I am alive on this planet because human beings are alive on this planet. Had they been alive on some other planet I would have been alive there. I am looking for Maya. That sounds like cheap theater but I really am.
So one night I saw this spider sitting on the wall and had a nightmare of drowning in an ocean of spiders where there were only spiders and nothing else. When I had drowned completely I woke up in another kingdom and I have been there ever since. I don’t remember the spider I saw and the nightmare I nightmared but I have figured this out a while back. I will move from here when I feel like. Point being, I am still looking for Maya.
Seawind goes to places far away. I am further away tonight. Our lives are constant death of moments, corals pile up. I was burning these little squares when I saw the mountain rising up. I was losing my grip. One day, our one eyed mask-seller started tearing faces away from faces and new faces were cropping up and he was tearing them in mad rage. He tried to tear my yolk-morninged childhood. So I killed him and started walking along that long winding road that leads from my doorstep to where the carnival is.
Across hemlock-bodied edges
Of woman, meat and history.
Timeless frames and cycles.
Unbelievable, eternal universe.
And then, observing the moon hovering above my neighbour’s roof, I realized that the only thing that I love is the fact that I am alive and no achievement or becoming can ever touch that secret place. Next, I started loving shitting, peeing and eating because I am alive. Is the moon amphibious? In any case, does that really matter? First came wisdom. Then came the stairs,though it’s hard to tell whether they move up or down or sideways or whatever.Fast opening and shutting of doors. I take the stairs and reach somewhere.Somewhere is a place lost in the woods and that place is neither happy nor sad nor anything in between. Maya takes the earliest bus. The sun rises after that.I take a different bus. I see magnolia creatures crawling before the ghastly emperor of collective cacophony. Now, am I searching for Maya because I really am or because I have learned to? Catch the lowest common denominator. Flies buzz in. I reached the bridge which I had built and had forgotten because no one had ever walked along, fearing dreadful damnation. It was in another dream that I was dragging my own corpse. It was a very cold place.
And then I jumped from behind the wings, right at the center stage. And then I remembered that I had forgotten to take the flag out. And then I jumped back to the wings and to the endless, formless silence behind. *static humming*
I’ve had a fascination for ships ever since I learned about ships. Once, somewhere in the Himalayas, I looked downhill and saw an ant-man walking across a valley. He took a long time to cross. He was a ship. One day they covered our beloved valley with their table-cloth. ‘The circle of light is small’. Wolf-eyed glares gather. Tell me, is Maya a ship? Am I a ship?
One spider sitting
Fingers move up
One spider big
Deep snowy silence
One spider gone
Eat. Fuck. Kill.
And then they all came down from the forests. Pale jubilation of all tyrants. Lacklove gave a lot. Darkness dripped down our copper-moon. Their copper-moon was plucking weary tunes from the stars, sifting through them in search of that perfect finality. But then a mad reptile shot at our moon and their moon in massive, personal velocity. Everything else froze in respective positions, preordained, as my believing has led me to believe.
Stuff sticks to stuff. World gets bigger and smaller every dying moment. I am thirsty now. I hugged my candle and wept in pretty silence. Movement begins from this acute point.
Maya had a mirror and she showed it to me once. Enraged, all cosmic tenderness revolved around the smooth rims of her pussy. Since then, I have been blind. Lonely people hate the fog. Does she hate my sky? Doesn’t she?
And then we were kicked out and we found ourselves standing face to face with the monstrosity of question-marks. Life wants to get rid of that. Sun sets on the edges of the body, flies swarm in once again, shores of death are there and we know but we can’t see them or feel them, we can’t know anything about the shores till we reach there. We have seen our green mother of morning and red mother of evening. This,too, is personal.
Next comes fear. It goes deeper than premonition, and women.No one has ever told me to sacrifice anything and hence I have not sacrificed anything. Our modern cityscapes were borne by fear. We think that everything comes out of wombs because we ourselves come out of wombs. I have read this somewhere that a huge chunk of the human population dies out of uncertain causes. We are being hounded by uncertainty. This uncertainty is everywhere and there’s no way to get out of it and hence we don’t try to. Did Schrödinger’s cat try to get out of the box? It’s all silent, and even silence dies out. Everything else withers away before real wolves come out of pale forests in midnight. I have signed way too many deeds of relinquishment. I am tracking her down through these shadows.
Next comes the obvious question involving poverty, happiness,torture and our beloved nerves. We love our neurons way too much. We want to keep them happy because we have learned that being happy is good and good is being happy. We have also learned that love is making what we love happy. We have learned a lot and we still are learning a lot and we will be learning a lot more, until it all becomes a huge ball of indistinguishable nuggets and we will call that wisdom and we will challenge heaven and hell and everything binary with that. Most people get to learn that being happy is the essential purpose of living, and hence the very fact of living does not make them happy anymore.We end up spending everything to make our nerves happy. Very few of our friends kill themselves and even a fewer number gets to the state where we can safely call them mad and feel secure about the fact that we exist on different boxes.Rain stops for a while, soothing, soothed sun comes out from behind clouds, sullen frangipani blinks twice at the sun and moon of our hearts, strange, soft, pink light fills our personal darkrooms, pocket-size UFO-s fly in from windows, perches on our heaving chests, on the borders – one, followed by a million, and ant-people comes out and they pile up to become our corpses, and they drag our living bodies outside.This is how we live. We have believed in form. We have never believed in transformation. Heart and brain fight like mad hounds for that eternal, elusive prize of finality, and they kill each other a bit more every moment, they kill the moments to ensure the arrival of 9 o’clock one hour after that of 8 o’clock.Thus, we have nothing to lose. Hence, we hold on to our personal passwords and other shibboleths. We hug our personal candles so tight that wax mingles with flesh and we are candles now and we don’t know whether we are burning or not and we never will. We don’t know of the soul, of god, of eternity, rebirth or immortality and we never will. Existence has always been social conditions. We don’t think of Socrates. We don’t subvert. We don’t feel prophetic except once or twice, for a few flitting moments. Everything we do, everything we give out, trudges to oblivion. Maya,give me my hands to adhere to.
No one ever gets closer to the heart beyond a certain point.Stand there, hurl your grenades and tuberoses, retreat. That’s been the general idea. Given that there’s no way out, I am not looking for any. This servitude to axioms makes things easy and makes mankind and kind women prosper. Sickness has reached core long ago. Blood, flesh and bones tremble. Channels dilate and constrict, fear takes over, roots uproot, we seek to penetrate fear, we invent love because there is no love, we live, we die, we scream, our shoulders break,our knees give away, our bridges collapse, our roads become terribly extinct reptiles, our stars become eyes of other beings and all other others, we turn to things to hold and grasp – words, signs, touches – all in search of heavy salvation. The history of this inhuman struggle has you and me in it. Salvation eludes us to reach the dimwitted heroes of time and brutal history – their endless tales of sex rape and victory, of magic, mania and slaughter – their strong clubs clash against the roofs of our world, our living. Behold us, the cowards of the world, cheering false saviours, worshipping false gods – sing our own songs of victory and defeat and enter the womb of fright – our big dark mother stares down, indifferent to our tales of the heroes who fucked her from dawn till dusk till the cows came home, moonlight shattered mantelpieces in sharp laughter, bats shot out of treeheads of that great forest and filled a few moments with terrific screeches as we, the defeated and the decimated, lay our weary, mortal lives of body and bodies of life – our only laurels and wreaths. We have no choice.
Because of and despite everything, I am searching for Maya. There will be no way to tell the hunter from the hunted once the cyclone arrives.