The Puja Of Valerie

I went from idealizing what I want in the future with my lady... to this "thing" in mythic proportions::::::
"...that I can't make up my mind about. It would be difficult to start a new relationship with someone--I don't know that I want to. What do you think? Dating around? But nothing serious--and hold out for each other...?" I THINK the culture you & I come from has it that folks are casual and not tied down, meaning it wouldn't necessarily be a great difficulty to stay aloof in the presence of another woman, and I would hope that you feel that way if some guy wanted to date you--that you would be casual and not get caught up with something that here in a yr or so would otherwise pull you out of the possibility that you and I would continue. Yes, I do want to continue--because I anticipate you will have made ground on many necessary responsibilities that SOOOOOO concern us right now. In other words, a lot hinges on your development. Which like I say, you are HUGE and dynamic and will feel--not to make a mean pun--like a million bucks by that time. I'm not saying I want my cake and eat it too--I am rather placing the cart before the horse, and you're the cart in one way, and in another way I am imagining that we COULD comparatively look at each other from this same "condition" tho' time will have perhaps made us THINK we have changed... Change IS necessary, but I don't for a minute think that I want to be uprooted from this tree you and I have planted... I think you get what I am hedging on and not actually saying...all I know is it's weird to think about, and I feel pretty much like a nobody til someone says I really do matter. I would tell you everything or anything if there ever is an anything... You see what I mean about if thou wert as my sister? I mean that'd be strong if I could confide in you til kingdom come, whatever this high and low road brings you and I... I'm just forewarning a possibility...and am being as up front as possible...and I think who the cap fits let him (me) or her (you) wear it--ONE size fits all. This is like a pact with you. Whadya think, sis?
Told Val this was meant for her: we have an understanding-- it'll be a year or so before the next one...(understanding, I mean)
***Perhaps it'll be An Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk... I mean, anything smacking of porn from the seat of Rum (Italia) to Eastern Europe has my name on it. And also ever since Craig got tied up and manipulated into a relationship with basically a mailOrder bride from Russia, I thought just going downtown to get it on with Ms. Brown, may as well be Ivanovich's forbidden fruit, the lucky daughter of a mafioso Russian daddy-o as easily... You know seeing that you and I are kinship with this part of the world, "she" could be my surrogate ball & chain Hungarian lover, albeit from the Yellow Horde (think Mongolian features--yes yours) in Slavic guise as opposed to the most diverse of Eastern European views into language's ontology=Hungarian so odd, and powered by that diversity... but again either Romance language or Cyrillic/Slavic ones, have tattooed my prediliction with a Commie girl. Like really Communist, straight out of 1900 when Zadie was but a cinder in his mother's eyes, and her rebellious girl-friend, presumably who I would have known, then gotten to know--was somehow transported to a lair of my making. And she'd leave the room to regimen her body, and all I can do is wish she would walk back into the room as you... and you would be.
***I read in a yellow cloud, and in my orange shroud a pharoah's night I once took flight and embrace within. I used to walk to chase away all exegensies, (I think I'm trying to suggest excesses), and I swiped at my theoria/contemplation over things not contingent on cryptic Muslim awe, but just my home in old brown (my shoes) and how to take the doctrinaire of phala shruti (Hindu for the fruit's of hearing) and call my own name in theophany (transcendent calling of my own name...), but as in a tinny radio jam box mute and lying on the ground while its owner was searched by his soldier inquisitor--what I saw in the Old City of Jerusalem. Lightning vox with its climax amidst space only has self-denial to contend with. So my opportunity to say I can't accept man's threat against man was forever in ideas of rumors of war. My hope is mythic that mostly I know everyone can have the light at the end of tunnel I see, that there's no lying in wait for the end game (of war's staged allegiance to pain)--the illusion that hope is consistent with suffering for the reprieve, leaves me shouldering my bridge toward awareness: I'm determined to be as stupid as the animal biting its own shadow, if that shadow would be eaten by street lights' radiant voyage when branches above of my neighborhood's gray sidewalk--or rather branches of neighborhood's sidewalks REFLECTS unconditionally. The pharonic night's were empireal strolls in Beaumont-Gardenside burbs...

I hate calling LEXINGTON LEX VEGAS, but here it goes!

Do we agree that folks are fixated on an end game: life, today's party, tonite's fun! (not to mention the pseudo-science of end of days scenarios, biblacy therewith the conjured foolishness...)Maybe we ought to kill the reason to wonder at impermanence. You'd say, I'll think about disaster, or my reprieve beginning at its summation. On and On you say you'll go ooon wondering... But remember thoughts converge unto these things, go away as exactly. How about just go, for example. **THis is my thang from yesterday's reading. Which I didn't get as much done as I really feel I should have. I can be austere, and there's a pay-off. But I can boogie--getting really expansive, then be cool for a few days, reading-studying but without the long timeliness as on apposite say weeks passing by. YET my measure OF just how it gets with all creativeness and intensity with friends and relationship with the world et al, is exactly the same, no matter how hard of late and duration of time spent intent upon digesting certain concepts. Meaning, I feel received and I feel like I am giving away what the others sell... A really good feeling--just giving it all to the midnight sky!! The problem is IS expecting the bigger pay-off from lengthier attempts at erudite living. Somehow it never seems to matter. One day of stalwart effort 'tis enough to find myself in a plateau of elevated thought...


Now, I'm being a little acidy. But I thought his lyrics were interesting (which as above I use "...what the others sell," and "...midnight sky," from the musician in focus now). Actually he says, Yet I've learned my lesson well, he "walked" on ice and he rang the bell, he did his sentence down in hell; he gave away what the others sell...but EvEryThinG is gonna be alright... The F bomb was from another one of his songs--i was confused (I fucked IN ice...) Anyway, this is just flow of consciousness from an ICE reference in the recent stint of cold weather. Maybe, thoughtlessness transpires in Paul K and the Weathermen's music's message because it was wintry days spent at U of KY when I ran with this crowd/ the underground music scene her in Lex Vegas...of which I am no player. But I must say I get ecstatic feelings from music as one should, and if religion is defined as self-actualization, I am definitely at the peak of what the beauty of such artifice lends in terms of apostasy from the trappings of identity. Identity is the measure of something exoteric, which is TURNED out and away from subtler attributes of art and music. Rock and Roll--yeah, I'd call it my religion--sometimes!!!
***The end game scenario should seem like the pseudo-science people preach having signs telling us of impending nirvana impending annihilation. Biblacy therein this discussion is the crutch of too many. Armigeddeon, which admittedly I know nothing about, except that I'm guessing some early Israelites fought in Meggido--and then allowed in their minds the world should end there, is a preachy joke. Folks that say watch-out-here-it-comes are begging to witness the world's comeuppance-and I find it childish. Anyway:::
It just natural that the father-role our etre-pot into man's desire (like what Abraham said about Terah, that his desire resides in his father's house), is this lens causing some agitation. In religious discussion--I throw it all in one idea, the won ideal, which is 'my parents" are really mind appearance. And their is a stately way to imagine how it seems I have ever conjured my presense in view of their fascinans made up of time and place that gave me my grounding. Mysterium terribile et fascinans is how one takes external forces...say "those" individuals from whom life is in one huge way defined, and gets internalized and written in our subjective minds. So, now we can say IT is otherwise filial brotherhood sisterhood perhaps which is better to relay how we COULD come across to them. It doesn't matter that it is not encouraged. It doesn't matter that they would even riddle us with morose heart in hand, that we get NO pay-off by the languish of those corridors of personal history all supposing we fell away from the tree. IT doesn't matter we inevitably say we are here alone mOm and dAd--in humanities' worlds of acquisitive minds we merely want to believe impermanence will awaken the child and his wisdom that THEY are going to be just alright.

