My name is Adithan ... - Pretha : Prethan (Buried Copies and Written Men ... from the novel)
(Buried Copies and Written Men ... from the novel)

- Pretha : Prethan

my name is Adithan-
I guess I was born ten lakh years ago


I think the planets may have drifted away
from each other in the same way that determines the microelements of my being. What rays but infrared rays can recognize my dreams ? Anti-electron atoms are proof of my bonds with me. My passions turn all elements into cadences. My fractions combine in various ways to create the hues of space. It is my sexual imagination. I use space as my training ground just in case a component crosses the light-year distance between my nerve cells.
















I'm setting up


*

A friend of mine
wrote the worst poem in the world above and
cried drunkenly
I'm not a poet like him
but I'll write
He needs drugs
I need wretchedness
But both do Crying and judging
Ugly life
Love and hate Nothing
exists in its own right
Talk about pleasure Throw determinations down the toilet Destroy relationships Living is just living , let the sticks wipe away the lime in the urine cup of booty morals.









Nothing else—
I'll come from my wrecks
Psychotic Lament Record of Reality
My friend
will forget my room number
By then my great work
must explode from the edge of the work Excerpt : Three Labyrinth Returning to room First day I didn't light the lamp

I     sat on the windowsill I didn't smoke Looking at the shadow The manuscript got wet in the rain I woke up confused I was lost in inadequacy My friend will never come to see me He hates being in the room Writing my masterpiece I'm mentally ill My own shadow














Phenomenon like decay
The idea of ​​emptiness
Leaving my fractions in the armpit Good
I'm not going to write anymore
Let my friend write Let
my friend's friend
create image mandalas How many moments have I sat in my room burning manuscripts
to dig my grave
and recover my rot . * Excerpt   : The nurse who took care of me brought these torn pieces to my room in the four pattakam hospital I wept and kissed my scalp.






 









She went away crying herself
I record these mutilated copies
of my illusory magnum opus
. ****************************************************** **************** https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=573349376178724&id=100005110006875 Frame Frame




13 hrs ·

‎Wednesday, ‎June ‎15, ‎2016
Chopped Hands

First There Was Flesh (1991)- A drama-visual event. I wrote and created this in Tamil.

This is part of the theatrical event.

My friends who started talking about postmodernism that day did not accept that I wrote these lines as the one who started postmodernism.

Like friends who disapprove of what Dalit politics has become my existence today.

On that day, Malathi asked him to bring it to the scene without changing it.
It was on display and in print. Today I remembered it. Look guys!

In the Beginning There Was Flesh (1991)
Scene-3
(Sketches of Che Guevara on screen. Below sits a figure with head between legs. Voice from behind.)

I am to be punished.
I loved people.
Because my survival needs a meaning.
I loved everyone because I loved myself.
I perceived myself as other.
I couldn't keep calm.
History was brutal.
Kill, kill, kill.
Life is
destined for some bodies and death for others.
It is fundamental that all born bodies have the right to life and that no body has the right to exercise power, oppression or command over another body.
But when I thought about what was happening, I became restless.
The horror of history struck me.
I thought that anyone who is oppressed has every right to smash everything that oppresses him.
I dreamed that oppression and oppression should not work in any name or by any means.
I wondered what it would take for the bodies to move freely and unfettered.
I also got the same results as many people before me.
It is about dismantling oppressive institutions.
I chose violence.
Breaking, breaking is the need of the hour.
Violence was thrust upon me.
It is obvious how I broke the shackles that history had placed on me and how I became what I became.
I was made by history.
I chose the language for myself, the language for my body.
In reality, this is the bane of history.
The whole world will be surrounded by this misery like me.
I am guilty.
I broke the rules that defined my life.
I rejected the old meanings ascribed to my existence.
I will say something that many people want to say.
Every true revolutionary is driven by intense love…
My love, my pity is for all the people of this earth.
My disorganized sin is
a crime before the boundaries of history.
I am guilty.
I have to punish myself.
By destroying my body I can become a symbol of history.
Wherever the boundaries of the body are transgressed, wherever bodies move without the oppression of values, wherever it is realized
that all bodies belong to itself,
that we move in the movement of all bodies, I am born.
I arise as bodies everywhere.
This is a major crime in the face of a history of oppression.
I am the madman who has this long-distance dream, who has such a deep desire.
I deserve to be punished.
I apologize.
I cut off my hands.
(SAVE'S PORTRAIT FADES ON THE SCREEN- SOUNDS OF MANY HANDS WRINKLE. They fade back to SAVE's image, hands again, SOUNDS.)
DARKNESS.
Light again.
A male figure is bathed behind with his hands tied and beaten with a heavy rod. Blood splatters.