Before we get to the scratching at the surface of a slight breeze, provoking falsetto notes to mingle with indigo intimacies, because of Coltrane's Favourite Things, it's "the" kiss that is the premise upon which part two of this Love Blog apprehends the modern agenda on love.
In many respects, and every respect, the kiss is the unalloyed, hallucinogenic insobriety, it's the breath taking conversions, and the lights in closed eyes dazzling the unseeing phenomenon of a sensation breathing an affirmed occurrence into you, and needless to say, eulogising the importance of the kiss becomes the substance of being; the common denominator, the affirmed idea there is a feeling close to God, the universe really is aligned, and the source is love, but what love?
Growing up kisses held codes, and seeping through emotionally woven cracks they explored the unidentified- Love for who? Love for what? Love how? Why Love at all? – And seeking to identify and adjourn the dilemma of youth and growth, trying to rein act the image of a Father vaguely in his vividness these questions were posed, of which coincidently ran alongside another kind of love for Ben E King's Stand By Me.
Upon the return from the latter digress, the father and his vagueness was manifested into reforming fear and all of its dependents, and as such the wider fabric of society, and culture, had already well-groomed now the uniformed teenage notion, that such a love, whatever a love might be was going to be the culturally defined solicitation it was- sow seed, find wealth, weave robes and forge arms- a tutoring process already schooling the impossibilities of the very few who ever had attained a sense of love, and as if the heart beat was not enough, the kiss reminded a dormant and docile sense of claim love wasn't dead yet, despite the many and the most having no faith in the sobriety of affection.
Given the perplexity of the composition on love, and given the time surrounded by graffiti walls illustrating funky credo and lordly creed, the stanzas of expression resulted in a person of the "people", and embodying all the physical varieties afforded the age of eighteen, caught up in the legacy of a segregated body politic, the term "revolution black" was already the spray piece over fading National Front slogans, Afros were a walking affirmation, kinky locks were a waking determination, as such Africa was cool again and white Jesus no longer was, when mummy' music was considerate, and Daddy' vibe was what absolved and perpetuated him, all in all; the everything, a seriously intense, smooth agenda on the renaissance of claim and love.
Adopting the vesture of assumed ambiences and contexts, every shade of being; who you were, was, and wanted to be was loved up in the bosom of a before and after, meaning suckling on life's nectar stock was a black stipulation, a social strata focused on what would be a conflicted love; of self, of another, and what it all meant to want and feel the suggestion of love, leaving the mind to wonder, in a beautifully insipid manner, about a source lucidly flowing through a DNA still apprehending the deeper, and lifelong meaning of life and love.
Further to the posed questions, and namely the question of love how? With at best a carbon copy of a questioning claim to self; the dark spectrum on parade, the body politic coined the emotional rigidness seemingly required, and eking out this pseudo affirmation of glowing moons and shiny stars, and hints of gospel kumbaya, adolescently assured by handsome and black the body was what everybody wanted; to love, and to systematically not, the body-politic, with its internal affairs and matters of state, and domestic affairs campaigning for emotional legislation, young and hungry for something; ‘Let's Get it On’, and keep getting it on was the soundtrack to the backdrop of a promiscuous body-politic.
Consequently sex was vogue, the social blues had never been so blue, and the young blood was doing something different, furthermore “our” bonded souls doing things in exactly the same way. Further to the black distinction, knowing well enough men on a chain gang use to do that, way back, in the mood to bathe in the glory of days to come the love agenda rhymed on cue. And people listened, Bob exclaimed, the rhythms, and blue' sway, wooed the sing along, and with sex and love not belonging in the same bed; the afterthought it was, the body-politic became the principle to adhere to, and yet the significance of Rock Me Tonight, and the phenomenon of a kiss breathing an affirmed occurrence into you.
The paradox of the love agenda was precisely this - as one began to become conscious one begins to scrutinise the social order in which intellectual emotion is being educated, and fooled, and beneath the black aesthetic, the often distorted feeling towards love is what time, situation, and memoire have made of it, and whilst nothing is more charming than to be emancipated from an affliction, nothing is more frightening than to be stripped of the body-politic with little else to fill the void. Realising that there were loves, upon loves upon in love with, only now was there the varied types of love that the measure of claim would be gauged by, and embarking on eighteen to thirty-something, it was the suggestions that would help define one man's love agenda, and like with the youth the challenge was in the moment; and as it is with the man today the time is always in the now.