Tag Archives: Vishnu

Angel | Ma: The Autobiography of Binary Stars

10 Oct
The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor

The Autobiography of Binary Stars | Neil de la Flor

“The more we know about our universe, the more difficult it becomes to believe in determinism.” (Ilya Prigogine)

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars ends in green. Sometimes their story ends in red. Sometimes the story never ends and sometimes their story becomes an addiction without substance or matter.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is governed by the laws of physics—quantum or otherwise—and is predetermined and fixed by a universal constant that is neither universal nor constant.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is a story written half-asleep beneath the same stars that haunt the blue moon while one star mumbles some mumbo jumbo to the other with their backs against a wall marked with the names of deities—Vishnu, Krishna, Christ. Even though Christ is not a deity, logic doesn’t matter in the vacuum of a thermodynamic relationship.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars begins beneath two disco balls orbiting one another. (A stormtrooper stands on the north pole of the largest star. ) Sometimes their story is illuminated by green or red or blue light and sometimes their story is illuminated by background radiation that stores the history of the universe in every ionized particle that enters their bodies.

I was the mirrorball on the left. He was the one on the right. In the middle, an army of wingless angels said nothing that wasn’t already clear. This was their way of telling me, “this is up to you”.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars exists in a space governed by the laws of angels and sometimes these laws breach the outer limits of reason and hope, patience and providence—and flies in the face of prayers and promises.

Sometimes the relationship between binary stars is a boomerang unaware that it is a boomerang. Sometimes the relationship is unaware of the boom and anger that fills the void between what was and what was wanted even when the void continues to give it all for just another moment in the arms of a wingless angel.

This is the memory of one star bound to another. This is the memory of a language that never existed. This is the memory of two imaginary numbers—11 and 22—that equaled catastrophe, not genius. This is the universe at left and right angles. From above and below. Beyond and between. This is a photon and phosphorescence and the cosmic power of the electromagnetic spectrum. This is discordance and dissonance. This is (or was) an accretion disk around a black hole at the center of a manufactured galaxy.

This is the real autobiography of binary stars which means this is (or was) real, yet determined to be de-iced and deactivated. This is one star’s stand against the theory of dissipative structures while the structure itself dissipates like sandcastles do when built too close to shore. This is one star’s deranged child disturbing a flock of insane seagulls on a beach that washes away or disappears or disperses his (or his) tiny footprints (discreetly) over time.

Sometimes the autobiography of binary stars is bound and subjugated to the impossibility of escaping gravity and hope. Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes the stars find their present selves wrapped up in a past of their own comfortable invention standing on tiptoes in a graveyard beneath an impenetrable sky oblivious to the sloppy writing on the wall.

This is an autobiography that ends with old friends sitting on a rocking chair on opposing sides of the galaxy looking for a light in the dark that’s just a photon reflected in eyes of angels.


12 Mar

God Vishnu with Lakshmi and... | 11th Century | Art Institute of Chicago

Somewhere between Paris Hilton and the Kardashians, Lakshmi swims in an uncanny river of Covergirl and Maybelline. Between the Western Station and O’Hare Airport, Laskshmi pulls eyeliner out of her vintage fanny pack and draws a unicorn between passengers who sleep between the nightmare of the American dream and Disneylandia. Between Lady Gaga and Lady Di, Lakshmi throws stones. Between acts of beauty and acts of courage, Lakshmi winks with her insanely big brown eyes. Between the Gilded Age and the Epic of Gilgamesh, Lakshmi unravels the mystery of junkies and junk food. Between Tablet I and Tablet XII, Lakshmi scribbles a mini epic staring her brothers Ganesha and Karthikeya as lovers reaching their hands out toward each other because they don’t want to waste the life Vishnu gave them. Lakshmi laughs like an idiot because she is not the carefree Jain Goddess of Beauty and Make Believe. Not a coward or schlep born out of frustration and chaos. Not a stone tablet or statue of art. Not a chance.

Between then and now, Lakshmi reasons with seals and pepper-sprays for peace and quiet beneath the aurora borealis and Aurora, Illinois. Between the two poles, Lakshmi raises her mighty magnet hands against the impenetrable night to attract the birth light concealed in the shapes of shadows. Between the Blood of Bashar al-Assad and the Panjwaii District, Lakshmi fails to distinguish saints from sinners. Devas from asuras. Machine gun from washing machine. Indian from Indian.

Lakshmi sings for women to spin their halos around and around and around. She challenges them to sing happy as rain as they pray for the ascension of fossils and fools. She challenges them to unfree themselves from the safety mat of yoga and farmers markets. Between the stun gun and the crowbar, Lakshmi weeps for Rama and Krishna. For quantum physics and quantum love. For the murdered civilians and the servicemen who killed them. For Santa Claus and his army of slaves. For light and for courage. For generosity and for providence. For consorts and avatars.

Between Monday and Friday, Lakshmi weeps for the atoms of sand that layer the desert and for Michael Jackson’s glove. Between the piano and bar, Lakshmi belly dances with a pink elephant and crotchety owl entourage. In her glamorous pink sari, Lakshmi hums oṃ śrīṃ hrīṃ klīṃ tribhuvana mahālakṣmyai asmākam dāridrya nāśaya pracura dhana dehi dehi klīṃ hrīṃ śrīṃ oṃ. Again and again and again. Until flight 1557 lands in a blue hammock.


7 Mar

20120307-172507.jpgSomewhere between male and female the soul lives unstirred by the memory of childhood. Somewhere between the Destroyer of Obstacles and the Goddess of Fortune the soul lives in a state of constant hip hop guided by a white flashlight. Somewhere between now and now the soul lives possessed by the certainty that it is always in transition and will always live in between the present and the present. Somewhere between Terminal 2 and Terminal 3 the soul lives in a million humans who will pass through life in the third person. Somewhere between the Real Shiva and the Statue of Shiva on display at the Art Institute of Chicago the soul lives in every person. In between the clowns and grapefruits. In between the yellow bus driver and the happy waiter. In between the zoo and the opera house. Between life and death. The soul lives light as a father. Or feather.


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