Trinitite throne

I waited and watched. It was a few minutes after dusk, and the skies had already turned a deep shade of indigo, all pretence of blue and orange and pink shed quickly after the sun's departure from the heavens. The green of trees was gone from the world, as the green of trees had always gone from the world for centuries before the moment I knew would come soon.

Bough and bark was bathed in a strange darkness that was not merely the absence of light; it was a darkness of and by itself, a monster that spawned other terrors in the minds of those who knew fear and other doubts in the minds of those who knew loneliness. It consumed everything, even my home from where I looked. I was out of matches, or I knew could've scared the monster away, chased it into the corner whence it had come, no longer to pour out from my past as the echoes of my youth.

I looked at my watch again, making sure I was on time and wouldn't miss the awakening. The lamppost, the pillar of metal that had my unwavering attention, was a few hundred paces away from me, straight ahead, its crown lost in the thick foliage of a banyan planted by the side of the road. Cars passed by beneath the tree, their eyes shining light into the black blanket that buffeted their forms, they pushed through with an industrial groan into the future that awaited their arrival.

It was either war or hatred they drove into, but it was a future of some sort nonetheless, and when cars and other wheeled things went into the future, they went into the future with hope. A hope that things would be different, or a hope that they would make them different. One way or another, the cars passed by, momentarily caught in my present where I would consider them thus and then let them slip out through the corner of my eye.

All this while, I was only seeing ahead, I wasn't looking, I wasn't watching. But now, I watched because I could see a dull amber glow come on amongst the banyan's leaves, and there was light suddenly as it blossomed steadily to become white, whiter, and soon, the blackness around it was gone. The monster was gone from my world, and the dark green of the leaves became discernible from even this distance, even though they possessed the penalty of thieving from the brilliance of man and were tinged with dirty orange.

No matter, though: let there be light, said man, and there was light. God, I knew, would have been taken aback at that moment because man had usurped him, brought in a darkness upon himself that only he could save himself from, and the need for godliness was no more. He was his own anti-particle, a bringer of light and in its shadow, a vast darkness, a creator and destroyer of worlds and worlds—trapped between the two layers of a consciousness that was turning in on itself.

Further down the road, there was a bridge, a flyover, and it was painted entirely blue. Like the lamppost, it reminded of something else other than itself, a representation that so far away from the real so as to be entirely different, a nature removed by Sputnik as much as to be art. The construction reminded of a sea I had seen somewhere, either beyond the shores near my home one night or on a television scream, a sea of orange and pink and blue and yellow and cyan and black like the contents of a lava lamp spewed on a sheet of Alamogordo glass, its bomb-hewn surface gently breathing radiation.

Tens of lampposts flanked its long, serpentine body, and even though some of its scales peeled away with a nostalgic redolence, I thought it was absolutely beautiful. Maybe because I also thought it was human, the way it breathed, the way it swallowed, digested and spat out, the way it stood still between the past and the future, basking in the glory of its creator that was also man.

My environment was not of divinity's making but of its defiance’s, a new formless world ridden with confusion and scepticism, full of windows that opened into walls and doors that opened onto the ceiling, but still filled with people trying to fix things. A mound of clay that was still slightly wet even after the child's hands had massaged it into an ugly lump.

There was hope, a hope that the day bridges would be taken for granted, the day lampposts would be turned off to make way for an equalizing darkness, the day I would walk amongst the tress and the forest's animals and birds and not find the raging wheeled in my presence, man would regret what would have befallen him by then, a world bereft of his intelligence and a world of surrender.

There was hope that the day man learned of his antithetical character to divinity and the destructive deck waiting to be dealt between his five fingers, man would also learn he could chase god away from his kingdom and fashion in the beast's place a throne for himself. There was hope that man would sit upon that throne.

Lessons from a plate of spinach

"Here, have this."

"What's it?"

"Spinach and rice."

"I hate the taste of spinach!"

"Do have it! It tastes good!"

"How! How do you know it tastes good?"

"Because it tasted good?"

"Because it tasted good for you!"

"Yeah... so?"

"How do you know it's going to taste good for me?"

"Well..."

*

"What is this?"

"It's spinach curry."

"You know I hate the taste-"

"Yes, yes! But I've cooked it different this time."

"What's the difference?"

"Now it tastes better!"

"How do you know-"

"Because it tastes for even me!"

"Because the spinach tastes better for you?"

"Yes, it does! Taste it!"

"I didn't like it when it tasted one way. Now, you've made it a better way."

"Yeah?"

"So, I didn't like it when it was just fine. Now you think I'll like it when the spinachness of the dish is enhanced?"

"Well..."

*

"Here, have this."

"What's this?"

"Spinach."

"Again?"

"Yeah!"

"Why so often?"

"Because I like it."

"Why do you like it?"

"Because it tastes better than most other stuff I eat."

"So you make spinach all the time?"

"Yeah?"

"Because you found out you liked something, you're going to make sure you keep liking it."

