c'est une question du validite

Saturday the 9th of December, 2006

And now, The Name of The Rose, querying the licitness of laughter.
Delight.
Mutually-syncratic idio-facilities, expression-found in the corporal world and through it's transcedence.
That's what I've got to say about that.
I have no basis. I have no limits. I cannot claim. I am not certain.
Is this an admission possessing, in any sense, validity?

as are superlatives

Thursday the 7th of December, 2006

The ridiculous transports us both.
I found it the first time by sharing it. This is one of the ways the divine is present, every day, and in my life, and in the communion with others.
There was an articulate suggestion on the tragedy of being sensitive, susceptible to beauty, attuned to the sublime in existence, and comfortable with forms of perfection, which was offered as an explanation on the Japanese moral character and the effects that were being noted on the Japanese as an entity -in the article preceding the commentary- as the vagaries of global parity brought to bear on the country as a whole.
Explanations are ridiculous.
I am globally mobile, perhaps you remarked.
Freedom, air, water.
Everywhere, in every place, we have much to learn from one another. It's dealing with it.
Dealing with what's there when you find it.
The familiar feeling of reverting to an inner certitude within the domed air in places of worship, only to perform spastic acts of road rage in negotiating the exit from the congregational carpark, to feel intense desire to negate the existence of the people around, to non-confront them, to have Tourettes in spades immediately following from affirming the infinite's capacity for magnanimity.
Managing the equilibrium in the midst of the swirling ravages of every day, everywhere. This is what I think life is worth going through life doing.
I am thinking quicker than this, and it is unbearable to maintain communicative contact at this perambule, however, I am finding joy in it. By what we do, we can be happy. So what is not my inclination in terms of action, can be the arena in which I develop my inclinations in terms of emotion and values. As if anyone directs the course of affairs, while simultaneously, of course everyone mediates the course of affairs.
Slowly now, and back to a time before, if you commit suicide, how will you know what happens tomorrow?
The circular logic of expectations. Logic in quotation marks.
Craving and lust are 2 manifestations of desire. Each influencing different cultures to different degrees. Leading to different experiences of satisfaction. And by so influencing responses to life, also providing each culture with a definitive quality of life.
Desire.
Desire is ridiculous.
I stop being identity-relevant in the presence of the ridiculous. It's something we share.
Further gloriousness in being human that you live to know are compassion, appreciation of music, pattern recognition.
More to come.

waiting

Thursday the 16th of November, 2006
Waiting for - - - -
Thoughts on the state of - - - -
What are you waiting for?
An examination of the easily assumed support structure of the question - - - -
Waiting for the catastrophe that will make sense of everything, the everything that has happened and is recalled, that has happened before.
Some people give the distinct impression, from a distance (across airport carpets, within the tv as they read the script-prompter, insulated by their uniform either physical insignia or mental adherence to protocol) that they are monumentally pressed by their notion of existing on the tracery of the cliff drop. As if some original state of freefall has been arrested, they transmit a quality of vigilance from their globulous selves.
This is funny.
And then I write words I had not previously thought I had thought, and on topics that had not formed any intrarelevance in my mind, as though having decided to write and not finding myself bereft of words or intention once the page is opened before me, extraneous expressions seep in curlicues, improvisation, while the nut I place and replace upon the page, as the piece reshapes and bends, and I review whether the one or the other can be deleted and then decide whether the collation is acceptable.

funniness

Wednesday the 15th of November, 2006

Much of the intentions employers have toward the members of their workforce who are guests in the country can accurately be summed up "to make benefit glorious nation of" ________.
Now, Borat is many things, one, not insignificant, illumination - the precision instrument to measure/ and the precision measurement of the contemporary, global pulse; and another, the device is a love letter to freedom.
In countries where repression is the norm, outsiders are engaged with in circumstances designed to extract usable information without reciprocating. Communication is essentially oneway, which is, do you agree, not communication? Stonewalling another human being isolates an inquirer with their thoughts. When you deny an exchange oxygen, it suffocates. This is repression.
In "Make Benefit of_____", all the disturbing, unquestioned, reinforced normalities that have been encouraged in the various localities, are shared openly. None of the segments of the populations bear any resemblence to the other ones more strikingly than in their attitudes to disclosure, inclusion, and confidence in their beliefs and behaviours.
It's good to be aware of what you would not like to be included in, and good to know what you are expected to do to be included. Some activities have an extracurricular scope that I hope you always have the choice to refuse.
But Borat never can say I love you in this way in this place. Because, a conceit such as saying "I want to be like you, show me how...." is too far advanced in being able to assume that the intruder is engaged with as an individual.

