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Committing to Story (4)


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:

I Dream Wildly (4.2)


I started dreaming dreams that I used to dream back when I used to dream, 30 years ago, when the translucent matter of my hybrid life went from white to gray to black, then void. But my reality is not the issue here and it will not be the subject of any present narrative, for my dreams have surpassed any psychiatrist’s pay grade. What I couldn’t remember from when I was young, the dreams that liquefied in front of my eyes as I woke(and woke I stayed daily until now, as I haven’t dreamt in three decades), a marvellous unexplainable thing, what I couldn’t remember was the fact I used to dream in novels.

A woman appeared in one dream that I experienced when I was 10, she was dancing with her hair and her hands, moving them like they were fog or smoke, like Papini’s Gog would make evanescent art out of a fire’s fumes. Her face reminded me of Mitoș Micleușanu’s cover from his book “Trepanoia”.


I followed her until the building blocks that formed the inner sanctum of my dream collapsed, a dream within a dream, as all the roads from Calvino’s Zobeide led to a brick wall, where I could only spray paint my love for her, Nadja, my novelled love, my 100th pages of pure bliss, superficial, why not?, length-wise and to the cross-reader’s eye, but with footnotes worthy of Proust’s “À la recherche du temps perdu”, her – a novel lost in the footnotes of a story mentioned hastily by Pierre Menard, lost in Bioy Casares’ “Russian Doll”, told by a vanishing hitchhiker to an eager ear, this woman’s the reason fairy tales turned wandering Prince Charmings into raving madmen, dragons decapitated, years gone by, age is a silly relentless number on a referee’s stopwatch, she’s the race that keeps on giving, hope, understanding, reason and bliss. She was Oedipa Mass, she was Madame Bovary, Nastasya Filippovna, the reason one would hop off reality’s train into this labyrinth of faces, times, histories and verbal galimatias.

I woke. I drank a cup of coffee and I went back to bed, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again.

The Little God That Could (2)


I am the intergalactic dishwasher and


, 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, Funky image of Windows Calculator in Universe saying 14.2857142857 basically, dishwasher rota 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.

Nothing and The Australo-Pithecus’ Toothache (4.1)


Nothing. I came up with nothing, because one of my premolars hurt so badly, the pain spread throughout my entire left side of the face and my eye. It throbbed, it stopped me from thinking, it sent me up the walls. Like when I was a kid and I felt that unclenching my tiny fist would somehow help mitigate the wailing winds of a late autumn afternoon and clenching it would make themthem the more powerful, today, when pain turned me into a manic with a twinging Le Penseur stance, I would resort to similar superstitions. The children playing outside made my face spasm more, so I merged a “fuck… you!” mental anathema with an Ak-47 and there I was, following them around the labyrinthine streets with my pants dropped to my knees, tumbling over their round playing objects and constantly squeezing on that machine gun’s trigger only to be remembered by the Freudian ego that they’re just kids, so white flags with yellow fuzzy smiling balls would pop out of the gun and everyone would be amused.

Except for me… there’s nothing more personal and more annoying than a toothache. When everybody’s peachy, you have an abscess, swelling your jaw and making your tongue feel not quite at home. When they all can fornicate and laugh and do whatever normal people do, you can only agonise and revel in the wonders of “I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE, that’s how much it hurts me to exist right now!” They say men don’t give birth… I understand it’s not something that only men do, have toothaches, but I thought of this analogy after the doc’s radiography, sitting there with its back side at me, revealed a hidden tooth striving to break the gum surface of my mouth and call itself one of the many. Who the fuck is teething at the age of 41?! Who! Am I only a little boy on the inside?! The little bugger stood hidden inside me for 3 long brain racking months. I lost 30 pounds. My face started looking more severe, and the charisma that recommended me for a possible stand-up comedy career slowly went out the door. I looked miserable and then some! My thoughts about everything that made a sound under the crimson sky was Pandora’s Box waiting to be opened by the unwary.

