I woke up from an astonishing dream, one that I had in a little bone box called home, a dream of life and death and sex, a dream of taboos and music, rape and love and sorrow and pain and the sea and literary devices and metatext that only the well-read and the weathered travellers through humanity’s books and ideas would fully grasp… but then again, what do I fully grasp? Nothing. It’s all but a blur… I can’t even remember it. I remember bits and pieces, because this dream, just like life, grew with me and I didn’t sit in the mirror of Facebook and Instagram to watch it develop and grow into the monster that it was meant to become. I only felt the last few seconds, the clash, the fight, the rebellion inside me – Architects – the veil that’s been lifted, the mask that fell, Jung, Freud, Adler, the Holy Trinity, the magic disappeared and I am no longer weak because I have true strength and inner beauty, and I believe now, I believe I have a sense of purpose. I think I’m remembering the dream…
I’m looking out the window and trying my best to recover from this dream’s shock. How many continents has this dream made me wander on until I realised my true calling? The last few seconds of the dream, probably narrowed down to just a tiny millisecond in my brain, macro versus micro universes, were the ones that revived me and the only ones that made sense. The rest was just a dream. The final bit I remember, and that’s all that matters.
I need to find that girl…
So I got out of bed, opened my laptop and started stalking the shit out of her ghost-ship Facebook account so I can find traces of her real self. I need to stop her from committing suicide…
At first I didn’t listen. Walk what off?! Only thing can compel me to do anything is if I ask it of myself. Some sounds like a leaking faucet came from the strappory. I was surrounded by them, but I ignored them. Felt cold, but it was only my mind that gave me that impression. I headed out, alleyed by the monks, who were waving goodbye to me. The woods were dark, and chances were it was just me and the forest. I had my machine that beeped once if no-one was within 10 miles from me. Luckily it did that. If one person was around, human or animal, it made a white flash. Two entities was two blue flashes, and when it was over 100 that means fast red pulsar emissions.
I wandered through the woods, sometimes getting a grip after 10 minutes of scratching my nail into a dark wist tree. Felt I could alert something, looked at the machine, nothing… man, it’s dark, and I can hear my breath in the forest’s living room. The stars were my ceiling. Only saw them up there. The rest was like walking through the daylight of my memory. A fly buzzed caught in something. Before the sun formed it must have been the same. 100 million years of darkness. Just the stars. I made sure not to pour all the antifreeze screen wash on the window, but being it dark, the veil that lifted helped see a different sort of darkness, a cleared one, sapped with Joyce Rejoyce Anderson and a mixed bag of information that nevertheless came from us being -+
Your tea’s ready. I made efforts to talk normally with others. I can only ramble to myself. Hymie Tea, the best there is. It’s actually the water I used to boil the chicken. It’ll cure you right up. Jesus, it tastes so sweet! You’re chewing watermelon bubblegum, that’s why. I forgot about that. They didn’t have anything with mint. They’re closing down too. Drink it! One hit in the gut and you Kurt my Vonnegut, Junior!
I’ve never read the Dada, but why were they so keen on losing touch with the hard stuff, reasoning, logic, and kindle one’s irrationality? Their people wrote the Torah, after all, their people were silent and harsh, few-worded, not silent, because one word meant 20 different things and saying the wrong word at the wrong time meant causing a lot of confusion. I think I know what you mean.
Capture this, Captain Ascension! Christo versus Arizona wasn’t meant for the rational. There’s a book in one sentence. There’s a book read only by the ones whom the lack of rigour didn’t bother. Rigour is rigor mortis. Rigor mortis, or postmodern rigidity. Did you think there’s not architecture in a house? Any house has architecture. You left a gum on the side of the armchair, it fossilised into something you in the future. A little brain that lay there with the crockery of your teeth and the warmth of your mouth in it. Look at it! Drink it!
Hey, sometimes it makes sense, sometimes it doesn’t. Point is, progression is a must. Everything progresses. Time bestows favors upon the healthy, the sick, the blind, the wary, the silent, the rapist, the rapper the makeup artist. What do all of these have in common? Well, they all perceive time, acknowledge its existence. Like someone they know. They know him. Few other animals know time. Some know seasons, some just live. Ask a dog what day it is, they don’t know. How old are you? When did you last visit an allegoric writer, like Italo Calvino?
About the Jews, there’s a way certain people called them in certain countries that was neither offensive, nor affensive: “jidan”, for once, in Romanian; “çifut” in Albanian; “jevrejin” in Bosnian. Why did people give other people so much attention? A story of success loath. They were condescending the high-flier, hatin’ on the brotha cuz he made it.
Look, man, I ain’t gonna lie to you, a bit of warmth came and a fly laid its eggs inside, so now I can ignore the offspring and let the spiders grow bigger with ’em, or kill the spiders and the baby flies altogether, abort them, so to say. But what you’re not going to be sensing is bug spray. I mean, this is bug spray, but you can’t be sensing it, cuz it says here on the bottle, odourless. That’s how I’d like to die. Odourless cans of human spray emptied out in a room where I’ll just fall asleep. Horse your holders!
It looks ike literature, right? Who the fuck is the eternal Jew? Greedy kike?! Greed is only majorly reprehensible when you’re stealing or making a vast society of people sad or unhappy without them interacting with you in any way. Anything drooped over the outskirts of that simply doesn’t concern you. Let a person live its own death. You can go out greedy, you can grow up needy, it’s one or the other.
How, you would ask, would such endearing words appear in an online dictionary? Well, study the context. Of course some are movie quotes and other are famous lines from a book or from your very own Winston Churchill.
Cats deal with our high levels of crazy every day. You can jump from around the corner to scare them, try and play with them, stare them in the eyes or go overboard with petting them, you’re still a wacko to them. Especially when you plug in a wire into a hole and make sounds come from your stick. They don’t know anything about a guitar, so that’s what their minds have to deal with. You make a flame come out a tiny hole by pressing on a button, and on the other side it’s a button that makes light come out. It doesn’t comprendo “lighter” or “light”. We hunt each other for things people we’ve never knew done to a poor chap we call a victim. Isn’t that a mercenary? No, it’s a detective! Or it could be an actor following a script. Explain that to them!
