Project on Meditation - Day 2
To read what I write in the dead man’s tale while my mind is retarded is totally insane. There’s even a margin to thread the dead man’s tale.
No spelling mistakes
No quotation marks
No new paragraphs and
No new start.
No ending either.
The infinite journey and typing down brain messages like it didn’t exist. The artist puts down his work on a piece of paper. He can apply with his hands what he sees in his eyes. Others can’t. So is the dancer who applies body movements from the brain. Whereas the writer speaks all nonsense and all writers are insane.
It’s like walking the island capital, ten spaces up and I get in water, ten spaces west and I get in water, ten spaces north, south and east…all water.
If you can read a criminal mind from scrap, you can do with this…
And who is he who judges a criminal from his writings?
He is a criminal too…
Tonight I’m wandering on an empty street. It’s a long street – on a midsummer night and a big moon hovering over the Tropic of Capricorn in the southwest sky; furthest ark of restriction in the southern hemisphere. Then the moonbeam is reflected on south walls of windowless plane – empty boxes of concrete buildings with no light between the gaps but dark alleys leading to nowhere.
…no body living in this town. And I’m going nowhere.
Nowhere is my final destination.
I have a partner. Che Guevara
(pic of Che)
…and there’s this one picture of him and it’s everywhere…
I ask him why he was fighting for freedom when he got no barriers in the whole of Latin America. He actually had all that freedom. He traveled from Pacific to Atlantic on foot and never bitten by a snake…I don’t know; but this revolutionary man is talking much sense now.
When in life, he sought freedom and socialism…big Marxist.
I don’t agree with reason but in him, he’s a personality. I never curse with systems but I do object to policy.
He said he enjoyed life back on earth…black earth. As a child he used to play with guns for toys and he was looking for playmates. He didn’t want to give up childhood. Fidel Castro didn’t realise…he turned serious into politics in the Bay of Pigs. He became a war hero.
Che didn’t have the luck coz he didn’t own a country but land…the whole of Latin America.
You know, in this changing world, people play video games, I tell him, and that’s not an adventure. In real life Che enjoyed the real big thing…shooting down people. A genuine version of the real game and he took societies into peril and nations to anxiety…with guns and bullets.
“What is your life sentence?”
Mine is subject to life…ethereal and not substantial. No death sentence.
Che brought memories…never healing wounds and he’s always cursing with them. Use to wear bondage around his arm and complains of high fever.
In his own right with his own fight
And the pain…
When I got all the money, I didn’t get the good life
When I had all the girls, I couldn’t find a wife
With all my desires I never satisfied
When I did all the talking, I have only lied
I promised you with roses, I brought you up a curse
I come to rest in grave I never did rehearse
When I woke up in the morning, there’s a clock up on the wall
Stopping me from getting late and put me out of call
So I run telling nobody, come home to face complain
I got a family starving and set me out again
When I said all those things, I didn’t mean a thing
When I come to rest in peace, impede functioning
Empty houses…seven storey buildings…I still got a long way to walk.
I hear a rattle of dishes and spoons…someone’s hungry – looking for a midnight meal. Desire! Some eat in bed. I always eat in shower.
The sky is deep blue…blackish blue…the beam is white on mirror walls. The houses are black and no life…only stone structures and no trees that I can see. These houses don’t look dead from the inside as they appear from the o u t _ l o o k.
It’s not so dead here inside my coffin…
No, man! But I’m not going in any house. I’m a wanderer. They got life in them. If you go in, you walk right into somebody’s squared problem. It’s like returning back to life. There you see a birth….a woman in labour or a couple solving marriage problems with fists and fight.
Yeha…different people do different things for stimulation. Che played soldier.
I’m walking straight ahead.
For my own good on my own foot.
Moon on the rise…
…it’s on the other side…so it’s going down
There are lanes on both sides, don’t even peek at them. I know there are no houses, except abreast this empty road.
I’m replacing the time thirty minutes back…I want to walk this walk. It’s a miracle. Time…
…I got all the time in my hand in this new life…I call I’m dead
A bicycle on wheels…an early riser heading the other way…
It makes the whizzing sound of the dynamo grinding against the tire wear. It’s beam hitting the pavement…orange and oval, also swaying…he’s not watching where he’s going…hmmm! Usually it carries them to the right point…after long practice, they say, they know where they’re going. This man is perfect. He never gets lost anyway. But the bicycle is supposed to be steered by man.
Horses got leads too…even with limbs and eyes when you ride on horseback.
Ah! It’s called a reign.
Otherwise you and the horse don’t think the same…
And chairs got arms and legs but no eyes and brains…but they keep a chair for every MP.
In my country we travel by boats…sailing boats. And it’s not much of a country but an ocean. No pigs live there, no reptiles are there, no animals. Just me and my friends, Egyptian cats and few rabbits…I don’t know how we invaded the islands or how we settled there. Anyway, they say, we sail to fair wind. And often bad captains who sail against the wind stop at uninhabited islands for three days, often weeks. Then a wise guy would judge the captain steering the rudder…he’s got no course.
