Visceral Muliebrity and Philia Thereof

By the way, who’s Ann??? -- Bandwagon

It’s about two lives running parallel for a while. – MC Diaries

Maxine! Maxine! Maxine!-- Being John Malkovich

Ruby ruby ruby ruby!!! -- Kaiser Chiefs

ah, Girl! -- The Beatles

“The engulfing blow of contact isn’t enough, neither is the ensuing shudder. That something else works into her very indigenously. It is foolish than wisdom, ugly than beauty, slower than speed, worse than better… probably. But it is stronger than all of them. Everything you have doesn’t more than amuse her…. Cus, ‘It’ seeped into her long ago, she is used to ‘It’ and, ‘It’ has her…..”

He was thinking as he disconnectedly kept looking at her diagonally to his right. He was nodding his head to a slight hum and he wasn’t deliberate when only his eyes chose to radar her in occasional bouts. Because she wasn’t the her on his mind.

“It works her very early in life, when she is silly, slowly… ”

She had plump lips, no, succulent, and they weren’t closed. Her hair ran down her face in a couple of strands, the kind that are not combed so, but the kind that Rastafarians usually get out of undue care. Matted but not untidy. When she looked the iris touched the lashes, but intently. He saw she was on acid, but didn’t register the knowledge.

The fellow with the mike was putting on display his wormed brainmatter, singing unfigurative lyrics about Pity for orphans.

The rhythmic baritone hum was all was noddable of the song, and he nodded. “The sleeping beauty appreciated the prince’s charms after he seasons her; he didn’t charm her in initial contact…..”

***

Back at the bar, his friends suggested tripping on marijuana. “I don’t particularly feel like getting away” he protested. “One still exists, right?” she talked to herself without looking up. She was sitting on a nearby chair. That was all they said to each other in their entire lives and he threw a disinterested glance at her in the blue light; just as much as to recognize her outside afterwards.

“With some people, you theorize you are going to burn out. But everyone has lives they live, egos they hold fast; may be there would be a story…”

***

The event came to an end. There was still more than an hour of it to continue. Going home was as interesting an option as to sit through the show. She walked out into the darkness, away from the light and the people that wriggled into it. For him, the event ended when the first song started.

“How could life be so rare and yet cheap? How could courage, meaning and purpose be given away for a penny, to someone who doesn’t need it? Stillness haunts everyone. Pretty possible everything is made of void and waiting. But sometimes there are lives to be lived. Sometimes there are ripples. Marvelous ones that can stir stillness to fountains. And most times they sell cheap. Most times they don’t agree to be bought for more. And they go waste because they are bought by people with lucky lives.” He followed her.

It wasn’t a darkness where a blue sky was decorated with star dots and tree shades. Oh, well there was moonlight though. And there were cars scattered here and there, defunct ones. Mangled in synchronous perfection, as if God threw them there by design to rot away. And there was a smell of metal and sweet rust. And there was her. And he lost it from there.

“It wasn’t an issue of liking. There wasn’t anything in IT to be liked, and she was wise. It was a decision she carried, not made. There was a time she was silly, may be it stayed. But somehow it doesn’t seem the case.”

That was the last thought he thought. He didn’t mean to follow her. Exactly therefore, he did. Because it wouldn’t have been different otherwise. He didn’t think of why he had to get up and go, because he was thinking the final thought.

***

After that, he went blank, into white. After that there was no ‘her in the mind’, there was only her.

It lasted an undeterminable period of time. What it was was undeterminable too. “A dream dreamt as a succession of slides” was the closest he could call it afterwards. The means of perception and cognizance wasn’t visual though. It was plain data finding itself in the brain to perfect design, as if injected with a syringe in precise intervals.

He saw… and she was. He was, and she saw too.

The syringe was pierced at the same time into their skullbones, shots given in faultless tandem. But it wasn’t clear if every pair of shots had the same data. If they were living the same knowledge, or responsive knowledge… like, if his shot was a retort to her previous shot, vice versa.

She was…A shrill continuous shout; Fluid as feebly viscous as air.

If substance could exist in the basic sense of something being there, it was her. The only thing that can happen is it(she) be acted upon. Nevertheless that, not being its purpose.

The lack of intention, that it(she) is only acted upon, gives it unquestionable purity. It(she) can smear up infinite dirt and yet be unstained. Not even the greatest impurity, can keep it(her) from being the purest thing that can ever be.

She flutters among many consciousnesses. Because of her nature of absolute reactivity. The quality of it(she) being, utterly existing, gives it(her) the quality of being utterly vulnerable to impetus.

She also had her reputation stringed to her, as a tag to a prisoner, as a halo to a saint, a utility of immediate knowledge. People think about it(her), many things, and as what they think about it(her) are many, it is not technically called known.

And it is she.


And he is… irrelevant, insignificant. The onlooker.

He is the one that doesn’t know. And he admits it. Or rather doubts it. He doesn’t even know if he is admitting or doubting.