Dogs have freedom of speech, as in all their tied up life they sit with a noose around their neck and yell at everyone passing by, other dogs, humans, cats, mice, the wind, moon, telling them all they want them to know, all their thoughts, all their angers, fears, transposed in just a few grimaces and a howl. Are they mentally ok? I guess they are. There’re no indication they might be mad…
Let it crystallise, let it sink in.
“What the fuck are you talking about?!”, I told him, directing my open-palm hand towards him aggressively. <<If countries were like a species and we’d accept we are all divided, the Muslim inhabited countries are our backward retarded cousins we want to hide from the world. It’s shameful that everybody on the face of the planet think the same thing, but fear and political correctness forces us to shut up. No wonder there are so many jokes about “an Arab walks in a bar”, “an Arab, a Christian and a Jew”, “an Arab on a camel”>>, the guy, at this point, after spouting a “You’re an idiot” some two minutes behind has fallen into a deep silence. It’s like doors, empire doors were opening up at his feet, worlds of possibility. “Son, it’s on everyone’s mind. America has even found their scapegoat, it’s the Mexicans. Fuck no, it’s not the Mexicans, they’re just the smaller country with no military power we can pin the need for extra security on. They’re building a wall for the Muslim. Americans hate them. Deeply. There is no such thing as an American woman married to a Muslim. Only if he has money, man, that’s it.” I knew I was bullshitting, but it was getting to him. To convince a man of something with false information, what a treat! “Bro, the only way to be happy is to go home. Here you can only lie to yourself, tell yourself a pretty story about diversity and multiculturalism. We hate those words, we hate you’re here, we wished you made your own discos and tea bars and halal restaurants somewhere far from the main cities”. Last sentence went so low I was almost whispering it to him, close and personal. Man let his shoulders fall down and got up from the bench. “Fuck London”, he said, nothing Arabic in that perfect British accent.
What palinoptic visions! It hailed that night and I was alone with this 16 year old lesbian, we were both 16, possibly a virgin, far in a deserted field, once filled with crop, now the stretch of land behind the cemetery, past the willows, past the heroes, past the commoners, past the pastors and the priests, and past those dead at birth, unbaptized or suicide cases. It was summer and we didn’t have a care in the world. She was stuck in her small village of a town and I, because I didn’t like my small village of a town, went to hers. I had the extra landscape points, I guess, but spiritually we were both content. Since daybreak they announced they would cut the water, so we had to simply mix cola with soluble coffee and take that fizzy bomb to the road. We met at 9 after “hey, fucking city has no water; pretty medieval of you guys!”-ing, so to speak, messaged back and forth on those tiny screen Nokia 1300 or Sony Ericsson T610, whatever Andrea had, and went to this place I’ve always imagined was a huge lake. She didn’t know it, and we had to walk a ton to get to it. Exit the village, past the outskirt, where busses coming from the neighbouring villages used to raise the dust and make the street look ancient and uncivil. We had an adaptor for a double jack on her phone so we could both listen to the same song. Those old 2004 phones didn’t have storing memory, so we listened to the radio, my hand around her waist, holding her close because the earplugs were too short, her smiling, looking like a million bucks, blonde, pink lips, all natural fluorescent beauty, we felt we were walking on the sand in Newport Beach, no shoes, like an old Banderas movie, went down a small slope, past the railway tracks, showed her how to make tiny metal swords by putting nails on the tracks, picked them up after the train passed, “Man, they really look like swords”, “Yeah they do, Wo-Man”, our own little inside joke, “if a man is a mæn, then why is it a woo-muhn?!”, hell if I knew why she was so appealing to me, we barely spoke, we were just laughter and giggles, random moments of eyeballing and some hand touching, never has she let me kiss her, pretexting we’re friends and that would ruin what we had, what a normal way to think of it, before the two extremes “friend-zoned” and “friends-with-benefits” ever existed, before women had more than one friend with benefits, because now fwb is just an excuse for sleeping with anyone and making everybody your friend, but shit, what am I saying, we never even kissed, after two consecutive summers of just hugging, meeting 5 times a week, dating, basically, two three month summers with no school from the 15th of June to the 15th of September, what a happy time it was, we saw a hill, a large hill that cars barely climbed, everything looked deserted here either way, a suburb of the village, a sub-village, filled with Romanian peasants, unlike the westerners, here they actually took pride in that word, “hell yeah I’m a peasant”, it was like bragging you’re a citizen or feeling proud you’re born and bread there, these people would invite you in if you told them you’re travelling, they still had hitchhikers stopping by, asking for directions, a cup of water, because there were no stores, everybody grew their own and sold what little extra they had at the flea market on Sunday morning, no shop, every household needed to grow pigs, chicken, some really lucky to be geographically privileged to have a pond in their back garden grew fish and had could serve the hitchhikers, they’d say, they’d serve them with, “here, have some roe salad on rye, traveller, have a seat, we don’t have no TV, so we get the news awfully late”, “well, madam, we’re actually from more to the South”, I look at Andrea and secretly blink to her, “and down there we had this guitarist that asked for a $100 admission fee to see him play guitar for 6 minutes”, “you implying you’re rich down south? son?”, “no, ma’am, it’s just we’re mad, that’s what we are; also, we’ve got a lot more electricity in towns, banners, all sorts of light bulbs slammed on pharmacy fronts, city hall has go…”, “oh, we don’t have a pharmacy yet; wonder what that is like; we have an old lady that was once the town midwife, she knows all these old hag cures, we boil th…” we left in ten minutes, feeling we’ve went 200 years in the past, that roe salad on rye was wonderful, wasn’t it?, but we still had a lot to climb, past this hill and to the left was the endless sea, I told her, I was still half-minded about the truth of that assertion, geography not being my strong point, she didn’t hold my hand anymore, I didn’t knew she was a lesbian, all I knew was that she had a boyfriend two years ago, when she was 14, still talked to him now and then, you know how it is, then when the hill ended after a 40 minute ascension, on the left there was the docks of this wonderful far stretched lake, but the water had drained, 20 feet deep, you could die jumping in, like a massive giant took a hand of dirt out of the ground, but no water, you could still see fish on the bottom of the lake, and from afar it would seem they were alive, weirdly alive, like the water just got sucked into the earth, I wanted us to turn that place into a spot in our memory, maybe a place we’d return when we