:The Kabala is deeper that I am
more wise, more understanding, more informed.
She is the crown in my head
She is the art of truth through whose instrument
we create the Torah,
each adding a little piece before becoming the whole.
She is a geometry of play which makes up the Soul,
The appearance of body drawn back up into the the letters Hebrew, the beloved.
Each one changing into another while yet remaining permanent in itself
Time space men, come not into Her wheels of thought
but to clarify the codes to the thinker.
Her life is wider than the expectable.
I have followed Her for eons only to find agin that She is here in the root of my God-gifted mind
crystalizing Her golden symbols into the landmarks of our attainments and predetermining for me the way to the secret within
Unlike Her imitators
She provides food for the feast even now as we speak.
This She does with modesty loyalty and selflessness
The Kabbala is the woman whose garments are Torah.
The Kabbala is simply too simple to understand.
Her presence is felt mainly as a long negligence.
The History of Kabala is the History of the Jewish women
Faithful partner to the Law and the under-acknowleged bearer of his fruit.
Rewarded neither in this world nor even in the next.
She is as invisible as our God
as enigmatic to the all-searching sense of genius
and as involving to the chemicals of beauty as the innermost earthiness.
a space where there is nothing
just walls windows roof above of wood
it has a door
i sit facing the door
it is closed
I am sitting in an empty room
it is this emptiness that I love
how many years it has taken me to be given this room
there is no noise
almost no sound
certainty none which influences the emptiness
even now I feel the stars being drawn toward me
the emptiness tends to be filled
but I am strong in my nothingness and resist the intrusion
I have earned it
after long years of unrelenting dialogue with things and thoughts
with the realities the filled-ness, the fullness
the illusive filled-ness the evasive fullness
not yet convinced I tried receiving into myself the civilizations and human-nesses
so numerous, so massive
filtering the various qualities unceasingly
filtering out the undesired
trying to embrace the desired
and now renunciation has completed its vast circle
and I am, as though suddenly,
in the no-place of space
in this room which I inhabit
of this precious nothingness
the blessed silence increases
Its subliminal vibrations
I am the solar system
the infinitesimal emptiness and the grand void are the same space
in this empty room
where I sit
on the floor cross-legged
thinking about waiting
waiting for thoughts
I am thankfully empty of self
the groundwork has been done
the world has relinquished its claim on me and withdrawn into its native unnecessity
I am now free to think about other people
I leaf through the albums of my mind
inspect the records of other people's troubles
I am free to care, to imagine miracles--to image truths
to pave highways of empathy into the hurt places of my people.
Freed/released from cause and effect
I let the combinations of stars speak through me in the higher language
to those who need not understand in order to recover
I come back to my room after such sage exertion for the sake of some inevitable destiny
that It takes me a few moments to recall who I am not.
I let the presence reside in my space though I am absent still among the visitations.
The storm passes and by degrees the equanimity of the blessed non-being resumes its undistracted prayer
Was the ascension permanant?
or did it ride down its noon yet again into the underdarkness of the invisible,
aging dying and being reborn into the dawn of a new almost-achievement?
Should indeed any intimation of changeability be heeded?
The very marrow of the living stars feels sucked into this void vortex of vivid veracity.
There is no yearning but only a harmonious oblivion seeking identification.
seeking---but never finding.
This is what is so pleasant about the absolute emptiness: it draws in its invisible wake vast retinues of electric stars
each thinking in an entirely different way
each an individual particle
independently knowing everything there is to know about God
yet never do their thoughts overlap
never do they look back to their memories
never do they fail to self-annihilate into their own consciousnesses
Yet, impossibly, they are so similar in appearance that any one alone can represent them all
and indeed does so
in this empty space which I have called up into being by sitting alone in my room
watching thoughts vanish unknowably into their own vanishing source.
The empty room
but not completely empty
not any more
it now has a table a chair
there is a bed in the corner
resurrections have been done here
recoveries from hideous misunderstandings
a dynasty has been raised up here
a dynasty of living Jews
heeding the call from on high to be what they are
let not appearance deceive us, children.
we are imperturbably aware.
our dreams are visions and our nightmares pass easily away into the star-filled void.
I have covered the windows so that I can concentrate
I would rather watch my own listenings than read or hear about the "real" and its misadventures
Again, the order of the day, steadily ascending its ladder to noon
has not yet shown its vast energies and intents
The sun-otherness of the beyond seems to be getting closer
Will this be the day when The Mystical breaks through into The Final Simplicity?
When we see what Moses saw?
It depends upon whether it is about me or about the All
this much I know but I am not the All and cannot do the work of others greater or lesser than myself.
Lo! I have beheld the flicking afterlife.
breathlessly suspended in the end time
I have looked up into the grand glare with infinite eyes which cannot be turned away
I have been to the death-like-place and come back
are there others who hear me who know this?
Let us confirm the mysteries to our children
the universe is alive and is passing messages to our mind from that which is beyond.
it is not tiring to be alive nor can one ever feel exhausted by seeing too much of God.
But I am not God
Quite the contrary.
I am in the shadow of the darkness of the invisible glare
I cannot look any more
I need the deep sleep of being a minute non-creation, negligable
I need to feel myself as being other than Him
to be nothing-- to be absent from the great labor
resting in the dark cool pool of thought which covers me from the great heat
I know too much of the history of spirit and the immaculate biographies of angels
I need a deep forgetfulness so that I can resume being something in of myself
I must compose myself for an independent existence of indeterminate duration.
Long-lived, wisdom-seeking, I drink from the wine dark sea of illusion and leave traces of my art encoded for the healing of some
homeless conglomeration of miseries with a heart of genius unrecognized
who will see in the incoherent enigmas of my pleading
some vague indications of a way out of this vast terrifying solipsism a way out of the overwhelming enormity of the false conviction that this slavery to false reality is a closed bridge even unto the death of the intellect itself.
So therefore, it is for the sake of This Very Exodus that I here offer these humble letters, jumbled, mumbled, weeping from love
as a bit of pure food for an exhaustive journey through the lower recesses of the seeming-to-be-lost-forever so that he may now, at this very moment, awaken from the nightmare of his mythologies into the freedom which lies just so very slightly under the surface of present consciousness where multitudinous insights are lodged in our collective memory, where the Torah shines in all its Kabbalistic Glory even unto the deep sufferings which you truly feel yourself to be enduring. I respect this in you but have offered myself this far into your inner being only to tell you that you are loved and beloved, here and in the Beyond, and that your presence is expected (t)here in a much shorter time than you could ever perhaps have imagined in light of the current manifestation of metaphysical constructs.