Sober

Standard

“Overwhelmed as one would be, placed in my position.
Such a heavy burden now to be the One
Born to bear and bring to all the details of our ending,
To write it down for all the world to see.”
Rosetta Stoned

“Why can’t we not be sober?
I just want to start this over.
Why can’t we drink forever.
I just want to start things over.”
Sober

The ability to survive lies in the potential of creating a future in a lie.

I am old. I work seven days a week until the late hours of vampiric nights. I am Atlas but with sunken muscles and a blanket over my bones that hangs loosely, acid bubbles burning holes through it, tired tears seeping from it. The sky falls, long shadows dawning on sober faces and desperate gazes.

My wife Evelyn, back when I first married her, used to greet me in bed after a long day’s work. She’d tell me “my name means rebirth, so here, tonight, I kill you, and you get born again in the morning.” And that promised legend became a reality and a curse.

My wife Evelyn didn’t know that during the day I didn’t daydream about her.

My wife Evelyn never knew that I never dreamed about her, that when her hand touched me, it wasn’t her caress that I yearned for. But I was faithful, and for all that time, I held the sky above me and above her.

But such selfless blindness does not deserve a story.

My wife Evelyn, she sees a boy on the streets, through the windowpane, breaking a girl’s heart and blames the whole male sex for a heartbroken world. A boy becomes the boy.

“Leave him alone, he’s just trying to give himself meaning,” I tell her.

“Give meaning? By hurting that poor girls like her?” her eyes never leave the girl who’s stone-still on the sidewalk. As if that girl needs stares from a weathered woman with creepy eyes, glaring through a windowpane with inevitable disappointment; that old eagle-eye glare every generation gets from its elders, disappointment, awe, dismay. “If he has any sense of decency, he’ll come back to her and hold her hand, whisper in her ear, walk her home, anything. It’s not right to leave a girl like that on the street. If he has any dignity, any love, he’ll come back, just like you came back to me.” Her words, like shovels desecrating a grave in which the flesh of a corpse is yet to decompose.

“We all feed on tragedy,” I mumble, collapsing all the vowels on each other.

“Boys these days, they’re all corrupt,” the girl on the street is still stupefied under Evelyn’s gaze. “What is she to do now?”

“At least it’s not raining,” I cynically remark.

“I would’ve made you go invite her in if she had been crying under the rain.”

“You don’t even know if she’s been crying. Anyway, how would it seem if an old grumpy-looking, pathetically wrinkled old man had approached a young girl like her and invited her to his house? People don’t appreciate the same gestures anymore. Whatever I did twenty-seven years ago, I certainly would not have done today if I were that boy and you were this girl.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Do you regret coming back to me?”

“I think after twenty-seven years, it’s irrelevant whether or not I regret it. And, remember, you came back for me.” Wrong words make the wrong bells toll; wrong words make us travel in time to that evening when she came back to me.

She had come at the right moment, but she never knew it. She thought I had always been waiting for her to come back, a true heartbroken soul. She could have survived if she had not found me, and I knew it. She left me to prove something, and she failed.

“Look,” I say, moving towards the window pane, “she is not you, and will never be you. The boy is not me and will never be me. These are different circumstances and different times. If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you. I’ll say it straight up, because it sure is more realistic then your nostalgic projection.”

Somehow she found me walking back home; street-lights were not lit and the few cars that passed by rendered the darkness around us visible, like a momentary flash of lightning that only exacerbates the intensity of night. We both saw familiar contours. She hugged me like a child reaching out to its parent, wanting to be picked up, supported. That embrace showed a crack, a crevice. And ever since, I’ve been finding a future in this lack.

I put my hand on her shoulder and speak calmly; there’s no need for conviction in my voice. Somehow she’ll know it’s true. Somehow she’ll know that she’s lived it. “This boy here has probably left this girl for another. Another girl he may not love as he loves this one in front of us. But the other girl, he needs her. The other girl, she needs him. And that works. But we’re just observers, trying to be omniscient of what is only seen, not even heard. The distance between us and the crying girl is an immense gap. We just know our stories. I just know mine. If I keep myself in that gap between her and me, I might fade like a sigh, nostalgic, barely moving, insignificant and inconclusive.”

She looks at me barely satisfied with my possibly-heartrending words. And I hug her even though I’m not sure she wants this. I feel the lack and know that because of it, me and her, we’re more than just the sum of our parts.

I grab Evelyn’s hand and we walk together to bed. I am old, but I am sober and it will be a good night.

So good to see you once again
I thought that you were hiding from me.
And you thought that I had run away.
Chasing a trail of smoke and reason.
Third eye

Inanna_1_by_GeirrodVanDyke

Advertisements

Giving Up The Ghost

Standard

I don’t know what has gotten into him. He walks heavily, as if struggling through mire. He talks slowly, lightly, quietly. He barely looks at me. He just wanders around the apartment like a cat getting acquainted with its new home, afraid and insecure.

