Akhila Jagdish: Between Fragments of Dirt, There Lies a Small Stone

Spring '10 TOC

Build me a rock garden.  And I will sit in the middle of it.
Somewhere where Dante can find me.  Help me with those endless nights,
the fierce fires and shramming cold.  If I had a labyrinth, I would ask my gargoyle to
carry me into blue skies.  Sometimes the act of writing helps the voices, they occupy
themselves for they wish to be heard.  I burn the art they create, the letters they write.
I am an outsider.  An outsider artist.  Burning words and colours.  My palette has been
destroyed and reborn.  Where is Virgil?  The robed guide to help me through my own
boiling inferno.  I am a sudden and insignificant casualty.

Subversion tempts jubilee.  Data streams on rivers, binary bottles of water.  The lack of
sense makes walks in the winter corrosive.  The lack.  Subtraction.  Nothingness.  Chaos
is fragmented into segments of time, lines crossing -- one red and one blue -- over
blackness.  When they start to turn, they eclipse.  Ellipse.  Words form barriers of blue,
surround sound, tempt tragedy.  The theory is nothing more than chaos, ordered. 
Ordered.  Into chaos.  Trashed conversations, the hole in the table is large enough for all
of you to fall into.  Swimming green beans devoured in the Lack.  Capitalized. 
Something happened.  Quickly.  Effervescent.  You reflect an illusion.  The fear of being
alone.  Pumpkins will grow beside you, in the rock garden with a steel sky and stones
built to a cottage.  A small cup of tea sits beside a fire.  Flames lick the uncertainty.  The
naïf finds peace in their experience.  Of inexperience.  Colossal mountains move men.

What of delusion?  Indian jasmine braids.  Losing opens festering wounds.  Wounds
created by Occam's Razor.  Suppose the assumption you leave is the only assumption
left.  All things being equal, Maya is the razor that can wield terrible power.  The world is
an illusion.  A state of suffering.  Eternally under a banyan tree.   Your name rolls off my
tongue and falls into the craggy depths of rocks washed in sea water.  The green
overpowers the senses.  And you smell a vicious sheep.  The institution is ragged, smells
of whiskey and cheap cigars.  Pan-Goddess with arms of blue and hair of blackness.  Red
tongue dancing over a million naked dead bodies.  Cumin and saffron burn in oil lamps. 
Brass ornaments and glass figurines.  The splintered door opens another wound and you
vomit in the grass. 

Hand written letters pile up on the table.  Under moldy roses.  Several moves and you lost
the stone.  The one from the abbey.  That late October rainy day.  Pitching yourself back
and forth, you realize that everything, ultimately, is about flowers or violent death.  You
pick a small blueberry from the bush, and squeeze its juice between your fingers. 
Fecund.  The barren landscape teaches you happiness.  Fog and mist.  Rain and glory. 
The night ends the way the day began.  Dreams hold hands and walk towards the blinding
light of happiness and resolution. 

Dante and Virgil wait for you.  In the depths of the mercurial ocean, churning out heat
and consuming bodies alive.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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