were older and married, but she was dead afraid of the “vanished lake”, talked about ghost stories, how her grandma once disappeared for a full week, they put posters around town, and mind you, in 2000 you needed to find a relative with a car to drive you to the bigger city, 320 km away, to find a xerox shop, where you paid heavy money for such a technology like printing, and after a week she just strolled back, senile, talking gibberish, even though before she was a rational woman, “where were you, who fed you all this time, you smell of fresh-cleaned clothes, you smell of Tide”, back then women in villages used to wash their clothes with lye, giving them a pungent odour that resembled nothing floral, nothing “fresh”, “so where was she, if the supernatural doesn’t exist?”, “I honestly think you need more information; there must be some old man who always had a crush on her and waited for 60 years for her to become senile and lured her to his house, and finally, finally, after all that stalking, craving, desiring, aspiring, observing, longing, after all that regret, seeing her kids grow old and her gran-kids become teens, he decided to take her in and trick her into believing she’s his wife, no sex or anything, the man just wanted to give her a bath, clean her clothes with the proper detergent the West bestowed onto him and show her the life she missed by marrying your grandfather”, “oh, quit it, you’re despicable!”, laughing, still scared, I can tell, “he brought her flowers every day, freshly picked, coffee with one lump of sugar and a biscuit in bed, at night they would take turns at holding the remote, gimme it, she’d say, no way, you had it, oh, don’t be silly, I never had it!!!, a mosquito on the wall, we should get a cat to catch it, now whoever heard of such a preposterous thing!, put a mosquito pill in the socket, or better yet, use a knife and burn the mosquito pill, but wouldn’t that blow a lot of toxic smoke in the house, we’ll air out the room with the lights off afterwards, ok? yeah, but we have to turn the TV off too, we will, it’s getting dark and you know I hate electricity, the room was old and modestly furnished, a terracotta heating system in the wall, 5 feet long, then the door to the kitchen, which was in the middle of the house, all the rooms gave way to the kitchen, ventilation was this window that oversaw a 5×6 alley that went from one dormitory to the garage, alley completely dark, being surrounded by grey wall on all four sides, you could literally park your car next to where you sleep, and if someone wanted to steal it from the garage or from the inner alley you would see the light be turned on”, “fuck, when you tell a story you catapult me somewhere, only thing is, the descent never stops, it’s like I’m flying on my way down on a pillow of some sort”, “it’s raining through their window but they don’t care, they’re in their 80s and it’s their way of feeling adrenaline, they don’t commit gruesome suicide, they don’t drop electronics in the bathtub or throw themselves in front of the train, they turn off the TV, open wide a tall window, like those windows you see in museums, and watch the curtain get blown inside by the gust of wind and the grey rain, thinking that if they get electrocuted they’d at least die together, granny with her head on her never-to-be husband’s chest, entwining fingers with her left and his right hand, then after a week of not dying he sends her home, all washed and smelling like a flower, brain and soul, biscuit crumbs from today’s coffee in her teeth”, “I don’t know, that’s such a heavy secret to keep for an 80 year old man, and, come to think about it, how could anyone bear the burden of loving someone for 60 years, it would be like losing your life, like wasting it”, “maybe he did”, “or maybe it wouldn’t be wasted because he got his 15 minutes of fame”, “where’s our 15 minutes?”, “Constantin, Costa, don’t be angry, but there’s something I need to tell you…”, “whisper it to me”, “it’s not a joke idiot, I don’t love you, I simply like girls”, “really? but you had a boyfriend back in the day”, “back in the two years ago, yeah, that’s when I realised I like girls, well, A girl”, “A girl?”, “her name is Andrea, just like mine”, “fuck, now I know you’re not lying”, “I wouldn’t lie, I know it’s hard rejecting you, again and again and again, but I wouldn’t reject you by lying about something like this”, “look, don’t tell me about Other Andrea, I don’t wanna know”, “Costa, I love you…”, “you said you didn… I love you too, Wo-Man”, I stressed on the “woo” just then, she was still scared, saying that it feels like we’re at the end of the world there, staring at the crater a meteorite left after destroying our species, I gotta give ‘er that, it didn’t look like the sea, and that’s how I pitched it, we moved back to town, this ex-Jewish community where in one night in June, 1940, before Romania entering the Second World War, before us allying with the Germans, a regiment of patriotic soldiers returning by foot from North, Basarabia, a beautiful place lost by us to the Russians after the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, these angry patriotic soldiers took it out on 53 Jews whom they killed. See, some say they were 200 Jews, a dozen of them just hurt, but who the hell knows what just hurt even means, a woman raped for 6 hours in a sewage shaft where she was dragged might lose her pregnancy and never be capable of having babies again, but she’s fine now, two weeks later the bruises on her face healed, just hurt. No, I think waking up to a platoon of people that drag you out your house to kill you for no reason whatsoever is a horrible thing, more diabolical than the act itself, but this was that village, 60 something years later, after a 89’ revolution and after capitalism settled in, now people can afford cars and we fly to America with the money we made working 40 hours last month, “what do you think we should do now?”, “same thing, just explore, have you ever seen those villas on the south side of the village, where the old timers and retired doctors have driveways that cross splendid gardens and lead to a house in the middle of the field?”, “I’ve never even noticed those”, “well, you need to get invited to see, the street view is just a strip underneath vineyards”, “let’s find a place to chill and listen to music, watch the sky”, she said. I loved her brain, we had to take a long detour through the cemetery, past the willows, past the heroes, past the commoners, past the pastors and the priests, and past those dead at birth, unbaptized or suicide cases. We call people who took their own lives “suiciders”, sinucigași, like pârnăiaș, ocnaș, mardeiaș, șmecheraș, literally con, shackle-dragger(or a name we have for prisoners that worked in a mine as a slave), hoodlum, city slicker(or a city thug, un gășcar, a ganger, mot-a-mot), to another end of the world, one without any alleged mythical ocean bordering your horizon, hills just looked like
The music in our head sounding like an old 80s folk, people singing of liberation, freedom and the mountains, faint glimpses of her eyes, she looked tired now, almost dawning, time must be somewhere around 7 pm, maybe half an hour more left until it’s dark altogether, just a beautiful
Us sitting on my dad’s 20 year old shirt, a classy old sleeveless thing, light blue, she was sitting with her head on my arm, blood rushed from it, but I didn’t bother, the music in our heads was simply
