Amir Parsa: Prelude to the Manifestoes II
In the coming weeks, underfire will launch into its analyses, queries, interventions, polemics. Challenges and critiques. Retorts and rebukes. Participants will throw around words and expressions like these – without the quotation marks (which is the very downfall of their argument: keep the marks there!): “the West”, “the Islamic World”, “the Middle East”, and a whole parade of others. There will be plenty adjectivised versions of human entities, there will be acquiescence to dominant conceptual frameworks, there will be plenty of free marketing and advertising for a whole bunch of systems of belief or movements by continuous discussion of their pretty dismissable tenets and foundations. Landmasses and geographical bodies will bear the names given to them by their most recent conquerors, and folks will be “writing” with much evocation of the various rights and wrongs in/of nation states and systems.
I, prelude-man, in this my soliloquy, in the prelude not just to underfire but to the Manifestoes, would like nothing more than to give myself the right, I, Parsa The First, Parsa I, ushering in the Death of my Authorial Self and the Sacrificing of my Literature for the Purpose of the Clear Communication of Ideas, to just outlaw some these practices and lay down the laws, oh yes that would be sweet, lay down the Laws Governing the Discussions. That, though, is just not my style! And so in lieu of that, I want to share with all of you a totally stunning but real scene that I experienced a few months ago in what we would call a war zone.
Truly an unforgettable spectacle, an intervention of the most flabbergasting kind – the one that lets you not only not forget it, but lets you not go on without an examination of your practices, especially those that have to do with the use of words, and of writing in general. It was in a geographical region that shall go unnamed – it doesn’t really make any difference, as you’ll see. I did chance upon the scene as I was just snooping around, my freelance self. After the witnessing, I ran to my hidden abode and just put some notes down in a, well, notebook. I wrote it in the present tense, to capture its immediacy. I want to just relay those notes, without embellishment. Just to set the scene: this was a pretty much ruined part of town, ashes, burnt-out components of a whole variety of objects (and perhaps people), devastation, utter numbness on the part of anyone who would venture those ways. You could occasionally hear rockets, gunfire, rounds, somewhere out there, hopefully far from where you were. No downpour of bombs, not again, not yet. And so the quick venturing out, and then the quick venturing back. Armed conflict: its very presence, its traces, its din, its horror, its stench. I am not, forgetting that underfire is all about armed conflict. Again, this is a true story – and I urge all to ponder its many layers of meanings and challenges to any scriptoral practice.
Here we go, straight from the notebook:
“The fellow appears and beats his drum. A towncrier of sorts. Or playing the part. He announces the beginning of the new year. From this day forth, Year One has begun. And tomorrow too will be the first day of Year One, he cries. The crowd applauds. There is a small group, out in the periphery. The numbers rise as he goes on. He announces that the kings and the masters and the gods have been assassinated and that year one will begin every day. There will be no more dates. No more commemorations. No heroes, no parades, no monuments. The growing crowd in ecstasy shows its exuberance. Acculturation is over, he announces. Traditions too. Nations: no doubt! Illuminations: same. And interrogations: why not (and the revolution? We’ll see…) He must be an actor, I tell myself. A troupe, a theatrical group. Sewn out of the seeds of this very devastation. Who are they. Where were they hiding. Why now. No costumes, but his manner needs none. All is in his words. The crowd expresses its admiration. Its determination. The grand “vertige” of discovery. Applauding. Calm down, calm down, the towncrier demands, jokingly. The new era has been announced yes, but still, relax… There is a whole crowd now that has formed. In a wide and large semi-cricle, a make-shift central square, a plaza, borne of the destruction! He launches again: the new era begins and we follow the prophet of the new era, even though we don’t believe in prophets. Even our prophet does not believe in prophets. Our prophet does not even seek followers. Our prophet, in fact, is not a prophet, not just in his own country, but nowhere else either. He laughs. The crowd is getting impatient, on the verge of an explosion. Who is this prophet destroyer of all prophecies and all prophets. Who is this prophet who believes, and announces the first day of, the Year One, of this new era, here, at this dawn, in this public place. The towncrier all of a sudden puts down his drums, does a quick dance and with the voice of a showman, his face transformed into that of a joker, with the pose of a guitarist or of a rock-group, his fingers directed towards an imagined entrance of the great star: there he is, the hero of the new era, hold on to your seats, hold on everyone. The