Thursday, October 7, 2010

Various Variable Vertical Vernacular Vortices


The air envelops in itself pouches of water wafting through aimlessly, cooling the dimensions of greater existence. A leaf shaped by its own chaos cups a drop of the morning dew sugar coating the platform for the swords of light to perform their daily dance. A bird chirps louder than the others as it shatters this paragraph of beauty for a prize guised as an earthworm – lying somewhere around the green, under the blue and now into the read.


Another dawn justifies the ineffable calendar.

The Royal family of the land is pregnant with pride. A Prince graces the world with what is only as cold as the steel that cuts the umbilical cord connecting him to her. After an ancestry of layering the development of this fine boy takes the form of a delicate receptacle – individual in the morning sun.

The birds fed by the land take to the skies, floating, singing and dancing to the rhythms of the divine. Underneath eyes of envy scourge around the leftovers, grabbing and pillaging in the Kingdom through ideas that only they could see. The crown sparkles on each side of the metal they use to continue the war – the smoke of which has long since clouded what the skies have to offer.

The King peered through the window of the hospital, reflecting on its glass, the thought of all that might soon come at the doorstep of his palace. He clutched his smiling wife’s hand as he pondered about the future of his progeny. “The blood line must be defended,” he murmured through lips too dry to talk, weakened by the fallibility of all the words that it ushered through the ages, “It must.” The Queen looked upon the man with empathy, and then turned her gaze to the boy. “It must be done,” she agreed. Two deaf ears echo each other’s silence.

The doors swung open and the oscillating stethoscope preceded the beating heart of the Royal physician. His body, frictionless in a known environment, glides through the white corridors caped by two well-endowed members of the opposite sex. The syringes strapped around their various cavities were ready for the operation. There are those who believe in choice and then there are those who know. The family and the doctors knew the boy had no clue.

A short while ago the news of the pregnancy had brought into the marbled courts of the Kingdom a paradoxical bundle of ecstasy and concern. There was an heir for the throne righteously guarded by the much loved and respected family. The King summoned his ministers in order to come to a consensus of what must be done. “The child is mine,” he exclaimed with authority that only he could fathom, “and I would not bear the sight of a tear from his eyes. For this purpose I have summoned you, my advisors, my colleagues and foremost to these, my friends. So speak henceforth if you have any suggestions for the dream I have – to provide a life not as cold and bitter as one that we all have witnessed.” A member of the bureaucracy stepped forward – his vessels pulsating with thoughts of penetrating the King’s heart with the perfect idea.

After the usual exchange of courtesy, your highness may I? lowered eyes and grace, he cleared his throat and unleashed his mind – “What we have seen through our experiences and the teachings of the greats down the ages, I can not help but believe that bliss is the chosen destiny of he who is a flower of your tenderloins.” The words pleased the King, his radiance was nothing short of an obvious clue to the approval of this fantastic conception. The little man started his story;

“When I was a small boy my father always told me that there are two things we should refrain from – doing that which is wrong being the first and foremost – for there is no explanation that could justify the same. Secondly allowing others to take advantage of us, as that would simply be an act of succumbing to the malice that could be entailed within. In the time that I have served your Highness I have always adhered to these rules. They cannot be broken or manipulated, as it would only bring forth plight in the life of the one who does so. I have, ever so sincerely, respected every command that has landed upon my ears without a slight doubt of its fallibility, for you Sir are better read, wiser, and are filled to the brim with the knowledge required to perform your duties – and in that I have faith. I have believed sincerely in all that is done around me and through my life all I have come across is a sense of failure and discontent. My Lord, as far as my eyes can see, the world that we find ourselves in is full of knaves and tricks. I do not believe that you would disagree for we have seen all that is around us – and perhaps more than what we should have. I would not like to speak on your behalf but the experiences we have shared have a common thread. We have both seen the tricks that have been pulled on us and on all that we believe in by our very mother, the Earth. She has scratched, with her hard grounds, the skin that binds us inward, She has hit our bones with her solidity, She has given birth to pain. Then there are the knaves, the protestors and the fellows who are not fit enough to be graced by mention. The elements are all against the order; all that we wish to stand up for and defend with our might, our learning, and our knowledge. This is not a world, if I may be pardoned for saying so, fit for Royalty.

The masters of the temples have summoned from the depths of their explorations words for us to read and incorporate. The sciences that we have so dutifully observed, supported and venerated through our understanding and undeniable generosity have broken barriers that are beyond the comprehension of most. These mingled with our hopes and understanding of that which ought to be compels me to dispel an ideal state that I believe is suited for he who is to bring smiles on our faces.

In a recent gathering of some of the elites in the biophysical realm of science, so my authorities supervising the department inform me, there had been an announcement of the ‘Bliss System’. Please pay close attention, as what I am going to say involves what I sincerely perceive to be the chosen destiny of mankind. The system is the integration of an accumulation of what the sciences have discovered over their entire quest with the findings and teachings of the great saints who have blessed us with their noble truths.

