something complex and readily contained in the patternic beats carrying the vocals into great heights. Like tearing myself from half of a quiet stasis, I grabbed my d'jimbe drum and went out on to my front porch and seemingly played well in continuity from the abstraction of faceless auditive universes coming from the regions around the Great Lakes!! ~~Staying within this look West: If I were to say it had been in my political nature to have crossed the USA & get to visit Ohai, it would be because I thought Potok would have turned a token eye in my direction (now I'd like it to be Krishnamurti, yet Chaim Potok is the more provident gate). That this would be community is strange in this age of independent thought. I don't know what community is, but somewhere I gather identity when action is my mysterion--I merge, or continually emerge ad infinitum. If all those who would not be left behind were action--but characterized as what I sought to sacrifice, quickly transcendence is its becoming symbolized. Give away "identity" and we cease living to give away other things: You, Contentment, our Life together, Yours as a Mutual Arising. You said compassion frees one's soul! To do that we should esteem ourselves, and let no god come asunder--as its says in the Rig Veda.

The Weather of late unto Hindu episteme & Chasidus

We've had a ton of rain in Central KY all Summer, and over most our Winters we have maybe a total of 12inches of snow, a few inches here a few inches there. But if this is any indication of things to come--Greenland melting!--our Winter will be a doosy. I am entirely anticipating this. I was walking at our Arboretum over by the Univ of Ky 2 days ago, & the Fall leaves had that excellent decaying smell & gave me the first hint of nostalgia for this season. I like the words, Blue slumber of the Moon-soaked shade, torn from the pages of Arthur Rimbaud, because I can imagine similar collusions of the transitional climate I endured while running around my old neighborhood as I did for 27 yrs. Houses became personified, and weren't anything without the veil of cool Autumnal nights. **I intensionally went to the sink-hole at the local hillocky park--just grass & trees (Beaumont Park), and sat under undistressed dormant trees there hemmed in by a security fence, all encircling the earth's depression... I'd read National Geographics as if the alliterative could subject this real world nature scene with veiled eyes, like I could stand IN them higher than the sweet air would already permit...
P.K. USED TO PLAY OVER AT LMNOP. Back in the day there was a dark orbiting feeling I thrived on knowing all that these people cared about was release & no pretension of who I was. I liked being the junction toward that effect. And if we observe "the-letting-go," we surface with the experienced-forms of self, rather than ultimately sacrifice ourselves in the fray of less serious moments. Over at Montmullin (right across from Campus, nect to the old Theological Seminary) w/the Weathermen & then Also sometime later the impressions were thus: Surmising the plain hearth, looks like a spectralShore--I loaded it up w/ideas, toyed w/it. The smoke is the philosophy & the sky so vast, waiting, but not much can be seen! The sky is the mind, smoke gives it dimension. We go & lay our head, something tells us to do that. The fire burps & spews & we're not surprised. We think. And I felt I was a "Driver back in Khartoum." Guns were drawn, the TV stupidly plays--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. I set the bottle of whiskey on the table. I had bought it earlier that day intending upon a slow drunk--I give it away instead. Back toward the door I'm borne out to the streets. The Autumnal sky created by the architecture of birds over-coming, evading the smoke, clinging to tall trees--mayhem in some, like the breathing constituent mind, pulsing. Taking shelter in the warmest regions, I sit down & watch awhile. My ride will be there soon. Damn, I remember walking over to this cemetery--in a similar season's gray, the main one here in Lexington in this haze back when REd Fly Nation was making music--the band I was in. Getting out of our downtown abode, book in hand about alchemy, the sun seemed to say I had enough time to find a conscious pocket & commiserate on a Then unknown-- It was evening time, but no social rapproach in that I am my own worst critic, would sucker me into being something I couldn't or wouldn't live up to anyway. Like Bob Marley says--my then constant companion--"Music a godly thing." And the good company I kept in the place where humans were interred, was made of an indefinite chorus. There was something in the river of sight to which I belonged...the eternal world was the temporal one. And all the deceased pointed to it.
**I believe in ultimate compassion. The Narrow-minded might say, sure--I feel ensconced in sweet whiling away moments, too! I'd tell you the sky is the limit, and maybe moving from the Personal You to the Objective furthest reaches of what is numinous before You, IS Immanence & not an Indefinite Chorus of Mind's path & meter, but actually is a brave narrative, the best. And I'd yield to the Moment finally & with no reservations. I'd Go. I'd Go!! And the sky would be met--not just the whisp from a log beneath the hearth. And for those who persist on the passport of epicurean designs as upon Responsibility & Mitigated schedules, I would tell you it is true--my time has no reward and no punishment!!
**I had a dream last week in which a horse bit off my 2nd to last finger from my right hand. I just stared at it all bedazzled in the dream wondering at the implications. We were at a farm/ranch & the day was gray like in summary of what these last couple of weeks have been. My pinky had the distil tip missing too. What does that mean? The horse, Ashvin in Sanskrit, has been a subject of my reading over Hindu's episteme of late. But how I interpret this beautiful animal in the recesses of unconsciousness, I could only guess. I've had magnificate dreams in the past few days--lazy weekend and all. And this langour makes me unmotivated to get on FaceSpace (sic). Are you still studying?! Being a student has everything to do with expense of our ability to proliferate what it is that compels us to learn. So, my capital is all this ascetic derived ideation. However, usually there is NO IN for me in the human marketplace, because this stuff is conceptual and almost contrived...and yet there are two women authors whose depth with which I keep getting inundated beyond my norm. Karen Armstrong gives me fantastic dreams (her latest which I purchased at Morris' Bookstore down the street, is called A Case for G-d), but lately I've dreamt about something Wendy Doniger related: the Horse Sacrifice. My ex's (Alison's) Mom made silks, and I've dreamt about horses, and my ex of late. According to the Brahmanas --early Hindu scripture, I think, what it is we do IN this life will be done to us in the World-To-Come. If we eat rice unceremoniously now--or a fish, or a horse, they will eat us in the next world. According to the Hasidim, the animals that are our denizens surrounding us in our habituation with intercourse & ritualization with them & G-d, have the souls of our ancestors mitigated thru their sentience...which is why we treat all creatures with respect/halakhah!

Phala Shruti**Sanskrit for The Fruits of Hearing

When I first indulged reading Elie Wiesel=the "train" left me off at the station of self-identification.

The circular ruins of the mind's library--the entirety of a life's history as before me, was the visualization that ascented my lethargy just in work-a-day few moments at a Dairy Mart where I was employed right there at the Univ of Ky's campus. (mid 90s) Like a train upon its tracks, the apparition was almost tacit, and the symbol of what a train may be thought to represent was its impact as well. That being a long distance travailing life. And even a few moments which may inevitably be the divinic dynamic of the vital life well lived, can seem interminably long... Think of an ants life, or insert anything sentient, supposedly awake--and theirs is no different than ours. But as to the halucination, I could anticipate that I was giving up on one open book, only to be received unto a No-book resolve, meaning I'd become destined to an unstaged and un-fated trajectory, because I couldn't "fulfill the book." (so the tracks were shelves leveling out into infinitude) The void within sought oblivion, because that is where I could find freedom from having to answer for all that which was all too soon availing my senses... I selected a book from the shelf, looked to the front of the store feeling exposed as if I was an open book, and folks could dismiss this or that word or this or that page, without the consent of ME the author. I wasn't wanting time to deny when and where I would catch the ambient wind of contentment, as I knew right then standing next to the icecream cooler, whatever book chosen would fall to a sense of identity in an inopportune time. Just the sense that I had to make up for something and thus ceasing to deliberate on anything more recent would not have been made room for in the book's fulfillment. Strange but compelling, disorienting yet impossible to stop the impact of the train in its slo-fidelity as it came to my depot. Wiesel allows for a sense of exile, and has us wonder who would accompany us: G-d, is the obvious choice, but alterior selves drummed up from the recesses of experience in this temporal kingdom may intercede too!! It was in Elie Wiesel's writings or perhaps his contemporary Primo Levi, where I read that a "musselmanner" was the term employed to describe the wasted human specimen in conditions from which there was no return in the lagers. That we intrude upon cultural relatvities is enough for me to reflect on the honesty behind the fact that we indicate the"other" behind the stereotypes. I'm feeLing like a cryptic Muslim: not in the sense that frenetic media depicts. The denouement of superficial status, is merely looking at things as you do--we are safe, buffered in fact; A kind of concealment from those who pay their dues as we do. And... we try to reign over that distance strung from our commonalities. Do unto to others, duh duh duh, tis enough.