crowd, despite the pleadings of the towncrier, cannot hold its enthusiasm: the applause is deafening when finally the Poet – is it him, yes it is, ‘tis indeedy – a small desk on his back, papers under his arm and a quill in his mouth, comes forward, puts the desk down and asks the crowd for some silence. Please please, he insists, and demands, bringing up and down his arms, please: some silence! Strangely, all around us is also silent. There are no bombs, no rockets, no gunfire. This is, as many would say, totally wacko. As if there is some strange cosmic connection. As if this creature truly were some vanguard prophet. Who are the gods that can hear him. Which are the gods that have made the fire cease. Now, here… The crowd grants him his silence – deserved, after all. The poet disappears and appears again, holding a small stool that he pushes behind a table. Absolute silence of the crowd, of the scriptor, of the crier, of the whole public square. Thus is the new era launched… The spectacle. Thee new spectacle. More people are now walking to this make-shift public square, surrounded by ruin. All come to see the poet in the public square, on his stool, at his desk with his papers and his quill and his ink. Glory, at last! Victory! The final triumph – and eternal. The poet composing, writing: the spectacle of the public square. Every morning, we will attend. Every morning we will go. Finally: justice for all. Unimaginable liberty. The poet writing in the public square. The poet more that poet a new creator of world, creator of a universe. There he is now picking up his quill! There he his now plunging his quill into his inkwell! There he is approaching the quill to the white paper! There he is… oh no, no. He reconsiders, shakes his head, a mean grin on his ace… Deposits the quill again. Despair? Not yet. The crowd is patient… serene… tranquil… We have time, after all, we have time… Strangely, in this sudden oasis, as if nothing is around, as if no force could interrupt, intervene… Soon, the scriptor runs and takes his quill again and this time, quickly plunges into inkwell and applies the quill to the paper! O what a frenetic pace! O what energy! O what excitement! The crowd hypnotized holding its collective breath. Soon, the poet has gotten up, has taken a deep breath. A moment of repose… They applaud, he salutes them, they applaud again and he turns to each side and salutes and thanks again. Will he share. Will he read. Will he thunder his words. The crowd still… What I thought. A performance troupe. Actors. Who were they. How did this happen. The poet has already left the scene but the crowd, now scattering, cannot help but wonder what he had written. The great words of the poet of the public square. O the murmurs of the revolution, of the whispers of coming revolutions. But he had not shared. The spectacle of silence yes, but he had also written. What had he inked. What the hell had he written. Again, in a most bizarre twist, it’s as if the audience did not care. They had seen all they needed to see. All they needed to know. The poet as spectacle in the public square, surrounded by the remnants of bombs and ruins. Year one had come – why why… Maybe the poet had written the laws, that’s why, year one is launched: the poet is the voice, the poet shows the path, the poet gives the faith, that’s why, maybe, that it was the start of year one… O what a spectacle it was. The most glorious and unforgettable in the history of humanity. In the history of all the living beings of all times, but also, of all out-of-times, because time and history, even, had been abolished with this momentous event. This grand chant. This grand event. This grand silence! Of the clown without a circus. The mystic without a god. Destroyer of odes and prayers and sonnets and rubais, of the trace even, since he would create and abandon his work to the wind. The grand responder. And his magisterial response. The final overcoming. Overcoming of his own body of work even, and the assassination (and not suicide) of his self. It had to be: at this moment even. All abolished: discourses and events and rituals: all prophecies and prayers, and even poetics, all plenitude and all fragments: for there was left only this spectacle, this ritual, this prayer if one must have them: this canto, this silence…They had suddenly appeared and just as quickly had vanished. And now the crowd also was dispersing. And then, I, after the silence, after the spectacle, I also, would have to dart back, to the safety of the abode…”
There we go everyone. True story. Ponder it all… And let the proceedings begin…
> Amir Parsa
I, prelude-man, in this my soliloquy, in the prelude not just to underfire but to the Manifestoes, would like nothing more than to give myself the right, I, Parsa The First, Parsa I, ushering in the Death of my Authorial Self and the Sacrificing of my Literature for the Purpose of the Clear Communication of Ideas, to just outlaw some these practices and lay down the laws, oh yes that would be sweet, lay down the Laws Governing the Discussions. That, though, is just not my style! And so in lieu of that, I want to share with all of you a totally stunning but real scene that I experienced a few months ago in what we would call a war zone.