Kedushah mentioned because Wieseltier bridges Religions

We supply our dreams with their fine details. What if we did this to the rational mind? You say the rational mind is cold, unallied. I say, once we dream of the rational, we are converged upon Time PLace and Community. We dream our imaginative narrative.
If philosophy was the smoke, and it would yield thru its conduit...in one way "the burning in my chest and in my lungs," (Paul K.) is an intensity which is key--and in the obvious way thru the fed hearth of ideas proliferating into the neighborhood's stands of trees, then I combust being restored to I AM.

"How sincere is the profession of your own insignificance if you believe that you are being heeded by that than-which nothing greater can be conceived?" Anselm--a Christian mystic from close to 800 yrs ago.



"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." (Galatians 6:2)
The Anointed, the Perfect man, but divine? He said be committed/pistis to me (and become a pisteou/an initiate), but our sense of belief has gotten in the way. He didn't say Believe in me--that would have been found strange to him. An Example is found thru dedication, not repetition of our becoming acquisitive over liturgy. We'd be initiated by actively pursuing the WAy, not touting words that give One security/self-preservation. This is precisely Karen Armstrong's discussion on the Gospels. I thought the nuance was interesting, because many times I am not open to the Christian ethic, yet because of the virtue of what I choose to study/read, it comes up frequently--and I find something extremely relevant and consoling in any one of the Gospels...like Thomas'. Now, by feeling illuminated by this exegesis I don't pretend to say ACTION would not be any one particular X-tian's tendency in doing something meritable. Certainly, this is a call to action.
Just read an interesting perspective as to what we should actively pursue: "Whoever makes an effort to purify himself receives assistance from Above." This comes from the Zohar--the Book of Splendor. The primary source of Jewish mysticism/ Kabbalah... The word referenced is sanctification/ kedushah in Hebrew--the existential is what is implied in what is Holy. One way of doing this is to hold the world in all its subjectivity into High Esteem. Taking what is mundane and have the very sense of it as what receives us til consciousness is welcomed in Wholeness/shalom. Note DHYANA here from Buddhism's 8 fold path toward transcendence. The Result is what is important (in DHYANA)--that being we recognize epiphenomenal reality in relationship so that samadhi is restorative.

One statement of mind's alternate ambience is when I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.

Sitting NEAR = looking to the Upanishads

All things are possible take 1. All things are possible when you are really unable. The evidence of that is knowing when we look for truth, it eludes us. That the world is, is what occurs when we desisit from cleaving to its semblance. The world is our evidence then.
I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me...and would soon trail off, but with no clue that an innerVoice is my recorded self. If I were in front of some media providing apparati, it seems only the object in focus suggests I am welcome.
Hearing with inner sensei some pattern in my inner dialogue was the strange empty look of just my proxy with garage and drive, front sidewalk and Ash tree with convalescent boughs. Do you find it a sense of release looking into the loam of your yard, or the call of the tree tops--like it is some lens through which the wilderness is encroaching just a little more than the shitty-city allows? With any luck we can believe it, then have it, just have it. The early Indian trads, Hindus Buddhists Jains, all conceived of a learning dialect under boughs and skies' vistas
Studying only up the street from where I now reside, I wandered thru Madame Blavatskii's Esoteric & Exoteric Writings deliberating on what I conjured and wanting it, then not wanting it and unable to see my way past it. The Upanishads were conceptually unknown to me, but fervently in the utility of whiling away. Just a box, the spectral me a spectral shore--the other shore, like only one thing is possible, annihilating wanting some kind of mystery that couldn't measure up to what is Good Enough: a box in the corner of soul eyes, never blinding, but merely a warning...I can't know immediacy, just everything leading up to it. WE can take the path to the Ocean's edge, but we can't get in.
Kerouac coming down from the mt. in a figurative way when poesis over the splurb and plash of the ocean hitting Big Sur's beaches, was the clarity he sought so many times before and now making sense he was doing the right thing. Like a flight thru his nerve, high up, one moment seized, a note or two takes hesitancy & a babel of thought, making an un-nuanced few hours surface. The source of Our intellectual prowess is going to carry him until his demise. This occurred when walking back from the ocean on a path that passes a stand of trees in which he particularly like to meditate. He sits & waits for instruction that surely is his-only as one's loneliness allows. But there he sees the "ancient rosy colours" behind his eye-lids & w/out its portents--look what has done that to him. If our self-realization was orthodoxy we'd be turning toward something rather than away. The void within sought to obliterate itself. On one occasion he relates: "for just a moment I had reached the pt. of ecstacy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, & wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, & the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, w/a phantom dogging its own heels, & myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off & flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent & inconceivable radiancies shining in bright mind essense.... I was too young to know what happened." In view of the mystic approach--my experience was Gershom Scholem's texts on the Kabbalah. I've deliberated upon them since I was 15, I'll turn 44 in a few months. I remember lying on the floor, trying to gather the imminent FACT as if sounds-arriving--traffic close by, house settling, birds...whatever would convey me to what Now seems to be What Then I was illustrating in my mind as ascendant chambers, called hekhalot. This is what we might call HigherGround & I'd say every excellently translated Rumi poem draws our attention to these particulars, meaning we are at once temporally grounded--moments later, perhaps, we find that we can reflect What-Is=the experienced-Forms, or in the Jewish Mystic sense, energies called seferot.

Inter-play of light and memory: Salvia Divinorum interuption!