POTOK, POE-tawk, po' folks talk, Poor rock was my bed last night

At this point, you are still making the choices, but you are needlessly burdening yourself with the idea that there is a right choice out there to make, and if you don't take it, then you have made the wrong choice and will suffer the consequences." THis is crucial and very well developed point in Krishnamurti's discussions. In the river of sight we see our peers move from point A to point B. Thus we think and assert ourselves in the fray where the action is. Now we are goal oriented as if to obtain that figment of intent we associate with normative circumstances. If we thought for a moment we'd see there is no norm. That it is observable that the other is answering for you, takes discipline to say it is good enough they do things for themselves, yet you have no place to be. Here is where I wonder at certain avenues of thought folks encourage toward nostalgia: if someplace is a comfort and sense of security. The now emerges, the past must be projected forward in the pattern of what this life has become, rather than maintaining a belief we should encourage the illustrative thought into the corner we look out from... In the corner is necessarily NOT in the middle of the room where the potential is greater.
******* "I'm beginning to appeal to all the sincere metrics-good folks are telling me of their artistic acquiring of self-knowledge - its effort--like dhammapada is what you know: and knowing what I acclaim as the best reggae album I have ever heard, gets me sprung from under the hand OF all that Marley having informed me--that context I see--many days as a student of his moral strain. So, "Third World" has enough Swahili, or Ibo like the guys name takes on--all that rhythm of resistance... Ayi hlabi nyo ngo kunsima, is probably Swahili, not THIRD Worlds song title, but one that impels me to wonder at the cant of Semitic language having trickled out of these language streams of northern Africa, into the Valley of Tongues. (I didn't say they relate, I say, IT makes me wonder!!) Seeing this example of babel's gate I know has my mind remark on what is "There-Above"...the Higher Will chosen from a Jew, who didn't know he was a Jew=AbRaham--sometimes good enough to begin with him! Marley's dad was a Semitic Jew, a Syrian--Bob is more likely to have that secular crowd in Israel listen to his influence than radio provides in our middling America. Reggae was what rooted me more than anything else, and the Jewish thing as the root in ascetic self-knowledge, meanwhile, added to the conscious music--the train to get on, like life portending a long road is Rasta ideals having me pace the long ends of the day's river of sight. There is a lot of jamming on Third World's first album, a singularity if at its terminal auditive universe, we look up from what Marley calls "intra-mantra slavery," and see it speaks right to us. A statement of presence, the presence of Mind sublimating us in relationship, soooo unlike the Jewish tip if we appeal to Jah like the Greater Reality compels us from Without...the Ineffable, as we become His experienced-form is but accessible when gods are looked upon as Layered-Reality=wherever it is we FIND ourselves the convergence of I & Nature!! Integrating what is actually disparate notions in Buddhist thought--speaking of gods, looks to me like immense powers mutually arising as I forage in Eastern Thought langour supposed piece-meal by the likes of Kerouac, or indicated by Alan Watts, yet thru my jaded lense. If Avalokiteshvara laid his diamond hand upon the numinous impulse looking at black fire abstraction lying on white fire pallets (this medium here in cyber-space), then the semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...IS just freedom transpiring. ON THAT BANG ALBUM, REGGAE music & the requisite sense of the Third World that sublimates the trappings of identity:
***Oh, I can hear that Madness-esque thing in my head now--but I imagine this band may be better musicians in the end... slightly more dynamic. That album is heavy to me--came at a time when my monkhood life was granting no reprieve. I had begun to read Potok's (pronounced POE-Tawk) In The Beginning around then, probably some Salman Rushdie as well. Potok did The Chosen, if that rings a bell, but In the Beginning is definitely more complicated and left me in a well of some heady contest of wit with mysticism & cold law... critical study of biblacy where the Orthodox would have rather not seen it go... Love that guy/ he past a few yrs ago. Had a connection in loci to Krishnamurti's powerspot, in Ojai, Ca. I visited that town--very auspicious in my mind. Potok took his pen name as such I guess because it means GATE.
The Inner Meaning and the Outer Meaning, however that is applied, came from Philo--a Greek-Jew, but seen as a Church Father, appropriated as such. Jews weren't used to this "method" til Muslims & Christians reintroduced them to it. In Spain, Jewish Kabbalists began to reflect on the Song of Solomon this way. Zohar is the prime example in our mystic literature--was written in Spain in the 1200s if I remember correctly. POTOK, as he'd deliberate so fluidly, had all the stones tarry of my sense of heritage & faith in its esoteric divide from the norm, so that as the plurb of thought clashed with the cold immediacy I sought the very places the ideas were buried within. I have much thanks & praises for what his characterization and authorship does to my mind. ~~``So, I've just been peddling some music to some friends, walking abundantly like at the Arboretum. I read out on a couple of the path's benches over last weekend, and found it extremely cathartic. This is in light of a Tolstoyan ideal. He said he loved to go to the town's square to read & write, well I'm guessing to read, but definitely the writing would occur there. And well I am trying to scribe skyward under the pretense of anonymity, as if social disaffection had not contained me (as it does a bit). But, all that this means is, I get involved in my reading & imagine an audience that is more elusive than the norm from how I feel about the conceptuality I pull to my center. Potok, who made my alliterative realization what it is, made religion damned accessible without a refrain of weird manufactured holiness, like I'd have to put MY salvation in the hands of something like an institution. He made words for G-d a really juicy academic adventure, anthropologic, critical too... This following idea is case and point:
El, Elohim, Eloha is invoked 100s of times in the bible--is suppose to impart a sense of Justice most often. As opposed to Eternality which would be Ayn-sof for instance. I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour. When I sat there in Hebrew school while Rabbi Schwab instructed us, I saw an incredibly slippery path when the power of this language of G-d's ?? mind would have my comfort zone demand a new meaning (& thus implode)...
*^^The Arboretum there across from the Colesium. Stopped and read awhile. The impulse I get from the consciousCrowd, as I flip pgs, is immanent transition, because the historical characters seemed easily reflected in those moments, as having made a difference. "Life/People in Transformation." **Powaqatsi, as the movie's title is defined by!! If you feel your "constant" is always having reached the surface, then "concealment" in terms of the trappings of identity is your spirit reckoned, if only briefly. Those who intercede on your behalf maybe thru antecedents you aren't aware of yet... So from abstraction to action, I just love looking at all these strangers, beyond all judgmental caprice as is my nature when the human condition gets depressing. Case & point (getting past that!), when it was dark a few weeks back & I was over there, these Hindus were sitting off the path and liquid language abided my gait as I stepped past them. Like in a current, I couldn't break loose from their sing-song voices, and I sorta watched what I heard as they trailed off behind me & the thick cool air of night blanketed my senses. Then this last Saturday night my buddy Howie & I walked for a good hour, but starting at his apt. rather than just at the parks perimeter. Over hillocks & through traffic, crossed on past a duck pond & construction site--our convo was unstressed & at the constant rate of our looks yon & hither. An acquaintance of ours, from now years ago had said (cyberly) "if you're not catching up, it's not worth it!" This seems to be concise reproof that things are going away--it is the kind of thing that lodges in my feelings of inconsistency, as if I am supposed to anticipate reception from some social recourse to the high air upon which I am lying fallow!!