Truly an unforgettable spectacle, an intervention of the most flabbergasting kind – the one that lets you not only not forget it, but lets you not go on without an examination of your practices, especially those that have to do with the use of words, and of writing in general. It was in a geographical region that shall go unnamed – it doesn’t really make any difference, as you’ll see. I did chance upon the scene as I was just snooping around, my freelance self. After the witnessing, I ran to my hidden abode and just put some notes down in a, well, notebook. I wrote it in the present tense, to capture its immediacy. I want to just relay those notes, without embellishment. Just to set the scene: this was a pretty much ruined part of town, ashes, burnt-out components of a whole variety of objects (and perhaps people), devastation, utter numbness on the part of anyone who would venture those ways. You could occasionally hear rockets, gunfire, rounds, somewhere out there, hopefully far from where you were. No downpour of bombs, not again, not yet. And so the quick venturing out, and then the quick venturing back. Armed conflict: its very presence, its traces, its din, its horror, its stench. I am not, forgetting that underfire is all about armed conflict. Again, this is a true story – and I urge all to ponder its many layers of meanings and challenges to any scriptoral practice.
Here we go, straight from the notebook:
“The fellow appears and beats his drum. A towncrier of sorts. Or playing the part. He announces the beginning of the new year. From this day forth, Year One has begun. And tomorrow too will be the first day of Year One, he cries. The crowd applauds. There is a small group, out in the periphery. The numbers rise as he goes on. He announces that the kings and the masters and the gods have been assassinated and that year one will begin every day. There will be no more dates. No more commemorations. No heroes, no parades, no monuments. The growing crowd in ecstasy shows its exuberance. Acculturation is over, he announces. Traditions too. Nations: no doubt! Illuminations: same. And interrogations: why not (and the revolution? We’ll see…) He must be an actor, I tell myself. A troupe, a theatrical group. Sewn out of the seeds of this very devastation. Who are they. Where were they hiding. Why now. No costumes, but his manner needs none. All is in his words. The crowd expresses its admiration. Its determination. The grand “vertige” of discovery. Applauding. Calm down, calm down, the towncrier demands, jokingly. The new era has been announced yes, but still, relax… There is a whole crowd now that has formed. In a wide and large semi-cricle, a make-shift central square, a plaza, borne of the destruction! He launches again: the new era begins and we follow the prophet of the new era, even though we don’t believe in prophets. Even our prophet does not believe in prophets. Our prophet does not even seek followers. Our prophet, in fact, is not a prophet, not just in his own country, but nowhere else either. He laughs. The crowd is getting impatient, on the verge of an explosion. Who is this prophet destroyer of all prophecies and all prophets. Who is this prophet who believes, and announces the first day of, the Year One, of this new era, here, at this dawn, in this public place. The towncrier all of a sudden puts down his drums, does a quick dance and with the voice of a showman, his face transformed into that of a joker, with the pose of a guitarist or of a rock-group, his fingers directed towards an imagined entrance of the great star: there he is, the hero of the new era, hold on to your seats, hold on everyone. The crowd, despite the pleadings of the towncrier, cannot hold its enthusiasm: the applause is deafening when finally the Poet – is it him, yes it is, ‘tis indeedy – a small desk on his back, papers under his arm and a quill in his mouth, comes forward, puts the desk down and asks the crowd for some silence. Please please, he insists, and demands, bringing up and down his arms, please: some silence! Strangely, all around us is also silent. There are no bombs, no rockets, no gunfire. This