Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Beyond compulsions

Beyond compulsions of
the present that are rooted,
still,
forever,
in the past,
I know not of, 
myself or any.
Always the past,
that space that made
you,
me,
and everyone else
that everyone closes
their eyes to
because they can,
because that’s too
universal to even bear:
so they always choose to.
It’s not the first,
nor it is the last
that I am so pitifully stuck
between meanings and their
significations:
when you can’t find
words,
when
words
are
stolen ,
you pause to recollect
what’s real.
And nothing is.
And nothing was.
Except for lovers’ scars,
except your own scars
and missing organs
Survive we do.
But when is the final point?
Of truth?
Of annihilation?
Of denial of the very human that one is?...

2017/09/06

Archiatric by Federico Babina


We homogenise everything. Although easier that way, things are definitely more complex than that. Is anyone ever truly sane, I wonder. And what of the friends and family of the mentally ill? The forms of care provided by communities prior to the advent of agriculture are, were infinitely humane, alas that's not the case nowadays anywhere. Not even in Mongolia. When all that the present-day mental health professional capacity revolves around is management, not treatment to the core, one can't talk about health: the reality is that of stigma, isolation, and, in worst-case scenarios, incarceration, and capital punishment. No wonder the mentally ill choose suicide while they still can exercise the autonomy and agency of the personhood.

Дуусгаагүй дуэт | Unfinished Duet

Дуусгаагүй дуэт
Рийчард Сайкэн

Эхэндээ тэр хэт олон мөчиртэй гээд
Эрлэж тэднийг тасдахад өвөл болов.
Тэр гэдэг нь чи. Тийм ээ. Цонхоороо гадагш
Тэр их мөчиртэй байсан ч одоо арай л бага
мөчиртэй харагдах моддыг ширтсээр. 
Тэгээд л болоо юу? Үгүй дээ, өөр оролдлого,
өглөөний хоолууд байсан: хоолтой тавгуудыг
өрж, хоосон тавгуудыг хураасан. Тэр гараа
яахаа мэддэггүй. Тэр кофены гүц тэмтрэх 
дуртай. Төмрийн хөрөөнөөс ч илүүтэй юу?
Тийм ээ, тэгээд сандал эргүүлж,
түүгээр хүмүүс дүүрэхийг харах дуртай.
Жүржийн шүүс, шүүсээр тулгах, гялалзтал
зүлгэсэн шалыг ямар ч гэрэлд харах дуртай. 
Тэр энэрэнгүй ба зөөлөн байхыг хүсдэг.
Тэр их зоригтой хүн шиг сонсогдох юм. 
Нүглээ наманчлан тарчлах мэт. 
Харин гар нь? Гар нь шувуудад хувирч, 
түүнээс зугтсаар байдаг. Тэр гэдэг нь чи.
Тийм. Чи өөртөө хайртай юу? Хариулах
шаардлагагүй. Хамаатай биш үү? Тэр 
биетэй ч бие нь хамаагүй, орон дээрээ
цэвэр даавуутай ч тэр нь хамаагүй. 
Тэндээ тэр гунигаараа гайхуулдаг.
Бяцхан хар үүл, бяцхан хар шүхэр. 
Чи ойлгосонгүй: толиндох царай бол
бяцхан урвагчийн царай, толиндох царай бол
цонхигор, нүцгэн барьцаалагдагч, аль өрөөнд
хоригдон буйг нь хэн ч хэлж мэддэггүй. Тэр 
гарахыг, орохыг, тамаас гэтэлгэх эм хүссээр.
Толины өмнө тортой зогсоод ямар нэг зүйл
барихыг хүссээр. Өөр сонголтгүйдээ
үдээс хойш руу хөдлөхийг хүссээр. 
Энэ өрөөн дэх хүн бүр ямар нэг замаар ирсэн ба
хүн бүр хэзээ ч юм өрөөг орхино. Тэгээд юу үлдэх үү? 
Энэ өрөөний тухай дуу дуулах юм уу?  Утгыг эргэн тойронд 
бэхлэх нэрний пайзууд хадах юм уу?  Дуу хоолой гар болохыг 
хүсэх ба гар харин хэрэгтэй зүйл хийхийг хүснэ. 
Чи үнэхээр юу хүсэж байна вэ? Үүнийг хамт 
өнгөрөөх хэн нэгнийг. Түүнээс илүүг ч тэр хүссэн. 
Бусдын хүсдэгийг л би хүсэж байна. Онгироо тэр 
сарыг кранаар өргөж, хийлүүдийг эхлүүлдэг.
Хийлийн оршихуй нь аялгуу хойно. Тийм, бас
сарыг тэр кранаар өргөж, гэрэлттэл нь зүлгэдэг.
Юу гэрэлтүүлдэг юм? Юуг ч биш. Өөр хэн ч байгаагүй юу? 
Солгой үнэн, баруун гарын үнэн,
бүрэн хэлэх арга даанч алга. Салхи сэрчигнэнэ.
Шаналал сэрчигнэнэ. Төмөр хоолойнуудыг бид 
нүднэ. Өөр хэн ч байгаагүй юу? Түүний гар 
шувуудад хувиран зугтсаар ч 
тэд эцэстээ газардана.

