stop talking about gaza

& the tale of the last garden

one thing that has been clear for at least the last many decades is that the nation states love to mock us because they are beyond our reach. the last thing we should hope to achieve from our outrage is that something will change, that we may stir a conscience. outrage is no longer enough, it has to be followed by action. the nation state cannot be fought, so it has to be starved.

the world powers, who happen to all be child rapists, have all the power, and they are not interested in human rights. hardly a surprise. everything that we do, eat, watch, makes them money, makes them stronger. it is like the ghouls are collecting our tears and selling them for safe passage on the way to hell. even our resistance to them, our outrage at their actions makes them money - such is the global digital capitalist market now empowered by a global AI surveillance state that will be the outcome of this war - casually introduced into the society as the new united nations, as the new deterrent.

accountability comes in a system with a conscience, a willingness to listen, some empathy. this system, our systems have none. they weren’t built with the intention to serve, they were built with the intention to annihilate the human spirit that may come in the way of absolute power, greed, lust.

perhaps one last facade of representation and democracy that remained in the world, was eventually handed over tactfully to child rapists, who would do anything that was asked of them, without protest, as long as the state provided them children to rape. while keeping up the facade of an elective sovereignty. what is needed of this system is a complete upending, a full reset, a new order.

forget accountability, dear citizens of the world, forget conscience. forget justice. you will get none. when we will have screamed our lungs out, we will have to pick our pieces, and walk away from the world that we created and the world that was snatched from us. from a distance we will watch it starve, wither and die. for we are its fodder. for we will have been its fodder.

here is what to do instead:

write down your memories, and write down your family recipes,
hell, write down the recipe of bitumen if you must,
write down the chemical composition of water,
the constituents of a lemonade.

write down the methods of grafting,
write down the ratio of compost.
write down how to carbonate water,
write down how to bake bread,
and how to make a fire.
write down what makes the bricks, and write down
your mathematical formulas.

write down that from seed comes life,
from soil comes food, and from earth
comes everything that nurtures us.
write down your name,
the names of your family,
the names of your children and the shapes
of their heads.

write down the shape of your lovers hands in infinite detail.

extend your palm and measure the palm-length of your skeletal system. pinch, stretch, measure. write.

sprint to your dreams, and measure your heart rate. write that down too. archive, document, memorise.

trace the contours of your friend’s faces and put it down in moulded statues, and bury yourself in the memory of them. exercise your memory, lest your pens be taken from you.

write it all down as it comes to you.
forget everything and remember it all over again,
as if scratching the bark of a tree to uncover the sap gushing inside.

grow your vegetables again,
dig open the soil and make love
to the earthworm.

raze your mansions and build
gardens,
bury yourself in life and bury yourself in
love.

there is no hope in the nation state.

when the last garden is paved with concrete, they will tell you that life comes from them. for when that happens, write down how to build a hammer that shatters concrete, breaching open the centipede buried inside.

and when you will have forgotten the flowers, they will tell you the flowers were a thing of myth, and that myth and magic - both came from them. for when that happens, reach into the depths of your stomach, and pull out a seed.

---

I want the right of life,
of the leopard at the spring, of the seed splitting open-
I want the right of the first man.

- Nazim Hikmet