"If you have to put it like that..."

"Did you enjoy finding out you liked spinach?"

"Oh, yeah, it was at that dinner-"

"OK, OK, OK. So, you found something you liked, you enjoyed the feeling, and now you're happy to be stuck with that feeling?"

"Well..."

*

"Here, have this."

"Is it spinach?"

"Nope."

"Oh! How come?"

"I took your advice. Made beans instead."

"Ah! Smart choice. You liking the beans?"

"Not. One. Bit."

"Making a note of it?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"So... no more spinach?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Gotta find out more likes."

"You found one thing you liked and then you dumped it?"

"Well... yeah! I found something. Score! Let's move on. You taught me that!"

"So, you're essentially betraying your association with spinach."

"What?"

"Don't you think you owe it to yourself that you stick to something you know you like rather than go after something you think you'll like?"

"But you said-"

"I know what I said."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"You're the one who likes spinach."

Lessons from a plate of spinach

"Here, have this."

"What's it?"

"Spinach and rice."

"I hate the taste of spinach!"

"Do have it! It tastes good!"

"How! How do you know it tastes good?"

"Because it tasted good?"

"Because it tasted good for you!"

"Yeah... so?"

"How do you know it's going to taste good for me?"

"Well..."

*

"What is this?"

"It's spinach curry."

"You know I hate the taste-"

"Yes, yes! But I've cooked it different this time."

"What's the difference?"

"Now it tastes better!"

"How do you know-"

"Because it tastes for even me!"

"Because the spinach tastes better for you?"

"Yes, it does! Taste it!"

"I didn't like it when it tasted one way. Now, you've made it a better way."

"Yeah?"

"So, I didn't like it when it was just fine. Now you think I'll like it when the spinachness of the dish is enhanced?"

"Well..."

*

"Here, have this."

"What's this?"

"Spinach."

"Again?"

"Yeah!"

"Why so often?"

"Because I like it."

"Why do you like it?"

"Because it tastes better than most other stuff I eat."

"So you make spinach all the time?"

"Yeah?"

"Because you found out you liked something, you're going to make sure you keep liking it."

"If you have to put it like that..."

"Did you enjoy finding out you liked spinach?"

"Oh, yeah, it was at that dinner-"

"OK, OK, OK. So, you found something you liked, you enjoyed the feeling, and now you're happy to be stuck with that feeling?"

"Well..."

*

"Here, have this."

"Is it spinach?"

"Nope."

"Oh! How come?"

"I took your advice. Made beans instead."

"Ah! Smart choice. You liking the beans?"

"Not. One. Bit."

"Making a note of it?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"So... no more spinach?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Gotta find out more likes."

"You found one thing you liked and then you dumped it?"

"Well... yeah! I found something. Score! Let's move on. You taught me that!"

"So, you're essentially betraying your association with spinach."

"What?"

"Don't you think you owe it to yourself that you stick to something you know you like rather than go after something you think you'll like?"

"But you said-"

"I know what I said."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"You're the one who likes spinach."

On height

M: Ahh OK

So you're my age now.

How does it feel?

B: hahahahahah!

i feel no difference :P

M: Really? I feel young all of a sudden just because I'm just as old as you are! :D

B: :)

:D

M: I wish I was 5' 5" though

B: why so?

so short?

M: Being so tall, it's not easy for me to hide from the outside world a=or find loneliness in both the excessive size of a jacket as well as the width of a normal mattress

:(

B: lmao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

M: :P

You should appreciate your height!

B: oh really???

M: The grass is always greener on the other side, and looking at you from my side, I wish I was short and diminutive, from where I do not have to face any demands of being stylish while being as stylish as I can be without suffering the comments of the holier-than-thou fashionistas.

On height

M: Ahh OK

So you're my age now.

How does it feel?

B: hahahahahah!

i feel no difference :P

M: Really? I feel young all of a sudden just because I'm just as old as you are! :D

B: :)

:D

M: I wish I was 5' 5" though

B: why so?

so short?

M: Being so tall, it's not easy for me to hide from the outside world a=or find loneliness in both the excessive size of a jacket as well as the width of a normal mattress

:(

B: lmao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

M: :P

You should appreciate your height!

B: oh really???

M: The grass is always greener on the other side, and looking at you from my side, I wish I was short and diminutive, from where I do not have to face any demands of being stylish while being as stylish as I can be without suffering the comments of the holier-than-thou fashionistas.