It was simply blissful, heaven, we didn’t have parents, we didn’t have friends, we didn’t have time, or we had too much of it, we didn’t have anywhere else to be, mother night was tucking us in, when out of nowhere it started raining these cold marbles that hurt my back like a motherfucker. She was laughing, saying oh shit, and covering underneath me like a cat under a car, I took my remaining t-shirt off to give it to her, she said “are you crazy, what the fuck”, I said, dude, it’s cold af, you’ll need it, she took it, I covered her looking like I was planking for the best abs exercise, insolent ice marbles that rained down past me and hit her in the forehead or ricocheted from the ground would also make her shudder and laugh, more like squeaking, her mouth two inches away from mine, my smile slowly dropped as I realised how perfect she was, her smile also dropping as she realised how deep my stare was, we sat there, staring at each other until the rain stopped, the sun set, the cold hit, stray dogs and rumbles in the distance made everything sinister, ominous, quiet, vague, subtle, at one point I forgot or I had lost the perception she was underneath me, two inches away from my mouth, but I knew she was still staring, I could hear her heartbeat as she took deeper dives into what was the possibility of me stealing a kiss from her, into me thinking the exact same thing, dragging her across the dirt and making love for the very first time with her, her first experience, my first experience, in the dark, under the stars, seeing only a distant speck that could only be our village, far from an ignorant crowd that knew not what we felt, what we urged for, what we thought of…
But nothing happened. After two hours of torment I said “we should go”, she agreed, I helped her up, walked her to her house, she kept saying her dad will kill her if he saw how dirty her jeans were. Right before she went inside she invited me to a party the seniors in high school held around that time, and I said yes, but I never went. That was the last time I saw her. That was it. I gave into that lesbian narrative, even though it could have been a lie, turns out she only went to that party because the Other Andrea would be there, and she made such a fool out of herself by getting drunk and yelling “I love you, I don’t care” to her with a 200+ teen-adult mixed convention of people ready to suck in the new gossip and laugh and cry and treat the event from serious to let it pass, reaching every magnitude on the “oh shit” chart. Her father, a conservative cop, must have found out. Last time I checked, few years ago on Facebook, she was married to this really ugly guy, a bit older than her, parents holding an ok finger up at the wedding, awkwardly expressing approval, “this guy’s ok, this guy’s not a woman, at least”, looking like she didn’t advance a lot, with a vague touch of melancholy for the “might have’s” and the “what if’s”. May her destiny with me rest in peace.
An AM radio station was doing a Neil Sedaka mini-special, so I decided to tune in. After all, the woman on the other side of the line couldn’t stay awake all night for me to safely reach the seaside. I left the north at 9 pm, placing the phone with her comfortable voice over the speedometer, all rigged to speakerphone so I could drive safely, and I gazed upon the winding roads, dark and abandoned, passing through poverty-stricken Moldavia.
Wish a Creativity Savior would come and tell those chosen among us to “Get up, pick up our mat and write”. Times of scriptural legend those were.
coffee to enhance my mindset. I don’t just drink it to wake up, but really I
feel an urge to accomplish things when I drink it. I trick myself that each
time I drink coffee a few minutes out of my life disappear, vanish, that I die a bit each time I consume it, so
why not make something of it? I actually think that way about staying awake in
general. Why, if we’re awake, should we simply be a cook, a driver, a doctor or
a booking agent? Why not try to sharpen everybody else’s experience like a tour
guide would? We’re all visiting this world, how come too few people are trying
to make our stroll more delightful? I look to my right and I see myself driving
in the side window reflection. I’m paying attention to me and not the road.
That’s when I said:
“Do you want me to tell you a funny story, Sarah?” “Yeah, sure, lay it on me. It’s a long drive, I just hope my battery makes the trip.” “There’s this guy, working in a gulag he himself created, always late with preparing his lessons, finding himself most of the time improvising rather than carefully planning, he retreats to the staff room after each class he teaches like a deadbeat, upset, angry, this job isn’t for him, right? Now one day, right after recess, even though no student was cutting class, someone took the most dastardly dump on a pile of attendance lists.” “What the fuck!” “Yeah, but nobody was cutting class, so everybody was accounted for, cameras were there, but like everywhere in countries where they make last minute adaptations to meet the standards of neighbouring countries, shit didn’t work, so the principal working the case had to do some digging of her own. She – so to say – confided to over 10 kids whom she thought were both capable of doing it and notorious enough because of their unruly behaviour that people could leak the truth about what happened in the staff room. At the end of the day, someone desecrated that shrine to education and world success and she had to see about it. Gross as it was, the cleaning lady had to chasten the place right back, so a discussion emerged over the partial salvaging of the papers or the scrapping of the entire attendance list bundle, a stack of 8 enormous ledgers that kept, beneath – now – layers of human excrement, the grades, presence in class, notes on the good behaviour, the phone numbers, addresses, family backgrounds, ascending or descending studying tendencies, all belonging to the kids. Someone basically took a shit on those kids, is what everybody thought. That attendance list was their scriptural mirror, it was the object of their fear and happiness, curiosity and contempt. The more easy going teachers said leave the ledgers that weren’t affected directly, while the more bacteriophobic said the unaffected papers and those eager to save them are equally disgusting. They threw everything away, got the cameras up and going again, but they never found the little bugger that did it.” “Who do you think did it? One of the bigger classes, for sure! Eight grade!” “Well, I don’t know who did it, but there are days when I’m devastatingly alone in the confinement of a toilet that I remember how satisfying the feeling of liberation was when that piece of shit hit the papers”. “What the fuck!” “Yeah!” “You were a teacher?!” “Bro, it’s how the story goes…” “Are you shitting me, it’s not how the story goes! I’m laughing my ass out, what the hell? So wait, lemme get this straight, you just admitted to shitting in a room where teachers take breaks and sit on chairs and talk about school and childre… you shat in a school, and not in the school’s bathroom!” “Dude, it wasn’t the only time I’ve done that!” “You shat in two schools?!” “Well, no, but you have to remember me mentioning two years in my life when I used to break into buildings and homes for kicks, right?” “No, I do NOT remember those two years! Who are you again?!”
