The Theory of Everything. Circles. Shadows. Magical Realism. Poems. Designs. Thoughts. Assholery. Stars. Infinite Infinities. Absurdism. Science. Quantum Physics/Mechanics/Fiction. Creative Fuckery.
Remedy to the chronic
In the house there are beautiful cups. They were coffee mugs just a few nights before. Today we call them cups, the name might be too much for them. We cannot handle them anymore. We don’t really remember how they lost their mug handles. It must have been night when they broke. We might have not been home. One of us might have mistakenly broke them. We would like to say we don’t mind, but we do. We really mind. Because a lot of things are broken already. A lot is broken. When the day is done and the work is complete, nobody wants to return home. The broken things are too many. We go home to fix them. The fixing is so difficult. No one can sleep peacefully at home with so many broken things. The tree outside is not broken much. Each of us selects and brands their side of the tree. We don’t want anyone sleeping on the wrong side of the tree. The cold does not bother us as much as the broken things in the house. At noon, if it happens that we return early, we try to fix them. But when we take the fixing tools and attempt to fix things, the tools themselves break. the other day we let go of everything and decided to fix things with our bare hands. The people at the hospital hate us now. The hospital is not a place to fix hands, we were told. They seem to be tired of looking at our daily broken hands. We made a plan once to fix things one by one, we made lists. The important things on top. The hierarchy of priority. We saved our fingers for straight two weeks without fixing anything, hoping to not break quickly the day we decide to get back to the fixing. Our fingers were made for pointing out broken things and not actually doing the work. We don’t point anymore, we simply stroke the broken edges and bleed slightly. We know we are alive. We are alive because we bleed all the time and not die, well at least our fingers don’t die. We fixed the bed the other day. The bed was the biggest broken thing after out hearts. Then the stove, the second biggest after our family. Then the windows, the most important after our eyes. We also fixed the door handle, the most, most necessary after our hands. We thought the floor can wait a few weeks, our knees are more important. After saving so much of ourselves from the breaking, everything in the house is breaking more, everything breaks and we cannot do anything about it anymore. We are afraid now. Everything we touch breaks, last night I touched my hair and something out of my head fell off. I pulled the pillow below my ear and something broke, it could have been the pillow or my ear, I didn’t hear properly. Today I was reading a broken manual of fixing things, the last page contained the most important lesson of mending broken things. The page was going to save us all. The tree would finally be free of us. It would finally be able to spend a night alone and dream nicely. I swear, we were finally going to give it space. The page had many spelling errors, I’m far too accustomed to fixing things. I tried fixing a few spelling errors, the broken English. The last page, so so important, far important than all our lives combined, it broke with my fingers, then my heart followed. Something broke from my face. I went home and nothing was there. Broken things everywhere.
…back to The Shadows.
IN THE END
In the end, there are five bear cubs underneath your porch. You name them after U.S. Presidents. Taft dies of starvation. Carter disappears into the flowers. Hoover is carried away by hawks. Roosevelt digs into the ground to get away from ghosts. Lincoln grows up. Lincoln becomes a mother, with five cubs of her own. You are very proud of Lincoln. After Lincoln eats you, you adapt to your new life. You are still so proud of the bears you have given names to. Maybe they were dogs."
"every poem holds the unspeakable inside it, the unsayable, you know, not unspeakable as in taboo but the unsayable, the thing that you can’t really say because it’s too complicated, it’s too complex for us. Every poem has that silence deep in the center of it…"
"To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d!"
William Shakespeare, Hamlet
But I really love!