The super-kaleidoscopic light-powered machinery of fate, so
bureaucratic and administrative, dispatches packet messengers which
exchange information in the violet void: all this takes place in the
great departments of matter and thought and filing, as human beings
are processed and delivered to their situations by an action akin to
that of a universal copy machine whining a rigidly timed traversal
across carefully lined barcode tracks. It ascends, descends, and re-
ascends, tracing endless stick-figure ‘U’s in the air.

Part of what he does in the type of writing exemplified in the
above paragraph is to try to find the right words for the images that
come to mind, but also for the proto-sounds and proto-tactilities. In
other words, he hears and/or feels some not-quite-discernible or not
not-quite-definable amorphous “itching,” but blunter, akin to that
feeling in between the acute scratchy superficiality of dry skin and the
deeper longing for forceful compression of an ache, that craves for a
massage which straddles that boundary, lending some of the
satisfaction of nails skating across wineskin – particularly in the
friction of a shirt against a back – but also goes a bit deeper than that
and scrunches into jampackedness the one to two inches underneath
the skin, being not so much about pressure per se as about the
crunching and twisting of laterally proximal nerve endings against each
other. It is a deliciously tantalizing reconnaissance for Pain’s
possible future arrival, but she never comes. That massage exerts
controlled pressure without collapsing into a vulgar, textureless
missile head of blunt force discomfort.

The massage dances light, horizontal and just slightly
irregular, rather than deep and steady and inward-vertical. It
generously receives into itself and churns together elements of frolic
and friction, but includes within their force slightly less superficial
layers of flesh sediment than would normally be the case with simple
scratching or caressing or even the more playful running of finger
tips down a back, down sides, down arms, thrilling in the delicious
nerve twitchings, which respond as they would to the running of an
insect upon their waterproof tent canopy, or to the nervous
trembling of the rabbit’s nose when the sunlit mote of dust lands and
coyly refuses to leave in peace some ridged fold of that moist
membrane—that is, with a delirious, hungry, desire-for-more and
desire-for-not-more, the latter desire being a basking-in-tension, a
basking-in-the-chasm-between-desire-and-satisfaction and in the
suddenly crisp air of greater awareness, the suddenly acute looking-
around-and-sniffings that such thrillingly irregular tinctures of pain

Now the proto-sounds and proto-tactilities have this quality
of desiring to be tickle-massaged, but instead of flesh one instead
tickles the air or frolics with the keyboard and forms a whole word or
set of words that holds in the sensitive way that fleeting swirl of light,
that granular discomfort, that excretes or expectorates it, that lays an
egg or otherwise abruptly manifests into shocking existence the
structure whose shadow had hiccoughed in the mind.

Such feelings thereby go from fraternal mixtures whose
possibilities blended and blurred in the shady altitudes, to textured,
shaped, defined and individuated fruit, albeit perhaps a little bruised
from the fall.

The work therefore is its delineation from the rich vaporous
profusion of sun-visored darkness, where incestuous realities deepen
and lighten in indecisive lattices beneath fluttering leaves, into the
early-digitization-never-perfected of words, where it seems to be
captured, but is not fully, for words cannot fully capture, words are
themselves fully capturable objects floating in their own amorphous
system, some vast fragile archipelago of interconnected plastic play
pieces of some toy all shivering on the water, meant to perform some
interesting or spectacular function, but with one upturning or
pressure could collapse, could ruin the interconnected colliding
cascade effect calibrated by an intent four-year-old and his father.

Akilesh Ayyar is a writer in Brooklyn. He is interested in how literature, philosophy, religion, and psychoanalysis can help him figure out just what it is that he’s been trying to figure out. He can be contacted at


2 Comment on “Dark Fruit, by Akilesh Ayyar

  1. Pingback: Words/Language/Non | The Non-Buddhist

  2. Pingback: "Dark Fruit" and "A Call to Engage with the Mystery" published at Lines of Flight - Sifting to the Truth

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