Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Forty-year-old Virgin

It appears to me that there is great deal of political masturbation going on in some parts of the world; allow me to indulge in a moment of self-generated pleasure in this piece. The usual disclaimers apply.

1. The Tapestry

The land, when compared to the virgin, is unlikely to be the motherland since virgins are very seldom mothers. We could talk, of course, about the virgins who benevolently simulate motherhood via adoption, the children of whom are born into the simulation. Perhaps the virgin's simulation is the simulation of a myth, she is borrowing from the strength of the myth.

Could we veer into the realm of adoptive motherhood when we are imagining something as woven into our consciousness as the motherland? Absent father figures and absent mother figures have been the interest of many a thinker. What about the absent center of the motherland?

The modern consciousness is doomed to a world of single parenthood, the motherland, a maternal figure who is sometimes also infused with paternalism. Yet, what happens when the mother is not a mother, but a virgin?

The "virginal motherland," to employ a paradox for the sake of convenience and efficiency, wraps the orphaned subjects it adopts with an exotic tapestry woven by her very fingers. Sometimes the virgin's needles prick her skin, but it is the blood of her adoptive children that flows. Perhaps this is the simulation of blood ties.

It appears that the virgin weaves the tapestry into the bodies of her children with the finest but strongest golden threads, decorating them with the essence of her artistry. The mother-child bonds thus forged. To forge is to make; to forge is also to fake.

The snug tapestry ensures that the errant child, if he were to run away, would have to bite away each strand of the golden bonds. If he were to do that though, the tapestry would disintegrate for he is part of the tapestry itself.

The virgin would not weep because of the loss of one child though. This is not an age of sentimentality. Her fingers would deftly repair the tapestry and restore it to its former gradeur. Rather than wash away the bloodstains of the runaway, she uses them to fabricate beautiful motifs. The residues of the actual (the runaway, the virginity of the mother) make quality fabric for the virginal mother.

2. A Runaway's Scintillating Narrative

The terror! I was taken in.

I was to give. Altruism was woven into my flesh as it dissolved my skin. Anything less than the altruistic disavowal of myself in the name of patriotism, anything less, was seditious and tantamount to the high treason committed by an outlawed Rebel.

I was to gaze. I watched the scintilating star of the north, I watched benevolence charitably dancing like a crazy horse till I turned away in tears.

I was to serve. I was a maid abused by the stories of my bliss. If I was anything less that blissful, I had to be hanged like a drug abuser.

I was to say. As the mother feeds me with pasteurized and sterilized milk for my health, there was to be feedback to, I suppose, improve the milking process. When the political roulette aims itself at me, I was to talk, to debate, to contribute. It's part of my altruism, my mission.

I watch my own performance. And I laugh. If laughter were cutting, may it cut through the tapestries of travesties.


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