While every effort is made by the principal author to create short, self-sustained chapters, unique scenarios, and a self-sustained story, in some cases particular terms or words may lose their meaning imbued in a metaphysical context in tandem with related articles.
A home coming opening allure of the entrance, which brings me from anticipating, into a moment of gauging Martine’s teasing temperament from a four season breeze. Emergent in a door swing, which called me to squint to catch a manner of speaking. Her figure slips by a crystal mosaic partition, of the inter-leading door leaves V-folded back to the casing. In a U-return her figure moves up in proximity behind me, and on mingling with my laptop table. At an angle across facing me, a serious open sluice of mind poured out her thoughts, saying, “I have failed.”
Martine’s words a tube clearance to travel into her most recent bubbled universe. I arrived with a virtual eyesight settling in a corner of the ceiling and watched the little office. Evolved in a right angle doorway light, a few hesitant steps. Martine appeared and by a reluctant pace clearing the way to close the door behind. She gazed in diagonal across the old effaced desk squared by the angle of rear walls literature busy. Subliminal, she introduced me to a stern grandfather figure with a precarious gentle welcoming smile seated in front of a tall window filtering a late morning daylight.
Timid, such as eyes adapting to light, focused on affluent gray haired father figures. Martine’s symbiotic Gemini in the forefront faces the staunch old wise professor, taming flirtatious students to task. Motorizing a harsh cold storage reality into an orphaned experience. Ever since that third day after her father’s death, the seventh year old child in her, resuscitated in a fairyland, alimenting her performance in the limelight. In a populated classroom she finds her audience. In a fanciful youth ambiance arousing blustery winds knocking thought balloons of subliminal and dynamics brainwaves.
The professor questioned and anticipated answers. These not forthcoming. In gradual stages, his flirtatious shield lowered resistance, attempting a friendship connection. Squared up to a blocknote, his eyes shifting back and forth a subliminal mind opening sluice, saying to Martine, “You have to give me something!”
Too late, she might as well have answered consciously.
Irrespective of the professor’s insistence, his eyes lowered thoughtful from a desk pad offside. Resting a ball point pen on an open folder, the heel of his right hand on a bare spot of the desk. Deducing from notes. Waiting, alternating eye fixations. He went on reading and accelerating aleatory questions down a listing.
Subliminal pilfering minds – fragile as crystal. A cerebral hand in retrieve, fallen to shatter on the floor. A cerebral blank, lying scatters in small pieces through her existential universe – annihilated like a popped balloon, as if Martine says; Too late professor. I need my therapeutic stage to choreograph my purpose to exist together again!
The professor countered, thinking, I know you can do it. He went on thoughtful, by a protective fatherly voice repeating the words that flow from mind. Aware the woman in front of him knew her topic. He grew insistent, for a genuine wish Martine to succeed. Blind to her chocked feelings, allowing extra time, going on saying, “You are not giving me anything.”
Give me leave, in silence Martine pleaded imagining her comeback, reckoning on an emotive metamorphosis of the swallowing character. Instead, Martine heard in vain the voice repeat, “I’ll have to fail you.”
A quality of the four seasons
Martine is to the mind that storefront reflection shadowing an isolated serious figure in a bright desert street sunlight. Against a display window in a cast shade, fashioned coquetry her lifestyle. Studying in an all out effort to succeed her Slavic year. Then, she returns home ousted in style the enigma resonant manner of an examination failure. Standing by my side boosting her sprightly jingling life forth –.
So unpredictable is Martine when she spurs an exit from the apartment. That better let her alone in the spirit of her symbiotic and dominant Tiger and Gemini. Or, in unison, erotic in a solitary, encounter in a breeze their cerebral intrigued. And, flirtatious she’ll buy my silence, and close my eyes, toward her accomplishment.
On Martine’s returns from an outing, she virtually surges from the entrance, and heard her alarming voice pronounce, “Poland…” Preoccupied by the screen of my laptop, let fade away an underlying burden resonate through her vocal cords. Returning concentrating on my laptop screen, in a manner of saying; During two years of restoring the townhouse, I have put up, all too often with the witty illegal workers. A conversation on their subject can wait.
No, Martine replies in a silence urging breaking off my concentration from my work.
Dithering in proximity, I urged Martine, in a manner of preoccupation, saying; Give me a moment to finish what I have in mind, and I’ll be right there with you.
Taming Martine’s habitual inciting mill of words, good when evoked in the function of a teacher. Paradoxical and burdened, her phrase fading away in the back of my mind. I waited, refrained from saying; For the umpteenth time, do you have to repeat yourself? Stressing at such moments, sporadic cerebral unknitting, questioning her looming meanings, in attempts to regain relevance of what she says weaving that imaginary tapestry.
In her silent relapse, so unlike Martine, in the habit of inciting conversations, she utters a few targeted words, saying “I’m going hiking.”
