YAM SUF; but rowing on the Nile came later!

Our poverty was nothing like a poverty, which we saw in the then Bedouin village (Dahab) just getting its only second establishment (!?) wiTh electric. No amenities to us were the things used for the basics of ablutions performed in some kind of order these Bedouin saw fit; as in who would go to the well first, who eats first etc. Rob seemed to neglect an affinity maybe with anyone who dared to make themselves presentable, i.e. natives there, or people back home. The stylee I feel I catch too, looking at the pre-occupied countenance of just anyone=she or he so comfortable, yet unknowing they look to inner-attention--is that knowing we are fully what we want in such short spans. Spans luckily in enough of a pitch, the mask we wear betrays nothing about the tent-poles of consciousness collapsing in upon itself--upon the statement of presence having become two-dimensional, tells us the mind is the real G-d behind the praise of universal suns as its beginning as reason. Around the time the twelve year old girl showed up selling cheap scarves and us realizing she was really selling something else, Rob was squinting in a side door mirror of a car trying to shave. The reflection I imagine as my eyes' blind spot, are the paces I stepped past looking like power-spots gone awry--I want my eyes' sight to fall like a turbillion, til thru sheer momentum the world will seem to collude in our lost selves in the under-housed hot icebergs that is all this life of experienced-forms. Take don Juan's Yaqui profession, its beginning has the reader follow an ill-disposed protagonist considering a room as the microcosm. In the desert, next to an infinite Red Sea (read REd as actually its rightful name the Reed Sea.), has something less gratifying yet wholly necessary making us feel it is incumbent upon us the voidance-denizen to stand unitarian & solitarian (say, collusion supposed).

Churchill said, "giants are bowed in anxious thought." On the filth ridden Egyptian shore of the Yam Suf, Reed Sea, without comparing my fractious life to tethered-huge-political-events as government industries have made all the world's govs complicit in the advancement in war-winning, sitting at the feet of giants makes it laughable that it could be anything other the celestial events. Not being a positivist means precisely that, that my refrain from some social vehicle is mission enough to ruin any authorities' measure of me. Had it been convenient to do that, truth wouldn't have been found in a pathless arising--my arising, never comfortable saying it was Meant, thru the triune of memoria, intellectus, and voluntas. The ultimate symbol seems inwardly available if having allowed for some folly, that I have eternity fooled. The ultimate symbol for the self is NOT.
In Dahab, on its shore we stayed in a cement hut, I believed clearly in a pleroma to meet was that evening's midnight sky as we were doddling twigs in embers on the perimeter of the bedouin village there. The peopled pantheon of these crossroads were comfortable steps to rejoin. And if anything I wanted to think myself into this world as meditations dissolved the unfair line between dream and reality. There is a seam between me and the outward fact, but I'll never meet it and only just all this sTuFf that may be the climate of this room, in its silent corners. Waiting for any call, nothings seems so dear, I can't say I'm anything other than what I can't control anyway. The showroom quality of stiff agents in the pharoah's chamber, is more my castle of eternity.
**The seance like sense that we are being followed by an orb which witnesses us, is the feeling I would have had like when I was 14-15 and some connection was being made with my peers. TV may be the vain pretense to voiding more meaningful dialogue, but that language albeit over inane things, may still have a mysterion I would have felt...since it had been natural for me to imagine conscious satellites=so many people prone, laid prone, to this medium spectacle. Nothing to plead in defense of having been captured in emptiness, sweet nothing, on these streets a ghost-town lastly "til the government comes along and pushes it down." --to use Marley's language.

