ANTI FORCEPS My early struggle with short stories (Texts from ages 16 to 19) HOW DUBIOUS CAN THE WORLD BEAR?
My beer is gone, and the monitor is covered in drops of saliva. Every time I cough, it splashes onto the screen. My subconscious searches for the interrupted chapter, like a tuberculosis patient under the light of a late-night living room. I go to the refrigerator, and that's when it starts talking to me. It starts slowly, throwing disjointed sentences into the air and scrutinizing their developments within itself, in the voice that shines where I pause, confused.
The phone call—people wanting public employment in the government—wanting money, no matter the price of the position—has always existed—the isolation, the stratification of the status quo, in the relationship between their circles of masks and contractual roses. How much this doesn't insinuate power, weight in events, deep within appearances that last a season, a term, the time of a definitive meeting, a toasted internal displacement, the irrelevance that wanders the fields and bridges between the worlds of the city. These frivolous nobodies thinking of others with disdain, of the fragility of the lives of those who play against themselves, against diseases, doctors, regular appointments, money orders, bills, of the impotent, neurasthenic hypochondriacs who become vain narcissists enclosed in a shaken glass of a caravel in a bottle, as soon as a ministerial reshuffle is announced and the operator at the most advanced point of the front deafens his alert in the Market. I refuse to continue being a teacher! To hell with students and "Differences" completely circumscribed by the limits of the media's frying, the sexual-cosmetic television, eats my work like a snack of intelligent ideological falsehood, like a creative use of the malicious ego in a world focused on the crazy, not going beyond concepts in folders ministerials. So, it's good to talk, I'm going to undo this apartment. When you're drunk, it's easier to dissolve the world. The Business will pack its things as quickly as possible and improve my salary with a doctoral thesis in political science. But, to finish, I've concluded that I don't have the temperament of an intellectual, I don't enjoy critical theory, and the metallic political poetry of the Frankfurt School oppresses my body. Go to a girlfriend's house, okay? Or a friend's family, then we'll figure something out. So, get ready! The chatter in your ears will be general, for not concluding your business by throwing films and politics into the boxes the party people left at the entrance. They wanted a collaborator, a pamphleteer, and a spiritual guru attentive to the maneuvers of political capital, and they found an entrance to the Chikai Bardo completely without me,” she said.
"I just need a few boxes," I say, returning to my room, my story, and my dream. The beer can chills my hand as I think; my life seems like a global psychological disaster. Instead of weighing the weight of my words on paper, I return to thinking without images, listening to music motionless and "extrasensorially" in the chair, the joint rolling between old reggae records: The Gladiators, The Culture, Trojan Dub Box Set, and... Wave, by Tom Jobim... how dub the world can stand to be, in a limiting experience. Why does reggae never play in the difficult moments of our lives as enslaved consumers? No: a pack of Marlboro Reds isn't enough to expand the space of my inner night. And what is tonight? THIS? No, not that either, I'm not an empty nothingness of thoughtlessness accommodating my neurons to the repetitive beats of reggae.
Everything was connected to sexual desire and hunger.
When I returned to writing, in the world of the bedroom, gravity was absent. A world of in-between times, of smoke—not caring about periods, commas, and unusual adjectives. Authentic symbolism bursting from the guts of the pages. The character was called K, for the first time, a big guy who lived off trickery and the flattery of fallen bohemian nobles ---------------------------------
ResponderExcluir------------------------------in trouble. A professional leech, a walking Prince's Mirror, master of mysteries and tricks, in the high society arriviste. – So, handsome, how long has it been? And, before he could say anything, she took another direction, fully aware that she had embarrassed him. Bedroom. The sound of the alcoholic commotion outside. – How much money? I had to stop writing, and it wasn't just the filler, but the team that was harmed. Face out of focus. Photograph of people in the background. Execution highlighted, the pigs drool over the Great Whore. Chaos, revelry outside. Sudden hell, her talking nonsense, accumulated in her memory, damaged by unreal invocations, etc., until she focused on the scene she had seen that morning, when she was returning from the city with the groceries: "You know, there was a boy, a ragged boy. I tried to understand what he was staring at, vaguely, in the sky, and he wasn't looking at anything, apparently...'' She threatened to utter more delusions, to continue with that, but she kissed her hands and legs before looking at me. This time, sticking her tongue all the way into my mouth. Then she ran out the bedroom door, a flying succubus, postponing a haunting. She screamed: 'DAMNED!''
