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norwegian class

a norwegian class just ended
and out came forty different languages
small clusters of people
partaking in the riches
and the revelry
of an oil empire
that appears to be
based on welfare.

forty different histories came out of
this room, forty geographies
a caricature in real life
of zabaan sambhalke

forty rivers on faraway continents
hundreds of different trees
various relationships of months and seasons
many maps of rolling the tongue
around the mouth -
emerged to partake in
an oil empire.

in my university
i repeat:
knowledge production should be local
geographical determinism is inaccurate
communicating personal truths in L3 is hard

and when i sit trying to reassemble identity
and comfort
based on language and geolocation
i am lost.

unable to reconcile what is
upbringing
and what brought me up?
writing and rewriting
a useless autobiography
recompiling languages
i might one day
forget.

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लाल वस्तू

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angry

my grandmother used to spot in us a hereditary anger the chest learning to well up blood learning to leap and breath learning to crawl foreheads burning with heat of little children the attempt of anger to become disgusting raging energy that will occupy every living stream. nobody wants to hold an angry person rage drunk, getting bigger and bigger until other people are invisible like ants and you can dissolve them in your hot blood and things around you break and shatter at this point she would hold. a violent hand shaking her away Ya I remember my grandmother used to spot it in us as children already And hold our hand "until you get over your rage I will not let go of your hand"  hold VERY TIGHTLY "I will not leave your hand until you learn how you should calm down" i would fail despite that gesture  to understand what was happening and i could not receive love at that time because i have so much anger But the act she is doing is still that of HOLDING
“ this is the age of rampant computing and of quantitative mania and of  search algorithms running on GPUs looking for a person shaped piece missing dead perhaps? but with a digital trace. leave it to the hypertext of imagination ”