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The Timean Maid

I am talking to you which I have been meaning to do for a long long time, a very long time and when a man of time uses the word long you must multiply it with a huge number to get a sense of its length since a Timean Man is going to tell you the legend of time that will last as long as time itself does which is quite longer a time after which it will cease by going back into the ultimate time mothership, the eternity. After the big bang, for this is what you call it, but we the Eternity’s children manning the universe around objects wherever you find them. Wherever there are objects there are centres around which they are gravitating on a three directional speed and velocity forking out axists, orbits and outerbits which means that they are spinning around themselves, around their centre and around their bigger centre to which their centre is doing the same: axists, orbits and outerbits which will have their centres which in turn doing the same: axists, orbits and outerbits and wherever this is happening, which is pretty much the case universally, you are going to find time and thus we the children of Eternity are all shapes, sizes and colours as you find humanity in so many different colours, sizes and shapes.

This happens because of where we are, what matters, what anti matters, what lights, what heats, what colds, what pressures, what rays, what dusts, what gasses, what bursts, what winds, what weathers, what magnetism, what powers, what energies, what fibres, what fabrics, what gravities, what weights, what motional interactions, what waves and what responses occurs when multiple and often infinite constantly changing variables come to impact on the others.

Thus we are different but at the same time we are at the core the same allowing space and objects to bloom through motion the way you are trying to do the same. It is about letting things bloom for bloom is the being, you see. Must you not forget this maxim whether you are a child of man or eternity you must remember: the bloom is the being and the bloom is the reason for this whole spectacle of this universe and talking of the bloom, that is what prompted me to want to talk to you.

You see, the reason for the bloom is nothing else but only, only and the only thing: love. One can not bloom unless they know what love is and we the children of Eternity are no different and here comes the astounding breathtaking and magnanimous Timean Maid, the Belle, the Belle, the only the only Belle for me!

I have been searching for her, for her, for her alone, for I know she is love and I need her to expound this bloom so that my being can occur otherwise I will just mechanically march on and forward maniacally getting worn out which is what you think of time and which is why you are all so old in so young an age. For time to you is nothing but a mechanical tick tock of a thing you call Clock. But the clock is no time the way the water in your glass is no ocean! Your clock is the glass that holds a little water of time and you forget the business of the ocean!  

Anyhow, let me carry on with my story for I do not expect to hold your thin attention bucket for too long for you have no notion of what Eternity is and thus you thinkwhere the Jubilee Line begins and ends that is where London does as well as time. But let me tell you, as soon as you know what time is you will forever spend entire of your being living it and loving it turning all the stones and rocks and sands and earths and everything else for that matter to locate that Timean Maid and live and live and live more. You, I am afraid, do not understand time and here I am not imparting any such skills or knowledge for one has to hit the truth and get burst out as a spring to know what the truth is for themselves. Thus it won’t help even if I draw you a diagram of it. It simply won’t help at all. You will have to hit hard one day onto the stone of truth and let the force of the hit burst you into a spring and wet and light you with the beauty of it and you just sing out! 

So at the beginning of this beauty’s breaking out, this Belle, this Timean Maid I come back for that is what I want to tell you about. I found myself manning the timean space around Earth. All I was doing was going round and round her as she span around on her axist, orbit and outerbit. I noticed something about her. She was a clever woman, must I admit for she knew the bloom was the being as she was deeply in love with the Sun, unfortunately, for the Moon, for the poor bugger was lost at the first dawn he had laid his silver eye on her. Poor Moon! He had nothing, no lights of his and he had no means to reach or come anywhere near her. And yet he found a way to sing to her every day and every night. He used her lover’s lights and made music out his being by becoming a mirror reflecting back all the lights and the earth eventually became half in love with the moon for half of her always looking at the Sun adoring and adorning him while the other half is doing the same to the Moon. 

I was on the other hand going round and round, walking and walking with my thinking holds made of two pieces of woods. I would walk and walk and walk more and I was young and I was getting all marked by differing weathers, differing landscapes, even differing gravitational pulls on differing levels of altitudes. Thus as I walked through this haze of differing circumstances I began to change shapes and colours for the impact of weathers and in places I became pale, what people call white, sharper pale or white and lighter pale or white, burnt white, burnt brown-white, in places brown, sharper brown, lighter brown, in other places I became dark, darker and deeper darker more what earth people call black. But I learnt what a fuss they make of this without knowing a thing about what it is that made people become like that!  

Anyhow, as I grew I begun to learn and understand things better as you all do too. I begun to notice the solar eclipses and lunar eclipses which occur in regular intervals and I realised why they happened which I had not understood when I was younger. This is the time when these celestial lovers make connections to rejuvenate their affection and love. I remember in one of those lunar eclipses I asked the moon why these eclipses were necessary and he smiled and explained everything.  