1000 OAKS, AT Home, And Abroad back in '87

****To give praise is the Good thing, to rejoice I am reached. The Other Shore, or the Big Convivencia, which are one thing--a passport to being as alive as any- when what your feeling is is that you've gone alone and at the present-bearing behest of who was the indicator of what lies beyond... Now my very conscious map is a clear view of too many opaque soft-machines, me falling through the arms of embrace--lost in what no longer preserves my sanctity. One Heart, One Mind, No Meaning (if plans are foiled), No Creator--(if we thought? something Otherly compelled us to act), Heart open, Light Mind, Step.***Just watched the rest of American Splendor. When I read Pekar's comic that had made up his narrative when he committed to the yiddishkeit (Jewishness) as his topical dis-ease, I happened to have been reading the same author. Eroticism in our DNA, as unstoppable as Dali meant it, had nothing on Isaac Bashevis Singer; think it's called SCUM.
~~~At the end of the bastion of responsibilities, I got out on my porch--across the st. from my work, right when I got home , hungry, in a neighborhood just a spit's length off the sidewalk's distance from Nich'ville rd.& played my too brightly colored djimbe. The river of sight had margins of wheels on pavement reporting like the Other Shore had more convivencia than the passport of my willow and lightning-wounded-big-tree before me. Didn't play long, but at least my pulse was skank mode by the time I was done. If we believe folks like Richard Gere are real chumps, the fact is that they are impressed with beauty, whether liturgical or otherwise...they're motivated & I can catch the vapors from that. His book called Pilgrims, a big coffee table thing, is where I got the above statement with a litttle bit of my variant in parenthesis--& at the beginning of the phrase One Heart, Mind is a Rasta or I suppose sense of biblacy rhetoric. Tho' in the end saying NO CREATOR & NO MEANING, is damned therapeutic--has value.
*~* I have to say, when I was in THousand Oaks CA. where my bro lived, and I was toting books back from their bookstore, it is a sense that I see now, that I am rooted to the constituency with folks like you...in a kind of "independent" mindfulness, the way we meet the world. I see it in the dusty corners of my mind in this immanent domain, man. Fact! I look at these broad-scape images from merely reconciled visits to some place mundane yet decidely a loci-unknown, and advance the placating mind unto discernment as these places gain meaning laterally from my hodge-podge moments as I surfaced there & amongst. Just taking things apart--so that I feel as if I am projected into consciousness in its varied physical sense, & gotten a message from my path all-through. I hope that makes sense--it is my only recourse to a life lived less than zero. In *~~Oxford: Sitting out by a church courtyard, across from a man in a wheelchair. He dranks 3 bottles of wine, just tippin em back, that I witnessed. The strangeness of the environs had the evident bubble of experience around me on trial. Kept finding the liminal moment. Like home--in contentment, but distance traveled said strange translator faces looking past me. I'm peering thru turquois rimmed sunglasses--the weather is a lot like this morning, coolish & the sun on the rise. My motive was to coalesce around something there in Oxford that would be my power-spot... & then to commence to study Yiddish, which was an evaporating center. My professor came cavorting by, noticed me--asked me that shouldn't I be in class. To which I just muttered something about getting caught-up, & not feeling well... The yet bland institutions--libraries, classroom bldgs, registration offices etc--still had the techni-color academician world that divulged a history of knowledge that I wanted to reckon about Jewish Eastern-European life--these places were head-waters. What I wanted in learning Jewish ideas til then were what I felt needed to be adulterated by something that consigned motive upon the more grounded apposite study. So, Rastafarian thought was the thing I felt indicated a seive that would make the Jewish effulgence more particularized. To make reference to the repository of Jewish lit in Mom's bookcase at home, was the microcosm of a more immense plan for this Ideal. My Zadeh had a book by Scholem Aleikhem called Tevye's Daughters (where Fiddler on the Roof comes from), --Mom had something of a span of Jewish authors, including him in The Jewish Caravan--a piece taken from his book The Song of Songs. So I finally went and found this book, which is a mystical endeavor--even for me, as aloof & stale as I've become . The boy, who is our protagonist, with his cousin, & she'd be the Shulamit, together they run through the hills of an eastern European setting outside their village--& they decide picking barley greens for Shavuot would be their task (Shavuot is known by X-tians as Pentecost). My question for this woman living in Israel, I emailed about 2 months ago, is: what does this reference for this holiday--oh, and this may be really dumb, but do we call it a "hag?" I guess I am curious because the eastern European of dank vistas, and lost continuity for our religion's survival, has light at the end of those days, and how things are celebrated in Eretz Yisroel (Land of Israel) leaves me wondering if this fragmented history is attenuated? I remember my Rabbi here in Lexington Ky, as we students learned chumash (bible), said our pronouciation could be Sefardic (Middle Easterner) or Ashkenazi (European)--whatever we chose is fine. So, in my less than detailed way I tried to say "tav" (one of the letters for "T") rather than sav, etc. (written the same, but pronounced "S" rather than "T," or sometimes "Th," I've seen in transliteration. Sav is Ashkenazi!) But, in the end, I know next to nothing about the diversity we could embrace, hence my question. By the way, I am so not religious, but consider myself a ready student for Jewish mysticism and the more. Zalman Schacter-Shalomi was first introduced to me in a read called "The Jew in the Lotus." He'd been to see the Dalai Lama with a JEwish delegation discussing our success as a community having lived in exile, but primarily the book was a Kabbalistic study. To the head of Babylon, this would be what I reach for (mysticism, I mean) at the expense of jettisoned ambience.

KUSALA or HELPFUL action--as opposed to Amorality

I may have over-stepped my On-Spirit empty guru in the shallow room impulse, but I just sat down to some Eastern Thought...so the colTRANE of thought--the most beautiful I get to feel in an I & Nature moment, is the narrator to what it is that is out there where I am HEARD. (THEREin lies the giving & RECEIVING) I mean, it just seems it spills from my antiquated dust layering me in xenophobia...that I believe the body is all we can bespeak, and life's pollution keeps telling me to attend to it!! **Called Samkara. So, I IS Body MInd Spirit Speech & answers to one thing: Bodies' reaction from all of it, and is received unto the Atman/ the eternality!! Ok OK back down to earth... I think an answer is not your goal to correct what it is you contend should be your change, but just that "change" is evident...change just IS. If you live you love, if you give you get. Life is FOR the living--our potential to live!! My brother in Ca. is such a freaking athlete, and I don't know what it even is he does that I want to do. It is the fact that he is at moments comfortably immersed in his art, AND we all have become willing agents to believe his learned potential: he knows something about himself that makes him more a part of us than the things we meet now becoming all plastic. OK, so an answer yes, but I can't see something as valid in my so-called identity unless I know I am working to catch UP. I love goals, but material ones I just can't fathom. I am a bean eating fool--require very little, but music & books... don't need a big car!! So, its clear nothing is really going on--I have no place to be. Everything has happened where the grass is greener...it is an absolute to believe that. I give something to the weirdness that someone else is going somewhere. What I give is the sense that I should rationalize my latent reasoning I should have anything to do with it. The peak moment is also when it seems I have pointed out a bright star for so long, suddenly I see all my energy in dialogue with something that star had NOT heard before...
*** Trying to be integrated & letting all the character I know of whom I need to speak, H S Thompson brings me to a better renunciation of maybe the kind of memorialized space this domicile eclipses, but reminding me long enough that I should watch the urban myth collaborate - thru man yielding to his nature - with nature as in the pollen messenger giving me the meter of the Summer's passing. HST has a shiester, hedonist or maybe anarchical perspective making me actually think of friends ever in lowly fits & sighs without me. There are pivotal facts dealing with this GONZO writer, the way he lived, that are upon the in-between places I see shared amongst just a few others. It could be something eclipsed from our English classes at Lafayette high school, too!!
~~~If this world is entirely fictive, then it is personal suffering, between you and "your" Creator that delineates history as WE perceive it. The pain & excesses from the abuse of the powers that be, jettison us thru a narrow door, leaving us with meager choices. Sometimes if only to say we ought to meet the light of day!!
^^^There is the "I" of the body-- or there is the "I" of what has no substance thus unanswered, & really wouldn't exist. WE know only what we are in relationship with. Obvious right? time or nature; significant other, you & I; then I and We...an ego bound value. I always had let my mind find the understanding in passive waves. So, an understanding may be like the concepts borne unto merely a word like "Mediterranean." That it would be consistent with some learned response to a world map would not be how I further memory & mental illustrations. That it makes sense at all would be mind as claimant upon the well of silence, yet not formulaic. Now, I see I can know things this way. I can Wait. Just wait, and the appeal is that I'm not conflicted with wanting more out of Understanding than the look at yellowing page of letters & symbols transitioning to abstractions. Still, the patience is become a normative inquiry--I am too comfortable, so seeing or believing an answer is forth-coming is mind's lie that a measure for light to avail me at the tunnel's end is goal, whereas process defies me. Such is the romans bildung in my academician mid-life. ***
I had a girl-friend that did art at Ringling School of Art & Design, and they would have to paint nudes... This is where I gathered the term throbbing member, as she described the large black man who was her subject at one point. Her seductress demeanor had me anticipate the inevitable... she'd be with another, meanwhile I remember her as the bee-catcher pollen messenger dropping me off at the door of "every woman" = my wife now of almost three yrs, having known/dated her for almost 9--is, I want to obviate, is THE Woman. The lavender mood has me repose in a blue slumber til she arrives, and thence my language conveying meaning to which I imagine my day, is how I feel I participate in what she does mnemotechnically!! Suggesting I know I am thought of, I am "remembered."I needed my wife as none other when we met & significantly I realized this sets me up for what the entirety of life will reach-for going forward. Loneliness is really upsetting if it is clear to you life has meaning yet you can't quite write yourself in the book of dreams...life et al. Lost in process gave colorful ideals for me, yet I had seen the ease with which the other was resolved in contentment, because they'd been understood. And I wanted that--as now I do. Life is a long distance run as if the river of life with which I live in proximity yields the slow fidelity and thus its irony that catching up--as I am inevitably socially--is a solitarian achievement. Thus, I haven't lost by secreted identity in the hrs of meditations when solitude had me kill ego at all costs even thru inertia which I could measure only simply.

I Will Save a Spot for you--a Place you may not Know

The single-most actionable path to trod, is the one we take when we ask what has this life Become?--or more mythically, IS it worth it? What is it to live--& conversely to die? The 3 sequentially proximal deaths just occurred around me...THis thing about the ad absurdum (this subject with which there is nothing but sublime observation) is that it is phantasmal, abysmal too--looking at my feeling that the mind demands order, even in patterns that have no conclusive state to be mitigated. I have that CAMUS book too, The Myth of Sisyphus--couldn't get through it because I start matching the "force" (not the erudition, perhaps) with which the compartmentalized temporal (=impermanence)thing HITS me with (so, the vox musterion is my sense, rather than a fantastic concept)--lots to think, and I don't necessarily want to kill it--just want it to stream til the moment is entirely indicated & I am on the ONE.
***It is absurd to reckon the OTHER as your submissive. You see, we are united but momentarily, and there is a shadow to catch where we can feel rescued in perpituity... good enough or actually a little sad, but OK that it'll go away but not recognizably as a deterant from what I do. Peers are what I told my mom now about 35 yrs ago--"MOM," I said, "I know EVERYBODY--no one is any different than the next guy." Yielding to a small village, is as purblind as the deep sleep we remit having no dreams, but entirely convalescent. My Zadeh had a book by Scholem Aleichem called Tevye's Daughters, Mom had something of a span of Jewish authors--including him--a piece taken from his book: The Song of Songs. So I finally went and found this book, which is a mystical endeavor--even for me. The boy, who is our protagonist, with his cousin, & she'd be the Shulamit, together they run through the hills of an eastern European setting outside their village--& they decide picking barley greens for Shavuot would be their task. My question for you is, what does this reference for this holiday--oh, and this may be really dumb, but do we call it a "hag?" I guess I am curious because the East European of dank vistas, and lost continuity for our religion's survival, has light at the end of those days, and how things are celebrated in Eretz Yisroel leaves me wondering if this fragmented history is attenuated? I remember my Rabbi here in Lexington Ky, as we students learned chumash, said our pronouciation could be sefardic or ashkenazi--whatever we chose is fine. So, in my less than detailed way I tried to say tav rather than sav, etc. But, in the end, I know next to nothing about the diversity we could embrace, hence my question. Confessionally, I am so not religious, but consider myself a ready student for Jewish mysticism and the more. Zalman Schacter-Shalomi was first introduced to me in a read called the Jew and the Lotus. He'd been to see the Dalai Lama with a JEwish delegation discussing our success as a community having lived in exile, but primarily the book was a Kabbalistic study. Anyway, I am compelled to immerse into more of this. A book I had that Herman Wouk wrote--something suggesting if you haven't processed the ascetic & energetic like your catching up, then it's just not worth it. Neil Young's album title Comes a Time, seems to accomplish the satisfied feeling Wouk's book's title conveys, his being The Will to Live On!! These Hasidic Jews w/ fewer antecedents for community to evolve, have founded Belief on equal footing to Babylon falling as before them. Anarchy, or atheism is a natural prerequisite for a good Talmudic student (Wouk relates). The institutions are beknownst in all-profundity from what is "good-enough" to raise in high esteem your fellow man. Good enough, again, because the guru i.e. Tzaddik or perhaps a melamed/teacher isn't in the room. So, because pilpul--discussion, is principaled that we take to a referendum on Immanent Creation, anything thus could be said. To the disqualification project of the "Orthodox-other."
***Martin Buber may have had something to say about k'fitsas haderekh, a sentient presence felt on two different points on a map, or delug, a type of meditation where ad absurdum reigns. He definitely indicates the source in Jewish esteem with the Herodim/ Hasidim. "When you call them they are there; when you want them ...etc." A way of feeling presence thru somekind of intensional meditation, or otherwise: ** I look at it like this: at a certain threshold in the day, when I am mindful & things have elapsed, I wonder if it is the persistant ego that is dissociating my immanent time & place w/ the "feeling' somebody else has otherwise affected in my self-awareness. THINK on a friend, you thus are out of relationship with them, I contend!! Maybe integration is what lapsed...so I want to feel indicated by relationship. WE have I & Nature, & this is, according to Martin Buber, the most elusive. But my guess for me IT IS the most undeniable--simply because I find causality irrefutable once I am overstanding the epiphenimenal moment. But also the obvious I & I... or shall we say in collusion w/ the Rastas', I & I & I? AND then there is the I & Thou & the I & WE... It appears to me, comes around in my thinking that I've crashed all the obvious sensibilities, and then because my ideal content of mind's fulminate comfort has its very effect toppled, "NOTHING"--the education about nothing is an answer. With the pretense that the guru in the room is some shadowy affected self-hood, I started projecting ambient relationship w/chairs consigned to a thousand deaths