ResponderExcluir’I debuted in literature writing books to say that I could write absolutely nothing’’ (Antonin Artaud)
ResponderExcluir*
I return to my ‘’chapter’’.
After the absurd scene, "she" paused for a second before the mirror on the mahogany vanity and, after adjusting her hair and silver bracelet, composed herself and returned to the revelry outside the mansion. In my ear, as I passed my bedroom door, a horrendous scream of a mistress. Then, to her friends, in the mansion celebrating, high heels high, amid the distress of dozens of small, anonymous plant forms, passing by—because, at that moment, Sabrina's laughter filled everyone with fear. Because marriage, work, and the future were the sum of many things there, seen in a triangle closed by a tedious physical remorse. At best, the mental confusion produced by those appearances of sobriety was tied to blind priorities. Her gaze was vicious and haughty, like someone presenting herself to preside at a black mass. The young Italian singer was chatting with a pair of drunken gentlemen, who were clearly vying for the blonde's attention. Anabelle, as always, tried to boast against the competition, posting photos on social media and celebrating advertising contract signings. Campaigns, she called them, citing figures from her personal fortunes.
ResponderExcluirShe took two more steps, and K, the big leech, suddenly appeared.
"You disappeared. Just now I was searching for you like a madwoman. Was he in the room, choosing which of the two conversations was the most real? Drunk as all hell? But, unlike what I usually do with such lowlifes, I offer you my arm, so we can walk to those whiners further away from the property and, there, perhaps, remain silent for a while, side by side, or mute for almost a whole minute, leaving an equally speechless brute beside me, staring thirstily at my ruby lips. Petty-bourgeois wickedness inspired by TV series? Like any cliché," she said. Amazement from the audience behind her. The dark room, then, -----------------------------------
ResponderExcluir---------------------------------the lights were off. She looked at me, finding me bulky with a slight gesture of her hands clasped on the back of her dress. All those fabrics fell to the floor, leaving her half-naked. No "Princess, princess..." Just the shirtless animal, sweating heavily, staring back at her.
ResponderExcluirPost scriptum
ResponderExcluirDÊ, Belo Horizonte, 2000
ResponderExcluirPeople were either Party clients or posed as critical thinkers, from a secure position. They could be seen trying to announce to the world that this circle was the one they frequented to strengthen relationships. They reinforced their ideological position according to their pay. They had free food and drink, but not always canapés and wine at the feet of the leadership. The lascivious contemplation of oneself didn't always open doors. They weren't always experts in these things. It was somewhat expensive to always be present at events. The immediate obedience to desire. At first, it was just the glamour of unexplained copulation. Until, following the thread, I reached some big fish with that monotonous dog language. I already had a political resume in my bed. Persistence transformed into the luxury of a home-library-suite-airport-marriage-Jaraguá-gossip—and a glaring age difference refined the allusions of infidelity epidermally, the skirt full in the middle of the living room, turning on the record player, receiving friends, swaying gracefully. all day long between my thighs the full skirt highlighting the contour of my hips in the afternoon all day at home with nothing to do still slender and naked at almost thirty-something promising sparkling glimpses of the large, generous mouth and harpy gaze and the abundant brown hair under a burst of blonde smiling at any comment at parties I suddenly became the YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL WIFE ----------
------------------- with whom, for example, the ass could be contemplated by the movements of the muscles under the thin cotton and accurately the pelvis and furtively the breasts in the cleavage without any rigid purpose of pleasing the family of a broken man who paid all the bills with a melancholic air always skeptical he knew how to recite French verses even in Italian everything in that double bed smelling of cold soup slightly the temperature of the flaccid body in a reflex act claiming tiredness and a big belly agenda to fulfill for days I hadn't tasted caviar left alone in a precious space of walls of books where a house full of rooms hid the intercession the access through illusions to an inconceivable center of perversion through that haze of marijuana dizzyingly conducive to anything I wanted in secret I made like soup of steaming cow's tail and collision of animated conversations ending in the bed of little boys in sailor uniforms to the thrill of pay and take to make them shut up later although satisfied of the immaculate splendid youth snuggling into the fine silky youthful fabric flourishing in my nostrils deposited a bed scratched by a nothing that later heavy dirty mouths deformed by hate would obscure the active beautiful well-formed boy with a frank and rain-gauge gaze on the ionized grass in the shade a pair of boiling knees it was with chickens that he himself so young did justice to himself.