is, as many would say, totally wacko. As if there is some strange cosmic connection. As if this creature truly were some vanguard prophet. Who are the gods that can hear him. Which are the gods that have made the fire cease. Now, here… The crowd grants him his silence – deserved, after all. The poet disappears and appears again, holding a small stool that he pushes behind a table. Absolute silence of the crowd, of the scriptor, of the crier, of the whole public square. Thus is the new era launched… The spectacle. Thee new spectacle. More people are now walking to this make-shift public square, surrounded by ruin. All come to see the poet in the public square, on his stool, at his desk with his papers and his quill and his ink. Glory, at last! Victory! The final triumph – and eternal. The poet composing, writing: the spectacle of the public square. Every morning, we will attend. Every morning we will go. Finally: justice for all. Unimaginable liberty. The poet writing in the public square. The poet more that poet a new creator of world, creator of a universe. There he is now picking up his quill! There he his now plunging his quill into his inkwell! There he is approaching the quill to the white paper! There he is… oh no, no. He reconsiders, shakes his head, a mean grin on his ace… Deposits the quill again. Despair? Not yet. The crowd is patient… serene… tranquil… We have time, after all, we have time… Strangely, in this sudden oasis, as if nothing is around, as if no force could interrupt, intervene… Soon, the scriptor runs and takes his quill again and this time, quickly plunges into inkwell and applies the quill to the paper! O what a frenetic pace! O what energy! O what excitement! The crowd hypnotized holding its collective breath. Soon, the poet has gotten up, has taken a deep breath. A moment of repose… They applaud, he salutes them, they applaud again and he turns to each side and salutes and thanks again. Will he share. Will he read. Will he thunder his words. The crowd still… What I thought. A performance troupe. Actors. Who were they. How did this happen. The poet has already left the scene but the crowd, now scattering, cannot help but wonder what he had written. The great words of the poet of the public square. O the murmurs of the revolution, of the whispers of coming revolutions. But he had not shared. The spectacle of silence yes, but he had also written. What had he inked. What the hell had he written. Again, in a most bizarre twist, it’s as if the audience did not care. They had seen all they needed to see. All they needed to know. The poet as spectacle in the public square, surrounded by the remnants of bombs and ruins. Year one had come – why why… Maybe the poet had written the laws, that’s why, year one is launched: the poet is the voice, the poet shows the path, the poet gives the faith, that’s why, maybe, that it was the start of year one… O what a spectacle it was. The most glorious and unforgettable in the history of humanity. In the history of all the living beings of all times, but also, of all out-of-times, because time and history, even, had been abolished with this momentous event. This grand chant. This grand event. This grand silence! Of the clown without a circus. The mystic without a god. Destroyer of odes and prayers and sonnets and rubais, of the trace even, since he would create and abandon his work to the wind. The grand responder. And his magisterial response. The final overcoming. Overcoming of his own body of work even, and the assassination (and not suicide) of his self. It had to be: at this moment even. All abolished: discourses and events and rituals: all prophecies and prayers, and even poetics, all plenitude and all fragments: for there was left only this spectacle, this ritual, this prayer if one must have them: this canto, this silence…They had suddenly appeared and just as quickly had vanished. And now the crowd also was dispersing. And then, I, after the silence, after the spectacle, I also, would have to dart back, to the safety of the abode…”
There we go everyone. True story. Ponder it all… And let the proceedings begin…
> Amir Parsa