Polytheria ??? (Gnoma 33, 18, 21, 22, 23, 27, 36, 17): Symbiogenesis

There once was a planet infested with trees infested with humans infested with political issues in the making. Her lungs probably looked like that lichen-covered wall, all mossy and disgusting, yet somehow inviting, hopeful. She often punched her chest to unglue the phlegm, imagine the boogers falling and sedimenting on the bottom until she could not breathe. That was the situation of the forest. But she was not desperate. We were. Run for your lives, we screamed every day, when she patiently treaded what would eventually catch us. Our plump lady. And she rather dreamspeaks sometimes, about a shadow that haunts the planes – it passes distorting the air that ululates vibrating in spasmodic silent moans – Sparkles glister from its heads’ back as piles of turf thick hair grow // fall // grow – again // it stomps about between lethargic and almost to run – out of juice flowing: Will you sing – or shut up in awe as it loses and finds itself over and over and over again cower in ecstasy or burst in silence – should what be done. And should it swallow you whole what could be found in the endless descent through its lightless rings expanding and contracting. And should you conquer its huge body and cut it apart for any reason – from prizes to food or shelter, would it be too much for a lone human? Or would you share. With whom? When people arrive – or you find them – it will be too late for some parts such as the eyes and heart. You must keep them alive – conserve them. Keep the heart as a pump – transplant it elsewhere, modulate it, put it in an aquaponic system or something. Pumping water instead of blood – and fish and plants and etc. Organs too big for human use; so you must be creative – and prepare before slaying the giant so nothing goes to waste – and it isn’t too late. But how will you kill it? From the inside? From the outside? When it sleeps? Well, you could eat it. But there is too much to eat. It would be a waste to eat so much. Inside its belly – or really just falling, on the way down the gullet, – you find a smaller giant inside the one that just swallowed you. Is this the child of the giant? It opens its mouth also – there is light inside, for some reason. And behold, the light speaks: My light shapes and is shaped I embrace a new form of mirror and champion diffraction over reflection then the moon our decadent mirror the cold pale orb the death of wolf and man alike its yellow light contaminating everything that is to die everything that is to transform from its last breaths from each dying reflection from eye to eye the story can become a dead body where life will fester again new light will appear and begin to see through a very long night. And disappears when the thing closes the lips that now speak themselves: The old is dead, only the young, the children remain – and diffraction is finally possible in the dark. The maturing movement is not linear, but scattered throughout life: Early fears and notions return in new light and forms, over various stages of life. Trapping moments as image in words – time spatialized, articulated – later read: unfolded experience. As the man is a man, and thus was created, and lives on earth, he needs to pass away and give birth simultaneously as the opening of the long night happens. As his lights fade out, the child gets lost and finds the new in the darkness. What to do is, then pierce and pace together the dying man and the child in the long night all the while it is being born dying. The dying man on the operating table is also a woman, pregnant; she has to choose between her life and of the baby. She chooses the baby. But the baby is unlike herself. As the father fought for the human, I fight for the Other Human, the Beyond Human, for to fight for the non-human might prove itself to be just as empty a fight as that which was fathers’s opponent’s. In fact, it might be the same. The wheel never stops. The Eternal Recurrence thing. We never really learn. Just keep remembering old mistakes in different ways. For nature is slow, and, in the span of same aeon, we all must repeat our mothers’ and fathers’ mistakes. And if we try to cheat, it’ll bite us in the ass double the size next generation. If you’re struck by lightning, you have no choice, there it is all flowing through your body, your bones, your blood. Your brain spasming with the twisting of your fingers and the burning of your pores, scorching hair all the way to your soul and back by the foaming mouth. Rabid foaming mouth, whirling colorful anime eyes. You can’t even scream as your larynx is too hot to work. So you accept, it’s the only thing you can do. A voice comes in rumbling from everywhere, and it whispers: this is mine now. And she said: I’m home. In any shape, way or form, it comes. It doesn’t really matter. And the giant stomped about so immersed in thought he seemed mindless to the little ones below, and even the ones inside. But then the giant died.