When he’s not walking around. He’s drinking something. Coffee. Tea. Whisky. Pepsi. I tell him to come near me. “Come sit next to me.” I tell him to confide in me. “Come we’ll share a joint and you’ll tell me all about it.”

It. Ambiguous. Vague. Perhaps non-existent. And my pleading is met with nothing, spurring my frustration, agonizingly twisting my spine. I want to help. I need to help. For us.

Us. Charged now with a possible schism. Us. Breaking apart, a rupture, a fissure caused by a communication breakdown. We sit in front of each other; a medium of silence between us becomes viscous in its transparency. His eyes seem to be looking right through me, right through the wall, towards a horizon not knowing a boundary; empty.

“So what do you see?” I ask him to show me the invisible.

He puffs smoke in no particular direction, the cigarette still in his lips, burning and being the only track of time. A quarter of a cigarette has passed.

Half a cigarette. No response. “So what do you feel?”

And it becomes pathetic. Ash falls on his lap; his gaze doesn’t budge, still staring at the horizon as if it’s a black dog that he had lost in his childhood and has finally found again.

A cigarette. I get up; go to bedroom where my laptop is open. I sit down, and notice that he has followed me. Something tells me he needs me, and I smile. But he looks at the laptop and disgruntled, he rolls his eyes, dissatisfied and deeply annoyed.

“What? Tell me!” I shout and go after him. He turns when I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t stress it,” he says, “I’m down. I’m out. Just let it be and it’ll go soon.”

“Why don’t you talk to me? Don’t make me miss you when you’re right here in front me.”

“Don’t make this about you. This is not about you.”

“It’s not about me. It’s totally about you. It’s just you and all I want to talk about is you. Just share it. Whatever it is.”

A mild vibration of anticipation reverberates between us. His eyes seem to wander towards the horizon again, but this time it’s the horizon of expectation; he summons what he wants to see and he describes it.

“Come closer.” And I approach his open arms which enfold me. I feel his heartbeat, steady. His hands are on my back like blocks of ice. I feel unwelcome and uncomfortable in his arms, but I close my eyes and withstand the coldness of his murderous embrace.

“I keep thinking about this story. A story about a writer.” A story about him, a writer. “A writer who’s dead, and it’s a great tragedy that he has died so young, full of promise. Withdrawn. Finally, his few remaining friends, more fans than friends, take a chance to go through his belongings, his once vaulted private apartment. When they’re looking through his house, rummaging, digging like treasure hunters through his notes, they find tons of letters addressed to this girl called Ariadne…who no one knew about.” He holds me tighter. “This mystery, this elusive lady, this stranger to life who has been born in the memory as a result of his death, her only record of existence borne in their old fashioned correspondence is suddenly the centre of attention of his death.” He swallows.

“And?” My limbs suffocate, the blood in them turning cool, my breath smoking out of my mouth.

“And she’s there but not there.”

“And why is that making you feel this way? As if she got away from you?” A tinge of emotion in my voice, creaking.

“She’s raging between the crowd and dark alleys with nothing but a thin dress to cover her. She’s crying, and I can hear her. She’s miserable and I can feel her. She’s real and I can remember her.”

And he lets go.

“I remember her with her camera, attached to her like a mechanical twin, a technological advancement like no other. I remember the elaborate set designs and the formless images that resulted, the surreal, the magnified humanity caught in a still-image. And this still-image of her in my mind is what I remember…”

And he’s moving away and I’m like a marble statue, questions and inquiries running through my head like a gushing wound, searing as it violently rushes, driven by insight that is slowly overcoming my previous blindness.

“…I see her the way she was. Naked under the rain. On her knees and bending down, arching her back like a cat. Her hair is tightly tied, but there’s a perfect fringe cascading her forehead. Her eyes defiantly look forward even though the umbrella is completely useless, completely destroyed. This is how I left her.”

“When did you leave her?”

“But sometimes, her head rotates and she looks at me with the same look, the same expression, and my soul shrivels up, covered with contrition and guilt. A ghost haunting me in its non-being. There but not there. A spectre.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”

“You wouldn’t have understood it correctly. You’d have assumed too much. You would have read too much into it.”

“And why is she pre-occupying you now in particular?”

“Because of this.”

He takes out a shriveled wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. Smudgy handwriting in the centre; artistic.

“Read it aloud,” he says as he lights another cigarette and sits on the couch. I start.