Sir, as the child would be born in this environment he would need protection, not just physical, which would be easy to achieve through our Court of Generals and the Imperial guards, but psychic as well. There are maniacs out there who are practicing, as you are very well aware, the dark arts without much consideration for us. The child’s heritage and culture must be preserved and through these times I would find it ineffable to even consider the possibility of presenting his fragile and receptive persona into the corrupt realm of this world. The system thus prevents this from happening by placing the child in a state of bliss from the moment he enters into our world through birth. There indeed are drawbacks, some of which are glaring. You would, for starters, never be able to talk to him, never be able to communicate with him, for these would only introduce him to the infections of imperfection that have riddled our hearts with miseries. Yet my Lord, I urge you to see beyond your comforts and conditioning, from the eyes of the child. He would exist in a world where he would not have anything to fear, he would not be riddled by the complications that we are engulfed in, he would not be pestered by the concerns that consume us. The Masters have witnessed this realm and through them we have realised our imperfections and the need to break from this world that we so foolishly entered. This, dear Sir, is my proposal for what I see as a method fit only for the finest member of our society.”

The King and the ministers engaged in an invigorating debate about the procedure. “The Royal physician must be contacted to provide the details of the procedure,” continued the bureaucrat, “for he is the head of the BS project.” The King immediately organised a special consul consisting of his wife, the ingenious bureaucrat and the Royal physician. It did not take long for a consensus to be reached by all the members inside the small room. Within closed walls the destiny of a child was decided.

Somewhere in the darkness of the world outside the fortified walls of the Capital, a magician roamed aimlessly, playing with tricks to entertain him while longing for an audience. He then conjured one, gathered applauses from them and then longed for one to see this apparition.

The Royal physician was busy preparing the chamber in which the Royal child was to eternally reside. “I would like you,” the King said walking in and filled with concern, “to tell me exactly what you are doing as you go about doing it. I would not like any harm to be inflicted upon my child, and if there is to be a tear in his eye, or any sign of pain, it is your future that would be in Royal jeopardy.” The physician nodded. His nurses carried the glistening cradle from the Queens suite into the chamber. “Place the boy on the mechanism as per the indications,” ordered the doctor. It was done. The procedure, simple in its appearance, had many complicated facets which the physician calmly explained to the King:

“The Prince would be lying constantly on this couch without any motion. You would be apprehensive about this”, he continued placing the boy on the couch, “as it would raise questions about his physical development but I should assure you,” he said while straightening his back and simultaneously smiling at the child, “that every angle of this procedure has been deeply thought of.” He turned to the King and reassuringly looked him in the eye, “And all necessary experiments have been performed in order to give us impeccable confidence in what we are about to embark on.”

He gestured to his nurses to hand him the conglomerate of tubes, electrodes and sanitized needles looming stealthily in the darkened corners of the chamber. Groping and grabbing at which he continued -

“The nutrition of the child would be taken care of intravenously.” He inserted a needle into the child’s arm. “We have concocted a serum that would take care of all his needs.” Another underneath his leg. “The processing unit” he exclaimed pointing without looking up to a steel box whizzing in technological fantasy, “of the serum is linked to his body’s metabolism centres.” An electrode is then placed swiftly, almost in a rehearsed manner, on his belly and on either side of his ribcage, “thus allowing the system to automatically determine the fine balance of chemicals that is essential for his physical existence.

The development of his bones and muscles would be accomplished through these nanotech strips of vibrators, compressors, and expanders.” The nurses marched forward in a theatrical manner as if obeying theatrical cues in a theatrical scenario carrying a mechanism intended to create a theatre. “They will envelop his entire body, almost as another body itself. It would, over time, provide pressure and exercise, and exert every other type of physical force required for his development again in accord with his need and age; it would even give him massages.” The doctor ranted dressing the newly born from neck downwards akin to practices of funeral houses. “The strips have electro sensitive fluids that flow through them In order to facilitate these procedures in a natural manner.” he continued as his hands robotically prepared the body for the System, all limbs disappearing in and out of perception. “On his eyes,” he continued now moving upwards, “we have luminescent cups that would regularly exercise his pupils.”

He stood up, performed another stretch to relieve muscles only physicians would be aware of, and then held the King by his shoulder as if to confess a private tragedy to a close friend. “His breathing,” he said looking down and emphatically pausing, still continuing in his curiously theatrical manner, “and heart beat are the only processes that would be natural, so to speak, but his mind, and this is the interesting bit your honour,” he exclaimed altering his tone and now looking directly at the King, eyebrows raised complimenting the smile, “would not exist in this realm.”

The nurses carried the helmet and positioned themselves behind the doctor, quite as pins that fell a long time ago in a metaphor.

