Touch him. Do it well underneath all the places that want to be thrown to the flies that swat the mind of existing breaches apart and beyond anything we know. I cry tears, sweet as sugar for there is no salt of the earth left and right as far as the eye can perceive. Ultra rays of broken light shining in sweet darkness, syrup that drifts down the throat to clog all senses left undone, unvanquished by utter simplicity to join the wreath of mist pervading minds and making us ill with needs that are so simple in complexity or complex in their simplicity or even, perhaps just as simple as they might have been had we not bowed down to this power thirst that is breaking our minds, bending our backs under the weight of knowledge and non-action. I smell death, help me, it reeks, but I cannot run to any other place, since it is here I am and always will be until I join the other souls that are lining up to enter the world again and again, repeatedly until we have solved this thing called life, undone it, unravelled it like so much wool threadbare and unwarm as this one is, but there to be had, to be made with, to construct our world with, to clothe our children in, to heat ourselves on, to get hot on, to cool off with, to speak, to claim and never, never blame another human soul for not forgiving me if I cannot forgive myself, give myself, give of myself, leave to run to any other god-forsaken place just so that I must not be here in this slime, drenched with sweat, sweet as honey, for no salt as far as my mind can wander and rest in it‘s sheaves of wealth, stolen from the graves of all those gone before and in future, whom I now know of, God help me, I know it and cannot change it and never will be able to unless...

There is a glimpse of an idea, a scent of a better smell than this sweetness, making blind to needs and oh no not to think of all those needy others, because it is my time, MY time, MY TIME. At least I believe that we will not stick another needle into this wool to knit a sweater, a sweeter sweater than this thick thing that surrounds us and fills us with such joy, loving ourselves so much, moving with ecstasy, sticking things into ourselves to feel ourselves, to feel ourselves good, to feel good about ourselves when there can never be another good day as long as we suffer the silence of laziness and draining pathetic simplistic angelic almost in its ignorance, or so it will make us believe.

What am I going to tell my children, who are looking at me with so many eyes, pleading almost to understand how come I brought them here to this place of all places, to this time of all times. I do not know. I hear the roar of my unspoken voice, raging in my ears, on my tongue, deep down in the guts of peace that must be somewhere, because not here and never will be as long...

As I see this picture before me of the boy. He was wearing a sweater, as sweet and thick as they come and are made to be, to shield against the wetness of spoilt meat. But in his hands, I saw it, was the weapon turned again himself, joining his hands to the earth, making it ponder at the weight, making it spoilt silly, dumb, idiotic to find itself here, HERE of all spaces that could have been, that would have been had this creature not emerged to take it, raise it up higher than all else so everyone could see and hear and smell its spoiltness before lying back down in the dust to wonder at it all and plan the heck of a plan, a big one, the biggest thing you‘ve ever seen, the highest, the best, the most wonderful, the sunniest scope, the most excruciatingly brilliant stop to attempt a rival thread that will wind it’s way down throats and begin there, softly, ever so saltily to stitch it’s fabric, in a way you would not have been able to image, not in your wildest dreams, not on your best day, not in the midst of your most clear or drunken sate of mind.

How wilful it all is. I see that there is also sense. Don‘t see but feel, sense it, try to make sense of it. Why that boy holding down the weapon of thought was so disturbing is because he is of the future in a small, tiny way, the tiniest of steps leading up the stairway, or down. It has to go some way, there has to be a way, if there was none, we would not be here in this most drastic of places, most unusual, sticky, hurtful, noisy place that is home, goodness it is, why not? Which other place could ever be better than this, because this is ours, not anything else, just ours to hold and caress and cherish and suckle and take care of and make grow if we can not let it grow, force it a bit, coax it into growth, wound it into growth, bewitch it, take that wool and stuff it down, make it coagulate to thicker, broader strands that can make walls and towers and thrones for all of us to stand on and rest in and shout from one to the other, further than the eye can see, but the ear still hears as it does longer than anything else on our bodies that quake and shiver from the onslaught as if waiting for a pure moment to dive into and swim in.