THE DEVIL didn't make me DO IT!!!

Subject: Thoughts on this weekends activities

I'm noticing the sense of gratuity that I coalesce around with what I want to tell folks. But I opt for the punch of self-mythologizing, like my sense of ascetic science, in stock statements, because the conscious pocket or well of language makes their statement of presence - the other as before me - an echolalia muddle not to be believed, but also not to be my pallet for just my own simple caprice. I had bought a sticker at Sqecial w/the Tree of Life symbolized on it. Made reference to it in convo, earlier yesterday--then around the track at the Arboretum, I enlisted the verbage (just in mind) about ITS different energies, the seferot attributes. I have to say the pagan (Celt? Druid?) tree in geometric form looked much cooler than the Atz Chaim of Jewish Kabbalah (but images of the Kabbalist icon have always been sterile & bookish, there's been ones besides that would be very artistic).
Just finished a book on Tolstoy & Gandhi, last evening. The only midnight sky personas to visit me in realistic visions, were Mohandes Gandhi & Bob Marley. One before me, one behind the facade of the translator mask/Buddha face. Got to give thanks somehow to something for that--just CAN'T answer to whom. Tolstoy became vegetarian & Gandhi would have been his diet consciousness confessor. Though we can look back and see historical figures answer for social inequities, seemingly so adolescent--like a Creator would have otherwise deemed a compassionate edifice from Higher Will, making us commit NOT Just-Actions for a Greater Good, which IS Higher Ground, but rather demanding communal identity. The heights of strength in character is as much an example back-when as anything marked as the founded Higher Ground supposed in this age.
***I was listening to Remain in Light--I'd call this album probably a favorite surpassing anything else jazz or reggae enlisted, as well. Talking Heads. I thought about David Byrnes poetry and auditive symbology, like how the listener has lifted off the provenance of certain media, whether digital data, or written tablas, and the Aleph-Bet met my eyes like wind, and vision was a kite pointing out the blue blue windows behind the clouds. Dalit, the letter "D" made patterns with frequency & inertia, and this letter symbol related to the Hebrew word for Knowledge--started proliferating what is the specific goal of Traditional Jew or Mystic alike--a word meaning to cleave, called devekut. If we are to Merge with Higher Consciousness, then cleaving means it is not just the mind that which unites with Awareness, but I imagine the body in repose in ideal circumstances, and its organs working with One & Against itself til Mind Body Expression arc from the mundane to raise it in high esteem as unto the supra-mundane...

Subject: responding to making a deal w/the devil
***In Jewish book of Ethics, called the Talmud, there is a section on making a Fence for the Torah (literally "Law"), our bible, the Old Testament. So, yeah, striking a deal of chthonian forces, to use the pagan Greek threat(?) in its historicity=meaning the dark forces emitted out of the earth, is frowned upon. It is called epikorous, which is where we get the word epicurean. In the original it means Secular, non-religious. But also in Judaism there is NO devil, as such a force of evil, in that all is created from G-d, so evil, is the absence of G-d, no persona as such. There's your concept to chew on.But if we were making a contract w/the devil I'd say it was by laying your salvation at the foot of a religious institution, rather than as in the Gospel of Thomas's words, looking to the LIGHT WITHIN.
One Summer's day, mowing for a living... I'm walking across the client's drive & a whirl-wind surrounds me of dust dirt & grass. I look out across the frontyard's expanse, & see at least 2 more. Like turbillions, I want to collapse into an abyss, til my head rests peacefully within emptiness...this was probably the worst day of my life.
I read that word in Rousseau's philosophy, I think. So anything that turns like a turbin would be indicated. It was a weird day. I smoked cigs then--which maybe unlike other folks really debilitated me... I guess I don't have the intensity to get high and enjoy that nicotine. So, I was really weary, wiry, & frankly, I wasn't on meds as I am now, so confusion was the order of those days. Then toppling disorientation was helplessness from those dust whirlers, and that along w/the emptiness as my kind of cause a priori, was almost laughable, but I had to endure... If making a contract to feel informed of some new day meant a pact within and unto an alterior self, I'm certain that the unity of humanity is as singularly a losing proposition, as is feeling instructed from complacency that makes the temporal world elude us. Sad, but numinous!!
It is ever & always about convalescence and purity as a goal. I envy others living in proximation to a forest. I'm getting used to a one world village map, and it seems the long trodden dust at the feet of the resourceless masses, is the image I get fed & enlivened from... I believe in something of a CoNscIOUS MaP too, as if IT is called down as a veil of things before me, making a room the intermediary space of dreamt-mind fulfilled...given a new lead on life. THINGS are new yet old. I am getting on a serious health kick that I must fight to maintain...battle yet to be won. PEACE.
So that good oxygen breathed in the wilds, as opposed to lawn-mower exhaust, were breaths marking white check marks on the ceiling of consciousness, so that clarity in where you belong is become the alliterative path... But, to elaborate to you - I was up last night reading about the Jews of Cochin India. Really a moody & good vibe (as I sit here drinking Taj Mahal Indian black orange pekoe tea while writing this). I had a convo w/Valerie my wife before I laid my head down, but she was asleep, so I was talking to myself. This thing about the mind being freed up because the space you occupy is the memorial of in-between places you've ever known--is what I got long winded about, as she lay there as a tabla rasa no matter how I wanted the words to penetrate the"other" in her. Still, this morning has the Americana trekker Kerouac as my day's concept to avail a motive in the Rub up Push up w/ folks in & out of this place deigning this small life a little allowance for resources. One book I'd suggest to you per the struggle to maintain sobriety for some, or being true to one's self to others, is Jack Kerouac's Big Sur. It is a phenomenal book, literally. The headiness gets grounded in moments when this author (of ON THE ROAD) sees all that is lost... yet his addiction killed him. Sometimes we have a thousand deaths to reprove a threshold that we cross to awaken to our best selves. Sometimes, we get no other chances...
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. 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 and 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 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 unrealism, in the end it impels us to design the realistic.

What if THE House Maiden, this cosmicblack Kali Mango devi of Love & Transcendence watched over us ever since we innocently secreted our ways into & out of time & place. And we were never to actually meet, though she’s represented in our thoughts in our psychic maneuvering, & that is actually a piece of her like the indiscriminate grains of sand in the cracks of our pavement. Like showroom dummies the affable self is never strident enough to look underneath the veil, until we see the fading away of even that surface-able union w/ the mundane. So perhaps it does happen, after ineffective moments when communication proves the OTHER lives by predictable presence rather than announceable-images/the immediate. Presence or image, we look forward to their collusion, but presence wins over because it absconds w/ & is answerable to our ignorance. But why appearance won out finally in my circumstance is instructive, if only because an exclusive peak in enduring solitude left me to appeal for her assistance.
Who AM I? And how is it that I know that there is no where I need to be? The answer: The effort to remain relevant is wholly static, no matter that our vitality says to RUN.