But what he told me had blown me over for he seemed to have known more about my destiny than anybody else, well, surely he had known more than what I ever did. He told me that I was destined to find my reason for bloom on earth who was supposed to be a Timean Maid, a Belle. In fact, he said, she would be the Belle. I was destined to find her and he told me how magnanimous she would be.  

Ever since I have been searching her and it seems she had been searching me too. Only I realised after a long long time singing songs of longing, love and despairs that she was ahead of me searching me assuming that she would find me ahead of her. Since the earth was round and we were going round and round on this circular paths both of us was ahead and behind each other at the same time.  

It took me a long time to realise that I would, I would, I would never meet her for she and I are always chasing each other. But that happened long before you people created the Meridian line which helped us follow the course of the earth better for everything now was marked and specified. 

They even offered me a Residence at Greenwich Observatory which I refused to take for I have been a runner, a traveller and I have now been in love with Belle who kept singing and calling me only I would catch their disappearing glances like lighting rainbows. I wanted to carry on singing to her and searching and seeking her and if I stayed inside this dome it was not going to help me. 

So I carried on routing my route and singing to my Belle who I would only see in my dreams and I would make music and sing them to the skies and winds hoping they would take them to her. I would send the wind to take her my love and longings for her. And I would know when they came back with fragrances of her body, mind and soul. Partly those songs of my love for Belle, my longings, my pining for her contributed towards the seasons you see and enjoy. 

But one day it occurred to me that I would have to simply stop following the meridian line and locate myself somewhere from where surely I could see Belle passing me where I could stop her and seek an audience with her to just give myself out for she was the queen, my queen, my magnanimous, my reason for the bloom and the being. 

Then a friend of mine, you know him, History told me about the Taj Mahal and I liked the idea of making a Taj Mahal. But the problem for me was we the children of Eternity cannot build things for we only carry our eyes catches and treasure them in our being. So I thought hard and decided the best thing for me to find a home by The River Thames and what a better place than finding yourself a home at The Big Ben always by the river two banks connected by Westminster Bridge and both the Sun and the Moon readily available to bring the world and weather to me during day and night where the oceans send their gifts of tides germinated from the love between the moon and earth and that was where I located myself and started waiting for my Belle, for my Timean Maid, my Timean Soul and that was where I begun to build my Taj Mahal for my Belle. 

Since I made a home in the Big Ben people began call me Big Ben. I only ring the Belle. That is when I started to ring the Belle you see, I have been ringing my Belle, long before she came to ring mine! 

I would come down of my Tower and walk across the Bridge and go to the southside of the river and sit by the flowing river thinking of my Belle. I would talk to her and imagine things and place and make things in my head for her, beautiful thoughts, beautiful images, wonderful songs and wondrous melodies and I would build a Taj Mahal every sun lit days and every moon lit nights and wait for my Belle. 

One moon lit night in the year of the bloom, the year of the supernova, the year of the blessings of Eternity, my Belle came and found me at my Taj Mahal that I had been building for her. I looked at her and I simply forgot what or who I was. I was now the river in her ocean and we simply became one and nothing but one! 

Since then, you see, I feel whole now, a whole and nothing but a whole each being the reason for other’s bloom and the reason for our being. And each and every hour we ring each other’s bells. I ring to her all the odd hours and she rings all the evens. She wanted to ring the odd hours but I wanted her to bring in the new year and thus I insisted that she rang the even hours. 

And this is why I wanted to talk to you, you see. You people keep calling our home the Big Ben but is no longer Big Ben it ought to be Big Belle, you see, for this Tower, this home is part of the Taj Mahal I built on both side of the river across the Bridge for my Timean Maid, for my Timean Soul, for my Belle, my beautiful Belle, for my wondrous, my magnanimous, my Eden Eye, my Edenium, Imsonium Belle. 

Thus, I ask you to take this task for me, please, please do not refuse it, take it to the world of this little place that you call England and tell the people that live there that this is a tiny place, wondrous a place and that it looks even more awesome being part of the whole and do tell them that I have built this Taj Mahal for my Astounding Belle as a token of my love for her and I would like everyone to change the name of Big Ben and call this home of Time Beautiful Belle. Let me tell you this, I will still be ringing the Belle and she will still be ringing the Ben for you that is nothing but our love and love is the eternal sun at the centre of the universe and where there are lights and love is the ultimate lights, you can never stay in the dark. Let everyone know that the Timean Maid forever brings for them their new year as waves of the gifts of Eternity in a shrunk rose that holds petals of possibilities in the form of days and nights held together in and by love. She brings in love, she welcomes in imsonium. Let everyone that comes here go home taking a piece of our souls that is now one, an onadia soul; eternally and, let everyone sing imsonium in their body, mind and soul as soon as they hear Beautiful Belle or I ring in an hour or a year for all that you need to know is nothing but the reason of the bloom, the reason of the being: mine is the Belle and I give you her infinite beauty and her awesome brilliance, her magnanimous mind, her astounding sonar coral foundation, the  breathtaking magnificence of her soul that will shine in this place as long as matters bloom, motions sing, times roll, lights flow and darkness magnetises. I give you my soul’s iminsarine, I give you my soul, my Belle, my Beautiful Belle. Call her the Beautiful Belle and when you call her out listening to her sonar bloom she will make you rise like an ocean, light like the moon, sing like the high-tide Thames, roam in the sky like the majestic eagles, run like magnifirerious horses, play like the human-spring children, open like the buds of a rose, close like the silence in the dew-wrapped jasmine night and love like Romeo and Juliet! Call my Beautiful Belle and you are an imsonium for she is a flowing glowing shining rising melting tilting swinging sliding riding slithering soulsamine Beautiful Belle!

