Static foam ornamenting the rim of the screen, like
a crust of petrified lava encircling abysmal ember flow. As if the concoction
of fire mud was sucked back into the volcanic intestine and now it puffs
disheartened signals to the heights into which it was previously catapulted.
Static foam indifferently delineating the face of
the screen buzzing with bouncing, hissing electrons, like hair oblivious of the
head it is attached to. Like pixels kaleidoscopically titillating along the
scale from extreme density towards thinner modes.
Pixel scales like feathers on the body of a
phantasmagoric liquid crystal peacock, like petals on the stem of a digital
gerbera. As if the universe were the core that vomits fiery potion, now
immobilized around the neck of the rocky reptile.
Pixel scales like cotton candy spread across the
pearly, fully charged net, like filigree glass web of frosty threads. As if the
ghost of that scorching jet was morphed with the intramural whispers, now
embalming the inner walls of the chalice welcoming the cosmic smile travelling
from afar, bringing to the devices on the table—reflection.
It
shines both ways: just as it fills the spaces of the mighty castle with the
warmth of incandescent softness of the universe, so does the molten
static flow glisten all the way to the center of the chalice, only to resurface
flashing a smile back to the trippy photons.
like phunk!
***
The skin of the liquid crystal screen slightly
stirs. Its immaculately flat surface is reanimated by invisible nanomovements.
Its pores breathe. It smiles a shy smile. Reflection. It travels down the inner
upholstering. Now bumping over the shadow of static knots, now sliding along
smooth grooves hosting the melting foam. It fills the tubular pathways with
interstellar rapture.
It is a cunning traveler through the crevices of
buzz. It is camouflaged in the shades of darkness always darker by three
degrees than the one surrounding it. It moves in the shadow of its own whisper,
memory of the branches mirrored in the coral rhizome glow covering and anchored
in the stem of the chalice.
It shimmers slightly as the breezy vibration
generated through the nanomovements on the skin of the liquid crystal screen
spreads and gently splashes the bottom dignified in its immobile posture. It
shimmers slightly as its milkish dripping turns into a miniscule pond – a
delicate content nestled in the comforting, protective hug of the magical
vessel.
Its surface features subtle wavy commotions. Sends
the vibe back all the way to the liquid crystal screen skin. Then it quiets.
The echo of the screen’s fantasy of its own dream fills the interstices in
liquid wrinkles. It mirrors its own photon flow, ethereal gleam. It shines both
ways.
like phunk!
/
Those photon jets are like winds swishing along
urban tubular corridors crisscrossing, connecting, transversing,
separating…drawing invisible boundaries, sketching tangents. They hoot muted by
commotions, buzz, and hiss of the everyday. At night, they send subtonic
whispers through dry foliage rolling down the avenues of sobbing barks,
lampposts that radiate silent tears through the cold air—the guardian of the
memory of the rain.
Those photon jets are like the ghost of the rain
that never stops falling. It falls over the tall buildings clad in glass. Their
interior is the eyes that never tire of absorbing that smeared vision of the
city. It falls over granite ornaments lacing the borders of small squares. They
never tire of rejoicing in those liquid jets photonizing the memory of the
screen skin. It falls over the echoes of the miniature pond, the image of the
fluid gulping the droplets. It
shines both ways.
This photonizing rhapsody is the solemnity of the
steely sky showering the city with invisible rays. It sucks tumult out of
syncopated pathways. It relieves the alleys of swarming cacophony. It imprints a
melancholic whiff throughout the urban labyrinth and rustic wilderness alike.
It rains reminiscences of the smell of cinnamon and milk steaming mellowness into
the frigid surrounding. It rains smell. The rain it rains. It shines both ways.
/
Once, there was no thing that seemed as it was.
Because nothing seemed. You may think it’s a different planet I am talking
about here, but it is not. That it is a different world is possible. But,
different from which one? Different from what?
In that world, what you ate was food, what you drank
was water, a building or a house was one’s habitat, cities were great
settlements with a highly developed infrastructure, loads of cultural
happenings, a lot of people. People worked at workplaces. They married or they
didn’t. Had offspring or not. They visited each other, went out, walked, and
talked. Sometimes, they’d dance to the music. Music consisted of sound
including diverse components, chiefly of a tripartite nature called melody,
harmony, and rhythm, respectively. I didn’t know they were called so. But I
liked the sound of it.
Once, there was no thing that seemed as it was.
Because nothing seemed. I was told that it was not so. I was neither convinced
nor unconvinced. Because I did not know what seem meant. Because nothing
seemed.
I found out there were highways that were built for
the likes of cars, trucks, bikes, and vehicles of their ilk to be driven on it.
I realized there were buildings that had a residential function. I learned that
there was communication and friendly, reciprical vibes filling the
communication channel.
I was told that it was not so. I saw a lot of thick
clouds in the sky and thought of the long standing wish to converse with them.
I was thinking of all the cakes nobody was eating, showers no one took,
abandoned musical instruments, and what it all meant to me.
I was not sure if I was adult at that moment.
Because it didn’t seem so.
