The Aliens are Already Here.

For decades, we humans were searching for extraterrestrial organisms who are not our own kind. The intrigue of this quest is unknown for certain. Nor do we have the slightest idea what they would look like if they were ever true. Yes, there might be scanty evidence for our unfulfilled sketches of these terrifying beings. But ‘fact’ is not the center of this illusion or imagination we have concocted. Apparently, as reflected in multiple movies and narrations, these beings are scary, ugly, and entirely devoid of logic and emotion. And they are coming to colonize and rule our world. In any case, we have heard these so many times it is getting old now. Or sounds like the fairy tales we are accustomed to.

Here is a thought, though. We are scared of whatever type of creature would land on Earth mainly because we are assuming they are devoid of any logic or emotion. And because of that it wouldn’t be possible for us to reason with them or get their kindness (pity) to preserve our life on this planet. But in reality, aren’t we doing all that to ourselves already? Aren’t we becoming so detached from our emotions from time to time? In this age of sarcasm, are we ever true to our feelings? Aren’t we suffering from a famish of power over the powerless?

I, sometimes, wonder if the entire universe has become the portrait of Dorian Gray in the classic work of Oscar Wilde. In the book, the handsome, young Dorian was painted to have a portrait of his own. Yet, time after time, as Dorian was getting old, and his sins piled up, the painting replaced itself with a monster version. With time Dorian turned away from innocence and kindness to become cruel and brute. With time our planet is losing kindness for the uncanny selfishness with the added value of violence. The painting may seem the same after all. But the truth is, we have defaced from what we were to what we are now.

Over the years, vulnerability has faded. Revealing true emotions has become a shameful activity. We have, now, descended into the pit of madness where everyone is supposed to pretend to be happy. Or lose their mind while trying. Our social affiliations are on the brink of disappearance. We have alienated ourselves from our own kinds with no enemy bellowing us to do it. Individualism reigns in our realm firmly. It seems like the only thing we share is the collective traumas we have induced on each other. Yet, not to deal with them together, but to brim over them all alone in despair.

In my opinion, it is safe to say the wait is over. The aliens are already here. We haven’t grown horns on our skulls or started to have sharper teeth. But we have convoluted ourselves into something else we cannot even begin to understand. “I don’t even know myself,” has become the mantra of our lives. Self-awareness and the obsession to have self-awareness have led us astray to the edge we do not know. Consciousness is an ache we would like to distract ourselves from. Rationalism has become a manipulating mechanism to gain the kind of validation we would like to hear. Distractions from self, thoughts, and any sort of emotion are the only way to give us mental repose. No wonder, we cannot know or recognize ourselves. Are we ever going to face our consciousness sober with no distractions?

Have I been so vulnerable myself, I would have held the moral high ground to lecture every reader to do this and that. But dear reader that would be the worst hypocrisy of all.

Whenever I think about the things I have lost, imagined or real, I realize the true loss I have suffered from is my vulnerability itself. I cannot spare a fair share of aches or excitements in my life. Not so many people would, these days.

While waiting for exotic beings that might endanger our life on this planet, we have become eccentric beings of our own kind. We are filled with too many altercations, our perfect portrait has become completely defaced. Without even realizing it, we have conquered our own planet to become the aliens. Perhaps, it is time for us to be human once again. To learn what it means to be a human. And abandon ourselves from the grotesque figure we have become.

If you are still wondering to know what an alien would look like, though, you only have to stand in front of a mirror. That figure you see standing is the one you have been waiting to see.

July 4, 2023 0

In Denying Denial

If we were to deny denial,
In the distractions we impose;
If we were to abandon,
All attempts of living
While avoiding faltering,
What would be left of us?

If we were to opress,
The sophisticated being we caress,
If we sprue the naivete
We, once, shunned,
Would we be more alive?
Or less of ourselves?

In reversed reverse,
In becoming the obverse,
We might, for once
Retaliate to rise.

January 30, 2023 0

The Strange Spinster

“Where are you headed, young lady?” It was like an awakening call of my alarm. It was louder than the tunes that were flooding through my ears, I turned my face at once. From the looks of it, it was rather an old spinster who stood right behind me. I don’t know why I was sure she was a spinster, but she seemed like one. “I am sorry. Are you lost, ma’am?” I asked while removing one of my earphones from my ear. “Is that question intended for yourself or me?” She was heading in my direction. I was entirely confused by her demeanor which was quite rude but also too confident. “I..don’t..I..”. “Oh please, do not stutter! I asked if you were lost and something tells me you really are, are you not?” She elevated her brows beyond her glasses. I am studying her face now. And she seemed very familiar. I tried to recall where I might have seen her before. Normally, I wouldn’t stop for any passengers. But there was something I couldn’t articulate about this woman.

