Music:
Leonard Cohen
Indian sentiment
Unsettled by the gaze of Bindo Altoviti by Raphael, I feel my soul has been read; that it would be sacrilege to not bare all.
That I am the wisp of twilight cloud dis-enthralling myself in front of the erect, pregnant, belly of the half moon.
The stomach turn and nausea from the box of raw leather for me to uncomfortably ogle at. To ogle at. To materialize the animal that once walked.
The horror of watching a hyena decimate, mouthful by mouthful, an injured, incapable zebra. In a lifeboat lost in the Pacific Ocean. Eaten inside out. The insides eaten before the zebra dies. All against the sublime sunset of the Pacific; an unborn entity on the eve of its nativity. Unborn, raw, yet complete; the zebra reversed.
Sliding, slipping; fetal. Exasperated by the courtship game; any game. The waiting, the calculations; the rejection. The fetal position of half piqued, half childlike mischievous wonder. What is this courtship game? Who ascertains its reality; who draws the full stop?
The fluttery, feather-like butterflies, floaty, confused; concussed. Thinking about India I am on a 6 year rewind to the wink of time. I stand in a garden looking at the electrically charged, tempestuous clouds. I feel the electric charge. I feel the tempest brewing within me. The chowkidar's radio 'maula mere maula mere' wafts over, eddying inward into my tempest of yearning. When was I to ever see this all again?
The next morning I flew away, not to return for four years.
Its been six years since my last monsoon.
Amongst the sin cleansing, the ground swell, the mid-eval carved, wooden doors there was manna. No evaporation, just solid sweet rain. The sin lit fire quenched by the monsoon.
The full circle.
The holographic universe; its millionth dimension transversed by delusional devotees. An exhausting allegory of mind-numbing sub-atomical allusion? Just as is the allusion that we are the universe, the world is round?
As holographic perhaps as the concussing truth on the fledgling of the class, that I had eyes for male and females. But, he insists, Indians can't be gay? He is scarred for life, or so he says.
I assure him I am taken, that it is not a figment of my Indian, playing coy ploy.
But what of the sin-binding dilemma? The singularity I find myself in? The courtship dance? The Himalaya-ward blown fragments of sanity?
What of the skin I live in?
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