Farmland & Death: Potok and Renunciate Egoism

Walked in the park, yesterday -- Thinking about Chaim Potok's protagonist who says to his little bro over the bird's corpse, "Daddy says they just make dirt." THe kids, both pre-teens in sophisticated remonstrations of WW2 yrs, are trailing parents into a clearing/ picnic. Dad's war yrs as apposite for the family reunion--WW1, when he was a Polish partisan and names like Khemeilnitskii still burn from his misdeeds against Jews who had fought for his Nationalist cause/ Polish zenophobia, if I remember correctly in the 1600s. The protag. David sees things captured in geometrics: architectural skyline projected above canopy. Making sense of absurdum transcendental bridge to awareness, things go away. A book. A newspaper vending machine. A window, out of which his pet canary took leave. My cause in the wooded path is the loam that I easily imagine cools my ocular preoccupation. I want to look away from the confusion of gnarled tree trunks and swathes of ivy, but it also is as inviting as a blue pool...all in my spectral peak moment till I tend to alliterative inner-feuds that a book is been concluded and I was supposed to move on...and on.
A "tribe" chic was talking about sitting with her deceased mother for 6 hrs, while they waited for their brother to show. The mother passed away sitting in her easy-chair, very peaceful... I don't know why other than I am just a human cog in this wheel of transmigration, and somehow reckon this pain as my own, but I swear that image of the daughter sitting there is as real as anything I can imagine happening to me, *like* it has, and like a thousand similar impermament rich pageants this life has thown me into so prone. G^d my singularity will indeed avail, I'm smelling it--fearing it--mourning my loss as I am the youngest of 4 brothers. The Buddhist perspective is we don't suffer alone, the Jewish perpective is that our pathos is between You and Your Creator. My feeling is that, if we are in exile due to our pain, there is "light-radiant" meditation that is the emergent fact at any one moment and will subsume the vital norm with a symbol of transcendence making us better prepared for TRUTH--things going away.
There is something Public Enemy rapped called cold-lampin'. I don't have any idea what they suggest it means, but it fits perfectly if one has ever found his self looking at resonant light, as a 4 cornered room is ill-contained, and there's no place that beckons...yet something hypnotic occurs--draws him in. Sitting down by the hearth, stale moments, empty cauldron, and I have but one friend whose offer of companionship was my jumping off into solitarian days-more, than losing my way with bantor making me languish with no real direction. Smelling the ink in Nat. Geographics, appreciating the Indian tinkers & taylors occupying a shared cubby, I saw the project of my worth was coalescence around the sovereign home/ & world village--an extension of shared skies, and brightened fields from local farmland... but all reduced to back-o-wall repose next to white noise vibratory properties emanating from yellow lamp.

Ways of self-annihilation, and no direction home

I always wondered what those concretized thoughts had buried underneath the institutional pages of prayer books. Like subconscious imagery had episteme dialogues, irresolute langour.
Padding an enquiring path - its semblance my mind allows for is vipassana--a visual of deep-aside that carries me thru patterns of remorseless days...just freedom transpiring. The Will is a concept whose sense in Islam, like Judaism is about the limits we place on Imagination. Musa/Moshe was a kind of philosopher in this regard. Here in Lexington, the Arboretum, taking to the proud land, sometimes has those who have embraced the outward fact all in suggestion of dancing letters--think Abraham Abulafia of Seferad, like meditation had them waiting when I emerged. My ex-sis-in-law and I out walking together, mentioned to me one time that the blank language of the Church til we've discerned it, is the exact impute any attributable term applied to Transcendence in Sanskrit and our furthering into that plateau, like construed dynamic feelings exercised just so will have that same concretized starting point. And I'd rather see it that way. In all beginnings, all things are possible. But, without getting stuck on value statements, has the human condition in a referendum of change, since the proselyte is renewed by novelty, and with no preconditions. All things are possible when you are really unable. The beginnings of things suggest emergence that brandishes awes, and awe language, that we could yet be painted by the most indescribable spectrum of values starting a trajectory into self-actualization...played out like samsara yielding/ transition manifesting.
In the Quran I use as reference, has the Arabic with the English and accompanying commentary, Nirvana is used to imagine the Absolute. Spoken of with such a nod east, that we see the value in giving up the trappings of identity because of its material ties, so as to emerge creatively as the One and Many.

A reggae artist, maybe more times than not may politically identify with Islam as one of the dearer blackman means toward redemption. Zakat in Islam, Tsedakah in Judaism: tithes giving. This corner-stone making magnificate our monotheist utility as socially so unique, has compassion manifest when dar al-harb is at bay, or another way to put it out-of-Babylon's diminution. Making what-is go-down! Thoughts, torpor... In the forms of what I prefer, like the advancing politico whose animal I don't mind. Then what I want to observe creeping in the experencial media driven world, so that it gets sent back into the nothing of irresolute, corporeal imminent fact. All goes down. Moses Go-Down; Jesus=back to your desert sojourn; Buddha to the pre Sakyamuni moment...initiation developes. Muhammed when Jibril made the Prophet's life the result of a serious requiem of change to those who'd submit to Trancendence and our responsibility to cultivate it.

My issue with some of the comments with what those who detract and indicate that we have problems with "religion" is usually because of those who practice it. Then we indicate liturgy and its failings. Well for fuck sake we can do that all day. What about what is right about it? I mean I flat don't care for the missionizing efforts of all our trads. I don't care for the Conservative trend taking such as a grip on Jewish culture. The old school Jews were Progressives. And Traditionalists like Elie Wiesel still would be considered old school. When my bro walked around the Vatican, its perimeter, he said, nuh uh, the is one Jew they ain't getting their hands on. Meaning it is huge the effects these institutions ARE DOING laying waste to human individuality, but in my view, the meditation on the Trinity is a fascinating exercise in thought... You meditate on the spirit you coalesce around the logos, of Word into Flesh. Meditate upon the INeffable, land on Essense/Spirit and its quality in our faculties. Dylan uses the lyrics about the empty sheet that now corrodes, the Fiddler or Peddlar? who walks to the road, says everything is returned that is old, & Dylan's conscience explodes as the back of the Fish truck loads. Maybe Judaism was old--and needed to be mitigated and superceded. Yet we know Dylans iconography: The ROAD--taking to IT is a mission, a meritable deed of sorts. This is not a palimpsest havoc against Jewishness to embrace Christianity. Would Dylan LEAVE anything behind? Yet he saw beauty and salvation, his freed spirit in Christian initiation. He called himself a Zionist just a few years ago in a visit to Israel too. AS ugly as this political category may get, it is also worthy of something too, when the merit of its advocacy is in the actions of spirited defense in OUR mutual arising. The moral authority--maybe in a hero of ours; Maybe being objective about thought--meaning thought can be authorial and misapprehended. But in a Cleric--yeah we all agree, hell no.

