Thursday, December 17, 2015

migratory routes of us, nomads (I)

I, hereby, declare that I belong to a society which is called by many names.

Every member of the nomadic people of the earth has the right to rename our society, although most of the members don't really care about naming stuff. They just go about doing their own business. I wasn't interested in naming it too, but since I was asked, with a tinge of hatred and contempt, of what my society consists, I had to come up with some names. I thought of some, some others I borrowed from other members. It is not a crime to steal names in our society if you build on it and create with it - in other words, if you manage to make it your own, you're always welcome.

So here it goes:

people of future...
paradoxical elements...
dark precursors...
marks of the earth...
gönüls - which is many things at once as one of our members described: "mind, soul, heart, energy, lovers, jealousies, silences together" - his English was poor as he is an Italian, but he showed his deep understanding of this Turkish word which is essentially untranslatable. Ah!
and so ons...

This is not an exhaustive list obviously. We are not an exhaustive people. We enjoy our lack of completeness. We are not and will never be whole, complete, finished. We are not masters of anything, not even ourselves. We don't believe in God since we have flesh-and-blood prophets to believe instead. Well, everyone in our society is a prophet of another world of their own making, so believing may not be the best term there since we don't have any other option. As one of our members who is known as Philip K. Dick in the normal society - an outside for us - pointed out: reality is that which doesn't go away when you stop believing it. We are real, not because we don't believe in each other, but because believing in each other and existing is one and the same thing. Almost. Well, that member was actually pointing out another kind of reality which is quite foreign to us. A reality that is said to exist out of our relational field. We are still discussing whether it is a myth or not.

And yes, we discuss things. We enjoy to discuss everything. But we do it politely. It's a kind of dance for us, not a fight. We dance to each other's rhythms. We silently move away when another's rhythm becomes to much for us to handle. This doesn't mean that there is no violence in our society. Actually, the violence is almost always present on the geographies we wander together. There is death, first of all. There are injuries from which we sometimes have trouble to survive. But luckily, our geographies are in constant motion, continuously changing with small earthquakes, rearranging themselves with small revolutions as we wander. So when we fall down an abyss, we are sure we will not stay there for long since the abyss will also close to create another beautiful scenery with waterfalls and stuff. The earth under our feet will raise us up with it. We always have the earth. On this earth, some of us have territories quite hard to trek. For example, one particular member who goes about as Nietzsche by day, has these steep and cold mountains higher than any of us has seen. There are rumors that he has gone mad and now resides at the top of one of those mountains. But I saw him the other day very early in the morning in the fish market and we had a pleasant conversation. He didn't seem crazy to me at all. So, one should not believe in rumors.

This manifesto thing is tiring. Let's take it up from here later with our routes which are basically the same thing with our existence: too many...

A screenshot from the movie "A fost sau n-a fost?" that is "Did revolution happen or not?": yet another beautiful multiplicity, another pride of our society. Look at those expressions! Those expressions are just a few samples of our routes...

Friday, December 11, 2015

the tragedy of an inconclusive death

to my dark precursor, that peculiar Mark...

In the line of flight that is love
there is a sign,
in the sign a crack,
an abyss,
the bottomless depth of an open wound...
as the wound throbs with emptiness,
the full body of death devours everything that flows,
tides no more,
flights no more,
dives no more.
matter forgets itself,
its plenum remains,
just nothingness of not-thing-ness
just nowhere of now-hereness

the wound heals
scabbing over the mouth of that very intimate exclamation mark
punctuation screams no more
language lost
time stripped from its future
its fundamental layer
becomes heavy with the load of everything-there-was
everything-there-was becomes a piece of flesh
flesh with no bone(r)s to penetrate it
nothing to hold it together
nothing in it to stand up for it
now nameless
out in the open
flashing out
still feeling
sweating cold
scratching its insides
can't get out
flesh still living

a drooling mouth comes out of nowhere
with big hands and feet and a grotesque body and a giant hump
looking familiar in its atrocity
properly humanly ugly
picks it up
spits in it
wipes his mouth
puts it in his pocket
in the pocket a giant hole
in the hole a gummy dick sticking his head out 
the human beast hobbles on...

a scorching pain follows
stamping it with a mark reading
[not over yet]