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

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

Misr-Mizraim-Egypt

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

The SAHARA of confinement

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

Walking the dog on a rebel rd.

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

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

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

Shem/JAPHET & their issuance

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

RED river GORGE--HERE IN KY.

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

HERBAL remedy

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

Time IS what we NEED

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

Concealment

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

UTOPIA is in the doing

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

Sitting on the Back porch steps

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

On the Backporch Steps

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

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

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

VISION-SCAPE--I'm a soul Vendor

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

Y-H-V-H shalam (Jerusalem)

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

Scat-MAN on the Tube

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

The SPIRITUAL man is mad/ Tic Toc Teac

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

That which I READ, & its GOAL

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

By the Lamp, opposite of the burnt Wall

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