i haven't seen hands like those in many years. The feeling of soft abrasive tissue on the surface and weighty like a ripe lemon. The hand was grasping the rail with gentle insistence, ready to let go but held firmly at the same time. It spoke of attachment and detachment in equal measure, with the experience to choose the right moment to do so written all over it. The hand was either holding on to the world or holding it up for all those present.
The arch spread out on the ceiling, it stood with authority and a sense of "foundation". As i passed below it, It looked down with purpose and no curiosity.
The ball rolled, because it must. The child reached for the ball in the shadow of a man who was suddenly present for no reason. At this time, the grass around their feet was perfectly green.
In the rocks of the cliff, the moss attach themselves. The sun attaches the light to the moss, feeding the stone with life, and the wind grazes about. The rock must feel alive then, i suppose.
A raindrop bounced.
A groove announced itself near the corner of a mouth. Suddenly it had a twin, and they were lucky enough to appear together in harmony. They seemed like a logo saying signals were being transmitted from that location.
The connection connected
with your warm skin on my face,
your gentle kisses thrown away
bountiful and feeling full
till the space around me swiftly taken away
images of clear water in a stream
of mountains in the light of morning
warm and cool like my home
on Friday morning ready for family feasts
your weight on me was light
so light I keep lifting you with each breath
i came to a feeling of fullness that was bearable
welcome, freeing , joyful
your kisses gentle yet with power
pushing me as if swimming through
the world as it was meant to be seen
with love and the peace of love
I had been meaning to thoroughly wash my socks, which have been sullied beyond reasonable comprehension even for an adult male living by himself. As i looked upon them wondering what ghastly disaster that may befall my washing machine due to the months of accumulated dirt and sludge, i realized that its filters have not been cleaned from the day it arrived. Thus i searched for the owner manual but found A.S Byatts novel :Possession-A romance, Barack Obama's Dreams from my Father and some other shit novels instead.
I promptly started reading the novel (ASB-P-AR) again for one reason or another, kicking myself for not finishing it when i bought it years ago (from a used books store- it was stamped as the property of a school library). I remember this novel clearly from the times i walked around the library ( The National Library) looking at book covers. It always turned me off for some reason, perhaps because its titled a "Romance" and the cover showed the face of Renaissance woman in the subdued mode of such times- it came across as a sappy historic romance. I do not entertain sappy, or even historic romances. I only bought it cause i seem to have a thing for Booker Prize winners.
Reading on, the first chapter hinted of familiarity of having been read, this brought me a measure of satisfaction. Already i had a probable plot structure in mind, such that the historic research on a love affair will mirror a love affair at the present moment. For me, it seems that there can be no other possible outcome than this, despite how many surprises may come in between.
What did surprise me though was a little idea floating in from the historical letters within the present fiction: the Victorian man. This idea connected at so many levels at the same time, and i was able to sense my entanglement with it from the first times i had read anything, all thanks to British colonialism. In detail: the Victorian man represents the ideal man. Rich so that he may indulge in various hobbies which he may pursue and more importantly, give up as he deems fit.. The Victorian is high born that he may dispense with all the effort to gain respect and he always finds company with intelligent intellectuals trading words that require some thinking to be heard. There are always women, but they are clean and chaste, always ready to play an intricate mating game of witty responses and biting sarcasm (Jane Austen??). These guys had it all, and they also lived at the place of places at the time, somewhere in the country side of London. Everything of importance to the making or breaking of the Victorian shall be explored at tea time with biscuits served by order loving maids. To child, this was a complete vision of something truly acceptable and admirable.
War is a dignified affair on this world, it was always raging over clattering tea cups and heated exchanges. Talent and intelligence were deemed a necessary privilege which was placed upon one without guilt of payback. How wonderful a world to live in, no one starves intellectually in the countryside manors of England.
