the quiet interior

The Tulips crash open
with Holland and Islam.

everyday objects, transformed by light, into richness.

a day before Ramadan starts. preparation for silence. some think it's a mask or self-centred-and indeed it often is (no-one can face too much reality). but also an unmasking. after the floods-fourteen million affected- there's a strangeness about it this year. do rituals count before humanity? Man was not made for the sabbath. the important thing: the right intentions. and yet, this year you hesitate...

~~~

a field of grass, slanting down from a high road bordering Victoria park. at the bottom, a parallel dusty path. and from one to the other a snaking, diagonal, well-trodden path, like a line on one's hand. the field between the school and the dark library with its deep stone walls. beyond the dusty path a mass of tangled nettles and thorns, gnarled trees and purple berries no-one ever picked-and "the pit" in which each new kid was thrown into as a sort of ritual. this field, which was full of summer days and changeless days, this field which was here in the silence before any human being was, that endured so many winters, allowed ghosts and laughing children to wander across it, that slept whilst slender moonlight fell on her with a generous constancy for thousands and thousands of years, was like the whole world, or at least like a body that contained Paris and London. or your heart.

~~~

'he tried not to see bleak things bleaky'
---on Vincent Van Gogh.

~~~

I will probably not be blogging for a while. Keep well, all.

b.