Amanita muscaris==RED FLY NATION

Under a pine tree was the usual repose I'd assume while reading Isaac Babel's "Red Calvary" book one late Summer & early Fall. If "rosy-colored mourns" were seen in the faces of his Jewesses, peripheral characters to shtetl Jews--to borrow Kerouac's words--then the roseate suns of day in & day out troddings from the initial Socialist Revolution's reckless hammer on its perceived enemies, was the thud of thoughts lifted over my head and gravitated unto the sheen in the trees or magnificate skies abreast in my mind. The swath I would paint of Jewish constituency was a social marker just to make some one individual a little more received in the conscious pocket of my days in hitbodedut meditation. Its meaning is merely solitude, which is an abject cause of asceticism in Judaism, yet remained my focus. Elijah & Ezekiel's vision's have everything to do with the silent words of thought, the still-small voice, as an allowance toward what relationship with the Ultimate Reality indicates in us.
Had an ocular migraine last night. Feeling really restored now. Read about solitarian type yoga stuff--this same book G-d is a Verb--which mentions Jewish mekavanim/ kaballists, making all my silence feel accompanied w/a thread from that read--the day before. Ideally anyone wants to reckon an ascending pattern from days' long ends to the next. For me tho' in a cognitive lapse, I could see the appeal toward what I cleaved to--that being immanence, the Now, and that nothing colluded in this presentiment, so at least it felt crystalline that I presume solitude without a means of escape. In other words I was compelled to surfeit this condition. Seeing the new pallet this am., seems strange. Walls, time, place & community containing me once again. The event of passive listening to music, at home, makes those moments the convergence of illumination & art, and since it is there in front of me, I think the sounds are telegraphed in immense looks past those walls. Hand to mouth or "beans & coffee" in Roses for the Rich--as Paul K tells it. I liken the resolve to the Islamic professed name Abd-ullah=slave to G-d.
***A man has less truth in his eyes than the thing he sees as before himself that he ceases to meet. I try to make a referendum of Bob Marley's lyricked aphorisms, "You speak, I feel..." & otherly, "if you keep coming, then your Over." That this would be "identity" shows its fleeting conscious prop-- the midnight sky as liminal. And what becomes of us beyond an internacine conscious space is entirely the half-thought cast of shadows. ***This corridor week, if this pattern of time passing was a material thing I could manage, I imagine it like the hekhalot--the halls or temple rather, I've seen both indicated as referring to where we meet these Talmudic rabbis from 1500-2000 yrs ago as gate-keepers. All I am trying to do is give a persona to these low-energy moments when I am freed up from all identity machinations. Reading in Rabbi David A Cooper's G-d is a Verb book yesterday, Binah consciousness is the proliferate level of meditation so that Awe brings us into relationship with What-Is=G-d's Mind. He speaks of Nothingness, a solid definition for G-d if we see within our condition that we are compelled to put whatever constituent facts into that Void, whether it is a sense of our presence, or the Outward fact which is the experiencial immanent impermanence whose weight the tent-poles of consciousness collapse under... And then that fragmented result makes us look UP & yonder & personify the All or Nothing that received us.
I was made head-strong by the hand of the almighty, was Bob Marley's lyrics, and just seeing how folks persist from moment to moment sometimes informs me to a vast potential and "realistic" motives - I can see - that I know the "other" doesn't realize they should observe (themselves in that box.). I swear I feel I am floating way above folks sometimes, & weirdly I am content to call this repose a bird's eye view... yet what I manage to bring back to ground zero has no report of this distance travelled.

History as I've taken from Flavius Josephus' book. Zadie's collection

Subject: Balak & Balaam in the land of the Midianites****I'm not trying to be seen the dissipator and as supra-religious (not going beyond its accord I mean). I'll use that language as long as G-Dtalk favors the world-objective, say, calling this world as something like Higher Ground & not because it is always favorable, but the inertia that feels to me enough to lend my hope for less pain from the impermanent record. The reference to a god is merely good enough--some folks are just telling me something sounding a little too resigned to the obvious. Yeah, I agree, we only manifest what is. I am uncomfortably a shapless mass--live w/abstraction & also physical voids, my appearance as such. How does a god play to this awareness? It would be something vaguely meta-physical that I can almost seize sometimes, and hopefully become compelled, any kind of motive, to be creative as that Outward Fact: G-d, Consciousness, Relationship et al, I & Nature hopefully the more. ITs a big piece of the pie to know folks are indicating their deficiencies as they represent themselves as social animals. Ego alerts us to this--that quality of otherness, which most dismiss because it disarms us to know WE do it too. Yet, being imbued w/general notions, something objective, is being indicated by what is greater than subjective norms.The bible as revelation makes theX-tian a X-tian, but what makes a Believer a Believer, whether self-perception creates an obvious lable or not, IS IS iS someone respecting THE fact we all do this? THIS thing between the MUTUAL arising of other communities...!!!!
AND Think you would change your lifestyle if God existed for sure?: not really G-d damn, I just have to laugh at this question having no antecedents, except for this chic's thought & "answer-supposing" that church was always so "boring." Yaw, that boredom was to me a concretized memory of a short life lived, & the bullet's speed in which I saw this life thread into what seems to be Balak's ploy to have Balaam reckon a talking ass... as biblical & into prophesy as the peripheral magicians or priests who at once are condemned by Israel & again looked upon as learned from some verily temporal example

It may be an objective fact--I'm making allegory here--that your Mother was there for you or not in ways that made your reactions a little more considerate (HOPEFULLY)--but even if you've had relationships that fall short, you'd know in your heart what would be Right about it. And it still can be the face of this or that person, because the preponderance of that shared jumping off point--a bigger conscious map--should make us more humble. If G-d was on High, He/She/It would leave every other place vacant. And isn't that where we live? So, look around & see where you should put substance into all that distance between you and your INEVITABLE goal.

Subject: "Music a godly thing." Bob Marley
Felt my breath evaporate on the palm of a beggar in Jerusalem. Meaning, his meager arm extended out of rough djelabiya attire, grasped at my words--I was received into an unawakened state where my ruffian ways seemed superfluous. Rob Olson--my friend who I was travelling with, & I sauntering by, a few days previous to an impervious Jerusalem stroll on a hit of A. I probably should say "contentious" Jersualem stroll--we stridently were not imbued w/anything of a religious sense or syndrome, but rather took to ole brown, w/nothing better to do but seek a depth of antiquity in the rainy december air. Angry young men on LSD in the streets of Jerusalem at the brink of Palestinian's first intifada. We watched as a young man was stopped & searched-- his jam box-suspect on the ground, rubber-necking frowned upon by the Police... wasn't complicated weirdly, just thoroughly & freely an ugly American moment out of place, in a considerate mind!!
What if there is more that tells you to jump into the abysmal new dawn, yet something tethers you to what has faded... like the liminal & persistant "nous" as the Greek's deliberated on: your Mind. No place to go is answer enough--but I'd ask, are you in the conscious pocket? If not, any decision is the wrong one. Apophasis is the spiritual man's/woman's tool. The self-consciousness I felt on Winter's days there in the hills of Jerusalem, made me idealize the heat of thoughts & pained sentience as I felt the yawn of the parallel path widen - me on one side, plainly remote, auspiciously in wanderlust, and Judaic ascetic currency on the other, like a road too distantly conversant than the sign-post saying how to manoeuver upon it.
One gratuitous awe I thought would lead me to enjoin self-actualization (via Judaism) was sitting before Coltrane in dark blue yonders, and conversation ensues, I'm listening I'm listening, then as if I'm calling & responding...I am somehow heard!! The event of passive listening at home, makes those moments the convergence of illumination & art, and since it is there in front of me, I think the sounds are telegraphed in immense looks past those walls.
Think of what it would be to be compelled to devolve in one station in life--and if this be the case, what it is that keeps you looking at the light at the end of the tunnel. Hand to mouth, beans & coffee--as Paul K tells it. I liken the resolve to the Islamic professed name Abd-ullah=slave to G-d. If G-d willed things thus, we just live work-a-day in & out. Only HERE to live UP--one dimensional!!

GHANDIJI, hai hai

IF RELIGION is self-actualization, and self-expression replacing spirit in the grouping w/ MIND & BODY, is maintained as this goal to seek that understanding, then I think it is ok to say, IF someone understands YOU, YOU understand yourself. Obviously we have to jettison the trappings of identity & ego--but as it ALL is ego, then we should commit ourselves to the most educational relationship we could endure. Have teachers as friends, in other words. A friend related: "Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare the truth thou hast, that all may share; be bold, proclaim it everywhere. They only love who dare." I responded by saying, "what about Gandhi's & Elie Weisel's talk-embarrassment--each in their own right?" He questioned my motive, but said something about Voltaire after what I wrote as follows: It's creative--is your perspective to get beyond the vanity (perhaps) of indulgent speech. These guys who have mastered just how language is received--in their cases they are pointing & committed to why people suffer--indicates the speaker in painful ways. Language as some perfunctory destination in a pocket of my mind, seems to be the thing I've held out for--waiting--like "liquid language awash/ed/" (Wallace Stevens) in the silent compulsion from gathering the concept of titles lingering in the libraries of babel--mine, my mother's, the ubiquitous shelves I've seen in Oxford, or more realistically Univ of Ky's. We wander thru words like trees are its captors, and we languish residing below its hallowed canopies, alone & born of concepts our minds contend as pre-immanentSubject: back to self-mythologizing, less of the doctrinal tip...maybe a lttlePorch-sittin' below & amongst squirrels in the ash tree & maples in our frontyard, ants at my feet seemed palatable weirdly, because I was consuming the day's horizon. The ants were like trickles of thought running benignly in & out of perspectives of self-hood, like the right of sensual personality in the Hindu moksha (liberation) sense was true democracy furthered. Pillow-armies but upon the repose of comely sidewalk has had everyday breathing the good air just as much an echo of my stays at the bungalows in Up-state NY--in the Catskills. There, once when my cousin came with her large 8 kid family and husband all in from Israel, I became aware of a bigger conscious-map, as in Russia infiltrating from her outback lands in Dostoevskii's scenarios from The Brother Karamazov book I was then reading. Like animicules in my eyes, I was skewering characters like Papillion under starvation circumstances reaping the cockroaches scurrying through his melancholy locked-in-a-cell silence. Woe, silence is golden, but things get brighter, the earth groans louder, and I am more & more impacted by subtle temporal gravity...like being pulled into the peaks & valleys of the chimey voices of family, but rather than soft & consoling, it was saccharine & corrupting. But to turn from it left me with almost no stimulation--so the abysmal self was no reproof of a free-fall into being understood... DReams all a path giving me self-preservation, since I saw the thread from the power of Russian literature in its yellowing pages, as gray middling efforts in hazy summery days--I was alone & monk-like.
Like lying underneath an air-conditioning unit atop an office building, say, on some metal grid—as in one dream of mine, I am a sensitive to sounds arriving from out on the wet pavement reporting on waves of traffic. Some evenings after intense, but unrelished studying, I am hyper-sensitive to light & sound, any & all conveyance OF the norm. The electricity coming from other planets, these threadbare norms of otherness come in hot, & if I knew how to duck, my footing on this precipice of strife contritely would no longer be merely what it is=a direction meaning multiply (meaning I can’t simply duck it, there's just too much...). Sometimes I take a gander at the movement I’m calling self, & it is as conditional as something tantric—cold & distinct--like continuity is yoking myself to the solarity of some static presentation of this concrete Immanence=some call it G-d Consciousness, I call it the yawn of time I watch the tent-poles of consciousness collapse under--the blowing out of the Candle. If I flipped it over (the tantram) all the emotion would seem indulgent-- & demanding transition I can’t just guess at. Still I read on!!

