Bonsai Factory

What are you thinking about? Bonsai that you drew. What about it? Its color, shape—everything it is. How did I draw it? With crayons. Fuck off. Unowhadamtalkinabout. Sure, Purple (H)ortak. So? So--what? So, how did I draw it?

The factory told you, sukka!

One day I found myself living a life in a crack in the wall. I thought, What a miserable life…Days passed. Nights were not passing that fast. But, time was slowly layering its veils over my habitatus and I realized, It’s about that time I started thinking about the odd situation of mine. The moment my thoughts started piercing the thinking tissue, with the vehemence of a child determined to have ice-cream instead of a steak for dinner, the thinking whirlpool brought my mind flow to the heights of the depths known only to those who tried piercing the way I did. Those mesmerizing unknown lands enchanted my heart with a song of a silky wind, whose grandfather was a shepherd in a village in the south province of the Apennine Peninsula. His daughter married a Highlander despite a strong disapproval of her parents. Her mother was devastated. Her father crushed. But, they ran away to live in the Arctic. There they were safely hidden from the eyes of the enraged family. Hard work and scarce food supply was their everyday. Their nights were…well, only they themselves can testify about that.

I was born on the wing of a glacier. I was conceived in the intestine of a geyser. Part of my life I spent on the infamous beach in Abrëville, hanging out with a bunch of bohemians-cum-science devotees. I don’t have a house now. I live in a crack in the wall. Once, while I was rocketeering head on towards the bedrock of the wild commotion, the thinking whirlpool told me that my mission on that particular occasion was to find out that not having a house meant to have a story. And to tell it. I thought I must have been out of my fucking mind, hallucinating or something…And I continued living with a firm belief that till the day I die, my life was going to be nothing but. A posttraumatic burn out.

Until one day an unprecedented experience threw me into the arms of a new day. I was awoken by my own voice. That I did not recognize. Because it wasn’t mine. And, at the same time, it was. When I say it wasn’t mine, I mean it isn’t only mine. When I say that it was, I mean nobody else can use it to tell a story in the same way I do. How I figured that is as simple as 321&5! If anyone thinks that it doesn’t look as simple as it sounds, that person is right. If anyone thinks how it sounds is the tip of the ice-berg of the marriage of simplicity’n’complexity—damn straight! My motherfuckinself knows no way to disentangle those swarmed impressions. But I know that since that morning I spent half of the time strongly convinced that I was living in the most beautiful delusion which I didn’t want to disperse into the crystalline air of a summer dawn. Half of the time (n I don’t mean alternately), I  spent freed from an urge to explain to myself, let alone anybody else, how such perplexity can make someone not wonder how it can also be—well, just fuckin amazing! The key to my own private nirvana was another occurrence when my own voice whispered to me that the crack not only was not a house proper, but was more than that. It was the vocal cords. I was speechless. To say the least.

And that mystery, under the strangest of circumstances, sealed my mind with a blessing whose only verification is in the reoccurring experiences of weird storytellying that typically start with a strange sensation in my nostrils and throat, followed by sneezing and slightly irritating cough, after which mild fever shakes my muscles and causes almost unnoticeable pain in the wrists, that culminates in itchy elbows. That climax is, in fact, only the beginning, because it marks a kickoff of the wave of snowflake syllables erupting from a perforated duodenum of a melted ice volcano and sucked all the way down to the appendix in the body of the Artic dragon. Only to be launched into the starry sky and via an ellipsoid path sent to the crack-habitatus of mine. On one of such occasions I imagined I was a bonsai linden tree on a window sill, from which I told a story about a song. I can’t recall the name of the song. But I’m pretty sure it was sung by a human voice.