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The Place for the Dot

This high tide is now receding and the waters that had brought the silts and soul of the sea to the lands, now deposited the desired wealth and it is now receding; becoming a pregnant gold colour, impregnated by the land’s and people’s left over touches and, it all now flows downhill. I sit beneath Westminster Bridge bridging the broken poles and pillars of my disarrayed thoughts. People are peopling the place, busy battering their cameras with photos that one day will be the only thing that remains of their past that they will look and probably will not remember the moments that they once lived.

The Romanian musician took a hold under the bridge and played beautifully and I sit listening to the music of receding river’s waves hitting the wall and the music coming from under the bridge. It is almost tangible that I sit in an arch made of the music flowing from my back and the music rising from my front: man’s and God’s, two rising over me, two arches crossing each other, place me inside their beauty’s bound. I feel part of the peace and I looked at the water hitting this wall that invited in the river forming a letter I and this I rises on each ends onto steps that rise up greened by water-fed moss forming another green I on the grey wall. I look at the waters that are now only waves rising and hitting the wall and the steps and the sounds that they make are almost like the sounds of trains when they slow down approaching stations. These waves, these sounds, these pieces of peace, in which I am a part, begin to thicken in a beautiful spread over a glistening darkness that opens up an avenue on which I now walk: in the dark looking for a train, looking for the train that runs like a rising metaphor of music crafted in motion’s flows over the silence and chandelier-darkness. 

The train runs on a spread out elastic-rubber band of hours cutting an invisible snake-river over the dark-damp earth, night’s cool air and glistening dark space spreading sounds of hissing ceaselessly vibrating the spread of thick sleepy darkness spreading and rising as though knitting a wave-circled cloth of some magnificence. The only sound is the train, the only line is the train, the only motion is the train, the only awake is the train, the only movement and music is the train; the rest of the world is the celestial festival of darkness. The sky non existent as everything is engulfed in an eclipse of dark. In the absence of lights the matters that move away against the train’s speed look deeper shades of dark thus villages, trees and the vegetation appear darker art works over a another dark canvas all standing static and still. 

This still that drank silence till the train appears with its speedy running forward with the direction of ahead in its driver’s sleepy head. The dark is the firefly-dance of a different kind of lights. The air seems like air-aqua: cool and almost silk-moist on the face. I sit by the window let the speed-flown air comb my hair that flows backwards, a dark-hair spring over my dark head; I keep looking out where dark moves against dark almost like two dark lines travelling against each other and they meet, greet and says good bye at the same time. The window appears a connecting port hole and I look through the darkness deeply bewitched by the magic of this expressive delights of things as they are and in which this silence knits this peace, pieces of which fit in so beautifully, almost like a lower case i where the dot stands floating over the main little line of the letter!  I drink the pieces at this window as though I was the Sub Saharan Desert sands and feel a burning desire to join in the pieces of the peace being the dot over the body of the lower case letter i and fit perfectly beautifully. 

I was at that point in time, Dhaka bound, on the intercity train that ran like poetry of motion’s signature signed in by motion’s glorious flowing ink in the dark slate through the countryside night-ride where night was what beauty might be: a song of serenity’s awesome tree spread over the horizon. The whole sky is eaten away into this dark tree that now holds all in a serengeti of beautiful darkness.  

Darkness flows down over the river as the clouds thickens over head and the music now has stopped. I keep looking at the waters hitting the wall still making these beautiful sounds making music that rises and embraces me like a sonar vine. I still think of the train that runs on a spread out elastic-rubber band of hours cutting an invisible snake-river over the dark-damp earth, night’s cool air and glistening dark space spreading sounds of hissing ceaselessly vibrating the spread of thick sleepy darkness spreading and rising as though knitting a wave-circled cloth of some magnificence. The only sound is the train, the only line is the train, the only motion is the train, the only awake is the train, the only movement and music is the train; the rest of the world is the celestial festival of darkness. The sky non existent as everything is engulfed in an eclipse of dark. In the absence of lights the matters that move away against the train’s speed look deeper shades of dark thus villages, trees and the vegetation appears darker art works over another dark canvas all standing static and still. I imagine hearing a call, a voice, a note, calling me: Come in, here is the place for the dot!