SElf-Mythologizing into ascetic doctrinal deliberation

Porch-sittin' below & amongst squirrels in the ash tree & maples in our frontyard, ants at my feet seemed palatable weirdly, because I was consuming the day's horizon. The ants were like trickles of thought running benignly in & out of perspectives of self-hood, like the right of sensual personality in the Hindu moksha (liberation) sense was true democracy furthered. Pillow-armies but upon the repose of comely sidewalk has had everyday breathing the good air just as much an echo of my stays at the bungalows in Up-state NY--in the Catskills. There, once when my cousin came with her large 8 kid family and husband all in from Israel, I became aware of a bigger conscious-map, as in Russia infiltrating from her outback lands in Dostoevskii's scenarios from The Brother Karamazov book I was then reading. Like animicules in my eyes, I was skewering characters like Papillion under starvation circumstances reaping the cockroaches scurrying through his melancholy locked-in-a-cell silence. Woe, silence is golden, but things get brighter, the earth groans louder, and I am more & more impacted by subtle temporal gravity...like being pulled into the peaks & valleys of the chimey voices of family, but rather than soft & consoling, it was saccharine & corrupting. But to turn from it left me with almost no stimulation--so the abysmal self was no reproof of a free-fall into being understood... DReams all a path giving me self-preservation, since I saw the thread from the power of Russian literature in its yellowing pages, as gray middling efforts in hazy summery days--I was alone & monk-like.
Like lying underneath an air-conditioning unit atop an office building, say, on some metal grid—as in one dream of mine, I am a sensitive to sounds arriving from out on the wet pavement reporting on waves of traffic. Some evenings after intense, but unrelished studying, I am hyper-sensitive to light & sound, any & all conveyance OF the norm. The electricity coming from other planets, these threadbare norms of otherness come in hot, & if I knew how to duck, my footing on this precipice of strife contritely would no longer be merely what it is=a direction meaning multiply (meaning I can’t simply duck it, there's just too much...). Sometimes I take a gander at the movement I’m calling self, & it is as conditional as something tantric—cold & distinct--like continuity is yoking myself to the solarity of some static presentation of this concrete Immanence=some call it G-d Consciousness, I call it the yawn of time I watch the tent-poles of consciousness collapse under--the blowing out of the Candle. If I flipped it over (the tantram) all the emotion would seem indulgent-- & demanding transition I can’t just guess at. Still I read on!!
~~**The Lay of the Land**~~
Strangest WRFL station muthoi:--Ok remember in Basketball Diaries when they had the game and dudes did a bunch of uppers & downers, & Riders of the Storm was playing, rt? Well, imagine my head as the b ball but in terms of a deflated winter Sun--I just walked back over to the station from Buxton's Bear's Wax after eating...yes, that's correct: Liquid Sky. Now, I DO NOT advocate this behavior, really--I was miserable. And the station's Dj on air during this intervallic insane ride, between blue pears & dismal weather, granted no reprieve. Still, confusion is a pattern=this I knew, but I'd opt for white noise as the vibratory properties in Alumni Gym over Smiling Knowing sighs glances & whispers--than to subject the Utility of RFL as my model for Drug Haven... it ain't what Ascetic's do to their minds, but rather where in the temporal kingdom can we ever find a Power Spot. I'll stick to sensory Input from the auditive universe--& less from Rimbaud's formula.

You'll probably hate the seriousness of this=just know Affable-me is behind door #1. I was reading The Closing of the Western Mind. It's an apologist account toward real knowledge in biblical exegesis. And why one might be apt to tout his/her apathy of religion, is essayed here & not smug like the tendency to marginalize G-dThought has become--definitely validated in this book's rappore. It's about our very language & when I worked at RFL, it *language* was about the parallel course to the Zion Train (my radio show) of message-music. Parallel implies something unbridgeable. I was full-on socially disfunctional/ I'm kinda an insane story of RFL. Hulking conscious displays of ear-dimensional "horns blowing in my face w/scorn" from forced-thought scenarios, all illustrates my distraction. So, meanwhile the music played & language of the Rasta patois variety, says to me, belief wasn't here to be learned, but rather how to think, was a better goal. The other deejays all seemed to have on-spirits & clarity imparted from language headwaters as if people were communicating to me thru images that barely remained still, had the languish I felt--illumined. We all have to be willing to become distracted internally (Rimbaud) so the natural condition of the mind="fragmentation" bares its knowledge. Faith starts w/the subjective & (according to this book) it isn't about the direction any One institution might deliver, but rather about knowledge. I'm just sorry I didn't indulge folks all the more over the Sounds-Arriving. Nothing is worth the effort, unless youre catching up.
I am entirely speaking from a rational study of religious subjects. Symbols of our belief are like our effort; or the Music; or the people behind the message. Basically all belief is in fact Loss. What happens if your nation fails & your god was its goal in faith for the nation's success? What then happens to you? Or your god, or your faith? Therefore I say don't believe, as I said above, In a system of Thought (ism-skism), but rather aiming toward LEARNING how to Think is my deliverance.

Dreams in their demise--just not mine!!

