Al'giber

Abu Mūsā Jābir ibn Hayyān (al-Barigi / al-Azdi / al-Kufi / al-Tusi / al-Sufi), often known simply as Geber, (Arabic: جابر بن حیان‎) (Persian: جابرحیان) (c.721–c.815) hence and cognate the etymology of gibberish, in which arcane mixtures, these 'darkly grace mixtures," which were known to have transmuting properties, which he then oh-oh obfuscated in his Poetic fugues, simply as a precaution; the door-between-worlds, or wormhole in space-time, this frequency-rift, could result in catastrophic consequences for one or both of these instances in alternity -- thus when his Zykir sonics rose in ebullience, in the rhythms that were known to open a portal, his visage would glimmer between worlds ...

romanticism

the romantics like Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, and Keats move us with the rhythms of the numinous -- The Poet is often a Romantic and the vision of Romanticism echoes the Devotional Bhakti Yoga of the East. -- Novalis, the German Romantic Poet wrote, 'We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes,' while I also garden for the same purpose, writing has often been a balm to what is lacking in the, 'please be reasonable' approach to living -- the Poem is never finished, the writer is always writing, grasping at the numinous, the unreasonable - guided by a pen dipped in laughter and tears, hopes and fears - aspired or enthused, drunk or merely called to a task he cannot finish as truth 'n beauty have no beginning nor end -- the writer is the pen and the words he has caught in the wind, a speaking heart singing a longing tale where there is only one Poem, one Story, one Song -- a deeply conflicted Romanticism -- a plaint of Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kissless kiss, a touchless face -- so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart, 'til life is done --

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart yearning for the beloved as the goal is Love; experienced but never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - Oh, our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, is the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is a sympathetic-vibration, as above, so in you, as you're moved from wonder into awe, your eyes glitter with the beauty that you saw -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem, the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations, forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived - Love has no opposite -- the opposite of hate is discriminating wisdom...

mantra-trivia in Tibetan

yeah, I use to recite rote mantras in Tibetan 

like the Manjushri's di di di di di di di, man he was juicy concerning mental Mercury n' words that see, clearly - that 'n others reading the scripts on long sheets of idiogrammatics written in 'lil tics -- 

nevertheless, light reaches the eye, bounces around inside 'til chemically driven, you sigh a wonderin' why, all these reflections are a cussin' conjectures 'n objections, becoming brainiacchtungs that are rungs down the ladder of your holes, where all your dirty cloths goes -- 

and you get sick 'n tired of slogging soggy jeans, that means nothing more than you're wired obscene, mired in the darkness of obsessisve bad dreams, dead-locked and it all seems to be about you, about you, oh it's bad -- 

but when all the words fall from synaptic trees, contraries 'n clarities, oh won't you, won't you please, dive deep up there beyond your event horizon, your suffering version of the inner idiot disease, and it's something farther than you'd ever seen with eyes blinded by the light of 'lecktricity, with reflections bouncing off of your mediocrity, back to where you've already been -- 

oh, but you want to, you want to, get it back so bad

after we'd recite in alacrity, we'd meditate on where the words dare not go, 'n learn to relate about what we did already know, in a language only that the heart can show, and it's clear 'cause it's not about you, no, it's not about you, anymore...

mea-culpatterns

in Cezannes colour of blue ...
think it through and feel it out;
yes, if it's under-understood,
it'll be over-stated and over the top --

It'll bring restraint 'round the
swelling of that
voice inside, which shudders
to jab with the tongue

It'll watch
for dissonant growls
and raucous rants
all diseased by your need to disagree...
between your terminal-shadow of despair,
where your dark inadequacy lingers,
It'll dismantel your misery
and unravel your fear--

pieces of you
that're not nearly risen ...
they make short work
of the inviolate rhythm of your suffering;
in the simple words of death,
-- forever

the kiss

to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, disappearing into each others mystery - oh our hearts know this, love attracts love is the secret of this kiss ...

the stream-winners

well, that's a choice and many ascending-avatars spent eons of time in their caves trying to get out from behind the many-reflections of this sentimental-reality in flow -- this was the goal for awhile and they were called stream-winners when they'd finally grasped that the numinous moving-us is just a trick of the light --

however, the means of getting out of the stream all together was as illusive as stepping in the same stream twice, so they sat staring at forever, until wonder turned into awe and their eyes glittered with the beauty that they saw, and then they found that the stream returns in an infinite 'eternal-recurrence' which means that not only do you step in the same stream twice or more, but that the stream craves you more and more each time it passes by, longing for you in infinite waves, speeding up to feel you deep-inside; 'tis then that you have more and more deja-vu's flowing inside-out to open your eyes wide, from this free-flowing streaming-embrace, this free streaming-love in which we each take a step in grace ...

