I can link anything, I’m telling you. I don’t need facts, I don’t eat fiction, I just write it like it comes and it comes right as it should. As long as I give justice to the links, as long as I relate it to the known and allow it to bring itself about without interfering too greatly and that is surely the hardest thing about bringing to paper, or tearing to the word, as well as bringing out the image that wants to see. I don’t have tools, I use techniques that can be discarded. I try not to care too much. That is the quality of letting it grow, I might have expressed letting it go, throwing it out, lashing the seeds at the earth, punching the material, listening to the wound, searing the plate on which we plan to eat with all the paradox truly involved.

I cannot allow myself to reread too much. I have to wrench back the censor in me, the judge, the vicar, the moralist trying to get out into it and change the matter to his and her own end. I try to believe that there is a spring deeper than the well, a baby smaller, a past longer, a sky greater, a time in between two breaths where it will fall: the truth (oh heaven and earth, water and fire, help me to see what to become). I can’t stay this way–this blind, this mean, this angry, this neglecting, this untruthful–this person I am. I can smell another way, a path it might be called, that I must take if I am to become anything of meaning.

Like an angel dark, this wondrous being, flying high over the human-built city. Eyes shining bright like two suns, they watch over all others like mothers. Piercing through the clouds, dissolving all blurriness, there is no end to this life. Reality emerges as it always was, full and overflowing, converging in its mightiest and deepest form. This is the ultimate experience, which each one of us longs for. Gathering and collecting, angel dark dives repeatedly down towards the earth, concentrating. The noise is like in a distant emerald forest, glittering but soft with leaping frogs, cascading waterfalls and where gorillas sit watching the flowing waters as if mesmerized - I can see the trance in their brown child-like eyes. In this secret place there can never be destruction. Everything is removed only to be replaced. Everything is used only to be left alone. In this place there is only deep delight and ever-flowing goodness. From high above, she majestically watches the silver thread rivers and even thinner streets; the squares and areas of land and settlements that congeal, giving rise to cities in states unseen; the sugar-powdered mountains and wind-blown, sea-formed, textured land, mystical and beautiful. From up here, there are no nuclear factories, nor screaming children with eyes too wide open...

But then, like a mistake, something appears that does not belong in this world. As clear as day it does not belong. The fact of it is so wrong. That’s the easiest way to say it. Just wrong, out of place. No, it has no place in this world: a boy lying in the dust, just the scanty body. There had been no food and water here. The food that could have nourished him and the fresh water that could have soothed his burning throat had collected abundantly elsewhere. Resources had coagulated and stuck in those places far away where they were being regularly devoured, and so could not flow back to where the boys body now lay in the dust like a pair of tattered trousers rolled up and forgotten, dragged along by the wind and left there, slowly turning into the color and texture of the shimmering, dusty surroundings.

Similarly camouflaged, I lay in my bed, almost becoming one with it, merging with the white pristine sheets, flattening onto the mattress. I too wanted never to get up again, just like the boy. My whole body shook uncontrollably, racking noises fled from my throat into every corner of the cold, white room. My eyes could not leave off of the photo I could not bear to throw away, of a child died of starvation. Beg him to forgive me, I know that my tears will subside and I will get up yet again to have another meal.

What can I do?

What can I do besides sit here and cry?

Could I not sit there and cry?

Could I not sit there and cry and hold his hand?

Could I not sit there and cry, hold his hand and tell him that it will soon be over?

Could I not sit there and cry, hold his hand tightly and tell him that it will soon be over, and that it  will never happen again?

Could I not. Sit there and hold his hand. Tell him that it will soon be over. And that it  will never happen again. As long as I live!

As if in answer, the magnificent being swoops down from unimaginable heights with unbelievable swiftness, eyes glittering like a mother fiercely protecting her only child. At the last moments before contact her speed decreases so that she gently touches down on the ground. Most tenderly, she gathers up the boy in her all-encompassing arms. Then, taking off to the skies with an almost inaudible shriek that echoes on for days afterwards, she disappears.


Another died, not me. Why?

It must belong to something that I am here, alive and well, as least as well as it can get. Apparently around me everybody is suffering, far from me others are suffering unbearably, yet others are suffering unimaginable sufferings and all I can do about it is eat another good meal, watch another good movie, try yet again to have good sex give it all I can mould my water mix it right feel my way into it on and on how senseless this feels but what other way can there be?

