There was a question on the Raw Wisdom Tribe thang about "emergent subjectivism." And there seems to be not much substantial to imagine as the concept behind the title...so, it is entirely what we make of it I guess. One chic asks about why folks need constant reinforcement. Like the duty to self? doing ritual over & over as the days go by. So, my answer was that the verity of our ascetic attendance changes--the balance of our effort to believe as deeply each & every time is not going to be constant. Sometimes the long ends of the day may be before you, other times you will have been in between the threshold of a mountain and 1/2 way to your destiny, with only the mountain to avail consciousness and very little to adduce in what we project into. That is why the acquisitive mind gets in the way. Weird propriety. Like wow, so I found out I can answer for a certain attention I have to my MY condition. The big deal is purely emotional caprice/ answers are a dime a dozen. I want to be light as feather--as Bob Marley relates. "As if he had wings," he says. As soon as I am comfortable with any idea--the first thing I do is try to topple the effect. The pulse of escape creeps into my pores relinquishing the pained stutter of bad self, purity is a distant dream--& now no choice to avail the garment of existence is unwilling to give me the propriety of the middle of the room (my room) where I stand and feel like turning circles as a dog would to assimilate into a new posture. One World nowhere to turn+One World is the point!!
ISn'T IT scientific to say ALL symbols of Eternity are in this life (this World)? Scientists are destined to an imminent reality. Therein lies a religious overtone to this example.--the health of our life-force. That mythos narrative, giving us ritual comfort food, can indeed be based upon rational principles. I liked what I just read of the Hindu Vedas. This ascetic saying that ritualism is delivering us to the summation of truth is a convenient edification.--that the performance of Vedic duties is acting on plurality. But if we take other Vedic liturgy - as the prescriptions on the Ultimate Reality=embracing Truth--we are talking epistemology, w/o lending a value statement to existence or non-existence because of the defect of appearances. Appearances go away as soon as Reality is Known.
When reality is known, experienced-forms no longer imprison us...pure intelligence is ascendant!! Nor would there be differences with knower & the Known... also diverse forms of cognition, in this case Vedic duties (ritual albeit), attenuate plurality & we are lost in a terrible cycle thus, when Reality is Not Known.

To be confined to formulas, is always so peripheral to me--but pushing off from them--just as that 5:00 o clock shadow occurred to me, sitting on the tile floor in its summer exudation, in the room I whiled away in, in my days of tangible bottom rung consciousness--has had its lingering affect upon me til now, & at the ready. An interviewer of Chagall--in the book I obtained at Black Swan--visited the old Hasid descended artist then in the 1980s. As much as I want to be a part of deep considerations of our anthropos condition thru symbols, merely being left in the visual content of the author's reportage as he lies in repose in his hotel room gathering the day he'd just spent w/Chagall, was every bit the sheen of sun reflecting on my room's floor, w/Nothingness to meditate on, & nothing as a conscious proffer thence. Potok, Chagall's contemporary, also an artist, but known for his coming of age core cultural conflicted youth in proximated religious settings--in his novels--had said in his book In the Beginning, that all beginnings are hard, and in them all things are possible. This was the formula. The thing I threw right out my existential window in those few intervening moments was that sense I had any ability to control & would require control through my observation of those overt social conventions we should be using as dumb tools. Words in exile, like the chattel left to moulder beneath a ubiquitous sky, humbled from our ignorance which had been beaten from our intellectual stamina aspiring--I'd stand then & float above, because even my impoverished body vehicle was his & hers--to make relationship exemplar--more than mine. Meanwhile, I affected my thinking that new days were not set off into an unknown future, but rather the fact that I had had no thread to the balance of weeks & months etc til then in my 4 cornered bedroom...everything I thought fit this sensibility, that what lied beneath was being erased, & meditating on no one thing in particular, was a kind of sentient greed in itself... Frequently I'd turn to the auditive universe, listening to Bob Marley & the Wailers, & then headed outdoors to stare down the lyrics, while the burbs stared me down. The cat who laid on the road, down around the corner from my old house--by the oldest house & street in the neighborhood (Fallon rd.)--struck a note of empathy in me in a very finite way. It was dead, of course, but its spirit floated close by. I entered the soul of the compassionate void, maybe in its diminutive space its vitality once conjured. I was touching something & I thought of my hands in that moment on the wet road, springish am. A black cat crossing my path, as it were, w/a bleat in a spiritual heart I knew was manifest in every dreamy sanctioned day of my growing up there--seeing these locals' critters meander around this place. The cat meant that. Its one eye appeared as a kind of extremity sticking out as a protuberance demanding one last visual of the road of its neighborhood life. I was as dead as it, and as alive. Marley's Runnin' Away ran thru my mind--"you can't run away from yourself!" & I acquiesced to a struggle right then: at least in that moment I wasn't running, so I had only me to deal with & why not Right then. If you are running away from yourself, look at the path that colluded in your effort to jettison Point A the intangible You, to Point B--the spectral shore that is infinite in your mind, even if the "ancient rosy colors behind your eyelids" (Kerouac) sought self effacement... I looked into so many shadows of near empty mind's reckoning, the query I projected into that loam of self-space, was the irony that fact was my fiction. If Rimbaud could lean next to a Prussian soldier in field adjacent to his village - the soldier at his Final peace - & decide that now he could know everything, similarly we are the convergence of tremendum & fascinans & could identify with a complete sense of motive.

