Tuesday, October 18, 2011


The first time I met Orkest, a tiny egg lay curled up upon a mattress made of bad cotton. The second time I met Orkest I didn’t say a word, since he was an egg walking on his twos with no clue where he was. The third time I met Orkest I begged him to not drop for three days. The fourth time I met Orkest I didn’t know what to do with the egg I had ordered.

The last time I met Orkest, I saw him rise upon an imaginary sunrise, as he was not real. He was a prophet, an actor, a comet shooting across eons, with no reason and no path, just a ball of energy that could swish and span in any goddamn terminology of science you can apply, just a ball of energy, magnetizing only that which comes in his spin, but burning those who dare to touch.

I was still trying to be a writer, but I became a film maker, and I couldn’t do either, since both required a critical mass of people to at any given static observable time in my life be one with the mind, let alone the five people who know what art is, and how it requires silences stretching over centuries to be reborn as ART.

However, the whole reason to still thrash around in an empty space was to make art, art that could only give me a reason to continue breathing, Something that gave me an illusion that saved me from receding to the call of the primordial.

Ever since we all knew that that existed, that there was something we had but civilization was borne out of our incorrigible thinking only to ruin the passage of time. We became so obsessed with converting a simple cyclical phenomenon of day and night into an never ending quest into infinity, that we decided never to walk backwards, and instead destroy ourselves on artificial terrains. Time will prevail while this cosmos will recede into the darkest trenches of my mind.