Evangelene Alaraj...Born in Vancouver...Grew up in Roberts Creek...Found her second home in Palestine...Has a BA from Simon Fraser University with a major of English Lit...works in the hospitality industry...
Part I: The Man with a Monocle
History is now- and my eyes will shed it. For it is a tear like any other, falling from a globe of vision.
Time rushes in, and like a Great Dictator, reveals only reproductions of itself.
All restless forms rise out of their obscurity,
Progeny of restless thoughts,
To make anarchy of our collective soul.
No dream will be realized in this sightless gathering.
The Great Technical Eye sees nought but its own image.
"Sow the wind...reap the whirlwind."
The rushing of time on mechanical wings;
Prosthetic hopes for human happiness.
No stranger time than this, The Age of Telescopic Trauma.
Our eyes always further than the present;
Taking us to the distance they perceive;
Into future spaces.
Beyond the readiness of the nearby,
And the at hand solidness of now.
Proportions and scales of vision according to a Cyclops.
A billion of us under the microscope feel enhanced.
As if this changed perception could release Time.
As if Death could be captured in a near perfect image.
It is all smoke and mirrors and the illusion of knowledge.
No earthly thing will transport you beyond this material life.
Our mechanical rapture completes itself through ruin.
Human vision: manacled to monocles, obscure proportions, and false horizons;
sails in the directions of flatness and abyssal wondering.
The world is perception; the world without perception
fades like a memory into an unknown darkness.
The human is perspective; the human without perspective
also fades into distant traces of time and becomes ruin.
Every day we move through crowds and papers,
And I feel printed onto whiteness and turned into a cheap story that will sell.
We are all becoming words to be put under ownership.
Each spoken word is a prism of coloured glass.
And we are lead between them; running rivulets chasing fixity into the unknown.
The glass words evolve out of glass eyes.
All your half apparent dreams cannot amount to a singular, supreme wisdom;
There is nought but contention between men;
Separate, fragile prisms structured by hardened egotism.
Let this stained glass symbolize human perception;
A substance of reflective beauty that cannot show illumination directly;
A muted abstraction of true light.
The secret to allegorical perception is this;
That words are eyes looking out of a dark and ancient past into the future;
That Light meets Dark in the soft net of the Iris,
And she pools it into herself and swims aloft in images that become edible.
The poet began in media res to be that eye;
That human eye
In the midst of past and future tenses,
Material and Immaterial images,
Real and Unreal realms,
In shades of Light and Dark.
This is a telescope beyond all others inventions,
our shimmering web of conscious vision.
The eye is a paradox:
The point at which opposites converge into recognition of truth.
Production is the language of the technical eye.
Products: external metaphors for our externalized vision.
Symbols appear outside of the dream world;
Washed up in obtuse strangeness on the shore of the real.
Images gain hardware, plasticize, and fall into the daylight;
Still-born perceptions that cannot be buried.
The human mind outside of itself,
Residing in prosthetic mechanisms,
Navigating towards an elusive earthly paradise that refuses to be born.
Utopia is a mirage in the wasteland of the mind.
Tangible, edible ideas say otherwise, but fail to contain Heaven beyond a moment’s ecstasy.
We are all becoming words in a quest of Capitalization.
We have a desire to Realize Ideals.
We have nearly completed this secular Allegory.
Part II: The Plant People
The planet is held by fragments of glass.
All beautiful arrangements that take time to piece together.
Look inside them and find new worlds;
Lush, lush imaginings that blossom and spin forth;
Find humans richly adorned in planetary splendour.
We have been spinning glossy webs to contain us.
Soon we will transform into a beautiful death.
Plant people find it difficult to grow these days.
There are too many Utopias propped up along the horizon,
And the sun’s path is blocked by their unearthly shadows.
You used to see the plant people all opened up to their innate form;
Their structures calmly and cohesively unfolding.
Now they climb with bowed heads through the concrete chambers of this city,
Confused at vital messages moving within them.
I take a plant remedy, and unfold beyond myself.
Feel extended towards likeness with others.
Feel my spirit bow knowingly towards Allah.
I am at the surface of earth taking white light,
It is all composition.
Half beautiful, half monstrous scales and some dross overtake me.
Know, like a plant knows, that Allah will sustain us only for an allotted time.
The earth is a garment for our nakedness;
By its death we now disrobe.
All physical bearings slip away.
Flat, hot air and dead horizon wade in to the melting.
All prosthetic transcendentalists,
All dream merchants and their invisible clothing,
Drown in their illusions.
There is no covering but the earth.
Know that Vanity is terminal; a vast tomb.
Hear the warnings imbued in Nature as recurrent signs,
That the material realm is but a fragile covering for our absolute destiny.