Chapter 5 (Cont.)
It was raining and the textures of the asphalt and the pavement were put on a glazed macroscopic scale the asphalt and the pavement. The asphalt and the pavement were watershed from the artificially simulated rain, the rain was its crocodile tear throes and the asphalt was watershed. Moment! So many moments even here now. Persists. Neo-postmodern architecture. Flawless street networks. People with ponchos abundant. Some were illusioned into its fragile falsehood: "I never lived to see the heavy clouds, impregnated with tears of the Gods that would bring this land into fertile rejuvenation. The central matrix discharge is enough for me!" The authority is not cruel, the rain was made of pure water, even purer than old world rain which was sometimes infused with the likes of sulphuric acid from the industrial pollution latching onto the cauldron of the clouds. Fuck you! My poncho blocks its thaws. I was walking through the streets in a lazy-aimless pace, amidst the flawless street networks and its rainwash daisies. Sometimes my eyesight would go out of focus. I would force my eyes to go out of focus. To see: do the artificial lights rinse the inner sanctum? Bokeh! Bokeh bokeh bokeh don't you go. Why do you need to be held? Why do my eyes have to sustain clear images in their natural orientation. I wish I could only see blurs... Perpetually. The world became more beautiful. At one point I was no longer trying to take my eyes out of focus. Back to streets again. As they were. A couple just walked by, the man had a brown poncho. The woman had a blue poncho. Beautiful contrast! I could see the hearthen warmth in her smile. Some genuineness still remain. Majestic! The Gods ordered so. How could mankind continue to live so if there was no beauty anymore? Gods made mankind to not just see the beauty of surfaces but the grand design of it all. Meaning of life meaning of death meaning of existence. The fragile beauty of hyacinths, pinnacle of fertilisation. She exists to remind mankind: Gods have given us the hunger to feel our identity, God's have given us the drive to shape our identity. Hunters, cooks, theologian, gardener. Hyacinths! The intimidating beauty of the horizon, epitome of mystery. Gods gave our eyes infinite focus to spot the horizon and the forgotten stars on the sky, Gods gave us the insatiable curiosity to know how far they stretched. Kings after kings after kings. Then queens then queens then kings. Mighty singular, they are all dead they are all dead. The authorities are transient the chains of oppression and domination persist it's ingrained on the lymph nodes ingressed from the circumstances. What was my father like? Have I ever seen him like he was? In Massachusetts. Some time before the simmering pot of geopolitics. Furrowed into boiling. Acidic insemination of tumultous rupture of the Earth's crusts. They tainted the pastorals of Massachusetts. I was a little baby. Stuck into the trial and errors of speeches and mobilisation. Stand up. Steady. Steady... Un step deux step trois perchoirs. Confident now. Lucid smile of the delicate face brighten up. Up. More steps. Lose balance. Fall. The baby was confused. I was walking. Steps after steps. Why did I no longer go forward. Oh! I fell. Why does it hurt now? I'm sobbing. Relinquishes. Some days were not like others. The baby got up from falling-crying and took further steps: bastion of les trois perchoirs. He had started mimicing his mother some time before. Or after. Simultaneously. As he took steps, to learn to move through physical spaces; he took guidances towards the verbal spaces of man. Mwammy. Dwaddy. Moi nwame is Chooveen. My father had a deep appreciation for nature and as such baby Chauvin was to spend time outside. First, he must learn how to move. How to communicate. His bright eyes were anchor points of kite-chronicles. Could the kite go further on the blue sky on an argent penchant for wanderwonder? When little Chauvin was two something changed drastically. He was walking on wooden floor. Warm and tactile. There was a grand hearth in the house but servants monitored Chauvin to make sure he doesn't go too near it. Chauvin continued his trials towards learning to walk. The way it must be. The way I want him to be. I wanted him to move on from furnished mansion towards feeling the soil of Massachusetts. To see the mysterious lights emanating from duskskies. The anchors of his bright eyes becoming brightened with wonder: who moves the astral wings? When little Chauvin was two something changed drastically. Little Chauvin could not have known then but if he could look past his infantile wonder he could see visible stresses on the face of his father. Barely contained. Stress palpitations were starting to stress palpitations were starting to be visible, brunting the uniformity in oxidative markyrs. Absalom Absalom, pity to the stressed! Mom was in apocalyptic sobbing. Baby Chauvin could not hear any humane sounds occuring in the vehicle as it was on a painfully long drive towards Tatterstown, away from pastoral Massachusetts. Mom was not engaging Chauvin with active enthusiasm, she was not interested in bringing up her little child. Mom was in apocalyptic silence. Chauvin was crying. Dad was in apocalyptic stress. Chauvin was crying. After a while he got tired and fell asleep.
Funtitled #33
Affairs Mk. 3 X / Some Kind of Faith Has Brought Me Here...