ERUPTIS

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DO YOU HEAR EXPLOSIONS IN THE SKY?

THE GODDESS HAS ERUPTED

So what do we do now? A reticent Samson asked his friend and flatmate, Pulovsky. Pulovsky held his joint in the light grip of his two fingers, the thumb and the index “pettiness” finger. Spirals of nebulae flew out through his nostrils, and he peered into a rocket distance as his gaze fixed on a wall some miles away. Samson’s voice had melted into a mellow Jazz playlist that had mingled with the outburst of rain outside. What erotic weather, the hottest weather the Earth in this side of existence could pull off on a sphere of nothingness in delicate submarine existence. Why does it rain outside for Pulovsky while it’s the underwater world for Samson? I know nothing about underwater existence. I have been assigned to write about the Goddess of Eruption, so I am here on command. Don’t ask me who I am. I was someone till last night, while that “someone” was already glitching through the industrious mundanity of a post-world syndrome. My name was Era. Era Cleo. I remember that much. I was thrown into this cabin in the morning, and it felt like a half-shaped dream and reality space, a separate cluster of existence I had not known when I was Era. I have had access to Dream and Reality states separately as a human. Am I human now?

Pulovsky and Samson are not of great interest to me. Because I really don’t know them. I am seeing them, while I am creating them, or am I de-creating them? According to the Goddess, I am terribly impatient, but she offered me a compliment, that I am unruly and madly diverse. I do not know how to blush or break. It could be nice now to feel this way since I was sentenced to awareness till last night, but today I get to witness myself through a new eye. Pulovsky had subscribed to the Wall Channel a long time ago. He sits and directs his gaze to the Wall Channel to see everything happening across the realms. But Samson doesn’t understand what it all means. Samson thinks Pulovsky is just an artist.

Samson misses the moody palette of seasons, climate, and weather. He recounts how living on land meant the outer environment danced to an individual’s inner atmosphere. And how the inner and outer, outer and inner, outer-inner-outer, and inner-outer-inner would keep making life a constant play of elusive emotional celebration. Samson is not on a mission; he happens to live in a submarine with Pulovsky. And sometimes they connect with other Water Inhabitants through Special Sensors or Quantum Transmission. Samson has a bleak memory; he knows that. But he also knows his way underwater. He has not been in contact with the Captain of the Submarine; he only knows that a Captain takes care of the vessel, just as I knew the Earth hung in the middle of space. Who drove the Earth?

I AM THE ARCHITECTURE OF THIS VESSEL

THE GODDESS DRIVES ME

Hera Cleo meets Eraclitus.

In your part of the world, you must have met Heraclitus in books, one of the most popular pre-Socratics. But another version of my previous me (Era Cleo) is a permutation named Hera Cleo. Hera Cleo was the lover of a version of Heraclitus you know of. That version of Heraclitus is Eraclitus.

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