The other night, profiles of the constancy of having seen Howie, as long as we have known each other, then-yielded to neon-like perimeters surrounding him. Memories of looking thru the banana leaved canopy, in Israel--the West bank w/ his partner w/whom he grew up & me converging then in those few moments into their group, we had looked at the polygons of light coming into the ground where we stood, which were always dismissed & assumed--lest it matters that I imagine them now. And this looking would be toward people when we gather after a while only presence & gratuitous image... as that has changed too! It was like I had looked up into that light, a practical remonstration of personal history now opening up--during an episode of Salvia Divinorum effects. The cult of personality, yours mine anyone's, seemed to become an objective cause: consciousness now ironic because mental space becomes obviated--a discreet sharing of adventurous prowess of psychic drama; killing the norm together! This looking up into light interests me. At the laundro-mat the day before the last day of the year, I had an intuitive homeward feeling because I sensed time & place contained in the sheen of lights in there, as I immersed myself in an Israeli author's bio -- his growing up in Palestine, Jerusalem-- Palestine which later became Israel(constituent w/ a relevant past--when we call it Palestine, no doubt, anyways...). Now I was back the other direction, because everything is a before and after with my occasional thoughts on my travels in the Middle-East, w/ the hellion of light intensity, which at times has humbled me, making me turn off & tune out. These moments, instead, were a layering of brightness stewing above me, construing OBLIVION of any mundane thought TOWARD a "typical" trip to this place--in the shopping center next to my wife's pizza place.
MY BROTHER RESPONDED WITH THIS COMMENT: MY ORIGINAL POST WAS CALLED THEEND OF THE YEAR__IT'S SABBATH!! You grow nostalgic young blood. Somehow the artificial "change of year", this new number affects us all. It is a time model which we use to measure our current state. I can see the light you speak of, brightly feeding me like a reptile, giving energy. For me, shining through the grape leaves rather than bananas. The grand hills of Jordan, staring from accross the river where I always imagined Jordanian soldiers watching me work through their binoculars - maybe laughing at my sweaty toil while they watch from some shady place drinking tea.
IN MY CONCLUDING THOUGHT--this is my mnemotechnical measuring of the motive to tell stories:: Just by taking the tact that I should never finish certain sheer moments of memory, like it's on my behalf the feeling of living next to a river, never is the river jaundiced of tarrying stones--making memory as comfortable as probably the nicest teacher I had here in Lexington telling me she levitated, knowing it is no more than the horse losing concact with the ground in its galloping dance. No, but, there is no fulfillment, things are readily good enough. We are at our best when we are equinimical. Anyway Krishnamurti had that good aphorism that truth is a pathless land. If we believed in a path, it would confirm consequences in forgetfulness...seems like as in a dream I once had, the trodding exile from some precinct of memorialized space to the balance of intermediary space was getting the ground to meet each step--it was a move into subjectivity, since I hadn't divined where I ought to end up. Really like an Aboriginal walk-about.

Confessional--like to Zadie, to the One and Many. Then Etc.

Got a lot of reading done yesterday after work. Felt great. Strange thing FinaLLy getting acquainted with silence and solitude. Finally not because I haven't noticed it before, but quite the opposite. It is a strange surprise, as in some threshold saying, "see you didn't realize this moment was waiting!" I think I feel your numinous mind and your language skills as I'd remember...like later wishing I had appreciated more then in that occasion, some occasion! Funny how a sense a presence is so phenomenal. I lived at my house on Williamsburg for about 27 yrs. There were some solitarian days there, due to my schizophrenia...which is utterly IN hand now--I so much love feeling convinced over a question of balance, but "then" I wasn't on meds or not the right kind. Anyway, I certainly began to characterize those ground-zero days among those environs as some kind of ulterior normative self, maybe. Going down to the sinkhole and sitting in the fenced-in area to read, or down at the Church on ParkersMill--like I've mentioned to you before, was what I felt I should edu-tain and have continuity with what i started at U of Ky. You are just like other old neighbors giving that certainty of the those skys encumbering me, I tend to feel. It was a great place to linger-on IN, and to grow and have endured--no doubt. But--I drew so many incursions of what I wanted to be in dialogue with, and you personify that event, as does your homey house...and it's a dusky ride into attention over emptiness anyway.
~~The understanding of our essential nature as a goal, in monotheist terms, should make us wonder at the fact the we know things must-go-away, we die. So it becomes very easy after that to say, that this world must end likewise--and expect, and f%$#ing pray for that. In some Theism, the signs can't be read, if they were it is said to be too late. So these bible and or Koranic thumpers need to quit looking.
You can walk to the Ocean's edge, but not get in. The Other Shore is the best symbolic illustration of the Ultimate Reality. The spectral shore is my narrative making ME the convergence of what-IS. Thoughts Feelings and Actions are allegory to Higher Ground.
ALL symbols of eternity ARE in this life. Are you saying you know of another--because you're speaking from this precinct in life, not another (kind) of life. Language is symbolic, RIGHT? Right! So in that we've used ideas about something netherly or paradisaical, still only bespeaks of what-is: that which is before you...
Once I thought "knowledge" would solve all my ills. So I was determined to believe that motive temporarily--because there is something about Unknowing, the Musterion--a sacrament in fact that is important as well. Musterion=mysterion. Ram Das, really doesn't speak to me much, maybe a couple of things...he's like Eastern Thought schtick, said one thing I remember just flipping thru his book at Waldens at Fayette mall about 7yrs ago. That once we realize we can say with confidence that I DON"T KNOW--it's because the certainty of our skies of youth, were really observed for what they were. I'm thinking THEIR intensity and spectacle--or the faces our instincts make us presume and emote.

From Ashvin--equus, to Islam thru Yehudi lens

Watched a dvd on Bhutan lately. The mindset imparted is that these mountain dwellers are in immense complex relationship with the natural environment--no more complex than ours, just BETTER. Their prayer flags are called Wind Horses. And there's no better sentient emblem of compassion than horses suffused with mt's breath... Maybe elation is being the convergence of Time Place and YES community. Now, community could be I and I, Or I and THou, or we; Or I and nature--but it may not be at the exclusion of any other when one seems epiphenomenal. In other words, when it's You and Nature, or You and Self--everyBody else follows... Just a thought. "Maybe elation is being the convergence of Time Place and YES community."--I say this because in Buddhist thought, during meditation this is our condition. At the peak moment, the rational beeeeing identifying self in an existential way is a pattern of what seems cosmic and us as it's subject. We can see that dynamic. Objective reality, and insignificant self mirroring it. It is rational--because it is enumerated, yet spiritual. But it IS all encompassing, in that we magnify relationship then and all those we've ever endured. Perhaps!
"Similar goals" I would have
> thought this guy would have agreed to. Meaning, you know, life,
> liberty, the pursuit of happiness--however that
> translates in the umma and ulema--the varied stations of Islamic community. I haven't
> the inclination to drum up all the that I've
> read, my apologies. But, I am currently reading about ibn
> Maymun as Muslims knew him--Jews call him Rambam, and this history-bio
> deals Kadi al-Fadil at one point--one who received Maimonides after exile from Spain.
> Also this book is about when Saladin came from Syria to
> subjugate Egypt--taking it from the Ismailis and
> making it a Sunni state. Maimon wrote al-Risala
> al-Fadiliyya, a book about Poisons and Anecdotes,
> for Fadil--The Treatise for his Excellency. This
> is the etre-pot for my interests.
Like in the
> Epicurean garden, their are patrons and their
> subjects, teachers and their students. It is
> qualified in many traditions--pilpul debate in
> Jewish institutions--not to mention what goes on
> in the Zohar (tahir means zohar in Arabic),
> Buddha's deerpark with 6 ascetics all imparting
> austere vision to Sakyamuni as he'd be called
> after deciding the Middle path was best. And in
> Hinduism Brahmodya--an apophatic goal that
> takes myth and shows it for the answer it
> provides without demanding rigid logic to
> illustrate a cosmogony. So, silence is the medium of exchange between Adherents.
The sense of it IS and only IS without the trappings of taking on Belief system as if toting it around somehow makes me engage some Other all the better. Why? Because, cleaving to beliefs, beliefs in general, take you out of relationship, if the ritual mitigated by the Belief makes Belief as a goal preceding the moment of this or that Festival and its requirements. So ritual should make us land on something Unknown, not the habits that drag Tradition into the ditch where it belongs, as in OUT of my way.**I don't want to make a habit of Belief or Ritual--in certain respects. Not Western, not Middle-easterner. Belief is just self-preservation, and thought is fear, and cycles attitudes to make us Believe in our security. Now RITUALS as a nuance to show the human condition as having a Moral relief to chthonian (dark) forces, gives substance where otherwise our ignorance said fear IT. Like many people's fear to call the Muslims as Mutually Arising toward similar goals as we may have. You know its possible they have as many Literalists as we we do. So THEY are no answer to me--but with their compassionate edifice--Morals IDEALS--ARE.