At the sound of Martine’ strained timber of voice, urging me to abandoned my attention from the laptop screen. I glanced over my shoulder in a manner saying, Are you trying to fool me, and uttered in a questioning tone of voice, “What makes you want mountaineering?” To my remark that sound out the terrain, she kept an intriguing silence and baffling eyes. My wits on a childhood alert, as children leaving town to spend our school vacation in a dense rain forest, she could have said, I’m going into the African jungle. I imagined the little woman alone on a trail through dense woods on an exhaustive mountain climb. In an underlying mocking tone asking the city girl; Is that where you are going, I said, “In a country lost at the end of the world?”
“You – The mountains,” I seemed to be asking over and again?
“Yes,” Martine answered in an unassertive whining down tone of voice.
Poised, fixing me with her perplexed eyes, as my mind flashed her as we strolled off season along the Ostend beach. In the spirit of a Tiger, Martine sheds her clothes, prepared, in a transparent swimsuit dived, and rolled in icy surfs. I exclaimed, “You of all – You who endlessly claim to be craving for the sea!”
The void in Martine’s little whistling tone of voice, forcing empty breathless words breaking her silence, saying, “I’ve always wanted to go to Poland.” Given reason to believe. Though, I am aware that everything she says, and it’s contrary, with patience, she’ll give herself away.
Perception in the airport departure terminal
Historic allocated to farmers, the freedom of children to harvest spring sown crop in summer. These frustrating and stressful, ill adapted vacations in our modern society. I grew to share with Martine over the years, those two-month school year breaks by Alexandre, the twelve year old boy, on a different rhythm than Sibylle at crèche, engrossed nightmares.
Early Saturday morning, with half-century jump back mood of ethereal city activity, I drove the Audi up and along a spiraling concrete ramp. In the midst of an allusive sandwich slab and lower beams, we pulled up by a column. The doors opened, and in a movement stepped out. Martine distant, sets a leading mode the way out the parking. As we emerged in sunlight, in sight growing conscious of a personifying over the age backwrap African child the differed backpacks weights. Her boy by the straps lags a few strides behind, and off course, sulking a disguised male in his mother.
At arm’s-length I watched my toddling girl keeping up across a driveway cleft of the Brussels International Airport buildings, eyes bewildered approaching the reflective parking decks in the purple sky growing perpetual the glass wall of the departure terminal.
In the wings the glaze slides, clearing the airlock doors in a sequence. Martine halts in her steps to a baffling city drain of people, looming a ten-day time laps before the return to class for a new school-year. Hesitant eyes peering. Levelheaded she scrutinizes across a concourse forefront in a flurry. Reckoning with the distant translucent bright colored fascia affixing a series of air carrier logos.
As Martine moves on, I picked up my little girl from a legs’-eye view to be seated on my arm. I watched her, curiosity taken in by a panoramic view, skimming in disbelieve the crowds. In that moment, Martine’s disappeared in the swarm. There I sought, caught her flit. From a distance, I followed her weave, taking greater distance. Emergent, in a clearing at rows of organized queues, Alexandre poised in retrieve. Watching his mother at the tail of a check-in counter, unstrap her shoulders and lay her backpack down on the floor.
Observant in retrieve. Standing by. Absorbing cute and strange. Formulating a Puss in Boots caricature of Martine’s little feet in virile heavy mountaineering boots. Thick white rolled socks over the ankles, she dithers in a loose swelling lumber jacket, the waist tucked in blue Jeans.
Sweeping sight in a round about, and beyond a virtual transparent son. Martine locates the emergent slender boy from the crowds keeping in the vicinity distant. She might as well have locked eyesight on Lorenzo’s mother, by the responsibility that Alexandre’s classmate represented. Struck to get ready, her eyes fall and crouched down paces behind the advancing queue. Panicky, evincing hands and eyes deep in the backpack she searches for the entrusted passports.
Hellene, a Sagittarius mother’s leery regard, coerced at entrusting her only boy, hangs by a hair with Martine’s promise. Martine squints repetitive eye counts; One, two. Like a call, seeking boys’ allegiance to her commitment. The boys gradually entered in accord the distorted line of people. Left Hellene’s figure in retrieve, a hopeless look fixing her boy, such as remarks best not said to Martine, assimilating the chaos of an advancing line hurting the check-in counter. There, her boy’s short figure stretched on the ball of the foot. He peers over the counter, and swings a hand in a broad circle presenting a green passport with the flight ticket of a white tongue to the attendant.
Martine checked in. She turns away from the counter, and evanescent mingles in a shuffling swarming crowd. Ahead, alone, a sharp-angled platonic guard, the pillars shy of a structural concrete delimitation, sluiced from the throng a thinning out of people and by the guide along a rear blank wall streaming off to the right.
Walking in the midst of a streaming crowd, carrying my little angel, pursuing a clearing middle course toward the wings. I found myself in the wake of Martine quite half-dozen strides ahead.
There, in a distinctive effaced fight, Alexandre dragged in his strides. At every few paces he throws an ongoing insecure glances over his shoulder. Complains in a manner. Blocking his mother’s progress. By Martine’s determined strides she pushes him through every step further on.
Off angle to the right, in an evanescent disparity run. Evasive and light headed, Lorenzo rushed on an air cushion, flirting with a wing crowd, emanating a blind confidence set in Martine’s destination.