The perimeter of the city in a Red Night and Bright Day

I like what that symbolizes and concur, my friend called herself Pinko, and another friend pointed out roseate hues from a streetlamp a few weeks ago by Maxwell Elementary. We were on our way to Lynaghs. He said this was a "holy" color evoking a certain mood--and I was just like seeing it only in the abstract. Nothing about the color pink draws me into a chimey spirit. Certainly I'm not being patrician or macho--it just doesn't lend any ambience. (I'm purposely not deriving the obvious worded PINK on the ass of many a co-ed's sweatpants. Hot? Yes. Stupid or silly? Yes.) Anyway, Isaac Babel always had strewned his Soviet-Jewish writings with dusks lending a colorfield in variants of rose. I just see the ominous Sun with this, and a landscape in transition from rebellion. Iron blades drinking life's blood at twilight--the recesses of mother night hiding the damage.
~~Nothing dreamt, a solid state orderly green vista, just sky & earth had captivated me, holding out the last rescue of the peace my old neighborhood had to offer-its extension out over by the farm on Parkers Mill not 3 mls from the airport. A walnut treed path down to it, but only after my lined street with pines at the liminal point--I am in good company feeling comfortable I'm destined to wander amongst tall trees alone, in a comely loneliness. I read there Isaac Babel's Cossack stories of deprivation, mystic churches, impoverished Jews, war. The emblems probably a 100 yrs ago and my stumble into the Soviet early days, a percussive revolution in cognizant immediacy, were perhaps a tachanka, a kind of military wagon, not unlike the zeitgeist we associate w/ the military industry as in the US: how it performs in our environment (fashion, culture, social demise), & horses, the sentience-of-promise in front of me there under a pine tree now at the perimeter of a church parking lot, looking off into their field on this ubiquitous Ky horse farm. The loom of an unknown destiny untethered then in my life, had me look closer at what was intermediate space in everyone's life in & around me & made it important to me. I called it my own, lived up to MY expectations, & gathered no more than wall flowers, but enough of a kind of inner-attention to bring it all to the table when the new day arose.

Alfred Kazin was a good find.

Beautiful air, looks rarified. One time before listening to Love is a Gas, I wanted a glimpse at something, this art, that was sorta disparate and over me in the briefest perspective into what seemed the right auditive wall to scale. That we can visual say our sauntering across a room, is to imagine where we presently lie in repose. To visualize what occurs beyond our scheme--this bubble of experience--is suggesting Everything IS (From Patriots, I know.), and is enough. I found what I was looking for.
Kazin says how Melville takes to the air. Because he exceeds all his ascetic indulgences--they're not good enough. The spirit is drawn in desertified self-possession, actually condemned to emptiness. Man's economy of the spirit is in recompence of life giving blood, but in hellion red hues. G^d only manifests what-is, ...there is nothing outside the known...and we advance upon it interminably.
...path

The last time I saw him alive I had stayed up late after everyone else crashed at his parents house, the appearance house, and listed in my head what I sought after in music's artists--badly identifying at all with some--his brother's influences/ favorites--and then particularly what Dylan and Marley had as a convergent little-trouble gotten over in a similar path... In the mostly pitch blackness, my glowering eyes seeing only a hint of orange from a couch, I think--I start populating the room. Not capturing anything but my indulging in arcs of imagery that seemed to be a call to Yeah Dylan. So if any one alterior self is availing, anybody else ought to be amongst in just considering what-is. So, the little brother tho' inevitably going away, and the dudes that heralded me, heralds him, and to the gathering crowd in my mind. So projecting into the room, clearly what I noticed WAS that he hadn't said look out for my love. Everyone else had. Soliciting the transcendent is goal, so holding the emptiness--there in the corner--in high esteem, tells me I am the Lakota's Yum (from the book The Lakota Myth), the real little brother who rides the backs of his siblings unto the 4 directions. It's just that one direction was the prodigy of self-possession, and I was missing my brother.
Reflecting on a wasted semite, me and thru the lens I imagine from Dylan's words - its conscious pocket and the homecoming like my obfuscated look into a mirror, the one in my brother's room where I was intro'd to his numious vocabulary and insite... Dylan may have come in from the cold while I lay there staring at an orange chosisme--thingism across this basement where we young men kicked it so many times before, and what was plastic (transitional) those times, are now clotted up in loss, sorrow, til I also meet light and finality and all-knowing. The words, "curly covered virility of a wasted Semite" came from Isaac Babel's writings, a Soviet-Jewish writer--early 20th century. What I want to typify is pathos, so that it is understood entirely thru images, and that this reality, that people are suffering can be as remote as KNOWLEDGE of SELF gets, has to be relegated to language as cheap as language may feel. Sad but true, but language is material, and thus is under our control. What we can't control is the fact of impermanence, but our control in its strange adventure and our emoting, we must allow to stream thru the certain vehicle of our relationship with these tools: language... You speak, I feel!