G^D is NOTHING. The ABSOLUTE

So I started A Case for G^d yesterday. Not quite sure the X-tian focus as Karen establishes to be her vehicle for the Literalist's squandering episteme, is what I was looking for, you know as specifically showing the Xtian's fault in this, because we know it's global. And yet there are more Christians than any other religion--by only a few million, albeit more than Muslims. But I am in it for the immense scrutiny toward theism and its under-currents, we all would be better for in a braver understanding.
I'd call the problem in a loss of spirituality in today's social environment, a sense of entitlement. My renunciation of this kind of selfishness is realizing not much is within my control--and further I'M NOT going anywhere, no matter how pretty and a spectacle that object portending self-worth suggests. SO, Nothing is going on, and then and only then do I realize I must stand up in this material void and believe in people and their deficits... It is the comparison K. Armstrong makes with this vast technological age and the intense knowledge therewith, that makes what was done in the Axial age, when religion was the education, and synthesis of what came before was the idealic compassion necessary appease our G^d.
It sounds too much like a rhetorical device, but it is worthy mental practice to say G^D is NOthing, because if He were something then necessarily something else would be EXCLUDED. Pure LOgic dude. And further to say G^D is NOTHING, means anything that would place him in our compassionate edifice would necessarily be Transcendence. Definitely to get over the "little trouble" --the little trouble is being able to talk about IT. For me IT is the utter absence of hope as if my heart clutches at what my mind had assessed as numina. I can hold things in High Esteem, yes that is hopeful, but I'd rather imagine my path, because it's about Process, not the flare of thoughts that Belief in a relative notion of Goodness, is anymore than the nice effect of THAT moment in the day. It is only for a little while. Yes, that's fine--but the bigger picture is getting into a place of mindfulness over a direction in multiplicity. A proliferation of attitude is merging with the Objective fact, the Cosmic Now from the Subjective emoting notion. But, if we merge--things are hopeful--I'm not saying don't allow for that. But the spiritual nature of the world is our equalling an immense emptiness...while the still small voice screams we are at the threshold and need not be consumed by it. So hope is Imaginative Motive, ethereal Narrative=Inner-voice like our lightning path. But the mind is so 5 minutes ago 5 yrs ago 5 decades ago we have only to manifest what-IS and that being the path that led to the ocean's edge. We can go up the cosmic ocean, but can't get in. If we could get in "HOPE" would be the intuition the human condition provides about the lay of land where our sustenance would be found: Physical & Spiritual. But we have dreams, and ways and means get in the way to assume suffering gets jettisoned. IT is the path to forgive the Ocean that we might suffer, that we must willingly suffer...and so we learn. So, I have landed on your contention. WE are better off hoping, because forgiving the ocean means the ocean forgave us.
The Axial Age's Ideal in Compassion, is not only in G^D's justice:
SKILLFUL is a Buddhist term!! It IS "skillful" to chop wood. Like one story Karen Armstrong relates about a Chinese peasant out in a tall field with a sticky tipped stick catching grasshoppers--to roast. It becomes automatic, and he is "part" of that field with the tall foliage, and steady legged grasshoppers. Skillful means benevolent and moral, not just physically adept or an artisan's or tech's finesse. Because, someone could kill in an exacting way, but that wouldn't be skillful, because it goes against the compassionate edifice that a world in dormant repose purports. The world lies before us 3/4ths of "what-is" is buried beneath appearances. It sleeps. So, perhaps we should dream or have an imaginative narrative that respects its convalescence. Just back up to the sentence that says the world is dormant, it sleeps--it is skillful to take what people say as HOW they are without judging them. Perhaps our adversary is confused? That's possible. That she/he says something that doesn't "make-sense" to you, why IS all I am asking, does that mean she/he was lying? I could have heard out my nephew yesterday--about his customer. Yes, but I couldn't concentrate, and I zoned out when I got home because my eyes were seeing stars at the edges of any little lighter shade of a wall or floor, or sign, or corner of a TV, or monitor screen. It makes my cognition terrible, so I tune out in a big way. And strangely it happens about 90% of the time on Mondays. The tact that we can cut people off doesn't seem like an option, which I know folks agree to wily neally. But like I was saying IT is best to assume people are confused or ignorant and not sinister or lying, because though they may try to spin it in their own behalf, doesn't necessarily mean they are bad people. I define the middle ground--it's what I do. I will try to listen to folks better next time.

THe Flourishing Bloom my mind coalesces around=YOU!

