My dearest Agha, Tuesday, August 22, 2005
I rest two books of Said beside my computer yet the feeling in bones is to be reborn with more powers of perception. Imagination. Thinking. Reflecting. I have been meaning to find words to describe Said, a man of letters. Lately I have been shifting to instrumentals of music with my old bonded aged Beethoven but right now it is Miles echoing in mystique of silence stammering his fingers on saxophone and seldom piano languishing penthouses at play. He is no vocal but articulates from gaps betwixt his instrument. Every one has a way with words. Street lights must be blighting, glowing, beaming, shrieking and casting a ghastly stillness of shadow that is least disturbed, staying static, quite not even perturbing its own composure. Perhaps the tube or bulb inside a little turbulent with mosquitoes dwindling on kaleidoscope, murking around its magnetic field. Atmosphere after midnight low on temperature. No pressure of bygone passers. Arrayed and elite residences slowly spell out their white obtrusiveness in dim low tube lights casting images of small closed castles, inspiring honor, tough days, and discipline amid long life of quintessential medals. There must be strayed dogs around looting our every left over and the occasional dunking slum and slam around trash cans. Earth does have a way in perspicacity to tarnish yet refurbish itself one more time despite all the odds of Mars or layers around Ozone. Virgil would prose Roman Empire upon seeing a comet bad omen but to speak of Mars is to transgress thousands of years in history, peep in present and engage on frontiers ahead. Who am I kidding? You might as well by now have construed my circumlocutory merrymaking around orbits that never stays stagnant. Always on the move, probe and trying to improve every millimeter of mind. The pace creeping upward, vertical, perpendicular against its vector limit sometimes low on oxygen and often tenuous around axis exceeding beyond its known pinnacle. All for love of knowledge. T.H. Lawrence wrote letters to his mother telling her how he would enjoy staying up till sunrise in a city asleep reading a book. Stallin’s resolution in simplicity, no man no problem. Kant of time. Russell of routine insomnia. All men with genuine oddities yet one differently prime from another in their even lives as my Baba said. I am assimilating what has been said by Edward. Indeed an intellectual but of limits unbelievable. He is text beyond limit of criticism but then I have much to learn in between lines and letters. Till next time.