It was the sound of something struggling on the water that woke up the boy. He gently wormed his way out of his mothers arm, and she stirred. Thier eyes met at once, she did not say a word. Her hand came out of the shadow and her fingers extended touched his cheek, popping the breath he was holding. The boy laughed pushing her hand away.
"Catch it if you can. Today is the last day." She smiled.
Outside, the hut was bathed with a pale bluish hue of the coming morning. The stars were yet bright and the boy could see clearly the path to the water. Not that he needed to see or needed a path. He was not looking at all. He felt buoyed by a feeling of lightness he was not accustomed to, he needed calmness to hunt. behind him, he could feel the gaze of his mother on his back. He dared not look back, her eyes would remind him of the fear he knew he should have right now.
The island was unusually quiet this day. He could clearly her the Jinns sleeping on the palm trees. Looking up, he saw an old jinn staring at him, on its belly was the intricate carving the boy was always curious about. It was forbidden to talk to jinns, his mother said. The jinn, produced a dark object from its had and pointed it to him as if offering it. The boy knew better, walking ahead as if nothing happened.
The animal in the water now lay motionless on the beach, but the boy could see its gills move rapidly. It was a great sailfish, the colors danced on its fins. It was near death and breathtakingly beautiful. Stooping low in the trees, the boy searched for its enemy. He waited and waited, he had to wait till colors of the dawn shifted.
The enemy appeared as if it never left. Its current shape was that of a young boy much like himself. It was suddenly standing right beside the sailfish, looking out at sea. The boy knew two things. The enemy has shaped himself as a boy because it knew the boy was there and that the boy had no idea what he was dealing with. He has never seen anything take the form of his likeness. The fear started creeping back in to him, his palms started sweating on the spear.
The boy stood up and walked on to the beach. He pushed the spear purposefully into the stand and knelt on one leg. Taking a heap of sand into both his hands, he rubbed it on his face. Taking a another, he let it fall gently to the ground making his intentions clear. The enemy did not seem like it noticed.
"Your prize is an offering to me. I accept it if you shall give it". The boy like the sound of his voice saying the words he had been thinking of saying.
The enemy moved , with the kind of disjointed grace like a hunting egret on the beach. Turning to face the boy it stared at him. The boy found he was full face with himself , and this moment would be the last thing he would think of when he died many many years later. It was as if the enemy was trying to tell the boy who the real enemy was. Only the eyes was different, the pupils changed colors like the sailfish fin beside it.
"I will offer it to you." The enemy spoke. "I also accept you as my prize, if you shall give yourself... I know what today is. I will tell you. There are many last days. too many to count. Too few to die for. "
I have suffered in hunger
hunger for your body, you legs
your nails, your hair
your breasts and your sex
i shall appear an animal in shadow
devouring meat unkindly
I want to possess every bit of you,
consume you whole, every single bit
We are entitled to possess what already possess us
we skate upon the logic of a senseless world
through the forest, trampling upon gifts
we gather the waters of waste and we fashion from it all a lens to make sense of it all.
our measurement begins at the extremes of things
such that all things must be valued from such
our lives must be measured with death
to be lost in a moment, we must be mad. So they say.
The sun, it is the Sun.
Gold light bathing a narrow street
catching on to the leaves, glowing
a hazy scene it seemed to me
fueled by Nostaligia, a peace of sorts
a moment of happening seemed upon the day
people going on living, people going on dying
People going on observing, that is me.
The road is long and it disappears somewhere
The colors, they remind me of childhood skies.
Then I see you crossing the street.
for a moment i though you saw me,
but you were just going on about your life
and i was going on about your life, separately
You disappear around the bend, goodbye.
The sun did not flicker at your passing.
I do not keep you on me. I do not long for you.
I long for me, and i chose you to measure desire
I've seen you choose, you chose and it said to me,
I am capable of living without you, chances you've had..
Choose your own, and be done with it.
My enemy is the immense value of life,
i could not fathom you entrusting your time to me
It felt life you were dying for me.