“The drive is 12 hours, you know we could get to know each other better.” “Yeah, and find out you’re also a school shooter, besides being a school shitter? I’ll have to take a pass on the goombaya around that fire.”
afraid of me!”
you can reveal, honestly, I think sometimes… you know what, you’re gonna have
to hear one of my weird stories.”
“I’m all ears. Seems only fair! What’s it about? A mermaid living a mermaid life in London?”
“Haaaa haa, no. It’s about… well, you won’t know until the very end. There was this dealer, right? Well, he wasn’t a dealer as much as he was a user, I guess, but because he asked himself the question would I rather get caught visiting a dealer 4 times a month or would I rather buy a huge amount so I see the dealer less, he ended up buying a whole lot, taking into consideration the disadvantages of a possible cannabis mishandling, like storing it in the wrong container, at a bad temperature, in a moist or sunny environment, and so on, he rapidly decided that if time came, convincing the cops he’s not selling, merely using, seemed like an easier endeavour than running around weekly through shady parks, blowing up people’s phones and always looking over your shoulder.”
“Is there a
story to this, bro?”
G! The guy went on Tinder.”
Did he wanna charm ladies with his high 420 IQ?”
he actually thought it was lame to try and dope girls into that blow it back in return kiss routine that
some use or even worse, to ask blatantly for sexual favors because he procured
“I can sense
the irony, you know! Why the backlash? Just because he’s a guy?”
right. Tell ‘em story, please!”
“He met this chick that had this bio information: I love dogs; looking for someone who shares my enthusiasm. He didn’t think twice about it. She was a secretary working for King’s College London, so someone who read her fair share of teacher publications, out of curiosity, of course, who met intellectuals daily, who talked high class stuff all the time. He was thrilled, look, an intelligent woman who also loves animals. At the time he was a vegan.” “Vegan shmegan!” “Yeah, dude, vegan shmegan. Now the girl’s name was Ana, short from Anahera or Anahita, something, she was part Iranian, so Persian, to an extent, and in his head this beautiful collage of Seherezada and all the turmoil of the Arabic woman clogged his imagination and blew up his intents. He uninstalled Tinder right away without telling her, just so he can properly get his hopes up. He made his way to the place of their first date, an open space with a lot of people, as she was a bit scared of blind dates. She looked a bit older than in her pictures, but splendid nonetheless. Long, dark hair, rather short, but skinny and sensual, Arabic and Occidental at the same time, new age I think the term is. She wore a floral dress that barely covered her knees. What a Richter scale magnitude she was… After a few beers for him and a few glasses of wine for her he proposed that they went and visited this old house where he used to live. Why, she asked. Well, the house is old and architecturally breathtaking, the old housemates were cool guys, beached painters and wanna-be singers, writers, you name it. The house had 32 rooms that functioned under the open-door rule, so everyone was friendly and you were welcomed anywhere. The cherry on top of the cake was that it was the house of the dearly departed J.M. Barrie, the guy who…” “I know who J.M. Barrie is, I…” “Studied literature, I know you know who…” “J.M. Barrie is.” “Yeah.” “…” “…” “Tell ‘em story, girl! I don’t wanna fall asleep at the wheel!” “Where was I? Oh yeah, they went to the house, he barely introduced her to anyone, but him being a regular, it made no difference. She actually felt more secure that way, he said she said, because she was kinda awkward around a lot of people, her being a loner and all. The way he actually convinced her was the mention of the two dogs and 8 cats they had in the 3 story house. It was a weird squat-like rental too, because the owner couldn’t get around renting the whole house at the enormous price he wanted for it, he eventually got sick and after the doctors telling him it’s all on account of stress he decided to rent the house for nothing more and nothing less than the utilities, if you can imagine.” “How the fuck is that even possible?! Who were the lucky bastards?” “Well, Scooby Doo and the bunch. Reckless kids who every once in a while broke windows, acted like complete retards because of drugs and drew on the walls with graffiti, paint, even shit, Captain Scatophilia, and that was each time they had a druggie fit.” “Don’t think I’m enjoying my new identity!” “Lovely, Scatman!” “What’s lovely is that I was paying £300 a month plus utilities to live with the exact same type of people!” “Well, South Kensington, not the heart of it, but the limbs, so to say, is calm and civil. High class London, nothing less.” “Yeah.” “Oh, the dealer convinced the Tinder date, Ana, to go because of the dogs, did I mention that?” “I think so, yeah.” “So dude, check this out, they go in at about 7 pm, and in an open balcony that oversaw a splendid piece of London landscape, grape vines everywhere, sun adjourning its activity, they talk about video chatting, and she, admitting never thinking of doing it, gets sweet talked by the guy. He said, think of London as your screen, your viewers better yet, relax, you and I are a couple, we need to put on a show for our viewers. They love sex, we love sex, we’re pretty, all the viewers lined up for the show, while he was gently caressing her dress where her bellybutton was.” “Sly!” “In a short move he went underneath the dress, right spot fucking on where her clit is, and rubs it in a way she orgasms in a jiffy. He then climbs her and fucks her, no rubber, no care for the people in the house, she was yelling her ass off, screaming of pleasure, clothes still on, on the pavement where they sat on their hind chatting about video chatting, the whole thing took an hour until her 40th something orgasm broke her into this jolly laugh that she couldn’t control. He took it as a happy laughter, happiness being what he wanted to instill in this lovely secretary with a vague look of inexperience upon her. His former roommates went by the connecting kitchen, grabbed food, peeked, went about their business. All in a day’s work. He proposed retreating to a more intimate place, where London couldn’t see them. In a vacant room, where the former tenant, a heroin junkie with a charming journal left behind him – junkie was evicted for breaking windows and forgetting the gas on and almost blowing up the house – journal etched and sketched, dark, gloomy, ordinate in its savage Pandora box display, like Francis Bacon’s studio, ‘I will only love one woman’ written in many styles across the journal – they pushed each other in the vacant room like crazed lovers and continued moaning and sighing and wailing and outpouring the most pleasurable and fearsome yells and pleas, ‘stop’, ‘go on’, ‘don’t stop’, ‘we have to find a safe word, oh my God!’