“Let me save you from your troubles, young lady. No, we haven’t met yet. No, you do not know me. Nor you have seen me before. And no, I am not a neighbor whose face you do not recall. And yes, those are exactly your thoughts.” She grinned widely and started walking in the direction I was headed. I felt coldness down to my spine and I looked around. It was too early for the path to be packed by many. “Are you coming or what?” She inquired. I gathered myself as soon as I can to follow the stranger. A gifted stranger?! No, no. I put my hands in my pocket and paced faster to catch up with the woman. “Normally, people would start to wonder if they have gone crazy when someone, a stranger no less, tells them their thoughts. But, you! You are thinking of a name for me, I guarantee that is quite special. Don’t you think? Oh, would you stop with that already? No one would walk this early! Specially now the rain seems to be habitual at this hour. Walk with me, would you?” “I…I am out of sorts, I believe ma’am. You caught me off guard I must say.” I tried not to show my cowardice. The lady seemed to be in her late 50s. Yet, she is taking the longest strides than me. For the moment, I concentrated on keeping up with her while my mind raced to ask zillions of questions.

“I must assume you know where I was heading, then.” I finally managed to ask. “Of course I did. I just wanted an opening line to converse. I didn’t want to be a stalker. Oh good heavens, no. I could have walked with you till you notice that our paces were synced. But, I was rather worried you might not catch up with me or notice me for that matter.” She corrected her glasses once again and cleared her throat. “So, young lady.” Her own derisive laugh cut her off. She cleared her throat once again and said “I always loved that phrase. When I was your age, people seldom called me that. But I liked it anyway. Oh, don’t wrinkle those skins yet. Time would do that for you.” I half grinned while touching my forehead lightly.

“So, wherever you’re from, can I assume you want to talk to me?” I half-heartedly asked the lady of wonders. “I would prefer lady of candor or beauty, if I may.” She chuckled at her own statement. “Ah! In any case, your assumptions are right. But, no. I am not going to talk about pain or suffering with you. ‘I can sympathize with everything except suffering. I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the color, the beauty, and the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores, the better.’ Do you know who said that?” “I remember that I have read it somewhere.” “Oh don’t give me that look! I was giving you a chance to make this two-way conversation. Or should I say it all for both of us? Knowing what is in your head isn’t making this fun for me, by the way. Candor has its own perks. But it, sure, is an ailment.” We almost walked half a mile by now. She proceeded. “You know what they say, ‘To get back one’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.’ But, here I am telling you being a youth is more than repeating one’s follies. At least in your case, that is. First things first, having too many interests doesn’t make you passionless. Nor having no passion for life is a fault. Not everyone is filled with passion these days. If you can get a few things that can hold you long enough, you would be quite well. Yes, society romanticizes the value of passion in every path we take. But what you should know is, what would be left for you at the end of the path where passion takes you? The moment you achieve it, you would reach a sense of fulfillment, of course. But not for that long. We, humans, are not known for our satiety in life. The moment we get there, we always need more. So it really doesn’t matter if we have a sustainable passion for one, single thing. Rather too much of it will become handy at some point. So enough with torturing yourself for not settling for one passion.”

While we are crossing the road, I saw a few strands of her grey hair were loose and lying on her face. She tucked them in where they were with no trouble. Hmm, her hair resembled mine. Except it was grayer and shorter. I clutched my jacket as the wind was growing stronger. “Age is a matter of experience, young lady. And also matter of mistakes. The one thing older people share with each other is how many mistakes they ever done over time.” She chuckled and noticed the sky intently. “I don’t think I have much time with you, after all. The dawn is fading.” She stood right before me and held my arms tightly. “Here’s the other thing I wanted to tell you. When you wake from your sleep tomorrow…” My hysterical laughter cut her off mid-sentence. “I am not asleep, for sure.” I squealed. She half grinned and continued. “When you wake from your sleep tomorrow, you are going to see a different realm of the world you have been living in. For once, your obsession with the parallel universe would pay off, perhaps. Call it the new realm or a new universe. I would leave that to you. But, what I want you to know is, as much as this life seems dull and uninteresting in your eyes, that is not only for you. Anyway, you can still survive the common bickering of the society and the inauthenticity of everything. In the meantime, you should have a heyday of your life for once. You cannot analyze everything before happening. You should let yourself feel and be there in the moment. Mistakes aren’t to be avoided. A few of them, in fact, make life wondrous. You are allowed to have some setbacks. It wouldn’t kill you to have few.”

I felt hot tears prickling my eyes. I swallowed and saw my strange company right in her eyes. She seems to have my eyes, too. But hers were surrounded by wrinklier skin than mine. I cleared my throat to thank her. But she gave me a look that assured me that she already knew what I was going to say. I closed my eyes to help myself think. But when I opened my eyelids, I was standing by myself. I looked around to see where she could possibly go. There was no sight of her. “Well, that would be the best ending for a strange morning,” I muttered to myself and continued my walk. I couldn’t help but wonder how much resemblance we had with the woman. She was far more interesting than me, though.

When my alarm buzzed, I searched for my glasses drowsily. I was asleep. Moments ago, I was sure I wasn’t. Apparently, I was asleep on my desk. I must have slept while reading. I yawned and stretched my body. I cleared my eyes to look at what I have been doing a few hours before. “Oh, the dream!” I nearly screamed. “Oh, it was a dream.” I stood in the middle of my room confused. The weird thing is I recall the dream with much more clarity than I ever recalled any other dream. The rain started to tickle the roof. I paced in my room from one point to another. But there was no other explanation for it, except it was a dream. The rain intensifies as well as the coldness. I picked up my jacket from the pile and clutched myself in it. My fingertips sensed a piece of paper inside the pocket. As I unfold it, it read “The Strange Spinster”. I gaped at the paper for a long while.