You left me. I knew it before I came home that day. I knew that I would not find you. And I know why you did it this way. You would have told me that we can stay friends, and I would have accepted that because I would’ve taken anything like a fool. I would’ve accepted that even though I would’ve known that I can’t handle it. And after my shameful acceptance, I would see you with another girl and that would kill me. So in a way I should thank you for that. But you still left me, with nothing. Not a trial at an explanation. My heart sighed endlessly. My body cried incessantly.

Half a cigarette. My eyes seeing nothing but the page.

She’d be really nice. She’d be amazing. So amazing I would’ve been her friend if she weren’t your deepest bond, like I used to be. I’d see you with her and then every thought of you would be accompanied by her perfect being next to you, an image which no lens can capture except that of the mind. The way you’d hold her would, the way you’d kiss her, the way you’d try to make her smile when she’s miserable, lying on the ground, weighed down by the burden of history; or is she not like me? Is she not a hassle? Would you be the one weighed down by history? By the memory of us still itching your thoughts? Anyway. I…

He stands, the contrite look on his face; my cheeks flourishing with a red hue. There’s no need to read it anymore.

Do you want to go?” I ask.

“No.” A fading utterance.

“What do you want?”

“I want to forget.”

"Then let’s go inside and forget. We’ll put all her letters on the bed and drown them in the pool of milk and glue and relish their death.”

Memory & Forgetfulness

Standard

Departure:

I have my bag packed. I can hear the shower water pouring, accumulating in the bath tub. I look at the empty apartment. The vacant couch, the piles of books towering half way to the ceiling, the temple of CDs and DVDs. These objects don’t make me want to remember the past week. These objects are not laden with the traffic of memories. They hold nothing. They are just a bundle without a substance.

The sound of pouring water stops. I know I cannot leave without saying goodbye to the only person I’ve seen for a week. I wait for her to come out but she never does, as if she paused time when she closed the faucet. As I stand outside the bathroom door, for the first time in a week I feel like a stranger in this apartment, in her home. It is not a place I belong to. I entered this place so full of hope. I thought that the road had finally gotten me home after prolonged seasons of winter in which nature was painted with different shades of the dullest grey. But it was a spark of euphoria; now time has halted for me to make the decision, to choose if I want to step back onto that ragged stale road of constant wandering; that road of loss and confusion; that road without identity which I loathe.

The silence in the bathroom becomes the silence of still-time, and I become afraid of her stillness; deathlike silence reigns. The knob does not screech as I turn it. The door does not squeak as I open it.

Vapour. Haze.  Steam rises from the hot water in the bathtub and sheathes the mirrors and the walls with blurry droplets. I do not enter, but I can see her lying, floating on the surface of the water in the bathtub. Her body is still and her breasts emerge like waves caught in a photograph. Her hair sticks to her body like leeches sucking off the rotten blood flowing in her veins. But she’d have to be drained completely if she hopes of being toxin-free, to be saved. Her eyes are closed, giving her the solemn image of a statue, battling time and winning eternity.

The still thought-image which she projects forces me to put down my bag and go to her. I walk into the sauna-like bathroom. Time is still paused; my moving body collides with the droplets. It seems as though I have dug my way with perseverance to get to her sober statue. I raise her head with my hand and I remove the leeches off of her body. She opens her eyes and I remember one week ago, the abominations we committed to fuel the fiery desire we shared for each other. I see the beginning through her eyes, and I sense no regret. Her wide black eyes give me comfort in their serene depths. I feel like a key that has found its door, a narrator that has found his voice. It’s all in the depth of her eyes in which I drown, and while drowning in her eyes she speaks to me; she tells me all I need to know, and I see all I need to see: moments not intended for me.

I stand up and leave her still body. I leave her as a still-image imprinted in my mind. A memory seeking continuity, an image seeking movement.

***

Return

Returning from a long absence, this alien world feels like a museum. I walk with fearful eyes through its halls and I stare at the portraits which look very familiar. It is the familiarity which frightens me. I left a vibrant city and have now returned to an unchanged city, a city of the dead, and I search for her, the one who I intentionally left as a still-image. I return to give her continuity and movement.

I make my way through the proverbial streets. People dress the same; people act the same, as if they had no tomorrow. The daunting reality of sameness wraps itself around me. My wandering is transformed into a fall. A heaviness pushes me down, but I persevere and channel my way through the immutable roads of this city. This is no labyrinth. I know where she is.

I revisit the image in my mind. I see her in the bathtub, her hair like leeches. I remove the leeches and graze my fingers on her flesh as if my fingers were magic limbs which close lacerations. Her breasts stand like still waves splashing on a shore. I let my hands surf on the waves and they reach the shore, the rough rug of sand which was my home.

I find myself at the door of her apartment.

