One Last Post…

After nearly four years, I’ve decided to leave this blog for good - as to why? Those of you who know me personally may ask, those otherwise, may email if you’d so please, whether or not I’ll answer, is up to me.

Despite the lack of comments these past years, I still do know, as I make it a habit of knowing, that many of my old readers, and new, unnamed lurkers still visit this space - if any one of you would like to keep tabs on my progress in things and my book, do leave your email here and that shall be encouragement enough for me to keep in touch.

It’s time to move on - I may or may not write again, but if i do, it shall be anonymously elsewhere. For those of you who would rather remain anonymous, a good fours years later, Goodbye.

A Friendly Message Earlier in the Year.

Sitting with her in that diner after a long day was pleasant. We had dinner and she, kindly, imparted both my birthday’s present, and Christmas gift. As I sat there thanking her, and waiting for our order, my phone suddenly beeped at the coming of a text message that said:

“Hi hope u ok, tks so much 4 lovely presents. Such a surprise. Take care, c u soon - luv Nan & GD xx”

As I took a while to realise the nature of the message - as, I neither gifted anyone anything of late or have a ‘Nan’ and ‘Granddad’ in London - I seemed lost but then I smile.

Because in this busy, relentless city, it’s important to know that someone is dearly happy.

Pictures & People

    Pictures and people, I think, are special. Not a very significant discovery - I know, since everyone knows so. But having seen a set of pictures from an acquaintance, the places she has been to, from this old city of London to a rather windy city further west of the World, I feel stirred. I feel, that I’ve reached out to that other place, to its people, that I periodically wonder of, without having been there.

Pictures and people are important you see, that they carry forth your essence, through a person, into a place, to be framed by a picture.

Vodka

    She comes in, settles down, and for a moment, looks about. The bottle of vodka, nearly done, and standing lonely among the crowd of things on the table catches her eye.

    ‘Didn’t you just get this yesterday?‘ She asks.

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Why do you drink so much?‘

    ‘Because I can,’ I answer.

    ‘One of these days, I’m going to make you stop drinking,‘ she asserts.

    ‘Perhaps,’ I reply, smiling at the genuinity of that, but knowing better than to accept it as a truth. And then, I pour another glass.

By the Eye

    For a moment, talking to another, I did not notice that great fixture looming beside me. but then, catching the glint of its metal, my eyes rose up, and there it was. The London Eye

    ‘I wonder when I’ll get onto that again,’ I coldly said.

    The wind was biting yet I couldn’t help but remember of old words, and the futility of them now - now, that it had all passed - and then, things became warm again. But warmth can pierce.

Poetry - Peace

   

    Lying down, feeling sealed and hermetic, I couldn’t help but wish for some remedy for my ailment. When I cannot use prose, I use poetry, and this little piece of it came to me when my prosaic articulation failed me. I lay it here to speak of what I felt.

It were my legs, I wish,
That sat upon the white strand -
Stretched awhile -
Between sea and land,
With the image of her semblance in my head,
That all my brain were but one waiting eye,
Upon the horizon to catch her elusive descend -
On all that sleep and wake, live and die,
So that come what may, no man can divide,
Peace and I. 

                                                -Shan

In an Early Grey Morning.

    Having woken up at the stroke of twelve in the morning, I haven’t slept nightlong, and am still, to a great extent, wide awake. It’s forecasted to be a gloomy, rainy, grey day all today, and the morning has not been exempted.

    I sit on my bed with the dull light of the outside filtering through my way-worn curtains. One would think that this is a recipe for a completely maudlin day, but I, somehow, in some way, feel strangely, both uplifted, and solemn.

    I feel prone to a slight, satisfactory smile, but not a gay laugh - I wonder who the former belongs to. Laughter - as I told another today - is seldom ours to own, it is given to us by, and for others, and therein lies the beauty of its peace.

I saw a laughter that was mine today, and by that, I’m content.

Shedded

    I would rather write this with a measure of cognac and a puff of smoke from my pipe, but being blessed with a smoking ban in this country, and having but a drop in my flask, I must forgo both and merely - write.

    Some recent events regarding another prompted me to think of my behaviour in the similar situation of the past. Seen from a, now, objective eye - I did well, but not as well as my nature could have let me. A season had passed - another shall change - since I’ve been here, and with the falling of autumn, and the biting of winter, I’ve shed the past like a dying skin.

    Old times are sweet, but best, not gotten stuck onto.

I Haven’t Posted for Long

I haven’t written here for long - duties, obligations and the sheer lack of time must be to blame - or so I thought.

    She sat across me, with her flaxen hair and black spectacles, already with the discerning eye of a journalist. She questioned me, and I answered her to the best of my abilities. And then, she brought up my blog.

    ‘I see that you write a blog,’ she said.

    ‘Yes - I do.‘

    ‘You rarely write in it nowadays,‘ she said.

    ‘I suppose so,‘ I reply. ‘I haven’t had the time - I haven’t had the will even for my usual writing. I’m happy I suppose.‘

    ‘So,‘ she began, looking deeply into me with her hazel-green eyes, and with a sharpness akin only to her proposed profession, ‘you only write when you are sad then?‘

    I sat still on my bed for a moment without an answer.

Something Someone Told Me Today

     We stood by that infamous intersection by Oxford Street, evading the busyness of the ever moving Londoners. The day was rather dark, but he stood with a kind, carefree expression in his face - speaking to me jovially, being tactile, as if we were old friends even though I had but met him moments ago.    And after speaking long about the difficulties and rigidities of living in this ancient City, he turned into a comforting figure - deep in tone, genuine in intentions - and said with the roots of his sweet African heritage behind his voice:’When God wants to help you, He changes the policy.“  

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