The White Line Energies of Shambhala that Recapture the Primal Essence of the Solar Disc to Create the New Dawn of the Civilization

 

 

Gyan -Ganj Plate 1, Samij Dutta, 2011

The White Line Energies of Shambhala that Recapture the Primal Essence of the Solar Disc to Create the New Dawn of the Civilization 

Consciousness-Analogue

The black pearl in the mother of the stones, ionization energy per decra grativ in the quarto of time is the yoving car of sunyata; the trees after midnight offer their silent prayers to the heliocentric circles of the diminishing stars; morning sings the eragman blues that are the fire-yidams of the lasoto supramental ear- a point is a point in the alblackica mind, flying in the aerospace the light is often the light of the moon’s shadow in the vectors of Shambhala; the ripe old sun is the fruit of its perfume if the violets can dance to the rhyme of the excited ions; energy is the art of the mind to restore the creation from the decay of its space; time runs with her the lion symbols of the hoan manifested in the pupae of the butterfly cycle, every single color on the dotted wings is a pattern that evolution carries in the wave-germination of the particle towards the deep threaded probabilities that has no absolute but variable cognizance of a relative domain of time. Shadows are not shadows but the light of a constant delight that ferments the amino-glutamine structures of the proteins; a glass mirror can replicate the water cycles on earth through the vector diagrams of a clopen pyramid; the ice melting on the mountains bring rain on the salty seas for the seagulls to fly over rocks and boulders, and into the wide open empty spaces where the skull of the sun is buried as atoms in the charcoal fumes of the diamond light; red hot metal plates beneath the earth are shifting with time; come rain come rain come rain again to wash the feet, the ash is white line of energy that convert a neutral aldehyde into the lithium fragrance of the stars.

That’s how we began in ‘it was the hours before the Gods awake’, substance and form entangle with time to create words that offer energy to the spirit of the sun. without the silence the words are empty and without the words the energy has no rhythm of its own, the light is the dancing spectacle of alblackica, the night is the fear of the morning to become blind and without being blind there is no consciousness as eyes carry the germ that directs the light into the far ethereal madness of syllogistic heliographs.

– Joy Roy Choudhury

Ref:  Golden Solar-Disc/Sun-Disc of Lake Titicaca which was presumably used by ancient civilization as a cosmic computer to verify the source of the universal mind and to connect to it effectively for sharing knowledge and renewal of energy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Ancient Brick Time of Alblackica, the Wheel is the Feather of the Storm Whose Indices are One and Zero and Variable Based on the Factor Polymerization of its Atoms

MAZUVONT MOTHER-ETERNAL, Samij Datta, 2011

In the Ancient Brick Time of Alblackica, the Wheel is the Feather of the Storm Whose Indices are One and Zero and Variable based on the Factor Polymerization of its Atoms

Consciousness-Analogue

In every street there is a house without a window that opens towards the seaside; the breeze doesn’t blow in Al-Parabi-vacuum, the sun is the virtual Dog Star of the moon writing its own alblackica texts on the runic beds of no-time; journeys ‘within moments’ from sunrise patterns of the dockyard to the self-shaped ships of an ancient Columbus across the boveran élan of the cape boulevard into the diminishing light of the twilight bay sinking into the blackbow of many sub-tropics of land and air is the real observatory eyehole through which relative densities of quasi-fluids are measured. Mazuvont, here, looking from the tower of the iced-glassed container that held the empty buckets of the time-wheel of transformation and change, saw them run naked on the beach, stars shining like alph-flowers of a mega-moun clock strumming the binary hairs of the oceans’ string a la singing the Terrasuxa Quataz eternal songs; some dressed in drainpipes like the Dylan poet rambling and turning and changing and laughing as the procession met the dawn of the hour returning to the sea.

That was a clear whistle before the rains came in with the mighty roar of the great flood; Mazuvont, here, in the tower looking at the waves saw the terrible beauty caught in the beast of the naked ocean’s arms churning the great waters into the sorcery of dance – reason lost the profane madness of its own clear identity and became the good man of a ghost who was not seen anytime but laughed and sang as if all are empty signs in the streets of Shigatse, as if nothing existed before or after, and, only this seclusion is just a game of sponsoring the zero factor of the flying birds that clutched together the hot metal flame of the shining Helium plates that was even not before but only today, and with the cross-prime stylus of the Yuwazia, the dromos-dero was finally walking in space…

– Joy Roy Choudhury

Ref: Bob Dylan Album Cover: Slow Train Coming (1979)

The Time Cursors of the Alblackica in the Baquytra Mother of the New Creation

Baquytra – Mother Eternal, Samij Datta, 2011

The Time Cursors of the Alblackica in the Baquytra Mother of the New Creation 

Consciousness-Analogue

Romanesque tiles are put one on one and turned on the sides as if the twilight had its wings stretched to meet the amorous night, she sat on the ivory pillows of the rubric not waiting for it to happen but she knows that the last is the first attempt in some distant dream of the eye’s vision, the domain was the function not of time but of its space that no longer had the room for itself except the words that floated unseen on the tabula rasa of the prima matra – rivers are shadowy cats that grow longer as the sun recedes into the cocoon of the silkworm verse: today the rain brought the helicons from the far east into the north node and the stars in their feast abandoned us on the desert highway that goes further into the emptiness of the storm, and, through the eye of the needle the red purple bud of some flaming ethereal plant was watching the creation in the cradle of the woods. That was Baquytra in the ionine aquanto resembling the blue sea in the leaf of the rest and falling like the motion of the flying birds southwards into heaven.

She was alone before the sleeping hours, when the earth and its planets didn’t talk or shared their dream, before the candle formation of the fire in the hills, many light years away, waving at the wave, at the point, frequency not touching the feet of the curve but obliquely smiling at the crowds, in a comedy of errors where no gain no loss was the staple diet of the actors and the men. Sign into the eleventh dawn take away the three and the remaining is the status of the new mother eternals of the creation. Thou has seen not the word with the tongue, its navel was the teeth of the alblackica time, churning the vast in the Metropole, its walls are covered with snow dust frames that move without moving in the fluid senses of the zabber-mind; Baquytra was the song of the ripe gold summer months with laces of autumnal winds that take away the cherries before the weevil can hide beneath the grey musk of the badger; another way of this time was not shot but ideally framed on a canvas by the space differentials of the eternal function.

– Joy Roy Choudhury

Ref: Album cover for Meddle, 1971, Pink Floyd