I knock and the door opens. It does not screech. I step inside, the water is pouring down. Steam comes out of the bathroom and my desire is indelible. Relaxed, I step in the bathroom. I see her through the semi-transparent wall of steam, sitting in the bathtub, her head between her legs, and her arms trying to wrap themselves around her; she is in front of me now as she was when I left.

The water stops flowing; a bell tolls and time stops. Nothing moves anymore. The past is fixed and I find myself trapped in what my memory wants me to see. I find myself trapped in the past.

I left her as an image so that she could persist in my memory. When I left, I killed her. I froze her in time and did not allow her to move on, and now I’m faced with the conundrum of memory and forgetfulness. If I allow forgetfulness to creep through, I will seize to know her; she would become someone different; she would become a stranger. If I allow memory to persist, she’ll be unreal and as dead as a monument, as dead as the city which I have passed through.

I try to step forward. I cannot.

I try to back away. I cannot.

A decision has to be made. To forget and lose all, or to remember and wallow in decayed grave.

The distance between me and her hurts me, but I cannot stop staring. I have no idea how she’ll feel if I allow myself a tinge of forgetfulness. I have no idea how this still-image would move. Will she laugh and break the heaviness of my absence? Or will she move around in circles like a prey around its predator, examining and waiting to strike with guilt.

The answer is within reach and it’s a choice I’ve made a long time ago, before I left, when she whispered in my ear. She told me about a moment not intended for me, a moment not in my memory, a moment I am promised to witness upon my return.

The still image changes. She changes; her eyes brighten up; she shines and she looks at me. These eyes, they utter the truth in silence; art knows more than the mind can ever know for truth is found in the hidden places which art draws. The silent moving-image speaks: It is not okay to remember the way you did. I am alive. You left me with emptiness which did not allow me to laugh. The theatre of absence leaves us all wondering about our failing existence. You isolated me like a single frame of a long film. Your froze me in time and did not allow me to grow. And you thought you knew me. You left me without laughter and melancholy camped over me, and this city drained me with its stillness which you incurred.

I blush. I’m out of words.  She frightens me with her sudden strength, her sudden life, her sudden sublime beauty. Such beauty can only be reciprocated by a miracle which I cannot give. That moment which was not intended for me; her movement after stillness was that of a strike of guilt. I have returned to a city of the dead, but I do not know her anymore. She has changed. I never knew her. I have changed.

I turn my back on her and on the distance, hoping that the other end is closer.

My travelling lost me my only home.

The Arrival of the Sun (The Departure of Shame)

Standard

I’m crawling. I’m sidelined, but I need no sympathy. Fear takes precedence over the minds of the weak ones. And will they ever see the sun?

The sun, its terror is so great; we feel it without looking at it. The darkness is full of memories. You only know that a spirit of a person is dead when all you have is memories. Remembrance is the most tacit form of mourning.

I saw her in the dark after she had left me, and she was walking towards me, ignorant of the fact that I’m facing her, that she’s walking back into my arms. She kept on walking until the sun rose up, and she saw me waiting, humble and weak. I did not ask for respect, but for the violent impulse which speeds the inertia which pushes her to me, and maybe that violent impulse will kill us both.  I kept myself in the dark all through the night so that I become a taboo in her mind. The truth is one, once the taboo faces you, you leap onto it in an animalistic violent sexual frenzy, but the erotic leap in itself makes us human, a leap with no calculation, forgetting the past, and refraining from enslaving the present to the future; this is as close as we can die without ceasing to live, it is living equally with death. The sun is transgression.

Will they ever see the sun?

I cannot keep on walking through this discontinuous cycle born out of fear and restraint. It all feels the same. The same fears, the same inhibitions, the same irrationality, the same impersonality, the same sidelining, the same unimportance. I realize that it is an epidemic. It’s religion, but misunderstood; it’s monotheistic and it commits people to a human life of work with no animal respite. Alienation made divine. What happens when the fear is gone? When God dies? Irresponsible, undisciplined degradation in a dark abyss.

I am not comfortable writing this. I will be the victim, the words act as torturer.

As civilized as I try to be, my silence always comes out as violent, but I dare not speak, and now Language, my tool, betrays me, and treason tastes bitter when I realize that I’m the executioner as well.

I cannot project a complete corporeal image on anything around me. I am finding trouble defining my spirit in this place, among these people of constant deficit change. Will they ever know that their ways are faulty and their thoughts are part of a dictated narrative existing and feeding on differences. They live on negative definitions, and negatively, they try to find a purpose by looking at origins from the past, and passively they die in the darkness of history.

But a purpose does not imply an origin. An origin does not imply purpose. Knowledge was made not for understanding, but for cutting, an anatomical cut which opens up gaps and formidable abysses.