. Suddenly, there was an urge to smoke something and drink water. They took turns and drank water in bursts of disappearing liquid – down one’s throat while the other performed oral sex – then the same with the smoking of weed, which Ana procured, for whatever reason, and what do you know? The smell – that ghastly delicious smell that emanates from pure love making – attracted a tall house-dwelling figure that immediately sensed the mix of cannabis and started begging for some in the door. The dealer, having some authority, none really, because he was naked, with his in her mouth, the dealer tried to convince him to go away with meer words and persuasion. Took him round 5 minutes, and as the disappointed Jack Sparrow fled the scene our dealer succumbed to the strength and prowess of Ana’s blowjob. The night was so memorable, they wanted to turn it into a sequel, so she invited him over at her house. Near the University, where she was a secretary, her flat lay dormant, as the debauched cradle it was. She presented him to her dogs, an old, gray, barely locomotive fellow called Spark, something he couldn’t anymore, and a younger one, skinny long legged Doberman Pinscher, also called Spark. The house was big, and our dealer a vegan (random detail that’ll play a role in his second and last experience with Ana). She reminded him about the Tinder bio: I love dogs; looking for someone who shares my enthusiasm. Why then would she name the dogs the same way? That shows lack of interest and depersonalizes someone. And dogs are like little humans, caught midway in their evolutionary ascension, right? They might talk one day, communicate they do now, so the future’s looking good if you treat them well. Now, check this out, Ana was actually a zoophile…” “What a disappointment, I thought the guy, who was a drug dealer and all, I thought he was the antagonist here.” “Well, no need for antagonists. What would life be without the weird ones?” “What, normal?!” “Come on, dude…” “Look, I need to pull over and take a short nap. I’d love to hear the aftermath of…” “Aww, I’ll oblige, but let me finish. We’re close to the end” “Sure. All ears!” “She said, ‘I would love it for you to penetrate me from underneath, facing me, and then young Spark hits me from behind, anally’.” “Mother…” “Th’man said no, the idea of him sandwiching the woman he started having feelings for in the company and close sexual proximity of a dog seemed disgusting and mad. He could imagine the dog drooling over him, looking him in the eyes, meeting dicks with the animal… He said, “Well, I don’t share your enthusiasm”, and then, because his dick talked some sense into him, he retorted “but I won’t judge. Let’s just do it the old fashioned way, just us animals. Remember last night?”, and then the smile broke her. After she was laying there, naked, dark, the dogs locked in the balcony, so they won’t interfere, he went through the house looking for food. The dogs were begging to be released, and he wanted to explore the house a big, feed his book cleptomania he had going, so he opened the balcony door, but kept the lights shut. She fell asleep – that’s how you know the D was good – and he wanted her to stay like that, so he can make a clean exit. The dogs, though, they were curious who the guy was, so they followed him around the house, him naked, a skinny drip of semen lingering like a vague string from his cock…” “Your details are quite the disgusting insight, aren’t they?” “You love them!” “I do, haha” “When he opened the fridge, the dogs growled, thus risking his position with the eating of the food and the stealing of the book, so he opened the fridge while pushing the inner top-right button, the one that first released a beam of light into the kitchen, only to make it dark again, and in that blinded darkness, phosphenes running up and down his visual field, he couldn’t tell this from that, the man ate the most delicious cheese – meat – sour cream mix without even knowing it. Tastes were scrambled, he had no clue he was stepping over his vegan diet, desecrating its soil. He stole ‘Gargantua et Pantagruel’, a delightful book, comedic, good – 500 year – old humor, with priests who had their inner cassocks sown together so that congregants having to bow down and sit devoutly under their cassocks met Father Jolly Stick, the true righter of wrongs, the true line that drew the line between decent and indecent, good and e…” “Thought this was a book on education.” “Well, it kinda is. You’ll have to read it if I caught your interest.” “I’ve pulled over in a forest. I’ll nap and get a raincheck on that. Lovely story!” “Nighty!” “You too!”
There’s something lacking in the paradigmatic, between the ‘Hey, you alright?’s of the purely locomotive days of brain floundering and the more arabesque meaningful choices sleeping in the shadow of the ‘What to say now?!’ Fuckleberry Finn of a conversational situation. Would I have bounded you to countless pages of the sound and the fury until I laid it out, call me wicked, but nobody rests under a peepal tree anymore. Just one conversing in this Cathedral, one anxious to psychologically project guilt and loathing onto others, menaced by what a tertiary thinks because certain jobs have the elusiveness of wildfires when it comes to spreading intriguing raillery. Everything went downhill from there, including my will to talk to anyone. I felt that all people talked about was their daily routine, including things they’re going on about that they shouldn’t tell others they’re doing, like going somewhere or filling yourself with soon to be discarded food; ’twas work, the measly adverb how throning over the SSDD’s here; ‘and hobbies slash religion. I’m sure we were meant, as a species, to practice sports until we’re of age, then intellectual conversations — reach breaking point, and then start having hobbies. Twenty-year-olds shouldn’t collect stamps or watch movies. They should argue their breath away and make proper use of that lung capacity. No 8 hours of labour prevents you from making others stress, and you still have the age exclusive impression that you hit the golden nail in truth’s casket, the kind of beautiful delusion that can only come with youth. Hobbies should be postponed until you’re 40, 50! But what about me? I went silent as a rock in my 20s.