A Shade Of Solecism

In the process of understanding this wide world, a strange inner transformation comes to fruition. Just like Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, the expenditure of energy in observing something changes the observation. The world we learn about is only the world that includes us, and the world there is is made up of people who change it continuously. What we can learn is what it is, but the mistake would be in trying to teach ourselves what it could have been instead of understanding it for what it was.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="240" caption="Rites of passage"][/caption]

I learnt of the world outside my window by writing. When I write things and hit "Save", an exuberance sweeps over me that signifies that something has been said and set in stone, that something cannot be changed and for every moment that comes after it, it is embellished deeper and deeper in the murk of history. For that reason, I can't let anything be wrong. I want my footprints on history's pages to be picture-perfect. It's not something I'm pretending to be - it's only something I know I can be and am trying my best to be so. In order to make correctness a habit, I read, I discover, I interpret. Reading and discovering can happen over and over again, without interpretation they will remain useless as time passes. Our mark does not lie in understanding that darkness is darkness and the light is the light; it lies in being able to light a candle without regard to whatever winds may be blowing then.

However, as the writer writes more and more, there is more and more about the world that is new, that is there in the now but wasn't in the then. If this moment has been prepared for, then disillusionment can be spared in favour of understanding, as has been noted that to attempt to learn is futile if understanding is absent. The prevalence of a loss of context forces a delineation on the matter of "understanding": to say that one understands is to not have integrated the ability to recognize, disintegrate and recreate, but to have only remembered the meaning encapsulated therein.

As much as contributions are expedited, so much is the world changed, and the world of the minute before understands its retirement just so. I, who have learnt much in this process of writing and self-discovery, am now a different man than of the minute before and have cast over my understanding of the world then a shade of solecism. The greatest lesson, therefore, does not concern the contents of our learning but the methodology itself: not what we learn, but how we learn. By integrating the idea that the spinning top spins so because tops spin so, we do not graduate from being fools. We must learn why it spins so. A top spinning the moment past will grind to a clumsy halt, but in setting another in motion is our learning vindicated.

Blackbird's Egg

Ephemeral and lasting these sons of constant attention remain, swimming seas of white and seeking like brave fools the short-lived happiness that words bring. A bloodied chest of rubies with a curse screaming above their head, and I am pushed away, slowly, steadily, and I deliberately forget to fight as noiseless wonders fracture to an unforgiving life. My hollowness has been stolen and in its place is a black bird.

[caption id="attachment_819" align="alignright" width="420" caption="Broken sky, wholesome rain"][/caption]

A dreaded wall climbs high and lifts magnanimously on its bank a small green frog. The calendar is moving away, tearing slowly across the lines, the numbers are released up and down both at once. Ripples settle down in silence and the moon comes to watch a storm gently falling asleep in the morning. Jan-jan-jan, one by one, push the sun out. Was-now flaps its wings in a blur but white lingers, a black sun rises in the north, and the morning blooms now-was.

Dissension and debate rage on the outside while a sharp illness pricks within. Give me your promise, broken at birth, and exploit my choices as a preference. Blood on the world's hands and scratches on the queen's back, the marauder runs into eternity behind the pillars of creation. Reason gives fast pursuit but the catch is never done. Why must it be when the end is the end is the end? Raindrops slither down the damp wood and our fires won't burn for any bribe. The crime is only slavery... not you, my darling.

I'm a radioactive toy filled with evaporating purposes. Keep my right to freedom and keep my right to the skies. Give me the freedom to give up when I longer can, give me the freedom to throw my arms up, give me the freedom to shed a tear. To cry shamelessly. Dark patches of dried blood flake away into the wind while the sun sets slowly beyond the mountain, and sunflowers meet the Earth whence they came. The leaf, is airborne, skyward, as a souvenir of the true day.

The Persistence Of Vision

There was once a little man, a man of short stature and quick to temper, who lived somewhere in the suburbs of London, weathering cold weather or a hot summer without smile or frown. He had a quick and crisp moustache so fiendishly red that it frightened away the children who wandered into his wide front-yard, and they would run and they would run lest he spot them trampling his leaves. The neighbours did not know much about him nor did they have any complaint, and the little man kept his house and his nose quite clean. While he wished they would only leave him alone and not suffer the pains of company, he would decline tea and biscuits completely politely.

Once it so happened that, returning from the grocer an evening, an old man walking the other way tipped his hat at him, and the little man was overcome by a sudden but freakish curiosity, and so stepped up to enquire: "Good evening, sir!", quoth he, "The sun is too high in the sky although August is nigh gone. When is winter to come?" In reply said the old man: "Good evening, sir, to you! The chap on the radio said winter would be here, quite strong and bleak, before the week after is done!" The little man thanked and set off once more, thinking of the weather to himself when the old man called: "Have a day as wonderful as you are, sir!" The little man, now, he was swift to anger, and turning back, he called in reply: "Why, sir, why! What have I said to earn that curse? What have I spoken to deserve something as terse?" The old man knew not what dragon he had poked and stood so still as to surprise winter before it arrived. In receiving only silence, the little man finished: "As wonderful as I am, you say to me, but the town knows, oh, the world knows, I am no wonderful man but as devilish as they come to be! Lest you fear anything, sir, let us have it clear. Speak not to me again for a madness is here. My madness of your futile attempts at persistence is here."

[caption id="attachment_785" align="aligncenter" width="277" caption="All those who wander are not lost"][/caption]