“This here,” he gestured towards the contraption without turning back, “is the Dreamless Metaphormone Tributary of the Life Saving Device.” Another pause. “This here is the central piece of the puzzle my Lord. Let me introduce you into, and to avoid confusion, start the explanation slowly with initial and what I believe you may presume to be essential bits of information before further venturing into the complicated issues, such as those which are indeed often dealt strictly by qualified and seasoned philosophers who are aged in wisdom. You see Sir, complicated issues are best dealt by thinking of them simply at start, and then reeling into the realm of chaotic explanations with the light of simplicity in mind.”

He lifted up the helmet to show the inside to the King and continued, “You see these colourful strips sir, all between the lines, here are the neurophalic resonance enzymes that would vibrate with the frequencies of his mind while simultaneously seeping inside his skull the essential transmitters and inhibitors that would enable a constant state of no-mind.”

He kissed the boy, got up and turned towards the King. “You can visit anytime you like.”

The King and the Queen stood in solitude, beaming with the notion of the infinite depths of comfort that they had the facility to deliver to their offspring, their very own. He looked so comfortable, he looked so peaceful; he looked so still, born into the world with a destiny of bliss and no experience of pain. He looked so perfect that the magician could not resist himself.


“Where are we?”
“Aha, now that is an interesting Question Prince.”
“I have known you for long enough not to fall for that one again.”
The magician smirked.
“We are everywhere, that contraption,” he said pointing at the glow between the eyes of the Prince, “is a receptacle for everything that goes on in the world. You see a guy like me has a lot of time on his hands, and so much so that I don’t find the need to keep track of it – and over the years we have come to know each other and I think we both have come to a consensus to leave each other be. I have come across people who make bombs from him. Very dangerous stuff – time. You would know all about it but just like me it can trick you into not knowing anything at all – which is not too bad either, your parents can confirm that assertion. Still, do you have a clue what is going on in words. These words that you see now? Yeah you, or the King, which you would soon become inside. For these are just words you know, fragments. You have heard this story before.”

The Doctor glided past the chaos the Kingdom was now in after all these years that time dictated. The weary King had lost the control he commanded by his crown. The Court of Generals were now merely hypothetical bureaucracy and the Imperial guards had dwindled down in numbers existing in appearances as a reminder to the knaves; the only ones who believed in them. Appearances can be deceptive. The magician walked up to the King and explained, in great detail, the real art behind the Bliss System. “Listen closely” he said, crafting echoes, in the domes of the Kings chamber.

“The sciences, the philosophers, the sorcerers, the poets, the artists and every other mould of humanity’s facets, strived to bring forth something that would shape the people alive so drastically that they could never thank them completely. Media had evolved, the words once elaborate had seemed to have dissolved, the change rapidly engulfing most of humanity was seldom doing anything but driving it closer to the realms of insanity. It was within the depths of this prose, that this sentiment once dormant in minds did arose; the lurking shadow of that who everyone knows, the creature behind the mask who is forced to doze. The social spiral weakened under your viral age, the shadow deepened and it built up the rage. The war that we always yearned to wage had shattered and broken the rusted bars of the cage.

So came the dawn of a brand new day, lisping the thoughts we dreamt of yesterday, its stuttering salivating mouth being this way simply because it could not contain the joy from which it was taken away. The veins pulsate, the pupils dilate, the words that they once did dictate, are lying smouldering in some forgotten debate. The child has moved on, the man has grown, it took a long time for the Prince to be born, but there are no roses without a bloody thorn. Yet the red liquid continued to pour, as the voices of your family did soar, (in your illusions you once did roar) but are now reminded of how terrible your dreams were – a mere bore.

O’ hark – the memories of yesterday light another spark: Reminding you of the stupidity upon which shame and humility did embark their constant will to leave a deathly mark. Yet you never learnt, that through these mistakes you would come to yearn for a better goal, a cleaner soul; or perhaps the mystery was just made harder to unfurl by us who thought these revelations would make your blue blood curl. So how did you chance upon this theory once again? Did you stumble upon an old chain? It’s deranged self trying to refrain your mind from accepting the pain.

No dear King, not today. Where are you? The ghosts of sanity are out to get through all that you presumed to be noble and true; does this give you a slight clue? The colourful hue before you turn blue. Not a cancer Sir, don’t shiver, you were dead before you became a liver, this message through your cranium shall deliver, the ability to excuse yourself from all that bullshit claiming to be clever.

And I bet you didn’t know, that it was all going to blow; you were never in the flow, or else you would let go – your Crown, your Victorian noun; Subside Sir, the Kingdom is for everyone here.”

A man walked inside a chamber and woke up a boy from his deep sleep.


The birds returned to their nests, brushing their feathered details across twigs hardened by the days sun – leaving behind a small cycle of oscillation in a small fragment of a small tree connected to a small portion of a small planet in a small universe inside this large world.

So the moral of the story goes like this for there are no foes; This is either a good deed nor a bad read. The circle has to be complete and at the end of which you will see that it is neat.

Human Network

You cannot understand History without accepting Her mystery.

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