make click

Tuesday the 14th of November

riddim ridden

http://www.pandora.com/

eloquence in extempore

Thursday the 9th of November, 2006

When the dragon licks the sky, the tang of the sweetness of the time before, comes to rest, brought along down the arrow-tip of an illusory tail.
By having a love affair, you become prone to love affairs.
Being prone to love affairs, luck is what spikes your drinks hereafter.
And if you're lucky, you know when the dragon licks the sky.
You look up and memory and novelty make a blanket, an army, horse-hair, hardware of the care your life is wrapped in.
Be happy, you lucky, loved, living choicetwitch. Infinity from nought, a loquacity of significance.

the town planners cough

Sunday the 29th of October, 2006

You saw the low white wall. The cloven tiles scattered on top and the glinting sun on the glazing.
What did you think of the green doors, emphatically chained, martial twins guarding the house? guarding the people. Keeping the people in or out. Keeping the out people out and the in people in.
Did you feel like you wanted to keep a step away from the twiglets on remand from the hedge? A step away and you can focus better, in the gaps, on the foliage beyond.
You just know that the gates are creaky in that place.
Entrances that are diminutive, the step in sunken so you don't catch your head. The earth is different here, it's ours, that's what that lets you know. The hours in here are ours, and bending to come though is the way to do it.

So square, so solid. A cubic metre of explanation.

Saturday the 21st of October, 2006

We prefer the family.
First.
Over and above all.
Really.
And, just so you understand, the accepted rhetoric is better for all concerned in the circumstances.
Because it answers all the acceptable questions.
It is as it is.
It was better before.
Which is, but of course, why we carry on in the same spirit today.
With innovations, in which we specialize and excel, that promote the feeling of wellbeing that our custom has perfected and which was enjoyed and is documented by generations long before.
Oh to be warm, inert and wellfed.
Nurtured.
Group happiness, mass somnambulant activity, and a capricious, anxious titular head, to whom we can demonstrate obseqious gestures that, at times, can undermine or promote that individual while having no impact on the ceremonial value of the act, and to whom physical expression is easier than verbal to come by, and is the just response to all provocations of circumstance, for you can see and understand that unexpected violence is the constant.

a richly veined passive aggressive bedrock

Monday the fourth of October, 2006

I saw a snake escape the afternoon, the other day. It crossed into the grass and morning closed with a flick of its tail.
People know their behaviour has crossed norms when they feel the urge to justify, and they seek the complicity of others when they couch their presentation in terms the other can understand. The victimhood of the ancestors has a ring to it, polyphanous. Where the narrator places the onus, to whom the narrator would have it befall the wound, the failure, the responsability or the shirking of it. Who is seen as the betrayer, the betrayed, the perpetrator. To whom were the consequences kind.

They were competitive.
He was struck by the competitiveness of individuals in the highly conformist society.
They didn't want to be most like the other, he thought.
They wanted to be most like the ideal societal unit; fulfilling the mosaic of categories
of age and position and image.
More like the ideal than the next person.
This conundrum had a force.
The almost murderous desire to surpass their peers, and the necessity of peer-group comparison,
parity and pressure.
It was a bedrock.

I live in a place where altruism is a non-idea. Where everybody's motives are suspect. Where acting in your own self-interest is the basso profundo. It makes for intense competition, and open jostling for power and resources. There is no pretence even at solidarity.
I make no comment as to whether there is a right or a wrong switch to this, only that it has been some time since I heard innocent laughter, and I miss it.
I miss knowing that someone is happy.

Below is some version of an assessment of a tradition. It has merits.
Competitve hospitality. Arms-length hospitality. Ostentatious hospitality. Arranging situations to leave the guest in a position of scrutiny, when scrutiny can only mean vulnerability. Hospitality as a glittering mirror, behind which moves the secret.
Hospitality as a concert of exclusion.

Another is to say take us as we are and we take you as you are. One says come in, the other keeps silent.

fierce, winged cat

Sunday the first of October, 2006

He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.

A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.

If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.

The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.

Irreverently semiotic.

swaying in the breeze

Sunday, the 17th of September

A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.

Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...

spatially elastic

Sunday, the 10th of September, 2006

Unless you've taken a trip to somewhere unpronounceable - even if it's extended - with full intentions to come back, you have never seen anything as colossal as this palace we saw out the back of the tourbus windows, as palatial as the colusseum we skirted on our way through the forest-scented pines barricading the rocky inlet after spending the morning at an exquisitely appointed mausoleum.

the span of sound

Tuesday, the 5th of September, 2006

It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.

aria

Saturday, September the 2nd, 2006

To hear Pedro tell it, I'm a beautiful beast, with a sleek sleek coat and beautiful feet.
Pedro is a liar at the best of times and in the present mayhem, put it down to verbal hyperbole of the fantasist stripe.
These days are fast approaching from the left and from the right, they suddenly arrived and replaced the shapeless night, making lenses that picked up on what was previously unclear, and sounding out vibrations of normally inaudible frequencies.
It's the days , it's the days, and the time containing meanings. It's the moments, and in the moments, in the panic that ensues, I think Pedro's having visions, seeing things that are not there, being kissed by the poetry bruising the air.

Chernobl has deviated production of chlorophyll

Saturday the 15th of July, 2006

The direction of the path was out. From St. David, Portuguese Foundation, Canterbury quad. The noise sent people quicker in their destination. The buzzing in the sky swept the open spaces clear of the students and visitors under the trees they went and in through the doors..
Helicopters appeared, looking rectangular and cardboard. They flew making right-angles until they were in position. A group formation with a purpose. Uniformed figures approached from behind distant buildings.
A ladder hung toward the earth.
I went inside. I passed heavy red curtains into an annexe with a couple of sofettes in an L against the corner on the right. I pulled the opposite one, so that a triangle space could accommodate, but this was not a hiding place. It was not a hiding time. The guard came in and flicked a finger at me - tallying the collateral of his purview.
I walked into the seated assembly of others in the foyer.
There was a smell of premature stale sweat, of fear that was swirling in currents of minimizing and encouraging. No one knew what was going on. No one wanted to provoke a scenario that was inevitable. No one wanted to venture a query, to presume and be wrong.
It was cold. My heart beat. To stop my eyes from getting small, I thought ahead. I saw the lieutenant.
"Did you come in the helicopters?" He smiled because I could be killed now or later.
"Are they yours?" "Yes. I am captain."
"They are awe-inspiring." "They are far beyond anything that came before. There is nothing to touch them."
"The noise they make, that knocks everything out, how can they make that effect?" "We can go everywhere."
I didn't suggest anything more, and watched to see it unfold.

At times I feel like a witness to the trials of those in a routine and indignity that each urban morning wakes them up to. And what use am I?

Monday the third of July, 2006

I could be otherwise engaged.
As if I should be doing something else.
With the time. With my skills.
To my potential.
As per instructions. For a higher cause. In case I was mistaken. If my efforts were futile.
If my efforts were inconsequential because I had missed, misinterpreted or forgone the pertinent signals.
A fear that by every step I invalidated myself
- rephrase -
A possibility entertained in all spheres of my activity that I invalidated the conditions upon which I was understood previously.
As if I was consigned to make and remake the doorway through which I entered to start my whole life.
As if my life was excluded - by my own actions, my own lack of a grasp, a tentative grasp, on the codes of relevance - from wholeness.
As if I raked into a farfelu semblance, the approach to wholeness.

Then I think, grow up, this is where you are and you're enjoying the rich stability
the stimulus
the opportunity
the perpetuum mobile
of this era.

And part of me wonders how long to give it, or to pick up and move on.
But what it am I thinking of?
There is no it, except the wonderful, opportune opportunity that happens in the course of my travels, where I'm supposed to be absorbed in immersion and discovery.

It's a stay/go consideration.
And dealing with the things I find.
Dealing with what's there when it's there.

a story

Friday the twelfth of May, 2006

It was a long high afternoon on the goat plain. Imported goats from the hills of the Camargue and the indiginous breeds. Grass itched at the collar of the herder. Soft fleece collar, a deep blue that was moistureguarded by some spray from Switzerland over the natural resistance of karakul suede. This was a million times better than being in a polluted, humanly overbuilt, seething morass of commerce. This was where he was actually seeing. This had no culture, in the gilded sense of a historical discipline. Not in the sense of a national company. Not in the sense of a system of trust and foundation. In the twisted strands of antique money.
This had at it's core, him. His soul. Himself, which he was coming to realise was not a nothing. He was capable of generating psychic sense. A fear had not been realised that he was of no substance. He was more than an acceptance that he looked inwards and dissolved under an inability to merit focus. What a rejoicing sentiment came over him, when he realised that he was vibrant, that he blossomed under scrutiny.
Fuck was he happy to be here. The day was washed in triumph, that he had got a plane ticket and train ticket and taxi and coffee at the side of the road before heading into the horizon that ate the highway. That he had put his money to work. That he hadn't touched money - that old finger-worn, pocket-secreted supply-chain that constituted his fellow citizens closest of relationships - in all of the time he had since had time to lose track of.
That here and now he had no cause to justify himself to anyone. Had no doubts, and no expectations, beyond that the pasture and the yield of the herd would be sufficient to see what would happen next. Barring attack. Intruders in the night. And pissing off the neighbours.
And neccessitating bureaucracy by invitation only.