Figured that the latter enterprise, movie watching, would fling me into an even deeper silence streak, as there as everywhere else I can see people confirming my hypothesis: we don’t seem to say much, as a species… We all pen our script, and then what do we talk about? Jim Carrey revamps Matthew Broderick’s living room so that everything hints at the TV set, rendering all possible conversations null. Then he tells Matthew what to say to Leslie Mann, because work and TV curtailed him into this hello-how’as’work-good-ok-see’ya word patcher that can’t seem to lift conversations off the ground. Inasmuch stupidity in wanting to have music in your ears all the time, like life’s a perennial zombotic transition by means of an elevator, random music in the background and you loving yourself in that mirror, sitting with your back to the door, the only way out of this juvenile dementia that is Facebook, Youtube, gaming, the makeup and fashion revolution, careerism, avarice and the willingness to sacrifice your 60-70 precious years of life for it.
What happened to me that I can’t articulate a single interesting phrase? Don’t project your guilt over others! I’m sure if there’s anyone to blame, it’s you, not that…
…time to knock on the witch’s door, as her hanging of the phone begot silence and anticipation.
‘Should I come in?’
‘Should you?! May you!’
I fucked it up already.
‘Let’s cut to it! It has come to my attention that you have enticed a group of boys to entertain the idea that they need to engage in sexual enterprise with 14 year old girls. And with the other incident that we had last week, because media is a spotlight we do not want to have hanging over our heads, we believe it is best if our collaboration came to an end and we parted ways.’
‘And you’re settled about this. There’s nothing I can say in my defence…’
‘It’s rather late for that.’
‘Well, why didn’t you call me to your office when it was rather early, so I can give you my side of the story?’
‘I’d prefer we finished this discussion in a civil manner.’
‘Ok… Let me know what you’d have me do. Continue the day and then gather all my stuff when the day ended?’
‘Yes, let’s not make a scene. Get the secretary’s phone number so we can arrange you got youryour final paycheck.’
‘Thank you, and I’m sorry I disappointed you.’
Fucking ‘hmm’! FUCKING ‘hmm’! With all the rage gathered in me over the past years, I’m sure to have done things differently then! I would have told her, you know, I think I do want the press covering what happened here! How ’bout it?! You commented on my looks, telling curious people on my first day I’m a woman with a package because of my muscles and my long hair. Well how about I told you I know about your silly ‘amor fati’ tattoo you keep hidden from everyone?! A 30 year old woman who looks like you didn’t quite digest the meals from the last 30 weddings you attended, I believe your tattoo should have read ‘I’mma fatty’, you baboon of a woman you, you rampaging cookie swallower you, you horrid triple chinned blob you! I should have caused a scene for the truth… but the accusation and the setting I found myself in, the thoughts that could have animated my verbal outburst were lackeyed so much to that formal demeanour that not even a tint of blood moved through my vessels.
I went home, after having smiled to everyone, partly thinking they somehow knew of my dismissal. I got into the car, started the engine, and there was this woman, a former colleague of mine, getting in-between me and the future, standing next to the passenger door looking like she just milked a cow. She was looking at me like I was a bus driver, bus full and shit and I was the only one who could yell to the other passengers, “suck your bellies, land lovers, we have another siren ready to board!”.
Made a “hop on” sign with my head. She didn’t get it. Told her, “hop on!”. She didn’t get it. I asked her partly bugged, “Hop?! Is that what you don’t understand?”. She nodded no. It was the fucking car door handle! It didn’t resemble her kitchen door handle! Let’s play the gentleman and open the door for the lady. Made a semi-circle around the car’s front, and as I was holding the door open, she made one swoop into the car, but, get ready, both feet at the same time, body still left outside. I caught her by the waist midair and positioned this alien inside. After I got back into the spaceship, she immediately said, “could we go faster?” The fuck, we didn’t even start the car and I was I already a taxi driver! The time it took me to pluck the keys in and make the engine purr was enough to help me decide she had to go. Fuck-a-one-good-deed-a-day, the day is still young, maybe I can help a cat off a tree or something; she had to go. I turned the key inside the ignition one more time knowing it’ll make a screeching noise and I immediately retorted her amazement with, “Car’s broken, we need to get out!” Stopped the engine, went round the vessel, grabbed her by the armpits, “Abandon ship!”, and left milady in the dirt.
Home I said I wouldn’t fret about my former job at all. The drive was mindless, never occurring to me how many intersections and stop lights I had passed, how many people’s stories might have become my own if I had cared, how many times I had travelled that route. After all, those people had their reasons to fire me and blaming it on them and creating this conspiracy theory where I was the wronged good guy was useless and an insult to my intellectual integrity. Didn’t remember telling a bunch of kids they should have sex with 14 year olds though. I guess the head needed to tell the legs what they could in order to make the dismissal seem worthwhile. There I went, though, conspiracy theory enthusiast.
No time for that, as I had another modern day slavery to tend to. After a short 7 to 13 and two hours of driving back to the surface of society, a dozen cows and ten possible farmer hitchhikers later, an office building with 20 people laying around computers awaited me. I was working part time here as a lyrics transcriber.
At the end of the day I laid into bed and did what today I know I shouldn’t do if I want to be diffusive with my words: I put my thoughts to rest.
The next day I went through everything in my head. This is what I came up with:
, whose name I per-so-na-lly know – we don’t use personally among ourselves, because angels have different lingo, but I’ll school you on that one later – – plus, we don’t use names, that’s so Internet Explorer ago, we use…
fuck, here I am indoctrinating you already
…history links, our very own little ugh, this gon’ be hard mental telekinesis tools, like look at somebody and ask him(no such thing) the keyphrase (let’s say), and they open up, like a book, everything you need to know about it(let’s say) in one google fraction of a second –
appointed me – lazy fuck – the writer of the story you call the Universe and Life.
Ready to embark on this trip?
My rota is as follows: 100 million years on, million years off.
Hence the idea behind the 6 days He (huh! got himself a ghostwriter; get it? ghost? angel?) worked (100 million years, 6/7, 114.28571428blablabla years a week), 1 day (114.yadaleetoolaloo) off.
I fucked up. Lemme start this story again. I’ll dive right in. This has been my 6th attempt, the seventh one’s a charm. Seven dwarf galaxies, all the dallies and the temporizing of the same drudgery. That’s why I’m like this, smart, independent, rebellious. I’m a daredevil because I find that sleazy slack of a God – for nothing – body of white hole neutrino filled douche cloud – I find him unbearably tedious.