That G*D said, separates, calls, and sees and seems to be what Abraham Joshua Heschel **in my estimation**ciphers as what is memorialized in Time rather than in Place is just knowing I am understood, with a brief glimpse of that, supports my ethos and behavior like I AM making IT happen. (by persisting in seeing ourselves in the social fray) "IT" meaning some formative conceptual authorial moment. See, I WANT to feel I am You and YOU are ME...so if the kind nod in my direction says clarity was in the proof of my reaction **Sorry so tedious** then I get those beautiful unconscious stones to tarry. Here's what Consciousness is RIGHT NOW. The fusion of color and form, as in the predilection to see the mind in bloom. IT is in the corner of my eye--many times any time I want to look. The lotus Abraham sat on after the fire was quelled and his magnanimity meant he wasn't to be burned. That image is so ancient that I can be prepossessed with this imagery in a leap and flourish of reconciling what I've scrutinized for so long that I'd never be able to shake the bonds of emblematic thought--as this desert of time portends.
The Ascendant can make a Place Holy, but G*d transcends the physical
I see the Mutually Arising personas of those transpiring around us. The thing that inspires something beyond coincidence of running into each other, would be a jumping off point--say a principle held between the two individuals/parties in question. The principle may be their magnetic draw toward each other, not rather that I hold my dearly striven belief as something that makes an Ideal in Jewish light better than those whose belief system never draws me near the flame of self-actualization. Except thereby thru discernment. The Beginning is perhaps their auspicious FIRST meeting making new antecedents for their supposed reunion.
IN that you dream, thereby you exist. In that you exist, there is a principle behind what it is that makes you subscribe to the momentum thru this path you trod. For every action there is an equal an opportune reaction. Any unit of existence is called a monad, anything that exists is consciousness. I want to awaken within this dream.
I wondered at the fact that I feel I am received in great moments of self-adulation. It seems somehow I am imagining an indefinite group of peers somehow giving me some due that otherwise escapes me what it is I do right. That I promote my just-due has me ride out some current where all these good feelings tarry...and I love "watching what I see."* (*Rimbaud) So, my motive may not necessarily be more of self-congratulation, but just the pithy blue dream that thoughts are alive, the mind is vital, in my mind a fine mind--I hope. Total Eclipse is a good flick about Rimbaud. I read in some book about his poetry that he decided some existential view of the world in a moment of true observation of a world of sorrow. He sat next to a deceased Prussian soldier out in some field next to his home town some backwoods French town. He said, right then," I have decided that now I want to know everything." Like Karen Armstrong relates, the immanent free-lance monotheist, letting the impact of suffering have us dilute the delusions of propriety, and rather have us appeal to compassion, is something starting with self-scrutiny, and not "lambasting" our supposed enemies.

Try Calling me a Pagan--the glove fits

I'm playing king of the mountain in my mind, today. It is not that of a kind of heirarchy, me amongst those who've chosen to endure great heights in ways to while away, but rather I am finding solitarian self-denial up here, and everyone I know pushed me to these limits for a reason. In the clouds of philosophy, in the repose of thunder, hearing lightning vox, arguing out what-ever could be said to my now X, but she who is still forever mine.
The synaptic choice is that observation of who all has clamored with me unto vast yawns and distant looks. Maybe, looking into a psyche of my fellows is easier here--the confirmed Peak-Moment when I'd look, but it is no recompence to intuit his/her next move til I am understood in light of their statement and presence bearing utility, saying I'm here too, man--we did this long ago, Remember?

Subject: when I'd worship and G^D

Christian Compassion doesn't include me til you admit that it doesn't have to. That goes for the rest of you religious imbibers. Now go light your Holiday Tree and be happy. (just being honest and flip, ha ha!)

The earth will receive us, one day this is where within and in the impermanent record had its last say. So it makes sense that Muslims bow and are prostrated upon the earth. On it, upon it the earth has given us to repose as objective as it is stalwart. We contrive to have the wagging powers stop their predominance because the earth gives us a pillar to lean on--the ground is foundation and cornerstone serving. I'd easily worship earth, as memorialized space isn't as easily found having nothing abound in a vacuous yonder as is where we say a G^D emanated (=found in Nothingness, the G^D On-High). Tolstoy--a great X-tian, perhaps an example to me, a Believer whose Messiah is defined as man Who dies for our sins, so let us contemplate the frailty and fearsome woe as something with which we put our emulation & substance IN, and make better, said: Your Compassion Causes Me Violence. So I am guessing from something making me wonder at violence in just one beginning stage, some terrible stressful condition when society says speak of things in just this one way and no other alternative. Some agree to that, some are plainly only going to speak to a middle ground ignoring the symbolism that had society give them validation. My question is when did the Institution become the place where people felt they were given the right to salvation?

My good friend in the scholarly vein when we convene, he notes that we have different ways of identifying said prophet or ascetic character. That just shows variants in and within the context of biblical personages: when we have read the name in different etymological senses. Obaydiah, or Obediah is Abdullah, meaning slave of G*D from this convergence of authorial air, I understand of late reading, is in our biblical contexts in one way I didn't really think about. Kyrios, was mentioned, I tried to look back at the reference but lost the page/ now confirmed means LORD in Greek--I was all in the moment looking at Jesus as Servant...sons of G*d are what The Israelites are, and how He is denoted with his healing devotional path to the children of G*D. Servant was stressed by Karen Armstrong, and I shouldn't have said that her book on the Axial Age, The Age of Transformation, was anything...anything...but excellent. My caprice simply isn't followed in it, yet when she finally gets to the Hebrew, then Christian ideal, the spirit that comes asunder just as in Chaim Potok's book WANDERINGs--is a fulminate numinous experience. A history of Judaism--a novel, dealing with a beautiful definition of your (X-tian's) Theosophical narrative, authorial Entity, dare I say=Jesus was coolly coolly approached in his writing about HIM. I love that book--and needed to hear Jesus discussed so honestly. This book more than any has impressed me and somehow deliberating on it now, I am looking for some garment of ideation as if the technicolor bhakti (Hindu's devotion or Love) I WANT TO MAINTAIN, is going to be captured in any one moment per POTOK and his rabbinic mysterion.
^^Subject: maitreya

I just thought that this was a Buddhist School, the way it is discussed in Gere's Pilgrims. The idea was that whenever a negative thought arises, the Aspirant would mark a black mark on the ceiling of his cave. Then likewise when positive thoughts arise. First 10 yrs of negativitity, then the over-coming of the lethargy of time by the next 10yrs of White marks reconciling the monk's new day, which was to go back to society and find his master. I am thinking the sense of it was that he was following Maitreya studies before his nirvanic (nibbana) ascension when he kneals before a wounded dog and places his tongue in its puss ridden body to extricate the maggots. As he commences, just as perhaps my tongue was flattered by the spirit, he tastes an Immense sun burst, whereas I felt availed of some kind of path. It is all about tasting our bliss, I believe. Curious!! Presuming we can taste inner-liberty thru the sampling of antecedents, whether some issuant spirit body, human love, or as I did when I placed my tongue on the antiquated light switch in my room as if reacquaintance was what I ambulated toward--that we do things that have no rational motive and yet has the absurdem reigning supreme is how the spirit world avails the experential like a trajectory thru the unknown path? Yeah, there was another strange phenomenon occurring to me when I had gotten back from Eastern State Hosp, back in 1993 that either was some side effect from my meds or was me adapting to a solitarian resignation and consigned to differing shadows of mental nomenclature therein. I saw rotating guffaws in my vision as I looked to the mural on the wall of my bedroom. The advancing perhaps nightmarish psychedelia I always imagined from this Escheresque black and yellow wall mural my brother produced was something enjoining me to consume again what the 4 cornered room had on offer: solace, communion, convalescence... My yeahs as being my yeahs, just means that I have to allow that what these weird visions portend are just a manifestation of What-Is! If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to Higher Ground, then anything emboldening me would indeed be things like these mind sore moments as unsolicited as they are, and truly benign--as nothing advancing disquiet or threatening social imbalances, were resulting. This aphorism in my theme from this narrative is saying, The Spiritual Man is Mad...but madness is relative, and thank G^d for making me mad!