She is thirsty still and confused. She will always think of herself as incomplete, missing, lacking. She will never be satisfied because a part of her has been cut, but not anatomically, disfiguringly, and knowledge has been lost, growth has been impeded; a mind has been scarred, and a soul has been amputated.

I sense a desire in her, a desire for uninhibited freedom which scares me. This city does not help. This city will not let you stand tall if you are not submitting to its shallow routine. This city will not let you stand proud if you ignore its calls for lavish spending and religious devotion. So how can one not lose his way in this city of religious fear? The rotten morning breath of fear stinks up the empty streets at dawn, intoxicates the population in their sleep, that great punisher who will lynch them in their slumber, choke them for a misdeed. Fear replaces everything: duty, responsibility, morality, care, respect, compassion, aspiration, freedom, sex. Fear becomes a belief based on deceit.

The more I know her, the less I can contain and understand the various impulses that control her. I wish I can cut through her, correctly, to open her up before my eyes and gaze at everything in her, everything which makes her a complete whole. I cannot trust her until I know the truth which lurks inside of her.

But we revel in discontinuity, and suspicion will remain a monster which tears me with its million claws and deafens me with its thunderous roar.

For now, I’ll allow my silence to take the form of violence, and my language to be dubbed as civilized, even though I’ll know that the violence is silenced, and it is not the silence in itself which is violent. I want no sympathy. I know what is needed and I know how to get it, but now is not the time. I can’t force the sun, the creator and destructor, that great eye in the sky which will shine and finally we will all be able to defecate comfortably without shame and reach a sacred continuity.

Desiring The Sacred

Standard

Only a couple of years ago, I’d find myself sitting in front of the computer, munching on salt and vinegar Pringles, staring at the moving lights and listening to music, afraid of looking inside the brain which stops thinking. I was not conscious of my consciousness. The eyes made for seeing, the ears made for hearing. But my consciousness was battering itself, trying to burst out of the eggshell which contained it. I felt the ebb of the tide of pride and the flow of humility. Consciousness grew and with it, my experience changed.

My ever-expanding ball of consciousness dismissed misconceptions and allowed me to unlearn the false illusions which have been fed to me by other minds. Experience became unbound by my rejection of the reality with-out, and my embrace of the reality within. The sun still shined but the world was illumined from within. I became aware, an overman.

It’s beautiful now with her by my side as we mix the profane with the sacred. She walks half-naked across the room and turns on the light. We are joined by a deathlike experience, shocking and magnificent; transgressive. She spreads over me like a sea rising over land, covering it with saline moisture. She sweeps away every trace of dogmatic truth and takes hold of me in a meditative grasp, and the paradox hits. The profane invites the sacred, and the sacred creates the profane. Two opposing and radically different meanings become one. We mix into each other and sensations get lost. The eye made for hearing, the ear made for seeing. There is no longer any doer, there is only the deed: the spreading, the thrusting, the licentious cutting and the luscious moaning.

Experience becomes a systematic forgetting which forces me to make love with imagination rather than memory. The ball of consciousness never stops growing. It becomes clear to me now and I do not atone for that sin which presents her nakedness in a state of awakening. Why should I atone for that which brings me so close to paradise; why should I atone for that which rids me of my separateness and discontinuity, for that which brings me so close to the essence of my being, to death?

For that which they have dubbed as profane has given me a sacred sacramental experience. She was not the victim of my lust, she was my lust. I was not in love with what I desire; I was in love with who I desire. And now she is more beautiful than the world because I can hear her laugh when I close my eyes, I can see her smile when I close my ears.

The paradoxes keep on coming. Physical pleasure gave us spiritual bliss. Eroticism joined two discontinuous beings and made them one, a spirituality confessing to the boundless limits of the body when it transgresses physicality. Erotic pleasure is the proof that the body completes the soul by giving it an image; the body is the complementary of the soul, not its opposite.

The night is still, the screen is off, and the silence expresses itself, and it tells me that poetry is the sound of silence and love is its activity. My imagination stirs and feeds my experience; I find the answer to love: at first there is disgust, disgust from sex and the other sex, but then, you see her, and she makes you forget (ah the bliss of forgetting) that she is the same, she makes you aware of her being by making you unlearn, and that awareness is an unbound experience of consciousness. A desire is born within you aimed at that one person, and it is fed by your immoral imagination and uncontrollable lust of erotic pleasure and sensual oneness. The overflowing lust is love. The lust can fade, or the love can last.

The principle factor which enables and preserves such lustful love is imagination, for that girl is the same, it is only the imagination which makes her ethereal. The imagination makes her sacred. It is only imagination which deifies the one I desire. I desire God in her. I find God through eroticism.

