Revolt

There erupts a revolution in the hoary present
Muscles are in revolt, breaking out of the brain's hegemony. 
Each limb acts on its own command, 
muscular anarchy in their trail behind.
the disaffected brain reduced to impotent overseeing,
the commander becoming the coolie. 
Sometimes, rarely though, the brain is cheated.
In its newly negative command of inaction, 
sometimes a die-hard digital guerilla of the overturned order may,
cheats the brain, but, but, just for a while,
no more than savoring the nostalgic scent of an old brave world
where the brain was in absolute command and all was well with the word.
That brain’s hegemony has ended 
Each nation state of a muscle is out with a plan for
a unilateral declaration of independence.

Black Ground

The background is black, the revolt breaking out of black a ghetto of the cerebral empire. The origin of the empire is deeply ensconced in a corner of the brain, where few may have access, those who wrest access can never come back to tell the story of what lies beyond access. 

The black beauty which delivers dopamine in great grace is turning barren.  Unlike the hare with the horn or the baby born to the barren woman, the black box is beneficent, was once. Its esoteric production, the creative chemical, is in short supply suddenly.

Perhaps there is a capitalist conspiracy in the biotic market. Perhaps not. 

As the wisdom of the Vedas goes, ask the one presiding over the heaven above knows.

Perhaps he knows not. Pray, who knows!   

The black bob hidden in the capacious cavern of the brain.

is drained away, opening an interminable spell of stillness, movement, motion, that is vital to life, being critically blocked. Creators of the mysterious blockade laugh in their invisible but very real sleeves. The unfolding rebellion of the muscles is indeed fun! The motion, indeed, the commotion, of the world is fun to the monsters of immobility. 

Movement

Movement. That’s it. Movement. Life begins with it, courses through it, and ends with it. Blocking movement, twisting it, is the trick of the mischievous ‘nigger’ in the brain. Every muscle, from eyelids to lips to colon flies around as a free floater. The body network is in disarray. Each part, subpart, moves or mires deep into the abyss of space-time with no one in command, the brain knocked out of its God-given field of play.

It is like stage fear.

You go to address a stage; you are hoisted on an unusual mission. You sense a stir in your innards. Your fingers mildly tremble. People like my dad are lucky to have tremulous fingers which can hold a spoon with not a drop spilling. Neeli was the first person I saw struggling with shaking palsy. On the first day of the harvest, Neeli would go round the soaked fields early morning, equipped with a wicker basket full of flowers of myriad hues. Some may, by force of tradition, give her some blessed money. Some will look away to avoid being face to face with the crumbling walls of the mind.  Neeli’s tremors, she perhaps assumed, were transient, 

In the beginning was not the word; in the beginning was bradykinesia. Pundits use that weird word to represent something vastly less intimidating. Bradykinesia is something we are so familiar with, going slowly, stepping out of pace, doing the day after what may well be done today. Heart specialists tell their patients what trade union leaders exhort their worker clients: GO SLOW.

That is the essence of Parkinsonism. Like the bard said, doing everything late is your debacle. When I felt I was slower and slower in composing words or linking them, I thought enough of my self-important media operations. Lo and behold, here I linger and love in the lap of bradykinesia. 

Cosmic Confluence

Slowly, very slowly, I plant my foot in a square of reality, and I get stuck, or it gets stuck. The foot is pulled down from below, the foot pulls up the earth. In a duel of opposite forces, the foot loses out. It becomes part of the earth, growing as a tree, an earth-born, a bhooruha, in a mind-boggling metamorphosis. Wriggling out of the earth’s grab is ever more difficult. Consider settling down in a chair, ornamental or procrustean. You may be a hundred cent success installing yourself in it but you take time rising, if at all, from it. No one likes to leave a chair. 

Neeli Finale

There was Parkinson’s Disease before Parkinson. There was shaking palsy before Neeli. In an inexorable time out, one who identified the condition and one who suffered it, the good old British apothecary and the indigent Malayali grain gatherer, have fused into each other. 

As I wind up these parables, there is an unstoppable drooling, all the waters of the world building up in my mouth, in what I dare call a cosmic confluence. Where do these eternal springs come from? Where do they go? No one knows. Perhaps he who presides over heaven may know. Perhaps he may not either.
 

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