Paul K at Cosmic Charlies: an acquisitive narrative!

After a long distance scrawl of some voice in lightning like imagery, having whiling away moments listening to Patriots, some iconographic image of him occurred to me as the emanator like a mundi vox. It was theophanic perhaps, because I was raining personas in a monk-like interval in my life then, then lasting about 10 yrs, no doubt. The image was remote but I toted it around as the album's antecedent, at any one point needing to be emptied... Once at the Dame, Paul was playing and I intended on going to see the show. The image had me on a limb, and I could see how it was pinned--til I walked into the dimness of of the old Dame sauntering thru the few groups of people murmurring... Then that chimera was before me, and without my impetus, Paul turned on a dime quickening some statement of presence--and the image was enjoined, and gone.
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, next 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. 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.
Excess all around, but I'm some gypsy--a hurried presence, maybe there in Newburgh, on my way, on my own, ready to see the planned vacation spot 4 me & my lady. A steely glance from this guy carrying a strapless suitcase & guitar seemed to indict the picture of me--now even less of a mendicant. It is foggy out this am., a quizzical look on my face records Valerie asking me, as if she is there, "Doest thou love the fog?" Dirt on pavement, puddles on the unproffered way across the parkingLot, I'm muddling forward to the busStation. She says, "If you fear it, you hate it, & if you hate it you love it." (Evgenii Zamyatin) I'm drudged up from the bottom now, she's Rt, but there is no afterward. But a bird lunges at the run over pack of crackers at my periphery, like it was belched out of the mist. Aunt Eleanor's house is only a couple of blocks away--a neighborhood adjacent to the shopping cntr. I've seen phosphorescent fungus growing out of a tree there 2 houses up from hers. The next day someone smashes it in with their foot: nature as art has chaos with which to contend. I'll need a key for the bungalow up in the Catskills, Valerie will be waiting for me there. "Dip in, dip in--to the sea of possibilities." (Patti Smith) --language is the valley of tongues, the spirit decends to correspond with the obvious=the quantifying of surfaces--but our babel wants more. Paul's music, like Aaron--brother of Moses speaks as if digging a ditch in the sky, where "pirates of the airwaves" (Lee Perry) can be interred in their graves burying the encumbrances of the details so it will rain down as the communicating ancients making known the world-to-come, if there is one.

I'll PUT A WALL BETWEEN ME & YOU, & WE'LL BOTH LEAN ON IT

Doesn't 5 minutes, or a year or 5 or 10 when we get justice from our good deeds, indeed defines the very randomness many fear. As an argument against saying fate brings us just what we'd deserve. So, take this idea that life is FRAGMENTED, and then as is said in this thread from FB we BRING OUR OWN MEANING, therefore continuity that otherwise was not there... Seems like we must define ourselves as intercessors on behalf of some kind of Higher Ground, maybe Greater Will. But we can't point to this Greater Reality as if our temporal lives are anything but vastness and somehow solitarian. We are very alone in the silent organs of Consciousness, Wakefulness, so it is encumbent upon us to learn to survive. Community is good, social living is the best as the reggae, Rastaman says, Winston Rodney (Burning Spear). G*D perhaps is immanent, not pie in the sky--a World to Come, as if somehow I can do something and have that pay-off. No Meaning to this life, just movement and the power of observation toward awakening and wisdom. No Creator, No Meaning, Heart Open, Light Mind, Step. ***Asking who advises me as to where I get my philo-observations is like asking which mailman from before my birth do I look like? LOL No, really. I read Karen Armstrong for this strain of ideation. And Krishnamurti who justifiably (think Theosphical Society, and the Orientalists) wasn't as the name suggests an Eastern Thought advocate, but rather, very interestingly would brave some idea like Thought Is Fear, and help the reader to Think about the folly of clinging to belief et al. His thing was Truth is a Pathless Land. He lived mostly in Ojai (Spanish pronounciation), California. His book Krishnamurti to Himself is very readable, definitely not cultish as his name would make a lot of people think. Basically he was just a progressive. If you look up how Socrates had his method to teach--it is exactly the same, I'd say. And even in the Jewish sense without our roseate emphatic gestures, the way of answering questions with a question is his approach too. **** A renascence is afoot. I am looking very distantly as far as I want, and everything seems immanent. If I were a soma imbiber I'd call this high on life new day expansive and feeling large--speaking of religion's headwaters. IF the archetype to our heros is spoken of before his/her origination that you'd recognize, wouldn't it be noble to find the Other as no longer An-other? ~~~**In ancient Egyptian En Het Enheh, means the Castle of my Eternity...and so, in that we dream, thereby we'd exist, dreaming of life's beginnings as if it couldn't be captured in a mere 5000yrs, or the nation's antecedents!!
By the way WANDERings (POTOK) has a great sense of Jesus' message imparted. I will win in moments of self-consciousness, because truth is a pathless land and I am standing in the place where I live.
The remittance of peace into my day. Really nice, macrobiotic thinking. The sense that we are "taking in everything at once" as Watts says, to put it frankly is in the formula distance equals relationship. Looking out unto a vista and all that it contains is seeing ourselves in relationship. You can't tote it around in a wheelbarrow--we can only manifest what-is!
After seeing Alan Watts video of his stroll in wilderness, deliberation about how it is that the world is matching our effort to be released into it, it is a kind of relief seeing the intermediary places as I paced the Nicholasville rd eternal shopping mall corridor, looking down at grass on the side of sidewalks. The grass all wet, the loam breathing and constituent with silences from dipping out off frenetic traffic clashing. The pulse of thrumming cars with wafting exhaust gets terminated by bushes with a little better air, leafy smells that my mind coalesces around as if something is right at the periphery and gets me out of the river of yelling reports off of the road.