ResponderExcluirCornwall of morosa milks the queen - I wanting to keep the walls of the house free for all alternative movement of Eros of the ego - madam in that first family meeting here the boy's qualities attracted the tall body of a swimmer and I asked them to inform me so he will appear again ooooohhhhhh when?, and we glanced at the night express telling the story without any notion of its value to the people of flesh not retreated with a raised eyebrow for him but neither I nor he any initiative not even the conversation side by side then reunited and dissolved swimming across the flood disguised presented as a young peacock exhibition piece of the family evening more to be seen than touched fire drip escape caught as if it were an abstract painting in the pan of the bombastic tenants blond navy at night then one day at the airport we collided again in the hollow of serene greetings--------------------------
ResponderExcluir------------‐--------I boarded a plane to Rio Hi how are you K we live so close to the airport we hardly talk so BH-Rio de Janeiro-Serra-Rio de Janeiro-BH and I disembarked again Hi K how are you we live so close to each other we hardly meet so Hi K we hardly touch each other come over there to smoke one someday we hardly fuck yet the bulb in his gaze dissolving like sugar in boiling water damn mind-killing what's this story about Nietzsche Baudelaire Artaud and the poems you write doing his part at the worthy time the door is still open but the stiff old man will come back with the cigar a damn resinous woman lying with her back to him the Venerable Prestige---------------------------
ResponderExcluir--------------------when the kettle became a cauldron he slept on the other side of the enormous bed I had my legs open in a riding position my pale body in the faint light of the moonlight through the window howled probable dark crack of my buttocks like a mocking invitation to the boils of the ideological baron called by the top to sell alphabetical luster to the legend found swollen a retail of self-frigid passivism together with the adapted tone of excuse of bourgeois liberal education hearing mythomaniac crickets in the head decorating the past of struggle while the mandrake screams in reprobate convulsions in the moonlight an insistent masturbatory touch the spectacle of neural waves awakening one's own smile in the veiled world of the mind-sewer just at a glance catching the boy with hashish breath and a pearl necklace.
ResponderExcluirWhat had happened? I wouldn't tell him right away. I'd lose favor at the crucial moment. I might need money, prestige in the society. I began to wish I hadn't had the idea --- on that empty morning, it seemed so brilliant! My chance at a great find. Erotic witchcraft, pedophile nymph, fleeting bonds, sweet loom, my chiming against ribs against ribs, side by side, first the cordial precautions of a first visit alone, eye to eye, before he could leave in search of many, chanting watery delights of flirtation around the front door, the aroma of the well-tended garden, and in the living room, the mold of cigars and books entered without a sound, alphabetized.
ResponderExcluirContinue in one minute
ResponderExcluirIt was past eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, and I was still in bed when the doorbell rang. I went to the living room in my nightgown after opening the gate with the intercom. He loosened his tie and leaned back on the sofa.
ResponderExcluir"I have until 1:30 p.m.," he said, squeezing one of the good ones.