There are seven dwarf galaxies because I started this story seven times. Do you know why I can call him a lazy fuck without him turning me into a neutrino? It’s because we hardwired people into thinking God is omniscient (or they did that themselves, because they’re still in their nappies and without the eternal supervising bike-like training wheels people would fall off), whereas he’s not even omnipotent. Figure this out: first there was Him and a couple of others like Him. We’ll call them gods for the sake of storytelling, because you couldn’t fathom what they are yet. They were so powerful that they needed parallel universes to exist. God only got this Universe, this speck of dust. Do you have any idea how small this lump of dried up debris is?! I’ve seen one other universe and it wasn’t only bigger – if this Uni was Google, the one I saw, called Snowlipsism, you’ll see very soon why, was the oooooo’s from Google when you search the vowel o – but it had so many unexplainable things in it: first thing that came to mind was this, the fact that in this crap everything is expanding, like endless clusters of pixels gone wild, Carrie Underwood – Can’t Stop The Moonlight, but you can only have life on one Planet at a time, the rest being impossible to even breathe on; Snowlipsism had every single planet livable, fit for life, how they called it, but the Universe was retracting to a point of singularity. But what does it matter? Get it? Matter. Hah! Interstellar angel jokes. If the sun in year 13.82 billion still has 5 billion years to go until it implodes and becomes a white dwarf, Andromeda and the Milky Way still have 4 billion years until they collide and turn the humans into molecules and basic elements again, game over, restart, and roughly 100 billion years from reaching Event Chandelier, which is a fancy name I came up with for the point of maximum space-time expansion, when the Universe resets for 7 silthion yeads (one yead was how many billion years?! I forgot. Point is, before the Big-Bang, time and space stood still for 7 silthion yeads for a reason. We still existed as temperature and density, which is what we are, but nothing else did, so when it blew we remember it was Dovi, the 8th day of the week, so the week actually started on a Ras, God of Snowlipsism, gave it that name in hopes the name of the day becoming fatidic, never did, so Monday is the third day, Wednesday, and the weekend is actually… a complicated mathematical bullshit that no-one should worry about, because humans started counting days and weeks like pros in the year 13.82 billion minus 709 Anno Urbis Conditae (under my man and spiritual invention, Julius C, ofc), “2067 years ago”, according to year 2018, when I got an Earthling to write this alternative story of the Universe and life). Thought I forgot we were in a parenthesis?
Keep up! Time’s-a-‘xpandin’…
If we humans don’t care about events like the Chandelier Event and the dying of the Sun because they’re too freaking far away, of course people from Snowlipsis don’t care about their Rooftop Event, which is their receding Universe defusing itself just like our expanding Universe would expand to inexistence; they can live endlessly and wherever in the galaxy – what a bore that is, I can tell you that much – and we can live trapped just on one Planet at a time and in a very dangerously deserted Universe. People are looking for signs of life on Mars, there WAS life on Mars, just like there were Saturnians, Plutonians – man, their female gender was out of this world – Moonies, bleah, and so on and so forth, but they never thought of looking for signs of nonlife on Mars, so they could understand the key in the Matrix, not the glitch in the Matrix, the fact that, again, there can only be life on one Planet at a ti…
…me for me to tell you why I decided to inoculate this version of the Holy Bible onto the writer of it. It’s because my 6th version, the sixth (sixth sixth, haha) facsimile – equivalent to the sixth dwarf galaxy, was exactly this version here: my masterpiece, my baby, my everything; I told the story as it was, focusing just on the homo sapiens sapiens, the most intelligent of them all, all battered down into a state of non-Godlike-questioning by culture, accepting instead of denying their programming, their biological imperative; God sitting at a sort of – let’s call it – computer with LAN connectivity trying to develop the Universe, Him asking the other angels to join Him in this Internet Café wanna-be “room” that was made to facilitate the playing of games, each angel a computer, INTERNET this time, one angel would play mountains and help develop them, other one would play waters, other one would play an asteroid and fuck up the dinosaurs, one the humans, one the ants, everything, like in Dino Buzzati’s short story about the angels creating everything and the little nosy and buggy accountant that had a project for humans but God wasn’t interested in it? … I also wrote that. I actually wrote everything, if you didn’t know by now, so plagiarizing is a term that doesn’t apply to me. Everything that seems similar to something else probably is, because if the angels were sitting in the Internet Café developing code and hardwiring “reality”, I was sitting in my dishwashing room, behind a fan shrouded in a lot of noise, moist air everywhair, the sound from the dishwasher where I would wash the stars, so they’d be bright up in the sky, so that The Elegants would sing “Twinkle, Twinkle little star” – that little star was me being lazy and not washing it in time because God was lazy and never wrote this story and outsourced it to me. The angels are writing the backend, I write the frontend, UI/UX. They had the humans, but they had no stories to them, like the characters in shooter games that went off the map because of a bug and then continued through the desert on a loop foreva! I would take their forever and turn it from Sims 3 to Battle Royale or DayZ; gaming much?
You look for the song on YouLube, Scrotify or ..insert new-age music app here.. yourself, sonny gal. Now get back to the text↑↑↑
I made everything, d’ya-nderstand? Every story that was ever written, I wrote it, and I gave it meaning. I once made a fat man sit on a toilet and he broke it because he plunged his fat ass on it, stomping it like a foot would stomp on a Lady Fingers fruit cake, and he was sitting among the shards and I made it so he didn’t even feel one of the porcelain edges from the toilet thrust through his buttocks, and they called that adrenaline. I wrote Marquez, Plato, Jack Kerouac, Georges Bataille, Nietzsche, Fernando Pessoa, Terence McKenna and Slavoj Žižek, I’m Gadamer and Michael Jackson’s lyrics… I wrote books that on Sundays when God would piss me off I would just burn in a fire and they’d call that Nero burning Rome. I wrote masterpieces, and I am God, because I’m the one that made sense and nonsense out of this, sense and nonsense at the same time.