Hellene’s unrelenting laser beam piercing eyes. The leading parsec-ray instinctive awakening her boy by her fixation. Stalking, and suffocating through a concentration of people streaming along the wide corridor wing. So distractive, that I connected moving alongside us, figuring in the corner of my eye, illusive a frightened chicken fluttering wild feathers in a ball. I noticed in focusing an exuding floral print dress, skirt in the wind, amongst a classic vacation wear.
In a distinctive scene of mothers ill nurturing the personality of their boys. At the break of the running wall, in a whisk vanished from our view the role players. On the opposite side by a sharp-angled guard of a pair of massive pillars. Sibylle and I paused, eyeing a dithering crowd lurching on stand by, for the evanescent separation of people. In a brief instant fall of an anxious lost void, surges a breakup instinct, and swept by sight, returning a few paces earlier. Laid sight on Martine and Alexandre wrapping by the jutting corner of a virtual continuing wall across the bay. Approaching against demarcated notices, joining up the diagonal crossing on the fluorescent reflective gleaming floor, in recess to a shielding series of toll cubicles.
My little girl’s eyes swallow up, what as parent we failed explaining, as we obeyed the restrictive zone. In a rush of “goodbye” wishes, hugs, and cheek-to-cheek kisses, which brings the movement in order behind a guide rails. Lorenzo headed Alexandre. Martine behind the boys, sight in flight digesting beyond the officer in uniform, in the weather her lurking enterprise.
Sibylle’s curiosity on a little family movement, peers as I cheated my way along a limited number of people synchronizing at the pace outside the progressive queue. Instinctive of an evanescent headway. In brotherhood, cautious and retentive. She assimilates objective reappearance of a water glass, or a fork, a spoon on the table by her mother’s giggles from under a subjective table napkin. She perceives a real twist, and scrutinizes each boy handing over in turn his passport at the officer in the glass cubicle. Such as a flimsy returned barding-pass in an apparent cover, distinctive each in turn wrap the corner for the gap and vanishing in shady reflections. Wary eyes in an accruing concern, she focuses on her mother stepping away through the row of symmetric arranged glass sheets.
We retrieved and at the tail of queuing people, directive and instinctive I moved across the rear. Peering through the series of adjacent vacant control cubicles, timing Martine’s pace, to catch a last glance of either adventurous characters. I dragged my little girl’s perplexed look along. Dumbfound wide eyes ceased on the spot for an ephemeral fanciful apparition, at loss, her mother lasting out.
At a thought I grew to doubt, imagining the extent of the international hall. Approaching the end with pilots going to their post through a dedicated glazed transparent corridor. They stepped through a pair of single leaf and successive wing opening doors, the narrow break traversed by security staff. There flashed Martine in a crystal labyrinth. As her eyes let believe in pursuit of the boys, without heeding a reassuring theatrical hand wave, laughing off the surprise by a glance at her daughter, and blowing kisses. Smoky, her genie retired in the blue edge of the vertiginous plate-glass. The shadow of her figure in an instant blurred to doubt in the translucent partition run the distortion of her identity with other passengers.
Self-centered, and my little girl hanging on my shoulders with a mild counteracting force. I turned away from the enclave of gateways to foreign territories, sweeping by sight the circling throng. People in swirls by the planted offside massive column. I lost the senses of my torso by a surprise. Ceased, by Hellene’s vivid floral dress, and swift in stealth, an evanescent spy absorbed by the crowd, brings me back to a body corkscrew resistant feeling. Awakening my little girl wrenching in a manner saying, Mummy where are you? In my flight, squaring up either angles of the pair of stubby structural pillars in my field of sight. By her persistent torquing force, I glanced over my shoulder. In peering for my little girl’s eyes, I came across an owl rolled away head, to face the ball of her short dark blond hair.
I told myself, she’s not following me, laying sight in the direction of her fixation?
Sentient of my little girl leashed regard in anguish, hesitant over abandoning a vivid fatal disappearance, which comes across as an intermittent mood. So, I relent a toe-over-heel poise, stepping in a current with a directive sight through a scattering crowd. I glimpsed in anticipation that behind me snaps off her elastic regard, at my pace stretches, and overstretching, until the massive pillar move in her line of sight. Her pull of my right shoulder softened, with a resilient head roll, brought in view her lost look. Her eyes silent and perplex, in shock nestling an epileptic syndrome.
Vision is a passenger-scientific tool of the mind, which has kept me intrigued since infancy, over half a century in due course, with date stamps and records, compelled by psychoanalytic odysseys reserved for exploration by the deepest halls of my mind.
Here are some links for further in-depth reading, the core of a detailed work: “The Code: Horizon Of Infinity”
Video in conjunction with my work: YouTube 2:2 Video The Code: Horizon of Infinity
Books available from the publisher: http://sbprabooks.com/ivanbroes/
Book available at Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/The-Code-Infinity-Ivan-Broes/dp/1628574666
Why not read 47 pages on: Google Books
View the pictures in a sequence of evolution: Flickr