I lie in bed reading the New York Times review of the Murakami book (“not morally there but delivers the fix”, like crack cocaine I suppose, not sure if I know with just one of his books under my belt, a book that came with an intriguing recommendation at that), an article on fooling experts with wine tasting (“they all get fooled if the goal is to fool them, but it ain’t all so simple and it’s fallibility of man really”, delivered in this TV documentary style writing that is becoming the staple of all writing it seems) and wait for your call.
Some stupid operational coordination requires a lot of phone calls this morning and I’m trying hard to commandeer the phone without making it all too obvious. It’s been touch and go and I have to act casual or anal (really the same in sense) lest the image of phone hoarding force explanations.
Tea arrives and with it the discomfort of an older middle, somehow on a low diwan (really it does seem that the height of a flat platform does something to sense of orientation even if all your acts are all stuck in the same plane) the act of tracking the phones (one in my pocket one tucked away in the razai), refilling tea cups even drinking, placing the screen angled for the reading glasses and against interruptions, all happens better when the waist is all of 18 and not cruising 80, which is what mine seems to be doing at the moment.
Is she up and is she to the world as she is to me a sort of a background hum and murmur (“enthralling with a hint of seduction”) that saturates like a gait of fulsome sways would, you think, saturate the room but ultimately just floats through and you are sure it what just a whiff.
As easily lulling as a perfume that hints to the season and you think someone must have left the window open and the morning breeze is carrying it in and that it’s still early summer.
Oh humdrum every day things. So you don’t notice till one day you don’t need to notice. The coach class demur countenance does not do stares and really even love doesn’t change the laws of physics across two different houses and towns five hundred miles away.
Hum and murmur
made of seeing things
Like some strange
cinema projection system
pliable air
warm and cold
molecules move
with hum and murmur
take shape
warmth encouraging
and cajoling
the tiny energies
of little hums and murmurs
the cold holding form
projected ice sculptures
white on white
air on air
clarity without contrasts and shadows
a sense really
of something greater than real.
Till it melts away
ice into clear liquid
gurgles into wet memories
dry ice vanishing
without a trace.
Two different phenomenon
defined by the same law
(too many interruptions and I ended up losing the sense of where I wanted to go with this – i am sure you are wondering about me and your walk. Seeing things slowly. Painting a picture. What is the process really? Is a preamble needed, the ink sketch outline of the form, reassuring and seeking permission all together. An homage to bourgeois manners, the decency of clothes and brief time bound nakedness. Trust that is given without reason, and then claws back at those very reasons, nay demands them)
kalpaean 