Another eve for cogitation

It’s almost June and the sound of spring is still a little disengaged, the cold is intense sometimes, I really am worried. It feels as though there isn’t much time for anything too, but trivial matters still manage to continue at a tedious length. Talk of politics ambush me on my way to work,  prosaic routine concerns comprise of chit-chat that is seemingly unending about things that are seemingly important, and something impels me to just get on the next available flight to somewhere far from this despondent state of things, and not return. I only want a little warm weather and to know of what will unknowingly betide, I can no longer handle surprises in my life.

But on another note, I have been experimenting with some coloured charcoal and it is an interesting development in my life.20190528_004704.jpg

It is of a particular sky on one eve, but it could very well be daybreak too and that is the beauty of the sky isn’t it? From gold to black to gold, its soft transitions of colours and capricious weather patterns, in the end, it all combines into one disposition. Nature in its essence is a poetic illustration of life: everything ends where it began.

I am allowing some lingering thoughts to surface too, and I wonder of many things and people, there are so many unfinished things, so many things evermore elusive…

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What have I been doing lately?

I rediscovered my love for drawing. It just happened one day, I wasn’t doing anything particularly memorable. I was probably on the train or walking somewhere, probably, I can’t remember.

What makes people remember a single moment so well out of hundreds? Could it be that the feelings bound to particular memories are what a person cherishes most? Even more so than the actual memory of the time spent?

Anyway, I have revisited some moments for these drawings. Somewhere, during some time, these places were.

Somewhere along The North Downs Way, Surrey Hills
Full moon on the sea
The Thames’ phantom trees

I have also rediscovered my impressive lack of patience and my unwillingness to finish anything, but this is not news for me, just something I don’t wish to address. I resultantly have pieces of unfinished drawings here and there, and if you look closely, you can even see where my determination dies in each sketch.

Jazz man Bill

The human condition

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It has been so long, this sinuous journey of mine. It has been unforgiving and dense, but in its slow bends as if in candlelight and a song was playing from the sky, I was in awe from time to time. In such moments, very little mattered.

Somewhere along the way I have learned to see differently. So much has changed so quickly, from one corner of the world to the next very little tends to remain the same, and even less has remained with me. The little things in this material world provide more comfort and solace in the end. The little things are the same people and a few places, the feelings, the portraits yellowing in the corners, the conversations interjecting a favourite song on an old cassette–they always end unfinished, the bottles and vials of thick perfume, the ancient messages on the back of a tattered airmail envelope, a scarf still redolent of a corner in the world, and so on and so on, and nothing more.

In the end,
what is left of this material world? Of the seemingly grand things, the lavish things, the outward things that are so unnecessary. What about you underneath, what will be left of you? A photograph? A poem? A scarf? Simple objects of memory that will unravel the fabric of time just to rearrange everything so perfectly reticulated with an idea, to make someone wonder: look, it will always be alright in the end.

On this journey, the same things seem to go and return, beckoning, abandoning. I have learned that it is a cycle of death and recrudescence and one should expect things to pass as they emerge. So far, much has come and gone and the path grows more rough, more uncertain. I have learned to be patient and content, my journey continues, I feel that I am at a threshold, like when the roads and the birds and the people are asleep, and something stirs in the quiet hum and thrum just after midnight. All the golden things that could be true linger somewhere in the horizon, somewhere beyond the bend, and there’s music.

There are so many things to say.

In the harsh light of some mornings, when my thoughts are still in a nocturne, there are so many things I know to say.
I will explain, but they are hidden.
I will explain, but they are echoes of memory no longer remembered.
They are coloured in moonlight, tucked away in some thousand parallel dreams.
I will explain.
They are on a mountain beneath the shadow of a pine tree.
They are the python’s suffering, the running river’s song.
They are in the eyes of a wild deer, ambushed, afraid.
I will explain.
They speak in the rain, ever so quietly, so gently, but nobody hears.
They are bitter and bleak to the lonesome wayfarer accompanying the wind.
They are littered on an old path denuned by time of its sacred distinction.
I will explain.
They are kismet when the trees shrivel and weep.
They are behind the moon, east of the gate.
They are so many wordless things to say.

The dishevelled hour of 1800

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When the veneer of propriety barely hangs for most and some not at all
and eyes avoid eyes in the abysmal desolation as the last fragments of light filter through the trees
We are all simply passing through this resented place
simply teetering on the precipice of bad conversation
“where did you come from?”
“where are you going?”
and you–enshrouded in a mellifluous saxophone solo or something
dreaming distantly
Do you need to break
quickly
over the phone
in an email
in a letter
a long harboured confession
simply languishing in the hour?