A good friend embraces "nothingness from time to time"--I say what better than to see space as your final frontier. Pour yourself into the void, material or abstracted. We are energentic & substantive, so pick your vessel. I am a vessel too, and aquatic and evasive...to paraphrase Patti Smith from Radio Ethiopia. My mental apostasy, call it ascetic deliverance, was baptism by fire--the embracing of Nothingness, as Railsback says, was the norm. So, I "cut off my hair & I rode straight away, to a wild and unknown country where I could not go wrong." Imagine if you will Dylan's head wizened in its profile, face obfuscated, so the translating mask was mine to define!!
~~Made reference just over a yr ago to Louis Jorge Borges, in a dream post. How there is intermediary space, just as his character lies proximal to the forested mantel, but within an ancient ampitheatre in the middle of gradins progressing outwardly. His intent is to dream a personification of his archetypal self--himself as his own son, I think--maybe in the short story called the Circular Ruins!! I'm conjuring this all to suppose just how the psychic strife in night vision avails life's path but only at the point of convalescence--say exiting a room, across a threshold--outside into the bigger pallet. Somehow toward gaining our strain of objectivity from the loam of mind, where in fact we become limited from imagination now arguably the colorless space of marginalized sentient greed--in dream imagery. The point here is that you are still every characterization of time & place, & the beauty of it is that that negative space looses its anthropos conjecture. You've become vibrant properties of sensory reality--say "white noise"--torpidity rather than ambivalence. So, all through the mischief of three then recent conversations, I felt I owed a debt of intensity to some better creative explanate moment==thought battling!!! And then after some reading & cognitive rsources having been once jettisoned, now all in memory reflection & at the ready, I got back to full effect.
Motivation is MY game this morning, getting ready to read the rest of R K Narayan's autobio., just a few more pages. Its uncomplicated, the guy is a taciturn dude--died in the late 1980s I think. Lived in Mysore some--Brahmin decent? can't remember, but the father was an educator. Speaks to his writing agenda, path. I'd go read this along with G-d is a Verb (Rabbi David Cooper) at the coffee house (Common Grounds). Definitely in front of busy minds, I felt I recorded a life in its rich pageant... The page 181 of Cooper's book stood out as my meditation became immanent, stuttered, and had me reach for the availing moments in its symbolism. 181 seemed to indicate the 8fold path for the Hindu stages one goes thru in Yoga practice. For me I am just in the peace of my mind & just a few constituent facts about how language captures those-coming-over=social-thing mitigated, and giving them their due gets jettisoned.
Anyway it all boils down to the soft-machine trammeled from our media-driven distractions--a good thing perhaps in the end. So this is what I imagine as a bridge, me to some other image of a day unfolding. ***Train comin' 'round the bend...like 3 times a night, sometimes more. Last night, I didn't notice tho'. We both live proximal to the long distance traveler (literally), a symbol of life in all its impermanence (says Freud). Tracks running thru skin-scapes moist and with soul-force, has my thoughts revolve around Ben Kingsley flight out of character like he was on a 6 Flags ride (in Gandhi), just affably surveying India's Bharata-varna, this World as it proceedth in its ancient quality.*** Old garments are shed, new bodies are donned like new garments... Humankind's path is earth, the temporal kingdom, tho' he/she has the freedom to stop inertia, & the Celestial Bodies don't. So our path may be more dynamic, a so-called Conscious-Being. We see the Sun, but the Sun is turning out of blue, it doesn't know we call it, nor does our reason surmount. Our dialogue w/the cosmos is yet impermanent--therein do we live the ontological record.
Aleister Crowley painted in red letters--in Up-state NY upon a cliff (@ the turn of last century, thereabout)--Do what Thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. (&-granted, he is no example of humility) This would apply had someone made a solemn sacrifice: some grandiose measure of self which we could relinquish because it had become a less than humble factor. Bob Marley said, My Head is My Home. We stand tall wanting the puzzle of thought to complete the experential picture. Krishnamurti calls us out--on this--with a practical sense definition that Thought is Fear. If your rule is Thought as Reprieve, then the "valley of indecision" (somewhat derivative Marley-ism) is around you & you have no Higher Ground!! Sacrifice thought, this side of yourself, if it is a means to your security. The answer is outside of Us...there is no autonomy. A noumenon started with Zadie, as if he were a recipient of long ends of my days spilling headFilled ideas of life back at our original home. He *had* lived in Up-state Ny & as if life "is one big road w/lots of signs" (B.Marley), then the image of Crowley having put his graffiti up, had Zadie written all over it. If only to bare the sense of accumulated & drab of mind road-trip there, like at its peak, was all a granted finish to the anticipation the Native American land could wash across my epiphenomenal convalescence in the North. Crowley may have expectorated Kabbalah my way, but only in that sense we are a shapeless mass & a book of rules did I hearten to a deep aside from his immanent release of the consignment to the norm...the stolid English passport functionaries. It is a stale enough view to take Euro-ethos to the perimeter of my rebel-composure and pitch it into his nod east where I am ever ahead of his sensitivity for the low-caste. Case & point, the word Ren, in Chinese, is like co-humanity, actually just human--but in its context Kongfuzi (Confucius) shows that ritual is altruistic in its highest esteem. So, I take these varied & colored words, as from the East or my/your backyard, and see that it is a ways yawn back to its impervious beginnings as folks used words thru utility as though I can ascertain my own motive. There is its evidence, this book before me saying self-actualization is bestowed upon us from the ancients. And it is not merely desire that the word yields the glory of material language making the aspirant find equinamity with appearances...even emerging from spirit and becoming One with the Outward Fact...you or your semblance/ all the same. And my ignorance in its throes has me land on wherefore art thou expression, as answer enough found in my query. The generalities under which we live is plainly from looks back into the ubiquity of history. There in that boxed context we see of the subjective antecendent, a word in fact that solicits the mind, makes its stupor unyielding to the objective present. We have no choice but to believe a point in the loam of lives predeceased, as that things go away is ever present because reckon this: all symbols of eternity are IN this life. And LIFE all the same is my reflection on a fine detail in the singularity that is the conduit to language's root interlocuttors...the Originators of godtalk as well as easy-speak (meaning the Ancient-Ones).

The sun is turning outa blue--I know its calling & so are you

Subject: here's my sense of how I learn
I get the title from Paul K's lyrics--just thought it appropriate for what I'm trying here!!
Epistemology, is the science explaining how it is we Know things. Case & point, the word Ren, in Chinese, is like co-humanity, actually just human--but in its context Kongfuzi (Confucius) shows that ritual is altruistic in its highest esteem. So, I take these varied & colored words, as from the East or my/your backyard, and see that it is a ways yawn back to its impervious beginnings as folks used words thru utility as I can ascertain my own motive. There is its evidence, this book before me saying self-actualization is bestowed upon us from the ancients. And it is not merely desire that the word yields the glory of material language making the aspirant find equinamity with appearances...even emerging from spirit and becoming One with the Outward Fact...you or your semblance/ all the same. And my ignorance in its throes has me land on wherefore art thou expression, as answer enough found in my query. The generalities under which we live is plainly from looks back into the ubiquity of history. There in that boxed context we see the subjective antecendent, a word in fact that solicits the mind, makes its stupor unyielding to the objective present. We have no choice but to believe a point in the loam of lives predeceased, as that things go away is ever present because reckon this: all symbols of eternity are IN this life, but LIFE all the same is my reflection on a fine detail in the singularity that is the conduit to language's root interlocuttors...the originators of godtalk as well as easy-speak.
***I am thinking what is the shadow of the sun--meaning is something more immense making the sun cast its own shadow? I feel that this is one of my better prose pieces: it is what I do, no vocation in it--the science is literary. Don't take this as a biblical traditionalist perspective, rather, I am taking back the language of the Literalist. What we experience above the sun is hasidus, an immanent release we feel from "loving-kindness." There is futilty below it. This isn't a consignment of flowery talk just to embrace pathlessness==a letting-go! The probably first empirical enumeration we would not have avoided, was the sun as the healer...of woes, brings us into transition. A Polish author's book about travels in Africa, he as a reporter in the mid-20th century, has a title implying quite oppositely what the implications of what our early life contended. The sun may cast shadows, but what is the shadow OF the sun caused by, he appertains? Just to jump ship and remit everything to G-d exiles you from reason, as the imagination's narrative is our point of reference in having faith. Again, if you jump ship, didn't you see the fall on the way down... Observable Release, or more conventionally "rational thought" is become your mystical endeavor. Don't say, ahh but you have to have faith, that you won't drown. I'd ask what of faith was in your mind as you fell prone? "We screw the sun just for fun, we paint the moon mystically true," as Linton Kwesi Johnson the Immanent reggae poet relates. Out west about 40 minutes N.E. of Sin city, was the park Valley of Fire, & it was slightly too juxtaposed with the closeness of Las Vegas and vast population, that it then seemed to me the stones were tarried... This is the desert under the sun's worst prowess: 4000 yrs of habitation, yet this world seemed incinerated. The stones were something alluring, & easily answered for (social), like I wanted to find a key to the pre-historicity of our reception into the emptiness of those desert pallets showing Indians' past. ...But I wanted to find it and not deny it while comforted from being off the road, letting my thoughts revolve in urban containment. This sounds like a defense of my not knowing a motive into the attiqa--a Hebrew word suggesting G*d's unfinished beginnings...the slow unfurling of the godhead, where our examples lie like seferot, energies, or attributes, say the cosmogony of Beauty. The instincts I'd want to assume (having that motive) about the Natives having been received unto this material dispensation--the light of his or her beginnings hopefully understood, are my rational bent to look at some sensed image of where we can touch the earth. So, man's nature--nature et al, is found even perhaps in urban ubiquitous devolution. Though lives barely indicate what changes I'd propitiate, I am yet determined to trial my agonistic knowledge... In other words, who can I compete with, if the quiet has no face--as I'd reject civilization sooo proximal. The sun blinds, its shadow is denied...what would it have been cast upon & be seen?

IN the Valley of FIRE, as Babylon Burns

The park was slightly too juxtaposed with the closeness of Las Vegas and vast population, it then seemed to me the stone had tarried... The stone being something alluring, & easily answered for (social), like I wanted to find a key--a teacher in the masses, to the pre-historicity of our reception into the emptiness of those desert pallets showing Native Americans' past. ...But I wanted to find it and not deny it while comfort from being off the road, let my thoughts revolve in urban containment. This sounds like a defense of my not knowing a motive into the "attiqa"--a Hebrew word suggesting G-d's unfinished beginnings...the slow unfurling of the godhead, where our examples lie like seferot, energies, or attributes. The instincts I'd want to assume (having that motive) about the Natives having been received unto this material dispensation, the peak moment from which I look--the light of his or her beginnings hopefully understood, are my rational bent to look at some sensed image of where we can touch the earth. Though lives barely indicate what changes I'd propitiate, I am yet determined to trial my agonistic knowledge... In other words, who can I compete with, if the quiet has no face--as I'd reject civilization sooo proximal.
Just imagining how it is incumbent upon the denizen of our deserts, to feel that its grandeur of space holds you up, as opposed to the ill prospect that survival is at once your agonistic numinous trial. The myriad view as before & behind me while I sit yogin-expectant at the red-hued desert expanding, is perceptible like the feeling of an open door figuratively behind me as now. For just a moment I imagine the sounds past the threshold are channeling in merely less auditive echos as before me...a strange echolalia phenomena. Played Mark's d'jimbe drum, read, & imagined the rock as my bed--has my senses reach for the sun--the filial entity for the Indians' fate. If I can at all place iconography of human form giving way to the few steps some ancient path availing my lumbering efforts to view cosmogony--the stark indefinite desert may grant substance.