June 20, 2022 0

A Conversation with Gertrude Stein.

“We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair. But to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.” She said, loudly. “Yes, yes, Gertrude. I get what you are saying. And I wouldn’t dare to contradict you.” She gave me a weak grin as if she knew that I am going to. “But…”, I went on. “…How can one write about something she doesn’t know? Specially when there is something one is fully acquainted with! Despair! I cannot only write about it. I can tell you the building blocks. I can tell you how those blocks come into being. I can tell you about the edifice. The Edifice of Despair! I might be romanticizing about it a bit…” “A bit?!” She cut me off mid-sentence. “You are head over hills for despair. You are not only obsessed, but you’re also madly in love with it. Why can’t you see beyond your despair? You know there’s something beyond the reef, don’t you?” I sighed deeply. So deep, I felt my ribs protruding. “I like your writings.” She proceeded. I am sure my eyes almost popped out in unbelief. “I do. I just think your soul is not in any of them.” She stressed her point probably noticing my surprise. “It is a muffled scream located from beyond. I hear the echo. Not even the first echo. The third, weakest echo which is disappearing into the air. Where is your sound?” She posed for a moment trying to come up with a better explanation of what she said. Or is she reconsidering her comments? I usually think I can read and interpret people’s faces. But sometimes it is beyond difficult. The contours on her face couldn’t give me a hint of her thoughts.

“Sure, write about it. Write about despair as if it is the only thing to be written about. But…” she is pointing her finger directly at me along with her soul-piercing eyes. I break off eye contact immediately. I can’t stand people staring at me. “But…” she almost yelled the moment my eyes started wandering. “Find your voice! Stop mumbling. Quit this muffling nonsense and step out into the world. Tell me the depth of despair out in the light. Shout it out at the top of your lungs until my ears are deafened. That would be the first step of something.” “Yeah…” That was the single word I could utter at the end of her speech. “The muffled noise” My brain registered the phrase. She is right, of course. I’m barely making a sound, let alone a noise. It can’t even ripple the surface, don’t bother to see a splash. But finding my voice is going to be hard. It is going to be harder than finding myself. Oh wait, I didn’t find myself yet. In fact, I don’t think I will ever find it. But- maybe finding your ultimate voice, even in an imaginative world might be easier. Just maybe.

The next day, while I was lying on my bed, a heavy knock at my door woke me up. It was Gertrude Stein at my door. I was more than surprised to recognize her voice as it was coming a few steps away from my door. “Gertrude?” I sounded sappy because I was trying my hospitable voice while trying to hide my surprise. “You’re even weirder” She almost knocked me down as she entered to my tiny apartment. And she was right, I am weirder at home. I didn’t know what my next steps should be. I felt like I stared at her for two full minutes. “Stop standing there as statue. Bring me a coffee if you have any. Otherwise, sit. I felt like we left off things hanging on a cliff.” I almost ran to the kitchen to prepare coffee for my house guest. I was too conscious about my every move. I feel her eyes on me the whole time. When I half turn my face, I saw she is not even looking at me. I exhaled the heavy air off my chest. “What brought you here, Gertrude?” I asked. “Coffee is a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup.” I figured she wanted me to be seated first. “I didn’t know you were a coffee person.” I requested, but she didn’t respond.

She started talking when I settle with my mug in front of her. “You will write if you will write without thinking of the result in terms of a result, but think of the writing in terms of discovery, which is to say that creation must take place between the pen and the paper, not before in a thought or afterward in a recasting…It will come if it is there and if you will let it come.” She went on after a sip. “After all everybody, that is, everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves. That is why writers have to have two countries, the one where they belong and the one in which they really live. The second one is romantic, it is separate from themselves, it is not real but it is really there.”

“But it’s so frightening, Gertrude.” My voice shrieked. “Nothing is really so very frightening when everything is so very dangerous.” She said and continued to see me right in the eye. The woman had answers for every question I might raise. She is still waiting for me to say something. All of a sudden I felt like I actually lost my real voice. “A very important thing is not to make up your mind that you are any one thing.” She broke the stillness with her bold voice. “You cannot only be despair. I’m sure there are left over pieces here and there. Gather them. Or don’t. Why should a sequence of words be anything but a pleasure? Just remember, there is more of you. Even in this Lost Generation, there is more of you.” She didn’t say another word for long. The thrill of having a houseguest was overwhelming. But I was trying hard not to let it get me. She studied my face for a while. But she didn’t say much. When she was done with her coffee, she left the apartment at once.

It was the buzzing sound of my alarm that awakened me. It was 4a.m. in the morning. I must have dozed off for an hour or so. I rubbed my eyes to see where I am. I am not in France. It is not the 1920s. It was all a dream. It was in an alternate reality I had two days long conversation with Gertrude Stein.

May 14, 2022 0