I see–what does that mean–I know–what does that refer to–I am–who am I talking about when I say these words? I am going to be–do I even have the tiniest of ideas–I–I–I–I–I–how many times a day do I think and say I?

Eye would love to forget I-self.

There is not a noise on the streets of the cars, on the plains, over the almost non-existing treetops, in my mind anywhere anyhow. I think think think of the best way to do anything, best I stop all this talking because it is not taking me anywhere: not home, not nearer to justice. In anything that sounds louder than breath or the shadow of a wind or sparks that fly or white smoke. I cannot do justice to the earth. I cry silently while stilling the thought of what lies beyond the projections, lies, mechanisms, attachments, detachments, games, overtime everywhere every-how. I breathe, thanks or not, but it will take time so long, longer than I can image, longer than my breath my silence or my longing. Longer than the earth perhaps.

Thank-you so much.

As long as the sky remains echoes through my brain, rings in my ears, takes my breath away... For a short instant this idea strong as it is, my eyes are crying because finally there is a suggestion, a proposition that makes sense! It is mine to keep and cherish like a jewel indeed, compassion and love in the bowl that is my body. Recoiling around within my own that does not exist on it’s own, finally acknowledging that I could have laid down in the dust and spent my last breath lost in the turmoil of hate and sadness but instead I arose to the new day to embrace my many children with such love as I have never felt before. Thank you - there are no words left to describe this ‘thank you‘, there is no ideology no strategy no plan to accomplish this. It is here and at the same time not here. It is known and oh! I am ashamed I will never know unless I learn to silence my thoughts speech indeed my very mind and those around me and grasp at that shhhhhh so tender and colorless and formless. This new idea massive and strong and space-engulfing all at once. I do not know if it is silence I am speaking about or something else that I cannot name at this time and place.

I cannot silence my bloody mind. It is telling itself on me. The windows are washed, but not clear at all. When I look out I see masses and a million and billions of people coming to visit me. Take me on into their great number, enclose me in their warmth, heed me, I am ready. I desire their suffering, I draw it into me, I will carry it further than they can, I will exchange my wishes and happiness for their burdens, I will be set free into the pain of life. Heavily relieved of the centre of self, weightier than before I can charge into the future and they will follow me I will follow them and never look back into my dark self-forgetful past!

I draw careful lines around my fingertips and wrists. This is the place I could have died. I watch my children carefully fearfully. Have they noticed the change in me can they change with me can they be changed instead of me, move in into a bigger circle a brighter light a greater idea a superior thing? Will they last endure burn shelter manage get along exist at least. Ah get it out, chew onto the area, don’t rationalize the fear away, it is there it is here it is you, you are because of it. I draw lines around my mouth and eyes and heart. This is the place I could have devolved, but instead I manifest into being not by removing myself but by pure needless thoughtless exertion to assert myself. Thirty-some years I have lasted and wasted, but now it is time.

It makes sense. I draw up the moments of now. I examine them. I press them to my ear to hear the sounds they make. They expand. I hold them to the light to see clearer. I touch the tip of my tongue to them, for the taste, the very taste. The taste of them. They expand.

I deeply smell their smell. I take them between my finger tips. I'm thinking they expand. For their feel. I sense them, their very essence, they expand within me and without me. They grow through their beauty of truth. The overall consciousness does without, it expands. It makes its way beyond self. If we fail, it will have been even more tragic. We will have spent ourselves needlessly, wasted away our potential to be human. The very idea of happiness, the becoming of will, free and for every being.

I shake it. It expands extending bliss. I knead it and spit on it. It changes color and expands into me and beyond me. In this way, I extinguish myself and finally become.

Finally then, I am able to get up, carefully setting one foot in front of the other, like learning to walk again.

Here was the reason I survived, I am sure. This was the place and touch every part of my body in wonder you will see I am flesh and blood and you flesh your blood turning it into a thesis of time. You and I, we will continue within the billions and masses again and again, therefore we must try before we are annihilated by some other cause to retain the promise laid before us, of what we can become!

© Mwangi Hutter, 2009

Published in GAGARIN. The Artists in their Own Words, n° 19 by GAGAVZW, Antwerp, Belgium 2009 on pages 13-22.


angel dark

by Mwangi Hutter