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 w/the Weathermen & then 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. 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 wil 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.

"He not busy being born is busy dying." (...Dylan--according to Marley, the only white artist doing something he could get around) (marley for the rest of the quotes) & if we "let the dead bury the dead," we'll see that all symbols of eternity are in this life. It has to mean something that the calls we make for the need for security (a clear def. 4 impermanence) --almost as if we'd need a characterization in someone known as headwaters to your ultimate goal of communication w/the world, all make us turn inward, while gathering appearances, gathering their regularity. (This implicates my bro's last email, when he says, true Freedom is One's capability to Look inward after communion w/the imposed sense of duty that society has us react Against.) & since--& this is the meta-physical part--we need only know euphoria & therefore that we channel Only vital norms, so those who have gone before us R ever Now. Even when I see the low-energy field of scaffolding trees demurred behind grey fog in an early am sun-yet-arisen suburb langour, in the end just the smell of it is Immortal Man--like the humility of he who suffers out of apposite regard for Others. On the Survival album, Bob sings, "the way they use you, live Big today 'cause tomorrow u'r buried in a casket--One cocoa full a basket." Say, you offer up the singular candle of your consciousness, & Unity of 1 mind, as I see it, on display because u'r adding to the light--has consequences in the 1 World Village. U'r denizenship begins to elaborate this message Music's basic truth: "Some people can't wait 4 long, some people can't stand up strong." But, slowly 4 a moment when we "turn our dreams into reality," we see, like Marley lyric'd, "every lil action there's a reaction." There is no rhetorical statement in mind, if our memory 'flect, "we're all half of something." So, "after all we have lost we've already paid the cost."

Standing out on the log pile, in our half acre backyard just a yard away from farnland & more bluegrass, off the wet ground--a balance from the tethered past 'til that purple night--all a handshake w/the homewardness I'm leaving. The stocked kindling used to be over at the front/side of the house, & there had been a couple of bouts chipping away at dull wood w/hand on axe blade & no handle--just because... toil, I guess had to be equated--mind to langour in the latenight hrs. A yellow breeze from long ends of the day puts yet another attenuated sense between me & the Ky starlit sky. I'd come back from Cinci earlier that evening, & thought about the midnight sky as something to be excused from the Will its path conjured, because I foundered on the dialogue w/it thru its impermanence--now solving the crisis I'd be heard by those vast distances. A young fellow had been belched out of the smog & din of the Bogarts frequenters, I asked him for that ride, which stretched into a kind of asking throughout the ride home, conjoling him I'm not too far from downtown Lexington. I'm tired of looking at antiquated biblical family nods, but this just-out-of H.school dude looked like my oldest brother, 1970s & all, in H.S. in Texas--I'd call it beatnik, or more wholly--vital & beat, like Kerouac said.

Ah, you may or may not know him, but I see the archetypal persona only subtley veiled--& I reckon mischievous pyrotechniques to consume my actionable days spent wondering who gave a damn...sometimes you, sometimes an-other, or my mother. The air around me commonly gets that smoke upon the immediate horizon, & greys the air enough to deflect everything-withOUT in its persistence to draw me out of the flaming theophany. I told dude here at work, "yeah he's been called"/ you might say the call of Jah Rastafari=it's all the same: we perk up as if something is brought in from the cold; electricity comes from other planets--VU lyric'd. The call is all a reductive kind of thing. At once we see the action upon all the FINE details disappear & the one gratuitous current of the norm, say light in a cadence you've never objected to before, is reversed in that marginalization. And then it's just you equaling the demonstrative moment; it is as Ultimate Reality as we'll probably ever see. You & that light as preponderant as the peep thru the hesitant door allows...

Sitting out the day here at home, Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Boabab Orchestra. (last night, I did revel--don't get me wrong) Reading & hating my fixation on time "well" spent, I 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.