No course…no destiny
Wise guy was still alive when he saw the aeroplanes flying. Man! It flies on auto-pilot. That’s why political parties…all got course and destiny and flies high…flies fast. I remember one opposition who finds everything wrong. He’s loud and boisterous. Wise guy would say, Man, he’s running like a jumbo jet with four engines on fire…
topped with fuel…but without fluid dynamics. He’s got speed, he’s got fuel, he’s got machine, destination and just running, no escaping…but without fluid dynamics he doesn’t know if he’s upside down in mid-air, rolling or turning, climb or descend, nose up or dipping, tumbling or bouncing…
It’s like money. You use it, you abuse it, you misuse it, you refuse it…hardly refuse…eh! but loose it, choose it, steal it, you do…
Even the sailing boat knows to remain steady without a course.
I really don’t know where I’m heading. Whatever the wise guy has to say now, that matters to black earth. It doesn’t apply here.
Yeah I remember Abdul (someone) summoned to the court coz he converted to Christian faith and the mujahiddins threatened to kill him. They think he got no course…bit of a wise guy story…he looked so innocent when he said, “But I have converted…” holding the Bible. Remember that movie…on a trip to Rio de Janeiro, Micheal Caine screwed his niece and when her mother arrived and had that argument with her father…“You didn’t look after her…a sixteen year old?”
Her father said, “What can I do, I don’t know about it.”
Then the uncle (culprit) trying to resolve a situation explained, “He didn’t have a clue…”
So what makes you grow in desire?
Every evil instinct of the Devil brings you desire that wins Heaven in the end…
Don’t read from my book.
Yusuf was playing hide and seek with the flickering shadow of Virgin Mary inside a church when the priest tapped his shoulder. Yusuf turned in shock and freight eating him alive. He was thinking Angel Gabriel standing behind. LOL! And he’s a Moslem with long beard, lost in a church…father wanted to show him the light.
He’s on his own…auto-piloted.
Let it grow! Let it grow!
Let those opium flowers grow,
Let them blow with them beards,
Let those Aghan Roses show!
I have a ten-tonne appetite for an Aghan tea blend in opium rose. Suck the smoke. And now I haven’t got harmful organs or anatomies coz I bit the dust. Che’s smoking a Cuban cigar…he says a Cuban cigar should have a Cuban DNA…for the forensic experts of the CIA. In a world with no disease…we don’t have pigs and doctors or referees.
God save the Smoke…
I remember Madifushi…small island people. Only a handful of people. They stopped smoking, banned tobacco and campaigning with a loud voice. Even UNICEF rewarded a reputation//
Kikiki…even God didn’t like it. He washed the island with a tsunami…Yeah the islanders killed their first President for banning smoke. That was the 50’s…
A messenger evolves (from nowhere) wearing a white cloak.
He announces, “Prisoners of God! There’s a hearing by the Wailing Wall.”
How come we become prisoners of God? I could be His SLAVE but I’m trying to shake the God and shock Him with something I might have imagined. LOL/it could be a surprise.
Ssshhhh! Only one guy tried it and that’s Lucifer.
Then the man who crossed all religions in life is greater than Alexandra coz he crossed all the oceans too.
The Wailing Wall…
I’m seated on a raised mould, a brown hill…looking behind at me, it reminds me the desert…where they raised the Cross.
Angel of Mercy speaks…to Sharon (who seems to be in a coma refusing to return to God). It’s peak season of the martyrs – Heaven is full and overbooked. There’s a non-martyr single waiting in a half-double hotel room looking for a mate. His name is Yasir Arafat. Sharon is reluctant to share paradise with him…way back in life they fought for black earth. They are foes, not friends. They wish to stay that way…forbidden.
People without desire don’t reach Heaven…like me and Che
He chose a coma. I prefer a full stop to end my life…
My President! A solid Napoleon Bonaparte statue with no imagination…when he got surrounded by public outlaws, he cried for help, screeching in his commandeering note deep down from his throat, “SERGEANT MAJOR! SERGEANT MAJOR!”
He’d not even know his Sergeant Major’s name. But he ranked him to protect his body and soul. A bodyguard…armed with a .22 calibre gun, wired to microphones and electronic gadgets, styled with UV sunglasses and black coat…also trusted with a mission. “SERGEANT MAJOR! SERGEANT MAJOR!” Sometimes it disturbs my sleep when I hear him call for help, “SERGEANT MAJOR! SERGEANT MAJOR!” And shocking, he didn’t come…
It’s like thunder in the grave. I can’t rest in peace…
If you read crap…you’re reading all that.
In your own will on your own toll.
Che is still looking for another batch of rebellion ideas to play heroes…this time on the road to Hell….with me.
But we know we’re last to enter the Gates of Hell so there’s time to kill…by that time, if I can bring my book of surprise, God will be pleased. He sent them down to black earth. Revelations! Revelations! Revelations! And I’m taking one unto Him. THE WHOLE TRUTH
LOL…Watch the dead man’s mouth!
If you weigh good and bad on any scale it turns to ZERO. The holy is very empty.
Look at that! Graffiti art on the wall…peace symbols, sergeant badges, boobs and triangle properties///sex particles…all filth, few words like “FADABOÌ”
DO NOT EDIT