So, if I were asked, how would I describe an awakening? IT is meaning to say, for instance last night, my eyes**in conceptual meditation**saw only illumined thought-images—nothing at all what was before me; it was beautiful! I saw some psychically composed room, which I responded w/ ideation that I have “arrived,” but then there was a dense black shadow & I called it down to veil me, which once encumbered, utter peace filled me w/ an awakened spirit. I converged upon identity, for what seemed sustained venturing into long moments of time & place=--I was alone, & yet received, evolving & prone to the chambers of wisdom the Kabbalists speak of—ever reaching, but toward intangibles—still a kind of stage for communion w/ effort as the well-defined payoff. I am saying Yes to the Outward fact that would be OTHER than anthropomorphic: meaning appearances!! If someone speaks, you feel--to paraphrase B. Marley--but what if they use the words streaming from that center of awareness that says, in effect, the world collaborates in the project of your worth. (someone using your language as before you!!) That worth is your consciousness...projected!! So, now we know this occurs in self-expression, but now ask yourself, when does the light of day become concommitant with the self-conscious act that the road before you exists only as each step upon its peak surface is reaching its immediate proximation--your purblind step? Or another way to look at it, when do white noise vibratory properties in a wall facade become as alive as your mind in expectation that you see through these physical barriers? You know the walls collapse in certain epiphenomenal consciousness. This is the world acquiescing with our very solitarian trajectory thru it... So "you speak, I feel." (as from BMW's Confrontation album) But also, you leave, and the world takes a stand as we do knowing it is incumbent upon us recognize our perseverance!!

Abraham of UR--thinking of the Indefinite

For all intents and purposes, I want things to compel me to act. That shouldn't sound unusual, but folks terminally declaim being "baited" into their friends' mischief. So, within reason of course, but it is I, me, mine that lets things succeed in making me feel indicated. What I am saying is that in the end NOTHING is going on--if something is going on in your life, you are not living. What is to be believed at all, if you are concussed to lose sight of centers from without--the limb where we get pinned may not be distraction in truth. Living is when we have awareness of being the soft machine: each moment is unique and the indefinite (apeiron in Greek) dross, material world is only pointing to the veil constraining our willingness to be impacted by relationship... Remove the veil and answers are abound--yet, nothing to deliberate on as the dharma manifestly is that we observe OUR BECOMING...maybe like observable release--we are becoming free!! We refuse all constraints, thus our freedom is the responsibility-anew to stand solitarian. No one baits me, so no recourse to choose to be liberated from relationship no matter the spoilation the other contends.... As Bob Marley sings, Step into the Fire but never get Burned--referring to Daniel maybe, but more obviously to me Abraham on the lotus flower, once a fiery cauldron!! A head-strong well fought for mental apostasy IS of a visual sense of my personal-history. The primary colors are at least in essense the heated condition from corporeal thought--just enough thru mindfulness saying yes at this presentation of nomenclature of a thousand chairs resounds in a thousand deaths dreamt in each... I just say yes now to the known me, and I am allured under the statement of presence any silent corner contends with its issuant shadows hiding, leaving me in a blue slumber."Step into the fire, but you never get burned."
"If your work speaks to just one other individual, your message or thoughts are heard and known." --a friend of mine relates. The way I take this is, if you see that you are understood by an other, you understand yourself.
Well language eg poetry expresses IDENTITY, but it is only found when in relationship=when we are understood in light of that self-expression. So, we totally concur, because I also think if we symbolize our sense of experience, it must be manifest when we share it--so that it be scrutinized, or praised, appraised etc...
JAKE SAID:"What I meant and only meant when I said if someone understands what you are saying and understands your message then you have communicated your thoughts."
Certainly, to be understood, means we understand ourselves--like communicating your thoughts means you can move from the damaged ego to its annihilation, since I can't imagine I am greater than you--as my empirical sense of the immanent. That is the empirical reality--I find that I AM NOT.
In my motive for writing, people I knew sometimes flew into my wonder, and I sought the fulfillment of imagination, kind of instructing the sense we all were as 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 front-yard tree. HE was elliptical and just so averse than from whom I wanted to be understood. Then I saw things objectively, from near or far, I am consorting with just how I am feeling indicated in relationship...and at a certain point no manufactured distances can be sustained.
Referring to Daniel & the lions' den maybe obviously just as Bob Marley mentions on this song I reference, but more obviously to me --Abraham on the lotus flower, once a fiery cauldron!!--IS this idea we are dancing around, as my friend says, there is no right or wrong, but thinking makes it so. Yet, we refer to G-d as Good, knowing "din" is another attribute of this sense of the Creator. Ayn-sof, on the other hand, maybe taking this tact of the Greek apeiron--the Indefinite, is our sense of the Absolute, an All or Nothing affair. And THOUGHT is materially the fire where we emerge as something conceptual, as opposed to emptiness--as observable as that may be too... See the Good and the Bad as inter-changeably being born conceptually or found in emptiness, is yet the dialect of mutually arising opposites. Rather we are pulled into symbiosis and that may be without entirely any value statement. The Muslims have this narrative with Nimrod casting Abraham into the fire (coming out of our tradition), which becomes cool like the lotus flower , which making its character known pulls Jews thus further East (definitely this one *ME*--yet my ancestor Jews would have consorted with this myth too a thousand yrs ago), as we see him in contemplation of the heavens, I suppose. The Jews have an angel--could be Gabriel-- who comes and leads him out of the holocaust to be regarded as a "friend" of G-d, witnessed by his detractors. --my reading comes from Joseph Guttman's book on "Sacred Images."

SHADOW-PLAY=Jah like that!!!

I once characterized a watchmen over my domicile as a shadowy persona, while dreaming of my repose in dream-state. So, there over against the wall adjacent to my bed was an officer-like guy, like he'd been this hold-out for my feeling that these conscious barriers--manifestly the sense of a kind of power-spot in which I lived, were dissipating
"under the shadows of rescue" is lyricked by Bob Marley in Hallelujah Time off of Burning..."as we go singing, by & by." There is a book about a this Polish reporter's travels in Africa, it is called something interesting implying that the sun has its own shadow, as in something even brighter casts its rays upon a subject sun. I thought about this with a measure of asceticism, and that we can be converged upon by greater things than ourselves...ultimate realities are giving us context & awareness all the time, then "reason" shines a brighter light than the material objectivity we see in the suns immanence. Or rather if we have cosmic consciousness, it emanates from even more immense distances than our claim of even our own sun.
The minor hikes I took thru my neighborhood of my growing-up, took me through Beaumont park, a place of a lot of my changes--where I'd go and read and find reprieve under the boughs of maples, next to an old cistern. On thru the park, sometimes in a few hesitant moments, my only accompaniment was my shadow--and it felt less than auspicious because I had already filtered out self-INflection from the earthy loam of my empty cast in waves of bluegrass. So, what my mind did gather was lighted boundaries around my physical cast upon the ground, around the eyes too!!--yet the rest of the black pith of self was gray grass tethered to what I so vaguely wanted to transcend...
The word kaleidoscope as a descriptive term is never used, seriously I never see it, but it announces a lot of obvious ideation into a compounding hammer=the thud of a construction piece, like language is verbose..., like verging on too much all at once. Rushdie may have used it, but his mural-istic play on words takes me to it, regardless. In Midnight’s Children, the children born on the eve of India’s inception of modern independence, all have strange powers. This one youth can go to the intimate histories of those neighbors & family members whilst their minds have stored these scenarios & they are ambulatory w/ everyday-ness thru his anonymity of his perception . So to imagine someone whose mental imagery is not an equinox of the minds they are projecting consciously, but rather as trails left in innocent pug-marks they’ve not been able to expunge, & therefore as clues & gestures to an ulterior reality. When I was likely exactly 15, my friend & I would climb up on this church roof, across from Lexington School, into its steeple’s roof. So one afternoon public school being out that day & private schools still in attendance, I alone got up in the steeple, but sat in a kind of screened in area below the pinnacle, obfuscated enough from the height & angle that the mothers & their kids couldn’t see me. It all seemed so purposeful. Jolly walking rich brats, some morose ones et cetera, were all lending to my intuitive faculty but not as construal of actually what "they" may do next (there was a big question to muse over), but only in that I was jettisoned out of unknown imaginary day’s quality to a perceptive map-like cognizance—a compelling animal hunt, though they themselves manifested what quarry was to be divulged. So cars & sheens from windshields , or his/her friend on the way would be this, or the rest of the day instantly surmised, perhaps a solvent impermanence & a threshold never to be reckoned again…
I'm beginning to appeal to all the sincere metrics--good folks are telling me--of their artistic acquiring of self-knowledge - its effort--like dhammapada is what you know, and knowing what I defer as the best reggae album I have ever heard, gets me sprung from under the hand OF all that Marley I know--that context I see--many days as a student of his moral strain. Marley's dad was a Sefardic Jew, a Syrian, yet a British subject. Bob is more likely to have that secular crowd in Israel listen to his influence than radio provides in our middling America. Significant to me in thinking of Israelis as Progressives, and those who are finding themselves as part of a sea of humanity (even viewing the reality as neighbors to Syrians & Lebanese) despite its roiling plash against the rocks of fundamentalism. Reggae was what rooted me more than anything else, and the Jewish thing as the root in ascetic self-knowledge, meanwhile, added to the conscious music--the train to get on, like life portending a long road, is Rasta ideals having me pace the long ends of the day's river of sight. There is a lot of jamming on Third World's first album, a singularity if at its terminal auditive universe, we look up from what Marley calls intra-mantra slavery, and see it speaks right to us. A statement of presence, the presence of Mind sublimating us in relationship, reliably similar with the Jewish tip if we appeal to "Jah" like the Greater Reality compels us from Without...the Ineffable, as we become His experienced-form is but accessible when gods are looked upon as Layered-Reality=wherever it is we find ourselves the convergence of I & Nature!! Integrating what is actually disparate notions in Buddhist thought, looks to me like immense powers mutually arising as I forage in Eastern Thought langour supposed piece-meal by the likes of Kerouac, or indicated by Alan Watts, yet thru my jaded lense. If Avalokiteshvara laid his diamond hand upon the numinous impulse looking at black fire abstraction lying on white fire pallets (this medium), then the semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring.