You’ll have to imagine that the sea told the story of this happening, always extending its wavy antennas and constantly taking it back to this unknown paradise where people long deprived of their stories want to hear “news of the distant shores”, or better yet, the stick Jesus used to scribble on the sand wrote this, because the stick was imbued with magical properties by this short curly haired wise-ass whom nobody liked then because he disobeyed The Law, but now they like him because he was a revolutionary and fought for freedom – today people love freedom more than truth – but why obey him when he disobeyed him by doubting himself when carrying out his hubristic destiny of crucifying himself to save us from his own rules, the ones he trespassed? Maybe he deserved hammering his own nails into his hands, like a fucked up version of Escher’s hands drawing each other, because if he disobeyed his own rules then he needed to commit sui(self)-fice(to do, to make), a slick way of saying he masturbated his own will, but I digress… maybe I am the atheist writing this story and this postmodern breaking of the fourth wall is just foreshadowing the actual narrator who is foreshadowing the actual story which is foreshadowing some inner truth that I really want to talk about; me, the atheist, the modern day Oscar Wilde who was Dorian Gray, who was the Comte of Maldoror, who was Lucius and the golden asse, who was little Marcel being jealous in his room because his mom in his cottage in Combray kept gobbling up Swann’s flattery instead of coming upstairs, in the subconscious part of this prodigious two story high iceberg of a house where fears and jealousy and primal uncharted territory roared of African Herero and Namaqua tribes dominated, sexually and otherwise, by the culturally subdominating Germans that did everything in their power to transgress boundaries, because that’s how humans have always gotten their kicks and erections, be it male penises or female clits, they ransacked taboos of their sacred fillings like Adam would step it up and accept having sex with Eve outside of the safety of the garden, where lions wouldn’t just meow, and now they roared that they wanted a piece of that pussy too, and you ran with your power extension inside her power outlet, only to wage ghastly wars years later, conducted and fulfilled for the sole reason because it’s something no ordinary man would do – Nietzsche was right, the will to power owns us – and the first caveman who would break someone’s skull because their phone rang inside the Platonic cave while everybody else was keenly watching the archaic movie on the wall was a trendsetter, others said no, then others said yoyo effect, bitches, of course yes, smash that fucker to bits, dip your primitive baseball bat into muddy subconscious waters and see what this pristine millennial’s brain matter looks like.
But. I. Digress.
I wrote this story. So what? Literature is literature, and this is not literature. Or is it? Or is it not? Or would I still be read and postmodern if a certain uncertainty didn’t certainly rear its ugly bullshitting head now and then and forever and for always? No. Yes. Dunno.
Here we go.
Summer. Hot. The Black Sea – which is actually green, but no-one cares. A village called The Old Border, former Romanian intellectual paradise; place of debauchery and sexual madness. Conmen and scam artists ecumenically galore and ubiquitously plentiful. Pretty long haired blond vegan guy enjoying his book at a fish shop’s terrace, wooden benches, sea breeze gently shuffling through Nietzsche’s “Also Sprache Zarathustra”, bugged fingertips pulling back the pages of this analogue reading mechanism. Older tall person at neighboring table reminding me (him? you guys choose whether this tale will have a first-person narrator or a third-person narrator; you, and I wish I knew your name, decide) of Judge Holden from “Blood Meridian”, minding his vegan beeswax. In comes Chile, a name I learned to implement in my 22nd year of birth’s memory matrix. He wants to show me a little game with small pieces of paper:
‘Look, men, I show dju trick and dju pay me twenty euros. Deal? Dju no need to pay if not happy.’
‘Bro, how ‘bout we get with the times and you pay me ten euros if I show you how the game is done? Deal?’
I was bluffing through my eyes, but money is money and fun is fun. Will to power.
He had six small pieces of paper and a pen. Asked me to think of a male name, so he pretended to bust a brain fart and wrote blue on two separate pieces, one in front of me, face down, one for his personal record – ‘don’t look at it yet, men’ – then he asked me what the name was – ‘Robert’ – then he urged me to think of a woman’s name – ‘Don’t tell me what it is!’ – ‘I know, bro, I’ll wait until you write Robert on your piece of paper, then you’ll ask me for it’ – ‘…’ – ‘What, you thought I didn’t get it by now?’ – ‘But…’ – ‘Just write down Maria’ – and he proceeds at putting down the name I gave him, then finally asks for a color, which of course 99% of the brain wielders on this speck of dust will rapidly decide is blue, mahright? “a cor do céu”, so the order of the mind reading was reversed, would you look at that! And I knew this little trick with cards and I could pull it off with a lot more prowess than this sorry prestidigitator, dark skin, boney bearded man that looked like a really angry Moses, Lord knows how he looked like, curly short hair, imposing by means of his eyes, like a real conman. He reclined on his bench with a deeply disappointed countenance, quickly straightening up because there was no upholstery, I gently let him linger in his newly acquired self-esteem, then after staring straight into his eyes for ten seconds with a straight face I push the equivalent of one euro across the table – poor champ didn’t even know our country’s currency – and he took it with the same sluggishness he tried to impress me with right after I rocked his world. Then he overdid it again…
‘Dju reading Zarathustra? Dju no, Zarathustra sayz love your enemy’
‘You will hurt yourself if you play this game. Nietzsche’s Zarathustra is not Zoroaster, the 1500 – 1000 BCE Iranian prophet that nobody and almost nobody remembers. Nietzsche just uses the name of the founder of Zoroastrianism for the central character of his book’
‘No, but he say love your enemy’
‘No, he not! say. There are a couple of micro-essays on friendship and enemies in the book, most of them are contradictory, and the book’s subtitle is obvious, right? A book for all and none; mixed discourse! treat yourself not as the singularity, because that way you will be alone ~~djes, but…~~, but as the first and the second, so that the other ~~wat I mean iz…~~ the o-ther, the third-party, will be the intruder to a more meaningful conversation between myself and I.’
I gasp for air.
He gasps for bullshit.
‘The leitmotif of Zarathustra’s ebb and flow among the people of Motley Cow – why the name, huh? – is Brothers, I will leave you’
‘Men men men men men’
‘Bro, a house is not a home. Leave this conversation as you would a mental ward, because reading isn’t for you’.
‘I needs to go, men’. And he picks up and leaves with a grimace like a rift on his ferocious hirsute face. Instead of brain celebration and the Pope tying white ribbons among my gyri and sulci I saw true adversity and animosity. Felt like a sentient spittoon from the Old-West. The breeze blowing again. Older tall person at neighboring table starts a slow clap. He (me) could hear the breeze (we all could) again.
Come with me six hours later, reader-playa, sagace lecteur – mon autre – mon étranger.
Six hours earlier.
**sound of somebody inhaling a decent amount of cannabis not mixed with tobacco**
Rewind two minutes, for fuck’s sake!
We all could hear the breeze again. One decided to speak.
‘Look, man, it’s my birthday… these people? I don’t know ‘em. These girls think you police. But I know you’re not. Last year I spent my birthday in the pen. Moms brought me cake and the police went with a fork through it to see if I had any sim cards or micro-SD cards hidden in it. D’ya know how moms used to pommel mashed-mashed potatoes, the ones you do with milk and sour cream and you stir up it up with a whisk until it looks like a cloud – anyway, moms pommeled the mashed potatoes with a fork and equally distributed it around the plate so it gets cold faster so we could eat. It looked like someone plowed in eeeee-very direction, man. That’s how my cake looked like. I got it the next day because the pigs forgot to give it to me that day and because moms used really cheap ingredients, God-bang America, I ended up eating a cake that tasted like breadcrumbs, forgot where’s the key from the cabinet communion wafers’.
Maybe we didn’t rewind two minutes. Oh, shit, who cares?!? Do you care? Don’t pick your nose while holding that mouse in your hand! You know I’m talking to you! Oh, you’re on your phone/tablet/device… concentrate, ok? Another one’s about to speak.
‘I am the man and you are the prophets. You are THE GODS! And I am the man. You have the power, I have the voice. You have everything in you, because like in Hinduism, you are my organs, and I am the imploded Purusha, but I am God… YOU are gods! In each of us is the message, but we gain it through common-group hysteria. We all smoke the female plant and we become females, we become the true bards, and maybe Bathsheba told Moses the stories in the Old Testament, or maybe it was Miriam, sister to Moses, and while he was playing with his burning bush’ ~~this story is lit, buh-roooo~~ ‘shut the fuck up and listen, god! You are the gods, I am the MAN, and the first bards were momma’s boys, who stood in the campsite while the big monkeys went to hunt and gather and they listened to their moms speak tales of forgotten times’ ~~wonder what the proto-apes talked about when it was story time…~~ ‘and after the moms died and the momma’s boys were banished from the camps, their moms’ stories were all they knew, their lullabies, their hymns, gently passed from succulent lips to keen ears, so now they knock on every castle’s door until a lonely king says Let’s give this fucker a chance, and the jester said, A dance!, and then the first bard emerged, and the other kingdoms copied and synchronized, do you wanna save all your pictures into the Apple cloud? think of it, apple, thought of as the root of all evi..’
I took a toke of weed from this prophet stranger that just came to me while I was reading on the sand, because there’s fucking nowhere where people can leave you alone, he comes to me, says ‘You’ve been looking for me’, arm all black like he slept during a bar fight and 50 men hit it with all they had, and what could I say?!
**sound of somebody inhaling a decent amount of cannabis not mixed with tobacco**
‘When you smoke, don’t mix it, bro. Takes away all of the effect. Never mix it. Do a blunt, I prefer pipe, hold it in you for 10 seconds, exhale in a feigned cough, pound your chest like you’re the monkey king, then do 6 more tokes’
**sound of me losing half my mind while the sand grains started looking like the no signal on old tube televisions, grainy noise effect, cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-chaaaaaaaa, heat went down from my parietal lobe like lime on my decaying sanity and it slowly engulfed my nose, lips, chin, chest, heart pounding like helicopter propellers, cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-chaaaaaaa, and then suddenly, mute and suffering of anosmia, deaf or rather careless of the world outside my hearing mechanism, I mumbled “Ah gotta go” to my kind benefactors and left with an audio induction loop of my own voice, deeper and gradually slowing down, *go-tt-a-gow* *go-t-t-a-go-w* *g-o-t-t-a-g-o-w*, retreating to my tent holding Nietzsche by the first cover, covering the lower case a from Zarathustra – why the fuck am I writing sounds within sounds, soundception, and why the fuck am I marking it with asterix marks, and how come you’re still following? Grab a glass of water, it’s going to be hella water deprivation in here – cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-tt-a-gow-tt-a-g-o-w**
I came to in my tent, but the voices in my head were still –> pass it, bro <- lissencephaly, I’ll leave a bookmark for it -> leave me the fuck alone! no, you and George cannot fuck me just because I’m drunk! -> Alabaaaama, where the sky is so blue <- but if you mix cocaine with alcohol, cocaethylene, instant death -> I’m hungry, what’s the word on that food you mentioned half an hour before? Nah, dun’ feel like cooking, hun’, well shucks, don’t worry about it then, nah, I wasn’t worrying, you weren’t?! nah, then maybe you should worry, because if you won’t cook me some vegan food I’ll leave and you won’t see me again, hey, you know where they cook really good vegan food? where?! over at your place, fuck outta here -…,…-> group sex is bad!! well tell me and George why it’s bad, huh? because it’s promiscuous, and that’s not the kinda mom I want my son to remember when he’ll gaze into my eyes in the future and we’ll have telekinesis and mindreading and people can just skim through other people’s memories like they would drink a can of Coke! are you that drunk?! we’ll just stick the tip of the dick in, c’mon, you ain’t gotta be a slut if it’s just the tip, Stacey! <…,,…— ~~fuck, I have to concentrate my thoughts, I can do it~~ thirst thirst thirst Kirsten Dunst her boobs in Melancholia were amazing, that scene where she would make love with the new planet?! –< just copy paste the template and send it to me, bro, the boss’ll be here and I still haven’t worked the jquerry part yet –
Take a piss, reader! Shit! Not a shit. Piss! What, thought the atheist writer is also high? Hi! Hello. No, I’m not. Wanted to tell you a story while my – or your – or our, because we’re all one big happy family, right? writer -> reader <- text, hi5, friend! – thoughts gently unscramble and the sea sits back in place, the weed’s, or rather its method’s, potency wearing off by means of attrition, or maybe my thoughts by means of attrition are simply THC crystals dissolving in gray matter and – fuck, I’m thirsty –
I’m coming to…
She’s lecturing us on perversity and promiscuity?! How is that even possible?! She’s drunk as fuck! Maybe she’s not all that drunk… dude, she’s speaking of flying saucers, she’s drunk. She’s not. We didn’t give her enough alcohol. I’m fucking her still… that’s rape, dude. Oh, and when she’s drunk and she says yes it’s not?! Fuck you! No, fuck you! No, fuck you! I’m gonna masturbate to the sea… IN THE SEA! I’ll just watch random people and wank to their wrinkly faces and fat bellies. FUCK! YOU!
The Atheist writer (Simon) says:
I remember when I was 4 years old, my grandma took me to a village where a former teacher-colleague of hers resided among the riff-raff they had dubbed sling-stabbers, because they would sling a shank at you out of nowhere and stab you with it, and people would just go missing, and then decades after they would exhume them, single-handed sailors buried 5 feet deep underneath a cow, so that the bones from both animals, homo shanked sapiens sapiens and dead by means of God knows what bos taurus, would merge and you couldn’t tell what was what, detective-wise, like man had zoophiliac encounter with cow and they died in one big spasmodic orgasm, like man rode cow with countdown timer on their foreheads, cow mooing ‘mooooo’ – man uttering ‘hello!’ with a Wallstreet smile on his face, in a suit, wiggling his amputated arm like wielding a phantom limb and saying ‘I would go for a bagel!’, noooo, reader, and noooo, detectives, people fucking died in this village, and you ain’t gotta live in a circus to believe it, I can tell you that much. My grandma left me playing in front of the front porch, right?, and I’m 4, I don’t know what shank and sling and sapiens and cow meant – well, maybe I knew what cow meant – but I say in my lil 4 year old head, ‘let’s go there! what’s there?! maybe if I just take a few steps I won’t forget how to come back!’ and then I took a few steps further than the delineated ‘right in front of the porch, Simon, or else you’ll get a beating!’ safe-ground – huh, safe… one way you’d get shanked, the other you’d get spanked – and then I came back, and then I’d go one way again, and then I’d come back, and I’d patter along while I’d hurtle along from left to right and from right to left, until the old grandmas plunging their third eye deep into their Brocca zone, next to the hippocampus, would say ‘look at that kid, he’s a scootly lil bugger, ain’ he?!’ and then I was gone… I would deluge outside of their reality, like the whole of humanity outside of a camera firmly held on a pretty long haired female journalist that’s not going to interfere with this story, another camera nonchalantly dollying away from the journalist, then from the stooped cameraman – who happened to be a woman, but no-one cared – then from an old tube TV, trucking out until we discover a living room by means of deep focus, plants and that Dagobert Peche for the Wiener Werkstätte, Viennese Carved Giltwood Mirror on the wall – “we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto” meme, insert funny text here: – still dollying out, like the cameraman lady is holding the Steadicam, walking backwards, stepping outside the TV, passing among the people on the couch, backwards entering the kitchen and disappearing outside of these readers’ view, them still clutching their phone/tablet/device – gee wee, mommy, the people watching the TV are really us, the readers! – shut the fuck up, Stacey, you’re drunk!
WHERE THE FUCK IS THE FOUR-YEAR-OLD?! SIMON, WHATEVER HIS NAME WAS!
I got lost, isn’t it obvious?! Literally and mentally. I got lost, and on my way back, the looping was so long and strenuous that I thought I’d found the house, when in reality I entered an old adobe house, stupendous mammoth of a house, four years old, ok?, two stories high, no quicklime on it, just clay and cow shit mixed into blistering happiness, I went in thinking grandma’s there, hello, grannie?! and I saw another kid, and I wanted to play with him, he rushed me into another room and a four hour long horror movie started, as the Gypsies jumping on an old chaff bed in countertime would grab the rug from the wall that would show – some sort of Indian fusion Takadimi coming from another room – “Abduction from the Seraglio”, a Turkish carpet popular in many Balkan households, and as they lifted it I saw there it was, in the wall, an opening leading to another room, carved into the clay and wood wall by means of a pickaxe, most probably, they pushed me inside, I was in a room where an adolescent would feed a horse, still inside the house, who the fuck are you?! and he grabbed my hand to take me to a Rom Baro, the head of the house, so they could gut me and stuff me inside a bag and take me to the forest to bury me underneath a small donkey… but I escaped, and I ran through some curtains that were covering what seemed to be an entrance, but I hit my head on the wooden door behind, then immediately got up and sobbingly started to clench at the knob, another kid came and hit the back of my head saying something in a weirded out language but then he helped me, showed me the trick to opening the door, “you would pull this string that we tied around the curtain, idiot” I almost heard him say, and I entered this wine cellar where an old man wrinkled and skinny like Death herself would lay on some gathered up hay, passed by him holding a little girl’s hand, because she startled me, this cheeky gipsy Vadoma or Piranda who was almost my age, maybe younger, but who would lose her virginity 10 years before I would learn how to tie my first tie around my neck, she startled me and I started sobbing again and she took me through the wine cellar, past the old man, in-between the feet of this tall herculean gipsy that was drooping to suck out some wine out of a primitive Demijohn, “may God crap fire on your kids’ head, you cocksuckers!”, but we didn’t care, because holding her hand was the most carefree and natural thing in the world, and if I’d meet her now, 50 sexual partners later and 20 years later I would probably love her with all my heart and give her the other 12 babies that she never knew she wanted… what a great fortune this epiphany would have been for me if only I had realized earlier that love is the only thing that ever moved me, deeply and profusely,
Harry Belafonte inside the Atheist’s bone boombox,
“Try to remember when life was so tender / That no one wept except the willow.“
, but the tall man caught us from behind like a long-lost memory, and in a split second he actually looked like the old wrinkly and skinny man that was dying on the hay, and he dragged me, first by my hair, then, after my raspy screams intensified and became this ultrasonic plea for help that no-one could hear but a fortuitous viewer that would concentrate on my gaping mouth, at times teeth clenched, a four year old, he brought me to a room on the upper floor where he asked someone in perfect Romanian, “who’s is it?!”, even at that age, the cold aural reiteration of the word “it”, “who’s is it?! who’s is it?! who’s IS IIIIIIT!” would strike me as inhumane, the woman being half accused of neighbouring a neighbour’s kid and harvesting some not-so-hidden neighbourly romance with the neighbour ejaculated a “just let him go, maybe he’s one of the neighbour’s kids”, I ran and I ran and I ran as the now unclenched gipsy hand that caused me so much sorrow and repressed pain formed the gesture equivalent of the words goodbye, have fun, toodaloo, guess I’ll never know if my wife really cheated on me, see ya, sayonara, and I rand through the endless corridors, door after door after door after door, stumbling and picking myself up at times, leaving behind something like the image you see in a mirror maze, with the billion reflections, one within another like this inordinate Matryoshka, the never-ending doors and hallways and doors and hallways multiplied by my infantile imagination would turn into a millipede wiggling the tail where the tall Gypsy man would sit, hand raised like the Pope waving at the crowd of dummies, and then adrenaline sobers me up yet again, a woman fat as the Belly of the Earth, the kind no feminist would plea for, no, she’s not fat, no! SHE’S FAT, and there’s no euphemism around it, she put a big wooden spoon in my little frail hands and urged me to stir, stir, stir, stir, and stir I did, as I didn’t even reach the pot, not knowing if I’m stirring rotten dog shit or human remains, I reached on my toes and performed the task I most inopinatedly got anointed into, inopinatedly, this archaic word that would readily describe the burlesque and mad, utterly mad, household I just stumbled upon…
Breathe, reader(s? -er? s? how many of ye are there?!). Breathe, take a shower, ‘tis only fiction, it never happened to me, don’t ask me this at the book signing, don’t force me to lie about it, no, I was never traumatized as a kid by a band of raving knife wielding gypsies living all under one rooooof. I tend to forget it’s taking you (if you’re here, of course) a lot less to read than it’s taking me, the Atheist, to write this. Why am I so keen on being called the Atheist when Simon is such a wonderful nickname? Fuck the shut up and listen:
 What the fuck are you doing here?! Get back to the text, moron! Everything will be self-explanatory!
After four hours I escaped. I wandered inside a room that had a window open and I jumped out by means of a wooden rocking horse – imagine how much it took me to mount that one – four years old, and my grandma and the other old lady were already forming an Amazonian posse comprised of all the women in town, one gipsy woman startled by some sort of atavistic empathic force, bless her soul, the rest of ‘em White, casually dressed fat housewives, they grabbed me like I were a candlelight blown by the gushing wind, and on I went.
Why did I tell you this?
Because I (the Atheist?! the guy that did weed with the convict (former, but aren’t we all convicts?) and the dune prophet (aren’t we all dune prophets?), the girls that wanted to hit for the hills because they thought I was police?! (aren’t we all little inquisitors, masters of puppets)?! Who?!) am the same person as the other I, the tall and pretty vegan, and the other I, the 4-year-old kid, all I’s collide, what do you get? I + I + I = the Trinity, id, ego and super-ego, this complex Uroboros who could simply be the me – as revealed by weed, the him – as revealed by the prophecy, a higher sense, aesthetic or elseways, narratorial frolicsomeness, the others – as revealed by the…
Grab my hand real quick and come back to the future, to where it all began.
 Get back, I say! Get back here and tell me if you’re my wife’s son!
Summer. Hot. The Black Sea. The breeze blowing again. Older tall person at neighboring table starts a slow clap. He (me) could hear the breeze (we all could) again.
‘I enjoyed overhearing your conversation with that man. I admit I wouldn’t have anticipated such a marvelous outcome. Why did you give him one euro?’
‘Because I knew he would take it and he knew that by taking it he would belittle himself more in my – and the audience’s, hello and welcome – eyes. The guy would have taken all that we would have given him. Didn’t you hear him? If not happy dju no need to pay’
‘Well done! ‘name’s Andy. Allow me to buy you a drink, Young Man!’
‘By all means, Senescence!’
And so the story began…