Lightning Lip: fear no evil!

I've worked myself into a credible weird sadness as if I were at the depths of good-byes to my family. Seemed so believable, I thought I had a reason to cry except for the fact it was over myself... Then I was, well "I'd never know, selah." The project of my self-worth is sometimes only in light of immense generalizations these patterns saying communication is imminent. It is almost non-anthropos except for the fact that iconography of our minds is of course entirely self-mythologized. So, when I say I am in proximity to Us, self-understanding is captured.
I dated this really buxom generation-next or X woman, and she all but punched my cigarette, a really demanding woman. Getting out of her car not long before I lived in this what was to me like a bungalow, but actually was a treehouse, I lived with three of my closest family members. That occasion I just was at a disadvantage from telling everyone why I was trying to cultivate something else. I looked to move around enough that a sense of responsiblility would have been obvious to me, while mitigating these expectant employers--more than staying at Pizza Hut very much longer or any job. My girl, then, is giving me a ride home after some late night thing after work. So, looking at some Kessil the Fool in the sky--the stars Orion, not even close enough to precipitate some Hebraic fulminate light at the end of this conduit room earth tabernacle, the astrology had no value but just my body as some starry night, and no mind but some anxiety that it is a blanket draping the heaven, but only just above me. Inclined toward Sisyphus, in that I can't quite find my feet any more than boughs proffer Sabbath--while tikkun, restoration is clarified from without, the limbs almost reach...yet did not. I suppose this was some kind of karmic death, and indeed I am merely a block away from this vision's loci, and the pleroma of something we call liminal and sky-bound is as encumbering and beckoning now as it will ever be... Then dusk will be dawn, and the new day will be the green of space fading in my dream-scape, turning thoughts to reality.

Books and my self-worth: I'm an acolyte of self-mythologizing

Subject: embracing the inevitable, Time is our glory

I went to a bookstore today, my friend did too, a different one. That we coalesce around a similar frequency--the emergent fact of what the essense of the respite of just these sort of places are, is known as one or just a few places where conscious props follows. The frequenting of these places, like a student cntr couch for me, and UK bookstore, and perhaps his attentive stand in front of books, is looking on toward the disbursement of knowledge, a star cluster shattered or brought into effect. Man, really it's grabbing for straws that minds meet at all, but imposing the possiblity in our condition IS attending to the fact at least, and commonly as what ought to be done rather than community relegating a mystery of otherness to loss of inner-scrutiny: THEY wouldn't ask about the mutual arising community...and I am nothing without them. The chair where I have died a thousand deaths can't be a badge of honor--the shame making me high--as in the relish I feel I can re-live past episteme solving earth crisis for ME. That I have died is indisoluable, I know I have. I look at death more or more sanctimoniously ad infinitum, it is answer to a more complete measure of these days gone by. You live alone, but you die in crowds and among the power that rids you of its responsibilty. We are One when we die, we look to be one.


This is what I have derived from reading Jalaluddin Rumi's father's writings.

Subject: thoughts as the garment of night warmed me

So the best thing we can do with experience is to equal it--as opposed to fearing that we might absorb experience and become jaded. We compartmentalize complexity and unknowing all the time. If we start projecting unknowing, and really that is only apathy, then we get thrown on the banks of our heart and its seat of awareness gets as unreal as habit and mimickry. If the heart was a ditch of blood, unrealized relationship is understood if we imagine that love's loss has us the proselytes as being thrown upon its banks.
We taste the activities in the world. Can anyone see we've participated only thru observation? The activities of contemplation and transcending or good times albeit, just that, has curtains draw from the liminal sky and the earth-body... here's where the senses say I am bound by an unconditional single phenomenon--consciousness. Hopefully Higher Ground will be in Equality and Self-consciousness at once... the little Problem.
If you see me thru the lens that I am entertaining the activities in the world, this creation, G^d's mention of his works, it is some justice we may all deliberate over that we all are in medias res of his meditation.

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.