(or, on mediation)

He was spending his time in a village not far from the coast. In the house, there were several cats. An idyllic little place. The House made of stone, lots of flowers, bees, insects and other animals.

His morning coffee was interrupted by one of the cats, the oldest young one. Something came out dropping like a thing not used to make a noise as a consequence of the action of falling nonintently and inconspicuously. It was the body of a mouse that sounded like a very small, impossible sandbag. Mouse was dead and wet, from spending his last moments in the saliva. Presumably, it was a gift for him.

We start from the lie. So, where does that lie come from? From the mouth of the cat. No words of death and, more importantly, dying, just a gesture. I don’t know what to do with the dying part, certainly cat doesn’t. So, we both pretend.

The other cats came by the dead, and with a swift interrogation of the paw they all concluded that it wasn’t a thing of their interest.

And there we come to the question at hand: what is the thing of one’s interest? It is the mediator in our relationships. But then, the bigger question arises: what is the mediator between cat and mouse?

He was stunned by the flat linearity between the idyllic and the horrific. There wasn’t a special place reserved for the horror. It was in the idyll, it was a part of it, it was a simple moment of it.

The next day, other cat came with the bird in its mouth. It was still alive and struggling. He took it from the cat, thought that he came at the right time to its rescue. With the expression of utmost hardship, the one the actor is thought to evade for it looks a bit too much, not believable, with the expression of agony that prevailed the fear by far, it relaxed its neck, like, it’s time to die. Agony is ecstasy, dying is the part only for the bystanders. There was accumulating blood in his hand, probably from a penetrating wound. And then, like always with the dead, when the dying is done, even the expression of agony loses its appeal. The only one thing we might be left with is sadness, which is as stupid as happiness.

There is no window to the other side of meaning. Horror is just a moment on the surface of the mundane. What we do do, is skip that moment when we relate to the other. So, the moment becomes the mediator. Horror is the universal mediator. We don’t mention it, but a gesture appears that opens that window that is nothing but an empty frame placed on the surface where the horror is. The window is the frame for the moment of horror. And the gesture is our acknowledgment that there is an image of the otherworldliness there, in here with us, in the same frame in which we are, for presumably other sight that we abstract for God. But what if our world is the same frame of horror which God skips over with an empty gesture of its own? The mundane existence of us all is brutally interrupted by the happening of one’s agony towards the conclusion of one’s time- being the being that, at least, exploits that form we call upon as the time. The god is the form that can enframe that moment of ultimate contradiction and then accept it as nothing. Just gently look over it. But not me! Not the subject! I can not not look at it without falling into it. Linearity of time breaks from horizontal into vertical. And I know, for a fact, that no vertical, no debt, nothing but the surface of this is there. But, I still fall. I fall by the means of coming back again and again into the diameter of that frame, to try to understand the infinity of its horizon. The frame is just an infinitely unreachable horizon. Horror is its own world and wherever I am in time I can come back to it, into it. There is no window, just a simple geometry of the frame, and there is no depth, but the illusion created by the possibility of framing- of using the form the geometry tells of the space. I don’t fall into, I get stuck to the moment in the frame. The stuckness and repetition of it reads as debt, by the very form of god that is time and space in practice. The possibility of repetition is what gives debt to a surface. Something in time that negates it so vigorously, that can only be consumed as its stoppage, the breakdown of the one form that goes with the other, of space, so that it breaks it, opens it to the illusion of dimension. For every illusion, there is the gaze needed to see it, as it is, as an illusion. Then, and only then it becomes reality. No reality without the eye. The reality of this illusion, the one of debt, the window, needs the eye that gets created only by the event of horror that breaks the consistent illusion of time into the moment of its disappearance for the one appearance that testifies the end of it, for it. The bird appeared as something that dies, that is finding its breakdown of the form of time. While it happens in our space, and I am certain that the bird is aware that we are still in the same one space, the bird shows fright for the loss of them all. The pain is the thing that makes it relatable to this surface of ours. And only the pain. The pain, as the frame, remains the only sensible thing of the horror opened by the loss of forms without whom we are incapable of skipping over it, by the pretense that is the reality but doesn’t make it more real. To the contrary, makes it mundanely bearable and solid flat. There are no windows, only eyes that can see through the frames. And the frame is wherever the horror returns the gaze.

