Nameless in a Faceless City by Prakash Kona

Table of Contents Part 5 appeared in issue 152.

conclusion

I loaded my other self with words. Myself I was empty, ironic and mocking. Integrity is in the demeanor of the actor. I refuse to integrate my self with words. My self needed to know reality. My words could feign that they were sick. I spat at life and the world with the spite of a reality seeker.

The wish is also fulfillment of the wish. The word ‘flower’ carries a flower within it. In the word woman is the woman. I am not in myself. I refuse to become a word for fear that I can never be the objective narrator. Orgasms are for sale. Objectivity is conscious deformation of the soul. Bombay epitomizes objectivity of a certain kind of narration. The self that extinguishes itself in a wish. The essence of orgasm. The essence of narration. The orgasm of essences and narration of the same.

I am petrified by silence. The gulf of stasis. The security of bodies. The earth is tanned. The gist of narration is in an orgasm. The orgasm is the soul of objectivity. Death is a fact rendered objectively through symbols. The silence of unfulfilled expectations.

Institutionalized love is prostitution. The newborn child is the ultimate anarchist. Both statements are reconcilable. Prostitution is essential to overcome the sea of anarchy in the soul. I am a slave of women and history. My orgasms were connected to an insatiable need to be objective. I was overpowered by demons that I overpowered in turn. The surprises of human nature had to be captured in a system of symbols. I am a man of systems. Systematically I broke into vaults of words. The narration of history was possible through the objectification of orgasm. In the orgasm narration was without history. I prostituted words before I committed myself to reality of death. The history of orgasm is self-referential to the effect that there is no history outside the orgasm. My times are nothing. My life is a woman.

In the world of objects pain is real.

Crystal city. Crystalline waves of heat run through critical junctures. The crooked leg and the chrysanthemum. The crooked leg does not have the remotest sympathy for the chrysanthemum. The chrysanthemum appeals to the tender side of the crooked leg. The crooked leg looks with mock pity at the chrysanthemum as it writhes in pain under the crushing rub of the crooked leg. The crooked leg does not smile. It merely does not notice the chrysanthemum. The narrator is the chrysanthemum. Fate is the crooked leg. In Bombay fate is married to the narrator. The leg of fate bends the will of the narrator. The narrator dies. Dying he lives in the orgasm. He narrates about his life and times.

The indiscriminate length of days. Today is the same day that was yesterday. Now is always never. The neverness of days. Nothing is as untrue as the statement that I was a child. I am an old man. I was an old man on the way to the traveling circus of childhood. Now I can never hope to see a day without the sun giving its death-like smile and the moon bewitching unromantic streets.

Bitterness is a matter of straight eyes not looking straight. I am bitter when it comes to women that cannot look straight into eyes. I am bitter at the thought of entering a childhood in which I was not. The long day provided me the opportunity to postpone my senility. Sleep makes nights seem shorter. The one who has not slept knows that though days may be long nights are without end.

Personal predilections are objectively reconcilable with demands of narration. The most unexciting story is a performance. The singular impact of an orgasm can be felt in logical space of the brain. The guilt complex of performers is about not taking their bodies to the limit. The limit of performance is the narrator taking a promenade among pomegranate trees.

The narration of death. The psychological underpinnings of narration can be found in lives and times of metropolitan tigers that make and unmake the city with the leisure of gamblers certain of victory. This is one extravagant view of history. The other is the orgasm. The history of Bombay is a series of orgasms beginning with Charles I and coming down to corporate India that Bombay stands for. I declared previously that orgasms are ahistorical. History is dead. Bombay has murdered history for the right reasons that the past is a misery confounding the ignominiously poor present. As narrators of death we thrive on the murder of history. This moment has to be forcefully taken from the grave of silences. I narrate and therefore this moment is mine. The struggle for moments. In this unshared moment where I stand alone as myself I become a narrator.

Did the socket sleep along with the eyes? What was in the frame without a picture? Would God be visible if the sky did not separate us from him? He can see me from the other side of the curtain. I am cursed to imagine. That loneliest of all men. His timeless body trapped in timelessness. He gave man his loneliness and the gift of an orgasm. Were the clouds the floating sperm of God? Did God come as rain? Were divine orgasms more real than human ones? Did human orgasms carry traces of God in them?

God did not have an other. In all likelihood he came on his own. In sleep perhaps if ever he slept. What did God do once he came? He had no woman to escape from and no spaces to conquer. His body was the only space he knew. He suffered his own body before he made man. Was woman a caricature of God’s orgasms? If God is essentially plural and not God but gods the coming is a lot easier. Promiscuity is practical where nobody has to worry about arriving and leaving the city. The coming of the gods. Narration is death. The gods are devoid of the possibility of one. As a narrator I took upon myself the task of writing about divine orgasms.

The narration is constructed on the theme that God (or gods) and Bombay are two faces of one coin. Women made children and men made gods. Men suffered from a death complex. Gods and cities were born that men may come to terms with their deaths. City of death. In Bombay I died. I came before I died. I died as I came. In time I had orgasms that dispensed with time. I narrated how time suffered in my hands. I maintained a level of objectivity in my narration.

Copyright © 2005 by Prakash Kona