OFLUXO

If one is to describe the inner landscapes it is always in terms such as this: monkey-brown, fish-grey, a string of infected circles above unwholesome ground, perhaps the skin of a grave. The limits of language are the limits of the world, so there is a naturally occurring adjustment to the ensconced personality in exchange for this view, including a certain amount of unusualities in perspective. But the sun of the mind rises a ribbon at a time too.

Mine usually springs from a short elliptical colonnade and a large charis paddock populated by spiked grass Salsabiils beneath a sign marked 791 in something like Persian script leading the way in. Further along winding paths a Columbarium marks a squalid catalog of mistakes, my library of poor choices and slights constrained in lead boxes to better restrain their odious contents. On their internment they became discoloured, first turning green, then purple, before black as parts bulge from sockets. Other wretched parts bloat, protrude and finally swell each form burst open with foul-smelling gases. It was best not to touch these. Further on, things which could not be buried or burned – such as ideas or hopes dashed short – are put into charnel ground and left out for amorphous blends of jackals and hyenas, tigerbears, vultures and ravens. A land of total openness and freedom. Festoons of wet intestines hang low from the trees here, above beds of viper plants littered with the shards and nubs of femurs, patellas, tusks.

Mals blow through hrátsis like weather. Sometimes they cluster and became a thick black bonerinse of a mist. The worst is when they take the faces most beloved to hráči beyond the Dyad. Mothers and fathers, women once loved and children unborn but not forgotten. All can appear suddenly and tear you up enough to be spat back through the colonnade.