Transcendental Eroticism

Standard

At first it was just us two, the girl and the boy, not exactly your typical fairytale, more like your typical porno. Memory has it that the first meeting was full of insecurity and uncertainty, but how things are now will never give that kind of impression. Memory also has it that all of what is happening was sparked by a spontaneous arbitrariness of a sudden courage to speak in a forthcoming way, without inhibitions and without moral restrictions. Every word had a surface level and nothing beneath it. No hidden truths, no secret intentions, just plain bodily, physical adoration.

At first it was just us two, but now the number always exceeds four. One thing remains constant: he is always the only boy. Memory has it that it was a hot day when I was bold and spontaneous enough to follow him into the one bedroom apartment. Memory also has it that it was all very natural: the way he led me, the way he let me enter, the way he seduced me, the way he elegantly made me feel different from him, like a stranger awaiting an identity, and finally, the way I let him in. Every act neared perfection and nothing happened that did not give a tingle of pleasure, a curve for a smile, or a gasp accounting for ethereality and substantial lightness. It was the first time I enjoyed such transcendental pleasure. At day break, I sliced his index finger and he cut my fourth toe.

Now we’re five in a room and we all charge on each other. A girl and I kiss, I close my eyes and feel her tongue grazing mine; I feel her lips becoming moister. I can’t remember her hair colour, her eye colour, her contour, her body. I do not care. I keep my eyes closed and start touching her body, her breasts, each lobe the size of an apple. As I go down on her breasts, I feel someone touch my waist, trying to pull me, and I let go. I know that touch.

I open my eyes and see three girls forming a human circle and as they eat each other, they look like genocide victims. He whispers in my ear and we laugh, but our laughter is oblivious to them. We watch them like they’re our very own private show, and he touches me with his now-wet fingers and we stick to each other, physically feeling each other’s enjoyment, and we become one Body in front of the act, and this Body masturbates as it watches. This Body twitches in instability. The Body is no longer male or female. The body does not experience time; the body does not experience space, or life, or death: the body opposes opposition. The body is an absolute one. The boy and I each sacrifice our individual self-consciousness to achieve an equality which occurs unprecedented. Our love does not become the love shared between master and slave, between sadist and masochist; our love is not dependant.

As the body climaxes and we retain our self-consciousness we break the closed female circle on the ground. Again, the five of us mash ourselves together, closing in on each other. Wordless acts of sensual pleasure occur until the sun rises again and the three girls dress up and go. The boy comes to me and I approach the boy. Each one of us has a knife, and each one of us slices a small piece of the other’s body.

On every morning after the transcendental act of eroticism, the boy and I slow slice our bodies, extending the transcendental bliss. We take off fingers or toes or ear lobes, eventually slicing nipples, slicing pieces of skin, and finally slicing sex organs. I cry the tears of Eros and I weep, and when we finish, we lie on each other, bleeding, waiting for the time when our earthly bodies fail and we transgress materialism to achieve transcendental eroticism.

A Clash of Scenes

Standard

I have an exam tomorrow, but I cannot start to think about seriously until I spit, mindlessly what’s on my mind. I do not care if what I’m writing turns out to be nonsense.

She sits on top of a basin full of white viscous milk and she laughs as she sees him trying to get her helplessly and desperately. He is not thinking of consequence. He is only thinking of her. She lets her barren naked skin touch the milk, causing little ripples to reverberate. The drops of milk that were sucked by her bottom and are now dripping tingle her as they fall one by one, thirteen in all.

He does not mind the thorn covered field and the deep black water he has to cross to get to her. He does not mind the infinite abyss he has to jump over. He does not mind the scorching heat he faces.

Lights flicker outside the window. The sound of traffic and people shouting pierce through the chamber walls and the pen hesitates, the parchment wavers. A guardian angel today is seen as a stalker, at best.

Her white teeth glisten and give him hope; he feels so near to her now, and she’s letting him come to her, so close that he could smell her, so close that he could touch her, so close that he could taste her. He has regained his five senses again.

When she’s not in sight, no one matters. Bleak, the world is transformed and out-formed, as if giving up its seeds and suffocating on its breath. But when she appears so suddenly, I have a resolute desire to stand up, to rise, to climb, to ascend. A desire so resolute I forget about the inevitable fall, I forget about all the previous times she seemed so close, all the previous times I tasted her and smelt her and touched her. Her theatre of absence leaves me dry and forces my imagination to fill up the black spaces that she leaves behind. Her theatre of experience captures and lures me to the stage. The mere sight of her is Hell. But I choose Hell over a bleak Earth.

She drops her body into the basin again, letting more skin touch the milk’s surface. Pretty soon, most of her ass cheeks are immersed in the white liquid, which is gradually being stained by drops of her own blood, as if her soul is being aborted. She sees him, her laughter becomes more intense and blood gushes into the milk. The basin is now filled with claret-coloured liquid.