I wanted to preserve you, cherish you as a whole being
unattached and free to roam the earth,
the breif moment we crossed paths, held and loved
It was beautiful. Goodbye and live long.
I too will be seen from afar, one day
And i will pass by, and the world will still be amazing.
How do you suffocate a blade?
how would compress sight?
how to we trample a shadow?
Such is the language i seek
I seek to find it every day
the incomprehensible, harsh and meaningful
It exists in the bitter space between blade and armor
on the edge of the wind cutting a mountain
where gravity battles air endlessly
where the oceans fight sand
In every narrow space between them
lying there, the pearls gleam
The harshest and the hardest
contradictions and clashes
Lay true meaning , too mighty for words
that they surround it like subjects
carrying it forward, never to touch
never to be left alone.
Looking out of the pocket,
watching forces battling for eterneties
The heaviness of nature compresses my views
i become the space within spaces.
I arrive to true meaning or perhaps
the word itself.
Slide this texture on your hand
the soft chill as it conveys
luxury and form; desire
pleasant and thoroughly rich.
press it forward and downward
the shroud becoming you
the warmth from the center
entrapped in this net.
Raise. raise your voice
it echos on the fabric,
speaking of gold and silk
and other things.
exhale, inhale, capture.
swirling the mass, it sings
as it slips onto the floor
onto other earthly things
within and without
we come undone on hands
legs, hair and words.
We speak, we sing
and the music bellows from earth
and we are the brief note
waiting to manifest on a melody
the key that means to complete
music that goes about searching
for its lost soul. So we say.
Words should never exist
nor should we listen
to come undone, we turn
we seek the void
the ones we pull apart
to hide our confusion.
Escape is a necessary illusion.
A dream of Paris. or Tokyo.
A snowy cold night, the lights are yellow,
the place is dark, someways away from
the heart of the city, it appears so.
I look out from a window, i am alone.
Its late but the image is too haunting.
The chill, it creeps into me,
the sodium vapor light lamps illuminating
a forgotten driveway, forgotten and overused
i see a bit of snow drip off the roof to the snow below,
the night is dark in the distance, snow fading to gray
and the people, they have turned in to sleep.
two electrical wires move occasionally, there is no wind.
there is no noise, silent and foreign
The yellow upon the snow
The hint of sepia haunts me. The is just enough
tone to convey tragedy. or something that should not be lived
but only seen from afar.
It is as if i have stumbled into the corner of a dream
away from the bright happy center,
becoming a sad member of the audience,
who drives home after watching my moment
and goes on with life. There is no fire here to see.
but i am me, this me.
lets say, this a small road on the way.
take a picture and it floats away
go to sleep. Wake up another day.
Perhaps when im old and gazing at the wall.
you will awaken and take me back.
to the yellow feeling of sadness.loss.
i felt it. its real. it was truly yellow.
perhaps. no not perhaps.
Its true. i just felt it climbing my back.
hello you feeling. thank you for the message.
the picture itself is a message
it said simply:
make more memories.
I realize the complexity of explaining
a simple feeling. it long, not hard.
make something of yourself.
do something. be something.
you are not something.
how can a picture say so much.
its not even real.
i guess its the potential of it,
perhaps it could be my view,
just before i leave to a evening of laughter
wine and warmth. but its not.
its me looking out with nothing to do,
alone, in a place that reeks of solitude
perhaps its my view after a day of achievement
and i long for the sun rise to travel
to a place of happening and fullness
perhaps i already made plans and i withdraw
back into the room.
i ve been avoiding. avoiding the room.
i don't know whats in it. no.
its my loneliness, my old friend
its whats there for me when i turn around
it does not greet or smile,
its just there. like me.
I look at the common and see the real
its where the magic happens i think
normal is wonderful. can i not be
happy looking at events from the sides
appreciating and assigning value
learning and feeling
but im so lonely. Sometimes
i want to kill myself. what are you asking of me?
are you asking me to shine?
why should i be so bothered?
i could look at this yellow picture
for ages and ages. Even till i die.
and not see the end of it.