ssǝusnoıɔsuoɔ.consciousness

it
begins in ʎʇıxǝldɹǝd.perplexity
as the absurd.pɹnsqɐ-man
arrives at the nature of reality

without conclusions ʎlsnoıƃılǝɹ
without religion ʎllɐɔıʇılod
without politics ʎllɐɔıɟıʇuǝıɔs
without science ʎllɐɔıʇsılɐʇɐɟ
without fate ʎlƃuıʍouʞ
without knowing ʎlqɐʌǝılǝq
without believing ʎlǝʌısnlɔuoɔ

perfectly ʎllɐɔıxopɐɹɐd.paradoxically consciously-pǝʇɔılɟuoɔ.conflicted
with all these incongruities converging into the
moment he crosses the street;
                        his-heart
still affected by the dark
                      restless sea of awareness --

bent before his fierce-vulnerability,
 he's an innocent victim like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy"


we're all bubbles of consciousness, bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues, bouncing and bullying each other around while looking for ways to merge with each other; leaking through our surface tension, we're wiggling 'n jiggling for that 'special' one come to burst us free to really be whom we ought to be -- life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought reality means

-- as such, the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning nor end, always rolling, rolling ’round ‘unknowings’ wondrous bend - mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it’s glinting in your eye as you release into the ‘flower of meaning’ with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence, reflect again ‘n again … then you’re an ecstatic swimming in a whirl’d-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving inside of you…

“Nature is an infinite sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere” Pascal

"God is a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere." Voltaire

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." Nietzche

neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned...

if fears 'n worries are nothing but a hapless-spin, then hopes 'n wishes are its better-off kin, nonetheless they're both creating the duality-delusion we're in ...

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this whirl'd of creative-destruction, and the Truth in this human. this all-too-human sentimental-reality ...

The goal is Love! The goal has always been Love, however derived, denatured or deconstructed we make it.

-- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality...

The French Symbolist credo that “To suggest is to create; to name is to destroy” can be modified here, on more neutral grounds: prose denotes; poetry connotes. Thus is Truth 'n Beauty made as if a crystal with many reflections.

As Lorca wrote: I hear the beautiful beating heart of God, in the monster of the world...

elastic-time

elastic-time is when you're on a roll, whistling as you go, feeling on top of the whirl'd, where compressed time blooms and unfurls, expanding your point-of-view to doing what you've gotta' do to be true to the authentic-you...

winds of change

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of constant-remembrance of the beloved, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, which is unbound by the language of 'reason' nor by the fatal-skin we're in. It's uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad-education nor is it spoiled by the comfortable-cliche' of mediocrity! Fear tunnel-visions and converges toward where all the dead-ends meet -- while joyous-remembrance opens the whirl'd in a frisson of being, in a revelation of seeing this sentimental-reality as a perennial wind of wonder that blows with creative destruction everywhere...

we feel it

Change is a seemingly hostile environment to our little cell:brain biology paradigm. Cognitive dissonance is a process where a massive retooling of our synaptic pathways is occurring, often resulting in 'temper tantrums' and breaking things and other 'bad' behaviours learnt by all of our 'bad' education. Yet it is in that very process where neurons coalesce into a new flower of meaning and significance.

This is reflected in these riots and random acts of defiance. We’re living through some very difficult times, and we feel it in our bones, in our hearts and in our minds; this new-paradigm is bursting at the seams of what it all means, and by an internal-fire made of many-reflections of realEYEsed light, our in-sight, where deep calls to deep, which’ll bend space n’ time ’round Quantum-tunnels flowing within as divine, and then all that matters in this whirl’d-view is that we cross the line, from what is old to what is a new interior-design…

All men make a God of their desire and history repeats itself ad infinitum ad nauseum... nonetheless, creativity is a process of change and the Artist is an agent for change. They'll disturb comfortable-meaning and unravel recursive-cliché by their fierce-vulnerability, by their courageous-authenticity and by having been bent by their beautiful-individuality...the Truth in this sentimental-reality is rolling in the changes of creative-destruction we see everywhere...

