glass bodies 51 60

the engineer

Some say that everyone has a thing that shapes them. Makes them who they are. For me, it’s the war. When I was a child, I lived under a dictatorship. I loved football, I watched the World Cup, supported the valiant versus the bullies. Not much has changed since then. I am now an engineer, a migrant, a citizen of the new world. “If you have no memory, then I want you to remember … the good times that we had. Crowns of violets, and roses, and crocuses.” On this planet, those who walk heavily, carry their needs, or lack of them. I want to renew this unspeakable grief. I want to help others. I really do. And yet there is so much to do. Going back to the sources of evil, I stumble on my ego. I was really good at making things. Taking them apart, and then building them back. One day, I was helped by a professor, he asked me, what my grief was, and then gave me a book. My family are all dead, or they are here, with me. Except for an old auntie, who said, I am too old to start my life anew. Being an engineer is about knowing how things work. That gets me closer to the Truth, and perhaps being close to it, it makes me more likely to know how to help others. The war, it’s the war that drives me. My brother stopped living, he just sits. My father and my mother, they live a life of relative comfort, in a minuscule apartment, supported by our government. But no longer. There are new laws being drawn up. War refugees are parasites, they said. The prime minister of Europa is out and about, telling lies about migrants, about refugees. They say that soon, we shall be sent to Jupiter for rehabilitation. The old dictator back on Earth used the very same word. As an astronomer, as man of God, I can say what Rumi once said: “The astrolabe of God’s mysteries is love.” Compassion is my telescope, and equipped with that, I am to see the spiritual dimension. That is, if they do not chop me up in pieces before the year is out. Yet there is hope. On Tyche, the hypothesis planet in the Oort Cloud, the human species has been able to create a new Palanese society, where ecology and psychology are core issues. We can stamp it out, folks.

” ¬†‘I’ am a crowd, obeying as many laws
As it has members. Chemically impure
Are all ‘my’ beings. There is no single cure
For what can never have a single cause.”

glass bodies 41 50

the astronomer

the ever smitten star-gazer is in love with far-off gases. he breathes in decaying moulds, gets high on ancient tales. he’s a lonely scientist, of the ancient breed. what is macro, can be observed in tele, down the gullet of his mighty magnifying lens. and what is micro, can be observed in petri, slithering on agarose. and yet the galactic gaps, the small crevices, they fit within one single algorithm, a fractal base to all spiritual belief. discovering gaps in multi-verses, and feeding slime-moulds, breathing their spores, maybe seen by our gentle reader as a single experiment. “now wherefore stopp’st thou me?” you may ask. “the drop that wrestles in the sea forgets her own locality”, that is the answer of the poet, and the scientist. and we, gentle reader, we plead “me” in the cosmic scheme of ¬†things. the astronomer is a good friend of mine, I can see him from here, in this tiny room overlooking the Old Kent Road. the astronomer’s powerful, arresting images are snapshots he takes of the multi-verse, petri dish to satellite, comet to the comical. his trusted advisor is a small talking water-flea. she’s very wise and she has published many books. her doctorate masterfully handled the subject of soul-theft, a theme upon which this manuscript in your hand (“glass bodies”, we like to call it) does indeed elaborate at length. I read in the news that hundreds of whales have washed off the coast of New Zealand, dead by some mysterious reason. the astronomer has probably seen this from his station on Europa, and himself spell-bound, is busy looking (professional lie-detector that he is), for a good guilt-by-association agent. waking up after an apocalyptic night, the astronomer has a gigantic hangover, like a wart growing on his forehead. He has confusedly dreamt about Lamia, and Mombie, and soil-scientists doing some field work on the shores of Orion, unreal readers doing their usual lie-detecting, and real-readers doing their salutary tea-drinking, and unexpected gardeners attending to the wedding guests. Upon a time, before the fairy broods… Thomas Paine collected common sense, and the Age of Reason might have shone. Now dark times in the future haunt the tripping astronomer, and responsibility gnaws him, just as Coleridge stood by, and cried out “slave-trade”, so the nekomata (a two-tailed undead cat) may come to overpower you, and then your body may rise again, spell-bound, and you may in turn perform the magical operation, you indeed may go from oppressed to oppressor. witchcraft in the future is pretty much the same, and zombies can be mothers, too. A revenant looking for new victims… “et vivo temptat praevertere amore; iam pridem resides animos desuetaque corda.” A scientist poet storyteller anthropologist, marketeer, teacher. The astronomer, and his water-flea. the ever wandering spirits of Echo’s bone are calling for the ending of “The Hunger”, where our dear departed come back to haunt our past abandonments.