NO WAY THRU THE NEXT EXIT// DYlan as Saddhu archetype

I thought a few yrs back that he was laid aside--who am I to suppose thru the windows of my concealment in my car, I'm audience within the same crowd anyone is in, namely coincidentally w/Dylan, to some transitive bucket of endless water, this cosmos, & I move because the bottom is failing--It's a metaphor for this floor as I lean forward to my knees, propped in the stale cold of this heatless-mostly house; I'm not paying utilities 'til I need a cure. Situating on the kitchen rug, broad windows here & fore, I read this Geniza documentation--1000yr old texts translated, translating...everything ancient is become reductive in giant leaps 'til moments like this upon our walmart rug, Or as in the RED FLY Nation days, sitting upon my Israeli rug & reading about the Kali Yuga. A definitive Time-context, we currently live within, lasting 432,000yrs. It is an age when everything contrary to your sense of the true & correct is actually advocating for its opposite. E.g. Your mother becomes a sense of exile rather than the home that receives you/Or a politico advocating for peace & compassion is really exclusionary & devisive. Also, as in the case of the Hebrews. Rather than a G-d in heaven, he is in Exile, while his people also wander. So heaven as a goal is usurped by the immediacy of intercession on behalf of someThing (or someOne?) more temporal. ETc. The refrain availing us w/its contrite pitilessness is ubiquitous. I'd end up surfacing w/some image of the room I'm in. Thesis+anti-thesis=synthesis/some vagueness that the room wasn't exactly as it was 2moments before. Which darkened me into becoming the negative of deeper approaches to things a little more plastic. The man mentioned in the Jewish communities' store, in a murmur of mental imagery of a 200yr old stereotyped icon of his image, done in pencil my bro reproduced, creeps into the ditch of mentality that I am He He is She We R It--the I & Thou of fear that I can take on a new face, means I am younger than yesterday. Gandhi reprised my motive to endure apophases, but his guidance said I'm never through. In that vein, the Kali Yuga stirred in me the sundherbans of S.E.Asia: heavy air, the lost time of nights caused yellowed light of long ends of days to remain unapproachable and =ly as esoteric. As I sat reading in front of my window/at the Red Fly apt, back then, yielding to numinous eras all invading my presence--made me feel the millionth in a million souls accounted for in providential vistas just OUTSIDE my window. But consciousness explodes as Maimonides (of the Geniza) loads the furrows of minds in spectral shores I go & leap toward, in stale light of no social reproach that would source my motive to be One & Other than everything I'm not.--I can't be Jewish motivated, ChristLOVED,Buddhist meditated, friend of Weed, yours truly--unruly, but only shadow upon plain self, & stock upon a shelf--in colours of well-trafficked oedipal steps, only for a glympse of security. Scott Abraham- Lakes October 12 at 9:58am
I felt lucky something so low energy and sweet & mild at times, particularly lyrically, as what Neil Young imparted to me, was clearly the ally it was meant to be. He always has that dreamy dream discussion in so much of what he writes--and that is right where it is at, in my book. I thought so clearly his persona couldn't be contained, but merely shared, whereas Dylan around this same time was the mind in the room for you to take note personally. I remember thinking that he COULD be speaking to so many folks in so many voices, but because I could see "me" so insignificantly his message or sensual body perhaps, had just-so come thru that sieve and them asses--the masses wouldn't be an obstacle to make his acquaintance. Dylan & Young both were trialed thusly. **The chic who started WRFL once told me some kind of perception of those who wondered at the esoteric life of DYLAN. They said, at his door, I guess the facade at which we would come to his "house," a large dog was at the watch. If the dog was Dharma, and the rajya or kshatriya born adherent/ warrior was me as Arjuna, the Brahmana abode we'd enter was the fat soul of plenty in Dylan's womb of language and music. And as a boy sitting under the mural my brother put on the wall--seeking what was beyond the framed portal out of the flying carpet, the Semitic purveyor of distant travels, all appealed to the logic of seeing Dylan's wizened head from the side and obscure on the blue blue G.H. album. Like looking at clouds and imagining images that bring closer the affect of the details of the mind, I thought I could see half the hidden face but this was all I projected. The songs supposed the details of the thing from which he translated the world ...the illustrated face in the abstract, which unjustly, I couldn't help but not be able to see in its entirety, was replete with vision only in expectation... The concourse the magic carpet takes is unto the blue pleroma, where I concede the sky is the limit. But I'd take to my wings if only to sacrifice this liminal threshold, knowing the pay-off was night-visions in recompence.

Martin Buber, Kerouac, Avalokiteshvara>...^^^

G-d doesn't roll dice, said Einstein. So, continuity is only unity because of patterns of essential language we use to attend to our respective worlds--as in describing G-d as saying, calling, separating, or creating...would be our displined minds wanting to believe somehow we are charged with the fundamental capibility of recognizing this state of suffering--having to be concommitant with this interplay of yin and yang=karma, that we have limitations from our desires and ignorance.
"An extremity. You are defined by YOUR OWN conception of "you."" Martin Buber defines the I as ultimately in relationship with Thou... By extension "Thou" is the world, he says, and IF you like-- "Creation," by very definition of what we call Higher Ground. So, My Own conception of me doesn't exist, and nor do any of the Eastern philosophies agree. There IS NO self. Yes, we are a bundle of reactions, so is an osmotic tree--and a tree is not consciously aware. We are but again thru relationship with the OUTWARD FACT, where ansers lie, Consciousness is procured, relationship is DENIED or relationship is re-affirmed. The ultimate symbol of the self is Nothing--there isn't one. ANd, we as living beings live in a symbolic universe. Symbols are our only means of transcendence. It is what we meditate upon so that the awe and vastness of a Mountain would seem captured--thru language, which is inadequate, but IS symbolic. You say how can a MT be a symbol=well it's not, but we have only to wonder and it becomes rich with life, immense BY comparison, ominous by desire or ignorance. ***Buber says the human mind seeks the world by language, the divine mind seeks Ultimate Reality thru the world. If the body is the law, then the mind is procured by the body, just as we know the community with which we are a part of =I & I, I & You, I & We, I & Nature--thru the ego, defines consciousness... Community is body, Consciousness is the Human Mind reflecting on what IS, that being what is manifest. And I can't say I AM without YOU being YOU FIRST. LANGUAGE is CHEAP and it is vain! Avalokiteshvara "laid his diamond hand" 'pon Kerouac's reality feigned brow, and he wants to do something out of the box...believing the Buddha shares the Way. Except for my body not yielding to bliss, one may think a shapeless mass were the goal. Giving us freedom from the physical prison, our bodies delivering us to the force of nature. Still, we're talking about disipline. And if G*d would be shapeless, then beyond form is essense, and He'd be what the soft machine is when senses are propounded with the nature of Thought. The soft machine... IS that which contains me, but that which is No vessel.~~~Feel blessed to endure something like a vision, Oh clearly it's schizophrenia in the haunts of my mind. But THAT extenuating happenstance is still lucid. Thought really intently that Barack, Muhammed's horse, was out the front door of my cuz's house--this back in about '93... It wasn't quite like a up and ran to the door and witnessed Mo' and Barack transpiring at the Autumnal gates that day... and then their "flight." Rather, I am pateintly waiting off of the front door foyer, in the living room... My cousin is gathering things toward a work regimen, so not coalescing as if that room the living room was the power spot it seemed to be--and would have been all the more if two more eyes saw the white light of day with its career thru streaming curtains. Anyway, having my imagination take over like that, was quite the temporal activity and not, again, a fire ill-contained--a flight--whatever... I think it was more like a sense of "inner-liberty." Rumi's expansive translator Coleman Barks quotes Abraham Joshua Heschel... it's his words that give this context: Inner Liberty.

