Akhila Jagdish: The Space Between Light/Dark Chaos/Order Well/Unwell Love/Not To Be Loved

Spring '10 TOC

In between the noise of humming birds, the mechanical flapping
Of their tiny wings, the systematic beatings of their heart, lies a
stillness. A place of calm collection. Visits are temporary, fleeting.
Our bodies are made to withstand the external chaos. White noise fills
The depths of our ear canals and buries itself in a mausoleum.
Words link to objects. What if I told you that round, red fruit on the table was a banana?
Words link to ideas. Physical space and eternity are all concepts of time. Time is a concept,
someone told me. As I lay on the floor. Desperate. With a cup of chamomile. The sickening
smell lingers long after the drink is gone. Buildings bent, silted rose. I sat still. Simply to see.
Rafts of autumn leaves riding waves of crimson and gold. A boat, with masts made
of animal skins skim the surface. An orange tiger sits quietly in the corner. Watching me.

Footprints. But where are the feet? Parallel lines circle around. Irresponsible Maya.
You can neither be described nor defined. The tree isn't a tree. Suffering is suffering.
Dabble in existential thought. You won't get far. The bottle of water sitting on the bed
will eventually disappear. The hungry ghosts, the warring ghosts, the ancestors will take
it and what will you do? Your obsession with tomato soup is disturbing. Did you know
that Lola just wanted to sit down? Rest from the heat. Of stares and stoves and sex.
What IF could have "eternal sunshine" would you smile? In that moment, right before the storm,
the kiss, the end, have you watched the air? Seen it turn, eddy. Find ways to capture that
moment. Through a looking glass, Alice grew up, found the rabbit was a predator and ate all the
marmalade in town. She sits. Staring at me in the middle of the night. The parks are overrun
with drunken fairies and the words that escape and have no home. We have no home. Our house
on stilts is stilting. Let's eat the stars, you suggest one moonless night. We walk outside through
the grass, cattails and dogwoods. Even the fireflies have no light left in them. A small purple and
yellow cow hunts us down in the deep brush. A technicolour thrush sings. Dante looks up and
stops pouring wine for Poe. I feel the need to go home.

A pouncing gargoyle sits silently on your desk. Staring. You find it strangely comforting. The
thought that this indelicate creature, this monster of blood loves you enough to watch you.
He created blue and jumped of the side of a building. You create stories in six words.
Nothing exists in this world, darling. Cushioned by sentences, fragments (that poke) and
punctuation, you feel safe. Encapsulated. Till. It. Falls. And then our bodies break into.
Fragments. I yawn, make paper moons out of foil, fill bowls with dyed water, create castles out
of candles. My stunning use of alliteration should impress you. Who do I keep on talking too?
Fifty three that is how old I shall be when you decide to talk to me. Irreverent little rhymes.
Mind games. Stone walls will crumble under the weight of your space. Look at of the window
and you will see symbols emerge in rapid succession. Triangles, lines, circles, pentagrams.
There is a huge eye in the sky that keeps staring at me. In desperation, you claw hope, bleeding
and bruised into the light. It shivers. Iridescent. Shimmering. Fleeting. You look around to find
something to trap it, so it can never leave you. A hammer falls. And blindsides hope. It is lost.
You feel like Dante on a raging river. Silently, you are pulled into the light, your shadow is lost
in the darkness.

In the Space between light/dark, chaos/order, well/unwell, love/not being loved, you learn to

:: TOC ::

Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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