"...a progression in which each successive movement emerges as a solution to the contradictions inherent in the preceding movement." -- Hegel

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this creative-destruction, and the Truth in this sentimental-reality ...

sometimes my heart is about to burst

sometimes my heart is about to burst 'cause when you notice beauty, beauty notices you -- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality... those who see this world so intuitively, they're aware that these syntactical-alliances of language are not capable of parlaying a look that dares to see this creative-destruction, this sentimental-reality; as such, they're moved by these feelings of beauty whirl'd into a push and a shove, swooning with the power-of-love ...

breath is full and strong again

Just completed a 8.62 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:26:25 | Calories Burned 211 Average Pace 3:04 / km | Average Speed 19.58 km/h | Elevation Climb 170 m http://lnkd.in/rKGSSg

riding in the Sun

Just completed a 6.79 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:24:23 | Calories Burned 184 Average Pace 3:36 / km | Average Speed 16.69 km/h | Elevation Climb 144 m http://lnkd.in/A3WwRw

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

Xpanding negative-space

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye
of a howling-pen,

language-weeps
language-weeps
after-words language-weeps
from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,
seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
the wound of tunneling-fear,
seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,
the wound that is a mirror

there where they're trembling from the loss of blood,
from their lessons on the alter,  stoned
in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the stretchered edges in longings go,
where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,
and falter lessor still, there where we whimper in the clinging,
instead of weeping for the longing Dream, bursting at the seams...
                                              where the mirror is cracked, where the bubble-breaks,
there
where its dark and deep...

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing to belong,
bent before their vulnerability, they're overwhelmed
and underunderstood, as a fierce-grace burns conflicted,
their wounds are open-wide, to let the light inside ...

The Alchemy of Word

This Is Your Brain on Metaphors
By ROBERT SAPOLSKY
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/this-is-your-brain-...


"Our brains are wired to confuse the real and the symbolic. And the implications can be as serious as war and peace.

A single part of the brain processes both physical and psychic pain.

What are we to make of the brain processing literal and metaphorical versions of a concept in the same brain region? Or that our neural circuitry doesn’t cleanly differentiate between the real and the symbolic? What are the consequences of the fact that evolution is a tinkerer and not an inventor, and has duct-taped metaphors and symbols to whichever pre-existing brain areas provided the closest fit?"

Do we dance the brain or does the brain dance us... what's a metaphor for?

Religion, Science and Politics are often immured in an arrogance of ignorance, i.e., promoting cliché as self-evident, eh, in that they define their percepts with allusions of their own creation, managing their metaphors in a sort-of Möbius-strip logic —a self-fulfilling prophesy!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was Theos ...

Another 'meaning' of 'LOGOS' was 'MIND" and 'WORD' was an extension, the action of mind ... because 'thought' was imbued with 'LOGOS' and therefore 'THEOS' stirred. The word became a sort of Magical creation on its own. ... and the Word was God! Ergo the 'word' as LOGOS could actually change things; where the idea of incantation Magic comes from like the AbraCadabra Myth.

Goethe was, among other things, an Alchemist. As such, he was aware of the principle of 'Sympathetic resonance' found in the Emerald Tablets of Hermes Trismigistus, a line of which is, 'As above, so below'. Even words are imbued with potential, acting as agents of change.

"If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be." -- Goethe

Heartfelt words of magic, igniting Grace to action. The Alchemy of Word.

I do not think Goethe was intending any singular future for those individuals he was referring to in the above quote. Rather, I believe his intention was to 'free' the person from imposed personality constructs, both from within and from without. Neither compelled from the past, nor future beckoned! Free to become who they ought to be; in God’s image, you see.

Simply put, he believed that we are all Gods, but we have forgotten this over lifetimes of uncertainty and fear; the veil of ignorance; and that by the miracle of Love and Courage, and our God given freedom to choose, we can become again as Gods. It is this, in which he beckons us, with the quote above.

We're Masters in the making. Yet we're fools of our own predispositions; a veil of ignorance covering our sight from the very Heart of it; the bliss of this sentimental-reality.

There are Alchemical principles which can turn our very base proclivities and experiences into this Bliss of Gold through the catalyst of 'Constant Remembrance', Sankalpa – Subtle idea – the inner name of God. We become what we Think in Wonder and Joy! With Grace and Love we become whom we ought to be, Simple and in tune with Nature, naturally.

