Rambling along 9.

Imagine stepping into a room, vast like the concourse of a major, yet mythical, railway terminal, which is full of papers swirling and falling, flying and drifting – as if bewitched by an invisible wind. Imagine the sunlight streaming in through windows so high that they seem like dreams.

What would you do?

Shut the door I guess, just in case it was oneself that had caused the draught and set a thousand carefully stacked papers randomly cascading.

Either that, or grab a handful and with the blessing of the Head Archivist  -whose job it is to tame the Turbulent Chambers as they are now known – set off on a long ramble homewards as the autumn infiltrates.

And as I ramble along I’ll read a few of these tumbling missives that come from An Archive Past.

Oh, and stick some photos of a recent walk in London town.

This is what is happening at the moment here on Bitsnbobs, and which has been previously explained here.

My arm, when pointing straight and at an angle upwards, looks good - it’s long, lithe, tanned; I like the way the hair shines in the moonlight and the watch, on the wrist, gives it a certain authenticity, but right now I wish you were hiding inside its embrace.

It’s not fat, it has a bit of muscle but it’s better at writing words than shifting stone.

Though it’s done a bit of that.

I swam with it tonight, the other one too; they worked together.

At the ends stands, sits, holds – my hands.

One time they massaged your feet – there was a hair you had missed shaving your legs – they didn’t say – they don’t speak.

They just feel.

Hold.

Hug sometimes – if they get the chance, the ok, the go ahead.

Until then.

They write.