But don't be afraid,
we wont make it anymore,
its too late to cry,
we've come to far,
lets hold our heads up high
face on, straight ahead
See the lights, they've gone
its getting dark, too cold
the feelings gone, its leaving us
I can feel my soul moving
shrugging off this body,
breathing free of me
entering the stream
Come a long way, you and i
lets say goodbye without words
go on, live the good life
free where i couldnt be
live for me, so i can
live from you.
The art of sorrow is esteemed and revered by centuries of tradition. Its appeal is undeniable even to most well to do persons, esteemed learned men, men of power and especially to the children. Champions of misfortune, tasters of bitter wine but celebrators of meaning in life. A life of sorrow is a most serious endeavor requiring rigorous training. As will all respected professions, some of high aptitude learn easier than others, and are able to taste the fruits of of the discipline with little effort.
The world is now advanced to such heights that it is full of masters. Man kind must be praised.. In the old days, mentioned only in legends, man lived with such nonchalance to the glory of himself that he dared venture naked on the land, with a smile on his face and perhaps eating another mans bananas. He did not dine, bed or wed, he simply did not know the importance of such. His banal nature, retarded and possibly oversexed must have caused much grief in the high heavens. How can he ever know the noble calling to sorrow?
The scene must have been so distasteful that God must have sent his purveyors of sorrow to the lands, and thoroughly exorcised the brutes.I see no other way those animals would have (through many many generations) given birth to me otherwise.
A life is sorrow is the most beautiful experience that can be imagined. It was once rivaled by bliss,and ecstasy yes sorrow won over those pitiful experiences without much ruckus. Sorrow is slow moving and all encompassing, while bliss, like a pin in the arm, is short lived and easily forgotten. Sorrow brings human beings closest to God , who bless us daily.
Onto sorrow, we go, we go
The promised land, come tempered
horses graze the cobblestones, where lustful
maidens hang themselves, where music
is always fearful, where children practice everyday,
to cry before bed. The cold gloom shines brightly,
The days of winds and tremors,
the sky always aloof,
and we hold in or hearts,
Sorrow till we die.
Sorrow for today,
Sorrow to praise all.
All the world needs,
bitter wine, is best for all.
Notes: Grief is not sorrow. Grief is for a brief moment, sorrow is a way of life. refer to notes.
The day is today. The time is yesterday. Moving on from the day before, it has always been a day removed from the man i want to be. Days are for dreaming of doing. Before i knew what doing was (or is), that's what i did every single day. I check in to the day, it does not matter when but i am always aware that nothing has changed. I carry an unchanging weight that is always equal to the situation of my surroundings. There is waves and clouds in the day, there is stars and breezes at night. I think of this and say, equal. There are but one and the same, much like the shattering glass that refused to startle me.
I think of the monotony and then i think of what may be opposite it. Perhaps its sex. The wave of tingling has begun on the left side of my scalp, and I am waiting for it to come back (please come back). There are days and there are days. There are bad days and then there are bad days. The days are punctuated by me looking to escape from the day, but in reality I burrow further into it. So much for saying: not today, like the day before.
Then Id say; fuck this shit. When ever i say that, i don't feel like killing myself. that anger, that little blind spark, even that can move me. I believe that no amount of strong emotion, whether good or bad, will lead me to kill myself. which makes me logically conclude that i don't feel anything right now. A reprieve from stone. A gap in the stream. A block on the road. Something, anything to make it stop. No, not stop. Anything to make it different.
When i see myself in the mirror, i lift my hand and hold it out to myself. I want to see the vision of me reaching. Reaching for something, anything. Am i gone? Am I still here? Am i still relevant? Beating and alive? The machinations of my mind have been explored to the end, now, the explorer pilots the doomed ship he boarded out of curiosity.