And that is the lie we need. We need the cat having the god’s view, just skipping over the moment of agony, ironically, in its very own time-space frame. It is almost like a weirdly obscene ontological politeness that is the truth of our existence. We all saw it, now let’s move on.

But what about those who can not not look through that window? Who can not not look with that gaze of madness? For whom the pain is not enough. Who wants to be in the world of pain? Who wants me to die prematurely, and are in lack of suicide? For the surface to remain surface, consistently flat and firm, the windows that do not exist have to remain shut. That bird shut its window in his hand. Yet opened his eye for the impossible. Horror is the notion for it.

Still, the question remains, what is between the bird and the cat? If there is no me to look at it, who suffers? Someone has to be, to be not able to bear it. Maybe God suffers, but he is never there. That suffering is enjoyed in the other surface and between cat and mouse there is no space left for the one to enjoy their ordeal. If there were one, their predator-prey relationship wouldn’t be possible. The consumption would become the consumption of the relationship and not one another. The consumption, the horror would become the myth and reality would be announced as the thing with sudden accidental breakthroughs of horror. While the horror would be the precious thing of fantasy.

The horror of the surface mediated everything, for the real that is reality of the other surface. We call it depth. But the depth is just a matter of the zooming capacity of the eye.

Second part

Leopard carries the kill in its mouth. Elegant, content step. Looking almost like planning a dinner for two. In its mouth is a monkey, head hanging by the neck in a peaceful aftermath of the presupposed agony. The body is hanging from the mouth like a string of flesh where once was a being. On the side of the anxiety-released body, there are two wide-opened monitors. Two eyes staring at the paradox. The baby monkey keeps on hanging to the body of the released mother. The leopard still nonchalantly walking. The baby eyes swinging on that pendulum of inertia. It’s alive. Or, is it

Predator as the first phallic functioner. Take what you need, and for that instance of pleasure life will not be suffering. There is a baby hanging there, though. What mediates between the leopard and the monkey hanging dead are the wide-opened eyes with no one to look back. I looked back, but I might as well be the God itself. Baby holding to the dead saw for the first time the world. You only see the world when you hang onto the dead. And what it saw is the reality with no sinkhole of the gaze to create an illusion of depth. It was hanging onto one. In a world where there is an explanation for everything, nobody can answer the question those eyes don’t know how to ask, but somehow understand that there is no one listening.

Part three

Pain is an observable thing. And she died at the peak of it. Just imagine, feeling pain at the utmost limit and finding release in the collapse into death. Ontological orgasm. She said, the last sentence was:” Mother, help me!” And then, she died. She didn’t say, mom. She said mother.

And then, her mother told that story, and her last sentence, the story’s, was:” Who will survive this?” The story was also looking wide-eyed. And the mother was left hanging on the corpse of her daughter.

The last part

The animal is a creature on the fringe of the social edifice.

I can be every human by looking with its, human, eyes.

In every human I see myself looking. Looking, not myself, because myself is as any other self, just looking.

Then I see an animal looking, and I see myself looking, again.

Looking is all the same.

I can be an animal.

Killing is discriminatory and it shouldn’t be.

Nothing that looks should be killed.

If it is killed by the one who looks, the same, it is the collapse of reason.

Words are the limit and the hazard is irreparable.

Killing is not an option while dying is.

Fully take on the suffering, because there is no window.

Leopard is looking with two wide opened questions.

The end is near, but not quite yet there.

The end hangs swinging in the jaw of a nonchalant leopard.

There is no window. The death stays here only the looking intensifies.

“I think I am dying”, he said it, and he was right.

For whom is such knowledge an acknowledgment?

It’s not a statement, it’s the question.

The two eyes stated the immanence of the state of things that the

looking continues even on the hanging body.

And the baby was becoming acutely aware of such knowledge, which is fatum.

Memento mori was holding tight to his dead mother, and it was in the body of a child.

There is no window, just occasional memento moris walking by, and it has the shape of an animal.

I can cope with death, it’s just next to me, but I don’t know what to do with not looking.

Where once was looking, now it’s not looking, and they are the same.

There is no window for death to go through. Both the dead and the looking reside.