Орчуулсан Н. Анараа


***


Unfinished Duet
By Richard Siken
At first there were too many branches
so he cut them and then it was winter.
He meaning you. Yes. He would look out
the window and stare at the trees that once
had too many branches and now seemed
to have too few. Is that all? No, there were
other attempts, breakfasts: plates served,
plates carried away. He doesn’t know
what to do with his hands. 
He likes the feel
of the coffeepot. More than the hacksaw?
Yes, and he likes flipping the chairs,
watching them fill with people. He likes
the orange juice and toast of it, and waxed
floors in any light. He wants to be tender
and merciful.
That sounds overly valorous.
Sounds like penance. And his hands?
His hands keep turning into birds and
flying away from him. Him being you.
Yes. Do you love yourself? I don’t have to
answer that. It should matter. He has a
body but it doesn’t matter, clean sheets
on the bed but it doesn’t matter. This is
where he trots out his sadness. Little black
cloud, little black umbrella.
You miss
the point: the face in the mirror is a little
traitor, the face in the mirror is a pale
and naked hostage and no one can tell
which room he’s being held in. He wants
in, he wants out, he wants the antidote.

He stands in front of the mirror with a net,
hoping to catch something.
he wants to
move forward into the afternoon because
there is no other choice. Everyone in this
room got here somehow and everyone in
this room will have to leave.
So what’s left?
Sing a song about the room we’re in?
Hammer in the pegs that fix the meaning
to the landscape? The voice wants to be
a hand and the hand wants to do something
useful. What did you really want?
Someone
to pass this with me. You wanted more.
I want what everyone wants. He raises
the moon on a crane for effect, cue the violins.

That’s what the violins are for. And yes,
he raises the moon on a crane and scrubs it
until it shines. So what does it shine on?
Nothing. Was there no one else? Left-handed
truth, right-handed truth, there’s no pure
way to say it. The wind blows and it makes
a noise. Pain makes a noise. We bang on
the pipes and it makes a noise. Was there
no one else?
His hands keep turning into
birds, and his hands keep flying away
from him. Eventually the birds must land.

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Except for love


To imagine, and flirt with, death again and again, not because your body is giving up, but because your soul is giving up, always teetering on the brink. To be so vulnerable. To try to hang on. To try to continue to tell yourself that this, too, shall pass. That pain is only a temporary, but oh, too real, delusion, to know that you will fail, again, ever again, that you never mattered. That nothing does. Except for love. Flirting is fine. Mid-December 2016 was what mattered. And then again, late March. And then again, mid-April. To be so soul-destroyed you can't imagine anything else for yourself. Or the world. Or the living. How bloody sad is that?... This, too, shall pass. As we all do.

so sad, too bad

намайг үхтлээ бүх зүйлдээ буруутгаад л, надаас салахыг хүссэндээ 10 антибиотикийн ба миний шилжилтийн өмнө сахлаа наадаг байсан уусдаг силикон цавуу ууж байсан хүн мандаад, нарны туяа хошногоосоо сагуулаад, надтай хэзээ ч харилцаагаа ч зарладаггүй ч бусад бүх хүмүүстэй шаалцдагаа гайхуулдаг юм уу, яадаг юм бүү мэд, зургаа тавиад, надаас л өөр хүн хүн бол хүн, би хүн биш гэж мэдрүүлээд олон жил болчоод намайг хэдэн найз гэсэн гичий шиг ховч юмнууддаа газар дор ортол муулаад явж байх юм. тэгсэн надад хоёр жил хагас хайртай байгаагүйд, хамт байх гэсэндээ би 2 удаа амиа хорлох гээд 30, 30 ширхэг зүрх, даралтны эм 2 удаа ууж байсан байх юм. арай л бас... ер нь би хангалттай болсон. одоо бүгд зайлцгаа.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

a long goodbye

what if you realise that the whole relationship was just one loooooooong goodbye?... how sad would you feel?... rains are coming.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

put on a face

put on a face
                     a brave face, a dead face
put on a face and go.
put on a face
                      a kind face, a brave face
walk outside your door.
put on a face
                      a brave face, a nothing face
no one will anyway know.
put on a face
                      or a mask or mascara
                      or a ton of no-anaraa
no one will anyway care.
put on a face
put on a face
put on a face
and
crumble
under

2017/08/20

Beyond compulsions

Beyond compulsions of the present that are rooted, still, forever, in the past, I know not of,  myself or any. Always the past, that space ...