Man is what he loves.
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
     ye might stone me! -- St. Augustine

Ghandi stated, 'to be the change you want the world to become.' Dr. Wayne Dyer said, 'change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.'

Quantum physics has shown that depending on the observer, light is either a particle or a wave. (Quantum entanglement theory) It is a strange power that the observer has, is it not? How we see ourselves and others would have similar consequences, n'est-ce pas?

-- what was it that Einstein pondered when he spoke in a mathematical show 'n tell? "if I rode on a beam of light through the deep dark reach of space, what would I see? what would I be? would I be anyplace?" then he chuckled, stuck out his tongue, made his eyes go wide, "I'd be everywhere at once, bent toward the infinite, really deep inside."

A word can convey a meaning and change a mind, infused with 'Joy' and 'Love' it can change a Heart and that's forever!

civil-writes

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-congruency,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
 cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illuMentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
 outer-airs, expediting creative-destruction's negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
 just to make-nice...or

are they just innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy?"

the cloud-of-unknowing

we phase-shift through our wonder into awe as our eyes glitter with the beauty that we saw...

the phases of 'knowing' have been parsed thus: firstly we're unconscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we do know, then, finally, we're unconscious that we know.

knowing is often wounded by our reasons inside, those 'forms and rituals' that fear the unknown, from which we hide, and that they lied about the numinous that is always moving-us beyond the shackles of Newtons arrow-of-time or that we're slaves to Darwin's struggle from the slime; nonetheless, we're made in our own image and can invent ourselves anew, as three parts dark-matter, where deep calls to deep, and one-part light, to see what our sentimental-reality reflections really do...

this slippery surface of merCurious illuMentation:
this ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
where the numinous is really moving-us
beyond the limits of the fatal 'skin-we're-in'
and beyond this tunnel-vision we call time--

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing
        before sentimental-realities bottomless bliss;

where you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee,
and listen to the sound that only the heart can hear,
and there, experience eternity...

reasons un-wound, fall, unbound, toward
a pointlessness of
     parallaxing into a tunnel-vision,
               where the paralysis of analysis 'n indecision
becomes a doubt about it, then derision...
that cynical-sin of taking things apart, piece by piece,
and then cutting them down, again and again,
and calling it discriminating-wisdom then;
where deep calls to deep,

where it gets
wrapped up
        in many Mansions
                    for LotusBlossomslaughter,

where wounds of reason all bleed-out
from lessons upon the alter,

where Gods like Horace
and that blind-Homer
reached within the cloud-of-unknowing,
for another conflicted hero,
watching shadows lurching on the wall,

bent-over laughing at the absurdity of it all...


When we are at rest, we Dream; that is Poetry, in that what we experience as Dream is the concourse of being inside out withoutta' doubt; a sentimental-reality - Poetry is often this language of Dream, in that we experience these Dreams of Language in Poetry which is without the doubt of reason, but reveals the phases of 'knowings' natural 'seasons' - Novalis said, "We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes" - we make Poetry to contemplate what is beyond mere reason - Poetry is meaning in motion like the roiling ocean reflecting many Suns - the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning or end, always rolling, rolling 'round 'unknowings' wondrous bend -

unknowing-one - what would 'objective' Art look like? -- it would seem there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blendings of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, lifting our wings of wonder so we're flying through a vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality, throughout Natures continuous motion of creative-destruction. So it is that Nature reflected in Art moves us beyond our tunnel-visions, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our habits of seeing and hearing, or provide us a temporary diversion at best.

Poetry often reflects the 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Poetry as a Language speaks within but without reason, and sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' We can share these 'stories' of our 'Map Quest', our experiences, and somehow in the sharing we are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like this Map, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing you're presently 'wondering' through...

Dreams are like Poetry;
Some are wishes, some are fears,
while but a few are prophecy!
Some are laughter, some are tears,
while some are mere philosophy!

Some writers write to be mean and right,
others to be liked, feel they belong;
then there is the Shiva-Grace: a destroyer,
a creator, a Diva of change!
An urge of nature in lyrical song!

She is mystic, language her crucible,
igniting grace to passion;
no past compels, nor future beckons!
Her dreams of light, this second sight
that comes of longing in the night!


mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it's glinting in your eye as you release into the 'flower of meaning' with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence reflect again ... we're epiphanators, ecstatics reflecting a whirl'd-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving at me 'n you...

"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin
"believe nothing, not even yourself" -- Gurdjieff