Amidst these god-forsaken circumstances, 4 types of around the clock painkillers that only managed to do so much when it came to the force and intensity with which the pain came and never went away, I remembered about a short story written by this obscure Romanian college grad landed in my hands by means of an obscure website that I can’t seem to remember right now. All I know for sure is that the website had a season or something in the name and that the story was about an Australo-Pithecus. It went a little like this:

Deep in the Zwartkrans Valley, clustered with birds and wildlife, past the longevous Baobab trees and the Umbrella-Torn Acacias, beneath the dangerous, yet beautiful bells and whistles of the lion pack’s mane, a group of 200 proto-human Australo-Pithecus Africanus lived. Seeing them from afar, these affable upright beings whom sometimes didn’t dislike going back to walking on all four, they gathered and lived in harmony in caves and alternatively in camps scraped up under the naked sky, moved around only to avoid the pesky fleas and the recognition and pattern-observant predators.

Among them, though, one specimen seemed to be different, different in ways only the inexistent doctors might deepen and reveal. He was marginalised by his group because he only cried with one eye and seemed to have an irregular, swollen face. He would rant and point fingers at others for no reason whatsoever and he rarely slept. This individual had an even uniquer inner life, as insights over his anatomy divulge a tooth trying to spring from his gums, a bone so inadvertently placed by evolution underneath another tooth that it did the double travail of extracting a tooth without any foreseeable anaesthetic and placing another in its place.

The world, as beautiful as it was, merely feigned splendour when looked upon from within the anatomic fortress. Nine out of ten women died when giving birth, as relaxin didn’t  yet exist to arbitrate the increased volume of blood pumping through a gestate woman’s heart nor could it soften the pubic cartilages so the baby would fit, be carried out and see daylight without causing internal damage to his mother. Relaxin was a late evolutionary trait of our bodies. Women’s hearts exploded back then from the pressure of having a 1.5 kg child with a cranial capacity of 300-400 cc breaching their inner doors during the most violent death epidemic known to them as of yet. Soon after their numbers grew and they woefully buried their dead, even those peculiar women that turned into the Siamese fossils of mothers dead with baby heads suffocated in their vulva, the group of pre-humans stared death through the eye of an even worse anatomical defect: teeth.

Most of them died in their 20s because dentists were a thing of the future and tooth cavities and infections, precocious periodontal disease and dental erosion were churning among their numbers like plague. Those who didn’t get to fall in love and give birth would never do so. Those who didn’t live a life of glory would never see conflict. Those who were mocked by the rest for what today we see as derisory justifications, like their screeching voice or their height, never got to see highlight and make a friend.

One of the first who suffered from this ailment now sleeps alone under the mighty Baobab. He awakes from a dream where the sound of booted feet would trail on the wooden floorboard of an attic, above him, like a phantom playing soccer with his fears and superstitions in the dead of the night. He awakes, and in the interstice between dream and reality he imagines someone high up in the canopy, using a stick to make those noises. No-one was there.

His tribe had abandoned him because of his inner torture. He felt someone used barbed wire as dental floss on his teeth but didn’t have the adequate linguistic signifier nor the Saussurian signified to express it. He was in the dark completely. Tears dropped from his left eye minute after minute for the past three months. His lips were swollen, because the pain beckoned him into this abyss of malnutrition and dehydration. He didn’t want to live anymore, that’s how sharp his pain was. Back before he was expulsed from his group  he looked everywhere for signs of similar bodily disorder, but fate had only bestowed him this accursed affliction. His fellow family and friends looked at him scared and uneasy. They thought it was contagious, the one eyed cry that caused his face to quiver like in the presence of true horror.

Alone and shattered, as sleep almost never came, he kept walking. Nightmares haunted him at night, dreams of time travel enticed him during the day. He couldn’t hunt, he couldn’t harvest, scavenge, protect himself, he couldn’t think of a single happy thought, until the day his migraine-like head pains ushered a final sharp noise, like the not yet experienced flatline of an ECG machine, and him and his not yet living and kicking lifeline dropped dead.

He was never buried, never mourned, never missed, never discovered, until now, when the narrator of this story gazed upon the fossil talking of his early demise in the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History from Washington, DC.

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