People outside buy and sell each other, eat from each other’s hands and hide each other’s gold below the neon lights that fail to glow, the purple sky and the lacklustre moon.

She bleeds. She becomes one transformed, who laughs! A laughter that is no human laughter—and now a thirst gnaws at me, a yearning that will never be stilled. My yearning for this laughter gnaws at me: oh how can I bear to go on living! And how could I bear to die right now! I have lived in the wrong time, but now I can die at the right time. In front of her I am free for death and free only in death.

Thus speaks our hero as he hears her laughter and sees her glistening white teeth. He comes to save her bleeding body but she will not let him. She only laughs maniacally, an inhuman laughter. Her blood gushes, and her body reddens as well. On her wrist, punctured holes appear and blood cascades down into the basin, which is now overflowing with claret waterfalls. He sees her torn wrist and his eyes widen in terror. A coiling serpent emerges from one of her punctured wrists and coils itself around our man. It cracks his bones and swallows him. Desire’s end is always abysmal.

She gets up from atop the basin, her ass cheeks dripping claret. A blue light of heaven shines on her and the serpent creeps inside her again. She utters her final words with ugly contempt:

Unshakable are my depths: but they sparkle with swimming riddles and laughter. A sublime one I saw today, extremely solemn, a penitent of the spirit: oh my soul laughed at his ugliness. He has starved to death on his expectations. And as I wallow in melancholy I know that only when the hero has abandoned her is she approachable, in the dead hero’s infinite, impotent dream.

Texts in Italics are adapted and changed slightly from Friedrich Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Prologue

Standard

I see soil and diamonds and blood and pale corpses, and it all calls to me so I can take note of it. Desolation will persist until I can colour those memories with one persistent colour, nay one persistent shade (for a colour can vary) which explains them beyond any doubt. There is a tablecloth on my memory (my dusty jagged memory); the tablecloth changes colours every so often, and through the multicoloured taffeta I interpret one thing in many ways.

Glowsticks and diamonds and vegetation and genitals and a departure and a return. The backdrop of a sun illumines, majestically, the white crystals that fall from the sky, and a snake-shaped rainbow colours the horizon, taunts the mourners as I am now taunting you, readers faithful yet uncompromising.

In great humility I stand silent, not uttering a word although my lips move and my tongue shivers as the white crystals hit my head and drench my cheek, camouflaging my cold heart with their wetness so I can be one with the mourning crowd that moves in circles in the mud, around a grave, uttering paeans to a God immortal and lamentations to a body no longer seen beneath the heavy damp soil.

I am so eagerly awaiting the night time and its deceptively liberating darkness, and from this moment, I suffer from a split and my shadow changes form, dispatches from the body, and the sun stands amazed at my power. I become a character.

The character blinks and between momentary instantaneous blinks dreams of a glorious night—as he has been doing for three days now, while he woke up, while he slept and dreamt, while he ate his breakfast and talked to the people that are around him often: his cousin, his dark-haired friend Y— who has only recently decided to open up fully in front of him, informing him of the dark crevices which inflamed her soul with sorrow like a gapping ulcer, his fair-haired tall friend R— who has long been secretly hinting at a possible relationship with him, talking to him sensually about her sexual adventures, letting her imagination have complete control over her tongue, narrating stories of imaginary love fests with boys closely resembling him, who, as he matter-of-factly  watches the mourners as an outsider camouflaged as an insider, bites his tongue accidentally and a small droplet forms in his eye, like the morning dew, and aptly so, it awakens him from his daydream of a fanciful night and brings him back to mournful setting of the graveyard; tough big men crying, family members holding each other in pathetic solidarity.

The tear finally begins to cascade down Dani’s cheek, making him feel proud to have the ability to muster a mask of sympathetic sorrow. And this day, as I have its narrator, will have to be postponed, as everything else will be. When responsibility calls, we should act.

But I can say that this is going to be a journey in an empty vessel which, as I narrate, shall slowly be filled up by a dialectic conversation between Apollo and Dionysus. Life is ruled by the dialectics to which the senses so lovingly and beautifully respond with a positive stimulus of excitement. Such big words love and beauty are, and surely not to be separated by two figures as Abstract as Apollo and Dionysus. But these two abstract figures carry with them such a tale of a long day and an even longer night. A day of sobriety and a night of intoxication (the dialectic has already begun!) seen through the eyes of Dani, a staunch advocate of Dionysus, and society shall be his opponent: his Apollo.

But reader, do not dare forget that, I, the narrator, am Dani as well, and I shall be as biased as love is biased towards madness. Give me no quarter as you read on, dissect me at will. Show more colours to the multicoloured taffeta tablecloth that adjusts and fixes my memory.