But, He exists too. Not like her though. He has qualities. Intrinsic qualities. It’s hard to say between his quality and his action.

He is the catcher, of unseen things. He has those tentacles, chain- like, and he knows which chain locks on which hinge.

That he has chains implies he has the knack for hinges. He also uses his chains for communication. He probably uses only them.

He is the actor. He acts. In the most native way that his acts are not actions but ‘being there’. That there is no intention to them, like how there is no intention to her ‘being there’.

People think about him, nothing, and as they think almost zero thoughts about him, he is not technically, ‘known’

He is not the only one of his kind. Spacecrafts didn’t bring him down. He genuinely and simply has nothing more than his mother’s egg and his father’s with a tail. He never found anyone of his ilk. Actually he never looked for them.

***

He and She have one thing in common: they are ‘organic beings’. Her kind, never were. His kind never were perceived.

And she troubled him. Sweet torments. The saccharine could cut. Of course kill too.


What was the trouble? What was the sweetness? Which were the tentacles? Which were the hinges? And what flowed? With green ethereal waves…traces?

This, was her saccharine: her fine crystalline poison that is tagged to her as was her reputation.

That she belonged to a microcosm. In her earlier days, her silly ones. That she smiled and was one with the sun, the trees, the tiled houses.

That it worked in her early, slowly. And she did it.

She did it… To the scent and weightlessness of her hair after her mother freshly washed them; as she romped around in countrified carelessness.

To the netted frocks she took out her closet to wear.

To the pastoral church she went to on Sundays. The ground she played in the evening.

When she smiled at the boy who was doing it to everything else too.

To her smile that bore the embryonic wetness and warmth of her blood and her emergent human viscera.

To the green smear of the grass on her noble gown, and brown stain of mud on her soap-smelling elbow, when she fell down purposefully with grace. Her hair spreading out in a circlic wave.

When she accomplished every human’s ultimate end—to take in completely everything that makes up ones world. When she felt her nerves on every tree, every home, every chair, every face, and everything. When she unfurled her libido and saw it on everything.

She did it when she held everything’s nerves in her hands, or brain, or heart, or sex and pulled at them at whim.

When everytime she slept, she woke up to a soft yellow sun and crisp bedcovers. When she lived in a continuous orgasm every waking hour, day after day, year after year until those days were over.

To those days when she fucked the world… and IT stayed. But IT fucked her too… and she was IT’s thereafter!

***

He saw… he saw that… that it has her… and everything else was passion, even if killing in its intensity, not permanent.

He moaned as each shot pressed his brain for space. As each knowledge burned his mind with pleasure. As she beautifully killed him with her interspersed saccharine.

He grieved that IT held her beyond his reach. And smiled that it was what gave her desirability.

All the time, she, in conformity to her nature, was perfectly and exactly reactive to him. She knew to hinge herself to his tentacles. She was in HIS consciousness.

It lasted an undeterminable period of time. And what it was was undeterminable too. But they knew, their lives could never reach the beauty of that state… of then… of now. Never before, never after. If they were silly lovers, they would hold hands and make promises of enduring espousal. Or if anything else, they would try to imprint the moment for eternity. But they weren’t that. So they lived.

They knew it was going to be shattered. But didn’t know it yet because they didn’t think it yet. So it happened, and they weren’t surprised.

The shudder shatterer was HIM.

***

He saw HIM. Not how he saw things till now, but as one knows an old acquaintance. Where HE knew HIM from, HE didn’t endeavor to dig into. He just knew he never thought much of HIM.

HIM is dirt.

HIM is substance, but has dirty intentions. They are dirty only because they didn’t belong.

HIM acts, with dirty intentions. They were also dirty only because they didn’t belong.

HIM is repulsive. Doesn’t induce hate, just is despicable. A sweet puny toddler with a dirty nose you
can smile genuinely at, but don’t relish the prospect of lifting it into your bosom. You like him though.

HIM smiles. When he does, he had disposed cars and twisted metal rusting his backdrop. And it felt
apt. HIM’s head was an egg, trunk shorter than the legs.

HIM’s eyes were empty and his mouth neither curved upwards nor down. But his stubble shines below it.

HIM was sad; it was his nature to be sad. Dirty sadness, the one you can’t show anybody, not even your solitude. HIM had weakness, had pain… had Her.

***

HIM smiled at HE and HE nodded a smile back.

She saw HIM walk to her. What it was was undeterminable, but it was determined, by both, that it was over. What was over, they didn’t know. And neither did they know who and what were in it.

As she walked away with HIM, her eyes chance on HE. As if someone looked at a stone on a gravel path. An object that gives you relative direction, an object you take care not to bump into.

HIM has a lot in common with IT. The IT she did it to early.slowly. The IT that has and keeps her, from HE.

But HIM was more likely the balancing antithesis of IT.

So, he looked at his watch and thought it was too late, even not to go to his empty, still apartment. And his hands went into his pockets as he walked.