exhale exalting

Wednesday the 10th of May, 2006

for freedom
for the desire to accept the moment
for the voices of all those who are most dear to me
reinvigorating my spirits, making me laugh, lights among lights
for the opportunities taken to add to the good when others ask
for the stillness
for faith
for constant flux
for not understanding
for stopping
for the long days at sea, when you feel inutile, and the period interminable, that once on land you long for as the time when you were engaged, and useful and effective
for discernment and scorn when it comes to "make work"
for giving myself dignity and extending my understanding of vulnerablity to the point of view of others
for taking it easy
for laughing

they were together

Friday the 5th of May, 2006

They were on the sort of date where they tell each other irrefutable facts about life.
They may or may not forgo the movie.

They were on the sort of date where they view their daughter and approximate companionship through the glow of sharing an infant.

They were on the sort of date where neither dressed up, they both watch the tv shorts with interjected prolongversation and he forgets to eat so it's a slow hang and then she toucjes his eyebrow and indicates a line running across his forhead and he twitches his legs from his toes then they turn back to the tv, talking.

They are on the sort of date where they alternate who is buying the next snack and one goes to the bathroom for as long as it takes the other to answer their phone.

immediate

Wednesday the twenty second of March, 2006

I like travelling - to see infirm people & on occasion, mad ones. Seeing how their compatriots treat them is generally how I form opinions about all sorts of things about foreignness.
There are quite a few instances of infirmity around the place; sort of exacerbations of social vulnerability, unwashed or overscrubbed, louse ridden, painfully shy, aggressive and wary - hey, I guess that's what inequality means - unforgiving, unheeded people.
They offer nothing that is wanted by the robust individuals of functioning units and yet ignoring them does not diminish them. It has an obverse effect, it diminishes the sum total of the particular societies value. To itself and that's the funniest thing. It's as ever present an evocation of what's "real" in a place as the filthy railway box I'm alive in.
The mad are another matter. These angry birds who have yet to form a coalition, who, (in the whole wide world and throughout millennia), are the most highly cohesive amalgam to combine penetrating thought, exemplary existential investigation with persistant voice.
Mad people are international. Mad people are very scary when they try to be friendly. Mad people are not affected to an overwhelming extent by, for example, their circumstances. This sets them apart from the infirm, whose existence, (and experience of their existence), is in large part, a product of their surroundings.
Mad people are relatively untouched by the normalcy which surrounds them - invarious forms, regional & national. But they are not unhinged, they are plugged in to some "higher", more insistant reality which is pressing on them. Thus, mad people are not placeless, and I like watching them, when I find one, watching those around them navigate around each other and doing their best to provide guidance.

everybody looked fulfilled

Tuesday the twenty first of March, 2006

The most striking examples of the city's character stemmed from the serene complacency of all those wearing the funny items.
Pristine lines of sculptured bikes, that, as they transversed the metropolis, reflected the hypodermic rays of morning light and played on my eyes like a symphony of silences whose intentions were to spread whimsy and a practicality associated with Finnish housemothers who provide tomato sandwiches for break.
Footwear with philosophical ramifications. Made with materials that referenced the past of other peoples. Molded with total appreciation of the pedal ligaments or with total disregard for the anatomical alignment of either foot.
People who wore their uniforms to the letter and people who wore the emblems of occupations they did not pursue, to the letter, were winking at me, saying that this was their city that I was in, and that this was them.
The peace and electricity hummed along nicely, while I spent the time looking into the eyes of the place and saw openness and curiousity, which was what was looking back at me.
I very much liked this place for it's expressiveness, for it's lightness and steadfastness. Everybody looked fulfilled.

shabat

Sunday February 12th, 2006

there is no sun in the night, as a statement of fact and no definable importance, other than that it is an empiric observation that could be suggested as a necessary condition for the purposes of describing "not day".
we are all creatures of the mind, said the little one, interjecting another thought into the handful that had words attached, an opposable thumb, a whimsical thought that was strong enough to divert what you minded, strong enough to return to for giggles.