As a final note I must profess: Dani, as he leaves the cemetery, pours wine over the marble grave of some poor forgotten skeleton underground; the skeleton of an ancient storyteller. Wine droplets merge with diamonds and crystals and form a blood stained rebirth; the rebirth of the ancient storyteller, with traditions no more dead than him, his morals and values come to contend mine. Dionysus plays with fire and I must be gone for an undefined period of time. I leave like a person leaving his cherished pain, full of sorrow.

Beneath The Mire

Standard

Burning eyes smoulder the world. Everything arises beautifully in flames, like a moving ancient pyre, resurrected.

Saturday mornings, all the same since 1982, 1989, 2000, 2006, 2011. The morning dew felt the same, the morning chill felt the same, and I was still the same, unchanged, unaltered by the several exploding sounds and the burning yet dormant fire within me.

I saw an old lady on the street who called me an animal and shouted with a shocking look on her old wrinkly face. I was walking to see my earthly heaven which has been enough for me across three decades, but that woman ruined it. I walked on though, the fire still burning to no avail. I went in circles above a green clearing, listening to the profound echo of my heart. Then I saw a man upon a hill, wearing a shirt and a vest and cowboy boots. He saw me and told me to breathe so that I can feed what is within me. I breathed in one long doleful breath and suddenly I felt a searing sensation come from my bellybutton. I pulled up my shirt and saw a little trickling flame coming out of it. I looked at the man and he smiled me, nodding his head, congratulating me, but what did that mean?

I walked, still feeling the searing flame coming out of my bellybutton. I took another breath, the flame grew bigger. I took another and the flame exploded and went out of me. A flaming soul went out of me. It floated above me like a cloud, but it lit my way and I walked along the path it lit. I pressed fallen leaves with my foot, I diverted entangled branches with my hands, I burnt down heavy obstacles with my fire. I thrust(ed) through caved woods. I reached my destination, to the goal I aspire, a statue floating above murky mire.

Just then my fire diminished and disappeared, and I thought I should retire from my task, although the statue called to me. Its shining whiteness told to cross the muddy path and claim my prize. But what hefty price should I pay for beauty, a possibility of death. I meditated on my task and closed my eyes, but my eyes could not stay closed when a flash of light came from above me and hit the stone. It painted it pallid with life, and it started moving, aching, screaming, shouting.

It called to me now with its voice and its shine. The statue, a girl, she called to me. Her voice made me focus on my task again. I stood up on my feet and pressed on foot in the mire. It drowned slowly. I put my other foot in front and pushed and pulled myself forward. The statue’s scream became louder, piercing the woods, destroying the most staunch roots and stiff trunks. I breathed and went on. All my body became submerged in the mire, only my head was left to be drowned in the murky slimy swamp. The mire of my will was getting the best of me. I desperately tried to hold on to anything beneath the mire to pull myself to, but I found nothing. The distance to the statue did not even seem to diminish, but her screams sounded like a great Wagner symphony, they rumbled and raged and roared, but I was impotent, and weak, and powerless. My head went down beneath the mire where no fire can exist, where no sound can pass through its dense medium. I closed my eyes and trapped my breath as long as I can. The time came to pass by, to move on, to cross to the other side and I opened my eyes. I saw nothing but black, nothing but darkness. I opened my mouth and inhaled a deep breath, and I couldn’t stop. I inhaled and inhaled until I felt my lungs explode; I exhaled.

An orange ray came out of me, the fire resurrected. It cleared the line of vision and I saw the base of the statue, a cage. I saw the wailing girl entrapped in its bars; I saw the statue made flesh, an even better sculpture than the statue itself. I saw her grand in her helplessness, I saw her beautiful in her surrender, I saw her luscious in her nakedness.  Her wet body smoothed my way to her and on I went. The mire had parted like the red sea as Moses stabbed it with his staff, and I the same, made my way between two parted mire falls, towards salvation. The path was easy, the path was clear. I made my way towards her voice which I could now hear. Life within me rushed as I came near, the world with-out me stood in fear. She saw me coming and braced herself, I was so close to finish the cross to the other side. She reached out for me and I extended my arm to her. Our extended limbs touched each other and she spoke.

“Fortune is a woman,” she said, “please her and you will reach the highest mountaintops and the deepest oceans. Release me, and I’ll show you all that you can ever be. I’ll show you the way.”

I pulled her body towards mine and pushed us up above the surface. We rose. My salvation and her salvation; we liberated each other from the shackles of Heaven and other celestial bodies. My Virtue and her Fortune arose.

Burning eyes smoulder the world. Everything arises beautifully in flames, like a moving ancient pyre, resurrected.