Water is another thing. It breathes. Oh yes it does, but not to us, we poor things, havocs, painstaking judges with wigs wrapped over our sexes, eyes, mouths, ears, hands, standing there as if struck, not doing a single thing in our power, not even trying, not even thinking of trying, not even thinking of dying, just standing there as if it matters, waiting for a better day, a better way to do things instead of doing them, simply, complexly, sweetly even, but actively doing to erase the marks made constantly, every single day in this and every other place, from here over to there, this continent to that, over seas, lying low in valleys, trading on isles, wasting on highlands, jogging through every single forest, moving in the deep, grazing on plains, all of it, all over, all of the time.

Of course it is never-ending. Who can even imagine an end to this continuity, this continuous, challenging on and on and on, this one-way world, keep grinding, churning, can‘t look back, won‘t look forward, so we go on, on we throw ourselves, all the while standing still, but everything is moving so fast we don‘t notice, it can‘t make a difference, the difference is the same, it is the same difference as before and after and thereafter, it is always the same in how it differs, so why this sweater at all, why the sweetness if it could all be sucked dry and left to cool off and wither away into what we know will never be nothingness, for we are here to stay as long as we know we will stay. Even if one would wish to consider not being here in this wonder-ful place, there would be no alternative, no other, no space for that idea in a small brain that is challenged with living the moment, feeling the moment, thinking itself alive and done and then over and next one and so one, forever and ever, avoid to say Amen. There is no end, just now I was looking into myself, thinking of that boy holding the weapon against himself, thinking of myself holding the weapon against him, thinking of the feeling of that holding, holding onto the thought of the wanting, moving into that thought, beyond it, shaking my breath away, hearing the softness of it, spelling it out to myself and to all who wanted to listen, dragging it out, shouting it, having it out with them, exhausting myself even though I know I can never be exhausted until I lay down in the dust and will breathe for the last time before joining that never-ending line, again and again until the very last idiot finally joins this line, please join this line so we can stop this weaving, crocheting our existence to a seamless fabric that stretches as far as the eyes can ever see, as far as generations go, as complete as the never has-been beginning, as unimaginable as the end and as simple as it gets.

This churning, what is it? This noise, the whole night? Is it music, crickets, rain, cars on the street, the boy urinating his need, having let go for one moment of it, put it aside, leaned it on the wall of the house, this place, his place, mine too, where we are at, for this is the reason I can see him at all. We are in the same place. If he were elsewhere, I would be elsewhere too, where else? But we are both here, along with all the others. And now he has leaned his tool on the wall to take a piss. He needs to do it, to let go, to let it out. It can‘t stay in there forever. What am I doing while he is doing though? I am struck dumb, standing there as if I can‘t move an inch to grab it, grab him, hold on with all my might, change him, change the tool, knit another sweater, knot it, start the salt up, something, not stand there waiting for him to finish and take the tool into his hand to join the weapon again with the earth, dripping it into the earth, piercing the screaming earth, driving it into the red soil, hurting and all the while singing his child song, smiling his child face, looking like no idea, waiting for all of us to lay down in the dust yet again as if there is no need to rise tomorrow morning. As if that matters when we will have to rise anyway, if not here then in another place, so why not here, as good as any other place, as sweet as any other.

Silently, I see a few who have been thinking along the same lines, lining out the same thoughts reach out, get up, leave all the others standing dumb-struck around like there is nothing to do, grinning their self-loathing, loathing their self, leaving them rooted there, stretching themselves unbelievably, I cannot believe my eyes, move closer to him, quietly take the tool-weapon from his hands, knead it, spit on it with their own slightly salty spit, change it, change him, change themselves and better the day.

There is no other place than here.

© Mwangi Hutter,

Published in Along the Horizon, by Il Trifoglio Nero Genova, Italy 2008


this place is here

by Mwangi Hutter