/
I clearly remember how I used to hear other people
talk. They’d tell me some things that sounded big, hard, dense, cumbersome,
troublesome, and/or exhilarating. They imbued in those talks enormous amounts
of energy—sorrow, excitement, and/or puzzlement. Curiosity for sure. Their
bodies would reflect those feelings: their faces would wrinkle and twitch;
their hands clasped as if they were warming them up on the heat emanated from
bonfire on a chili night; their legs crossed firmly adhering to each other;
their backs bent, muscles stiffened, tendons tightened, voice either toned down
or in the high octane pumping mode, eyes tense, breathing deep and intense. I
thought there was quite a bit of going on in their lives, but I did not wonder
why they chose me to talk about it. I know that I took notice of all those
things, and I also know that I was neither intrigued, nor attracted, nor
jealous. I wished people didn’t have the reason for such talks—verbal and body
alike. I wished there was not so much going on in their lives. Only later, did
I realize that the things they were telling me hardly had anything to do with
their own lives. Those were the stories about other people’s lives. And that’s
precisely the reason why their reactions were so emotionally loaded. That’s
also the reason why they had zero appeal to me. Only later, did I learn that
the sense of closeness those talks were supposedly generating was a widely
spread paradigm of feelings, that can, essentially, be characterized as a
category mistake: they’d confuse intimacy for gossip. I could also figure out
that they did not and why if they did choose me to unburden that logorrheic
puke on. The key is the same: it could be anyone. I always wonder what
constitutes relevance in the worlds such as theirs.
I clearly remember playing. During play, all
communication was in the service of play. It typically meant sparse wording,
onomatopoeia, and sound conjured up for that particular occasion to enhance the
intensity of the experience. It hardly ever included—let alone required—sharing
details from personal narratives. Only later, did I notice that people behaved
as if they were playing all the time, and not necessarily because they were
either creative or carefree. Rather, because that aura of confidentiality was
the default context. They were secretive because they believed that the streak itself
had the capacity to engender and ensure personal narratives. They were creating
a sense of having those personal narratives. It looked like they had the reason
for keeping them unrevealed. Secret allegedly gave their lives a sense of
substantiality. Only later, did I realize that they hardly have anything to
reveal, and that what they had did not interest me. I also understood that they
confused distance for superficiality, privacy for just about everything else. I
always wonder what determines significance in the worlds such as theirs.
I clearly remember that clocks, watches, and other
devices tracking and displaying chronological flow would become merely things,
pieces of furniture, ornaments, gadgets, technological peculiarities
at--sometimes rather lengthy—moments of immersing oneself in the abundance of
fulfillment certain contents and activities offered. Likewise, some other
contents and activities would withdraw to the periphery of attention solely due
to the extent to which they were informative of the focus of the experience.
The selection of perception, sifting of stimuli, filtering of sensory contents,
and choice of non-sensory signals alike was simply the given mode of immersing
oneself in a particular act and/or just the manner of being. Only later, did I
learn that people talked about priorities, rational chiseling of the chunks of
realities based on…well, relevance? Sometimes they would mention such words.
Or, they wouldn’t. In any event, I know I knew there had been something awkward
about such situations. I know the sense of awkwardness comes from the
discrepancy between, on the one hand, the role of clocks and watches in those
choices of theirs and, on the other, the friction between the meaning and use
of certain words. I was told context was everything and justified both the
meaning and use, but, while I damn know what the phunkie context is, those
explanations bore shitty reverberations to me. It became rather obvious that
what’s at stake is confusing utility for significance. I always wonder what the
meaning of the word prime is in the universe they share.
***
By day, the spectacle of platitudes acquires a
disguise. It masks itself in fast-paced, self-assured, loud echoes of alligator
leather stilettos leaving high heel imprints on the pathways snaking throughout
the concrete forestry completely unaware of the presence of the quiet flow of
the river in their midst.
By day, the buzz of secrecy acquires a disguise. It
masks itself in knots of entangled threads of massacred facts, fabricated
fantasies, intrigue-engendering baits, drama triggering traps, gigantic bites
of muted words swallowed and pushed down the agitated larynx, congested in the
whirlpools of visceral porridge. The cycles of the vortex of this slimy amalgamation roll along a greasy
labyrinth puzzling even itself with magical subversion of the facticity
infected by the aura of the incessant string of figures pouring down the screens
keeping the eyes of the observer glued to its torturous dominance, paralyzed by
the versatility of just about everything that turns each site imaginable into
the imagery whose mobility, inconsistency, and mutability can only be compared
with the vivacity of clouds carried on the wings of mischievous air currents.
Completely unaware of the presence of
the quiet flow of the river in their midst.
By day, utility acquires a disguise. It masks itself
in a delusion of a highest order. Interestingly, the linguistic device used in
the previous sentence, typically signifying the degree to which something has
been developed, occurs, is manifested, etc., here specifies the object, i.e.,
the delusion, funnily, manifested in the form of a walking suit fantasizing of
featuring a personality of the mountain safeguarding the settlement at its
foot, alas overshadowing self-awareness with a mind-bending degree of self-righteousness
directly proportional to the unawareness of the presence of the quiet flow of
the river in its midst.
That’s why i choose dusk to dive into the colors of
falling darkness and swim through that nocturnal oneiric ocean. Each move
increases a sense of, actually, being static and cooling my strained eyes from
the dazzling photon spitfire. I feed on mushroom vibes woven in the inky veil.
Like them, i, too, dwell in the dampness of the invisible. Unlike clinking
shoes, boasting suit, and titillating figures, i am not mesmerized by that
blinding photon tyranny. They don’t mind being blinded because they think they
can see themselves in that noise.
I don’t. Coz i am
vegan. I travel through the rhizomorphic highway embroidering the seabed with
the filigree web of the forestry gently gleaming and spreading its soft
reflection across the surface of the mighty water. And the chalice smiles a kiss back to the
sparkling constellations.
kessenem / pleazy.
Verily.
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