An Ode to Dr. Zolondek= The Taboo of Influences

I am reading Martin Buber's biographic book about his letter writing, including his letters. The constant revolution that makes sense to he and his reader is the exchange in inter-humanity--a term he conjured, and is the case for deliberation on a kind of martyrdom for his students to seek by means of giving away the only thing we can solvently say gave us understanding in his or her (teacher/student) eyes: what they understand about the teacher, is the instructor's point of convergence of self-understanding, so identity is marytred, its trappings at least...and "given away." Pilpul is a Hebrew term that depicts the exchange two Torah students indulge upon in argumentation. Over biblical reality, of course. But, I can't deny the warm & fuzzy that ancient scribings are seen in a continuum of ideation while advancing, but also using this language that had been breathed and consigned to a time & place very much like we see today and has been for 100s of generations. **Upon my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. Actually, in the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walked past trodding on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only (then) living Hasid I knew--yet wayward and thus more up my alley, who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings: my older brother's Arabic professor, and my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY was the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say then, which is a fallacy: you are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, was to be our longest stay in any one place while traveling for the 2-3 months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, facing the noon day sun, thinking with impudence that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm innocently but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance, though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" was only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing, and imagining the damnable stereotyped sense of a finger pressuring the earth like to your side, as if I was G-d Damning something...something, but didn't know what, from the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from G-d's green into my permeable body.

Conscious Maps and Travelogue's Transects

G-d doesn't roll dice, said Einstein. So, continuity is the ultimate unity because of patterns of essential language--as in describing G-d as saying, calling, separating, or creating...would be our displined minds wanting to believe somehow we are charged with the fundamental capibility of recognizing this state of suffering--having to be concommitant with this interplay of yin and yang=karma, that we have limitations from our desires and ignorance. Avalokiteshvara "laid his diamond hand" 'pon Kerouac's reality feigned brow, and he wants to do something out of the box...believing the Buddha shares the Way. 'Life is one long road with lots of signs, so when you're riding thru the ruts, don' you complicate your mind." (Bob Marley) Except for my body not yielding to bliss, one may think a shapeless mass were the goal. Still, we're talking about disipline. And if G-d would be shapeless, then beyond form is essense, and He'd be what the soft machine is when senses are propounded with the nature of Thought. That the ego is the goal of the exercise of observation, of what our senses made us aware, I merge just as emerge from the soft machine... that which contains me, but that which is No vessel. It is apophasis that I address here. Knowing Higher GRound thru negative statements, like shapelessness. We can't say G-d Exists, but that Existence is construal of Ultimate Reality. I exist--"well, God is a shapeless mass? how do you presume to put God in a box defined by human beings?" THROUGH HIS ATTRIBUTES with which we assess daily with symbols of Eternity, for instance renunciation of what LIFE portends can be death and silence, nirvanic, thus Dying a thousand deaths in a chair of awakening is assuaging Eternity!! "...clear the area of resentment out of the brain and use that space to for better things." That is called catharsis in Greek thought. All form being consciousness is what I got from Platonic writings. It also can mean that while we aspire to eternal attributes of Higher Ground, their form is captured in our Minds as representative of the psyche... So thru our awareness Form isn't merely abstract but is an Idea, which are not convenient ways to think of the world, but are Motives for entering into relationship, because it shows THEM in the best of all possible worlds. The "psyche" is the Soul according in Greek terms. All form is ekstasis. All form is consciousness!!!
All form is ekstasis. All form is consciousness. G-d is a shapeless mass and a book of rules, but these rules are what the human condition defines as we intercede on behalf of Higher Attributes to which we only barely have a glimpse. If Coleman Barks can cite Abraham Heschel in his deliberation on the soul, likewise I can acknowledge wisdom per Islamic values, because thru my Jewish lens Wholeness is understanding the Mutual Arising of the Other. I read a few words from the Qur'an in a book about Jallaluddin Rumi's father. (If we believe life is for the Living), "then we must die before we die." Look out of any window, feel your way back the day before. Just don't leave trappings of identity cluttered in your 4 cornered room...
Luxor Egypt is a place the void within sought liberation from illusion!!! It had a village life quality when I was there... It happens to be where the Temple of Luxor is--and my accomodations were the TiTi pension, and I have no doubts that it is still there. This town is right on the Nile, and across from the town proper is the Valley of Kings and Queens. We were there in December and the weather was like 80 degrees farenheit. The oblivion that would have been my look forward into a life of study or professionalism simply drifted out to sea because of the serenity and the remoteness that one could feel in Egypt, so far from the trappings of convenience and abundance here. We lived with meager coin and still preserved our comforts, having a fried egg in the morning with pita, marmalade & feta. Then maybe tamiya (falafil) on the go--or kushari, which is that lentil onion and dits of pasta mainstay in these regions. The electric hour of the red bulb we might associate with the conflicts abound (Germans were shot up at the Temple of Luxor this century) had no grasp upon our pulse and commiseration with the folks there... where we watched a wedding--and on another occasion smoked hashish with a local clerk, white collar guy in town. We stole into an empty mosque in an out of the way part of town, being sure not to touch the prayer rugs... nothing within anyways, and my heart feels bliss that I stood in a holy chamber at any rate!!
Over to my bro's and his ex, when they lived on Transylvania--I'd sift thru their teas and various Co-op goodies, have a cup of Red Zinger. The filter of my irresponsibility, perhaps a wall w/so few contours that anything I throw against it refracts from its resonance in echolalia moments...and leaves me off wondering why the academic intension transitioned so little as I translate my motive in concise bearing to my brother's professional student example. What role do you play as you act out of that box of time...the transpiring of antecedents, like language with jumping off points in a 2000yr Western context--the impetus of our education? It has to be anthropomorphic: the midnight sky that Rory Stewart lies under, in repose, during his walk across Afghanistan, is every bit the thought-scape I practice as ideas linger in mind about remote travels of mine. Though not as stark as his, but definitely as solitarian as I feel given to. Take the ecstatic sadhu in the ghettos of Mumbai, or Euro-peasantry from 100s of years--these personalities that may simplify our motive to see life as a vital thread from one human context to the next: their belief thru our symbolic nature!!! So, now we have history as a pattern. And we are the spurn of it, its proffer if you will... we graduate to the norm then we make the observation we are its product. So where IN that understanding do you see your own experience personified? The mood gets set just as certain music from those languid moments when real release from the same ole same ole is observed in the distance in terms of relationship: Think archetype. That is all about projecting into the Now, yet for a commiserate moment you could think a truckdriver HAS that road plan, divulged like he bares the horizon in his thrum past you, greater than yourself. Being part of a weaving transect of some map in your head, and the mass organism of heavy metal traffic becomes its ominous sign. Then looking into appearances of brief flurrying faces, our instinct is to personify, no doubt, the anthropomorphic model.

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.