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Write It, Do

If I were to tell you a made up story, a story that could build a seven storey building of lights standing on waters of the river that rises and falls twice a day carrying the moon floating inside her as a silver pulsating eye of the sky, quivering to rise up and go home again; would you believe in the truth of it? Would you not scream that such a thing can not possibly be fathomed out of human ingenuity! Would you please for a second stop wearing that armour of cynicism, stop breathing in this cyanide of the market and let me tell you this story, this story that will rise you to the spectre where you can only touch spectacles and become an oracle of the impossible that is simply a word for people who are scared to broaden their ability to touch and see. You see, there is no such thing, in this thingsful universe, that lacks a starting point or end for that material matter, in such a tiny word, she is infinite in her spread and breadth and depth and scope and skips and ships and waves and tides both high and low! Thus, you see, in the infinite matter of infinite numbers of variables anything is a possibility where there can be a song for every single photon that ever dances out into being either an element or a wave compounding the joy of colours and lights both the garden and the flowers that grow over the spread of darkness. 

Now that I have offered you a truce-element and that I am hoping somehow you will haul yourself to silence and sincerely sit still and let me tell you this story where you will have to undo a lot of things that clasp you and shape you into a tiny little hive-cubicle in a beehive. You see, you think of map, you think of marks and make up and even though they are made up, you believe in them more than you do in yourself. 

I urge you to abandon any notion of such things for they are irrelevant in this tale I am going to tell you which is going to take you places, places where magic is not only possible but real as real as your reading this. Don’t you see the magic in this fact that you are reading this story with your eyes looking at these letters organised in such an order and then somehow you are able to decipher what these letters mean and then you make sense of things and form judgements about them? Why do you not consider this a miracle? 

Yet let us carry on with this can of ours that will draw out the silver water watering the garden of our imagination. Let us first of all shape these ideas and let us begin at the beginning. You see, in our head it has been stamped in and solidified that everything is flat or three dimensional. But in a space that is multidimensional there cannot be three dimensions. Dimensions there are infinite in numbers for this universe goes on in every possible directions and dimensions that we cannot possibly fathom out for the fact that we can only knit finite amount of wool with our finite number of hands and fingers and neurons!  

Hence, here is the hide-out for us: abandon this misconception that we have to be on land that has an end where the sea begins and it is full of water and it rises and falls in high and low tide! The ocean is not floating only on earth on grounds! Ocean is the Universe and these matter-made materials-sung things that are played in the orchestra of perpetual motion and elaboration of expansions, rises and falls, births and deaths taking shape constantly that we call stars and planets and moons etc are nothing but islands made of matters and they are floating not in space but imagine space-water that is filled with darkness water which is the mother magnetism of things and nothing on which everything flourishes. Thus all these matter-islands face the shore of eternity that sends out the high and low tide in different waters: in lights, in darkness, in sonar energy, in rays, in radio waves, in anti-matters hardly understood mechanics, the darkness-magnetism that is beyond even imagination that feeds the space and the whole spectacle; and in many other ways of high and low tides that we do not understand yet and even if we carry on understanding more of these things, we will forever understand little for subtracting from the infinite you may never reduce anything from it! In our little human logic this might not make initial sense but for our numbers, even if infinite, must have some end to it! But infinite does not have an end or beginning even! 

Thus here we are then! We are at the shore of eternity facing in every possible direction always receiving the high and low tide and both offer us opportunities to rejuvenate ourselves and learn and live more, touch and reach more, ring and sing wide and run and risk further. 

These utopias, these made up mess of countries, of nations, of nationalities, of this and that and so on and so forth are irrelevant. We are one, the whole one and nothing but one and so long this one is where we are we are the bloom. 

Thus let me carry on telling you this story that I was going to tell you, a made up story, a story that could build a seven storey building of lights standing on waters of the river that rises and falls twice a day carrying the moon floating inside her as a silver pulsating eye of the sky, quivering to rise up and go home again; would you believe in the truth of it? Would you not scream that such a thing can not possibly be fathomed out of human ingenuity! Even if you do not believe me, I know, this story, this building this seven storey building of lights, standing on waters of the river that rises and falls twice a day carrying the moon floating insider her as a silver pulsating eye of the sky, quivering to rise up and go home again, is stuck in your head and you cannot forget about it and so long you cannot forget about it I hope you carry on singing these notes: we are one, the whole one and nothing but the one and this light will take you to the shore of eternity and stand you face up to the whole that exists outside us: the tiny faced the infinite and there, that is where this story begins and you are to write it! Do

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