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.

Exhausted, i came to the field

where reason and emotion, they lay united 

the moment-it faded all visible boundaries

And now the soul it leapt, full of understanding

stood up to produce, yearning to produce, yes

armed to the depths with technique

clear of vision and relentless focus

It was finally, the time.

yet I come to a stop with the first steps

a sudden knowledge occurs to me

that understanding is all that is possible,

and no more was left to do with.

I may pass my thoughts into the earth

a completely useless being of wisdom,

yet happy to be exactly that.

the peace of love

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

A.S Byatt and a Dirty Sock

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.