Sometimes I am ridiculously happy and calm, and things seem secondary to my experiencing them. And at others, it's as though my tail is easier to chase than attempting to ride through the multiple situations that various groupings of people are lassoing me with based on my position among them. Baseless, shifting sands, hello tail, and neurotica, and self-assuming the qualities that I feel from outside myself.
I feel (totally subjective, could be my madness - there I go again) unloved - ergo I say: I am unlovable. I feel taken for granted - I say: I give too easily for this situation, I misjudged. I feel out of the loop - I say: I am insufficiently social.
And it's not true.
I'm telling you now, it's absolutely indupitably contrary to how things are.
So I reassure myself, put my vocabulary back on fair and square (no sliding, inferences, warping for trauma).
And where does that leave me, undermining my own naive enjoyment of all my friends, coworkers, and family?
It's impossible to tell everybody everything. And why would you?
But still it's impossible, and the gaps make it hard to navigate. How to know in advance what is relevant. And how it changes. The trajectory is one thing, the curvature of the arc determines that the points of intersection will be significantly different. That's significant, little one.
We are all creatures of the mind.
Sometimes I feel the equilibrium that comes, like it did today, from all of us acting out of our own initiatives, small gestures that addeed up together, quiet consideration, a low-key syncronised comfort, because I am leaving and it somehow takes the pressure off, to have an end-date, and the moments were appreciated, as they came and flowed into others.
I appreciate the people who got in a taxi and made the trip, who dressed for the occasion, who provided surprises, who extended themselves only as far as, who asked for what they needed, who made new jokes, included the new people, and told new stories, who behaved as one should when it's goodbye but not really good bye.
The new ones displayed evidence of their idiosyncracies about food, responsability, social silence. That was funny. And the old ones, we know what ours are.

"Come with me, come with me", said the night. "Leave the dark to itself." And he ground my hand to dust.

Choix de Vivre

Saturday 21st January 2006
Striding the asphalt of the avenue, a madness not of his choosing took hold of him. He parsed beneath the tree branches, jacarandas all of them.
He could not find his comfort in the company of anyone he knew. There was a restless pause between his emotions these few weeks and what his friends offered in their interactions. He knew he existed apart from the relationships he had. And had had, although, they weren't dead or invisible or irrelevant, they were before and elusive, and they were still just as accessible as the relationships he was in now.
He wasn't disappointed, not even close. He always dove in, fully present, unaware of asking for anything other than what the others were extending, and madder than hell when at those times people shied away, asking for a prenup before a simple smile. A precursor. A guarantee of fidelity and for the other person - him - to extend an indicator of trust. Things he would never percieve at the start of startings, smiling and such. Saying hello, making eyecontact. Giving a lift. Asking what he could do, far over how he could help.
Was it bending over backwards? Hardly.
Or was it?
Did they look and think, that man tries, and laugh?
Not his question. Not his concern. It was a disservice to his understanding of humanity to single out the gladhanders.
But damn, the cheek, the gall and the presumption of the semiretards who withhold their potential for fulfillment. Who refuse to say yes.
They scared or what?
Fear from where? He, this man under the jacarandas, did not know of a fear that would cripple so mindlessly and needlessly. He hated it.
By not comprehending it, it didn't really occur to him in any clear sense.
He could not attack it and have done with it. He still wanted to be friends with the world, but not the ones who turned their heads to the walls, who looked down and practised being shy. Who snubbed and deprecated, according to conventions that brought them a diminished account of being alive and in their bodies. He was persistently disturbed by the unsatisfactory restricted prescriptive silence.
I choose, he said. I choose.

Supplying your own demands

Thursday January 19th, 2006

Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.

Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.

I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.

and now, about the other one

Sunday the eighth of January, 2006

The creases alternated between shadowing her face with the whispers of memories previous - Things that were even memories in the time before we met - and revealing another face to be included in all the other faces her face had to reveal. She had lived a long time. She had lived a lot in the time she had begun to count. She had more living accumulated in her features than one life could reveal, and she was revealed as wondrous and never-ending as time itself; she occupied the present in such intensity that it was matched and kept constant only in her abdication of any contemporary ties, that balanced the immediacy of her presence with an absoluteness that bespoke her longevity and her connection to the things I recognised as having meaning.
She was a human, breathing scales of eternity as far as it could find scope in the experience of a homosapiens of no broadcasted reknown.
How do we come to know these ones when we come across them? I neither know this or many other questions, similar and disparate.
About the treatment of time on her face, from careful, undisturbed glances on her skin as her mind is occupied with conversation, arithmetic, joke sharing, arranging food, preparing the properties of comfort for another person, the refining process that it has enacted is peerless. She is both here and wholly, not-enough for the present.
I don't think that the world is enough for her. She is certainly meet for the world. She has accompanied it in faith, long enough, and will continue to do so in the future that is not a guarantee.