"Venerable Prestigious," the old man had left a note on the dresser, announcing his absence for a few days. Ever since K had entered the house, a noise had been hammering in a corner of my mind. Blind corners in the vast theater of the perverted mind. My husband absent, my cousin present. Boy, a boy, a boy, a boy, a boy, a boy, a boy, where could I collect the silver of that boyish speech? I adjusted my panties under my nightgown in the bulge of my hand. The new buttery slice, smooth, intentional, I am your delicious sweetness of the lazy morning. I danced with rheum on my fingertips for the great picnic. That black jelly staining the annoying gooseberry that, in anticipation, wove in my mind the best weekly plot of fornication at the edge of the peace of home, yet cracked by the fearless re-enjoyment of the panorama. All the flowers of speech blooming.
"I sent you the email, with the poetry contest email address," I said, hoping to interest him, to stir his young ambition.
ResponderExcluir"I know, nugget, cloooooooo, dear, but listen, precious! I don't care. If I send my book, I'll demand a prize like someone who won the egg-and-spoon race. Of course, that was very kind of you. You can poke me later if you want, it's true, I'm not interested in such things. Wearing the best of my pride, I easily become anything other than a poet. How many more interesting places to be than publications with honorable mentions," he said.
"Dance is a ritual," I said, looking at him.
He seemed to want to finger my eurythmics, I planted desire in him for him to want what he wanted, a festive slice of my morning lunar underworld, starting with a kiss, time was short when we merged, the tongue, my, Do you like this, oh, silent, Do you like mine, Me, talking until it trembles, tears the seal, burning walls, you have delicious lips, now let's separate the elements, clothes there, here, a rustle of sheets and the creak of the bed springs, a gasp, I didn't even think about it, he already knows the rest, the arched neck, head tilted back, me, my nebulous new notion, buzzing in my ears, Feel me near the pulp, oh, I want it, come through my petticoats, eyes closed, mouth open, emitting low, shrill grunts of the moment of enjoyment, while the sound of the trembling shook the legs, the pelvis joined with mine, a slight tremor in the mist of crumpled sheets, the muscles of the white buttocks contracting for something to eat rhythmically, swallow, beautiful kiss squeezing the entire part of my thigh raised with understanding in the womanly sin in bed had straight hair the arm wrapped around me the hand squeezed my breasts one after the other borrowed for the purposes of bad sense of the fiery temptation in the vampiric silence insect in the ear grabbed my hips and moved again involved in obscenity----------------------
ResponderExcluir--------------------------ahn ahn ahn that expression of heat on the face by apprehensive impulse in the interest of readjusting angles as soon as the clock boiling in the pan the seminal circulation appreciably increased by the copulating coupling seeking the crack of my ass to escape my kick Hear my swallowable moan implied this plan where he my art in which I climb above the understanding of the boy entangled in the half knot tongue in the inkwell now agitated unconscious watercourse staring into my eyes seemed to drip favors on my bottom hanging in an inverted embrace pulps in conformity by acclimatization in the full justotoryum that the stackable here by anatomy claimed desires in all extremities and for the love of the clock he asked What time is it?, I hope, lick my Achilles tendon!
ResponderExcluirOne minute
ResponderExcluirThe encounter with that young man was just this, I swear, O Redeemer of the food city, be it me then who ate with my bowels, O Timer, this space of a couple of hours, the silky notion, Listen to the inevitable, it was beyond my jurisdiction, to prevent them from suspecting, to falsely discover the truth and increase it. And here I must leave you and my pressing, pressed, C'Quas cousins, a bitter compote of bile fruits, trying to get closer little by little to provide complete glances against the lapse of my prologue, I, sharpening refutation, one day I cried in public to combine in contradiction all that caressed, unfaithful voluptuousness with the tense bow of distrust, whose arrow the family was a nasal wash, neighing disapproval and heavily restricting the randomness of each ambush, invisibility of trail. It was a happy little morning at Unicorn, light warm cloths, then I paid attention, then childishly, the boy only heard as much as he could, some indirect sermon, he must have reacted badly because I heard someone saying that he chased and brandished glass objects at the heads of inquiring relatives-------------------
ResponderExcluir-------------------someone said Violent someone said Beast someone said Terror and all the expert work of broad vision of other people's lives was extinguished in vapor of traumatized gossip in the beast's lair never again that gnosis embedded in the image of the pose You can already see in the fright the light fleeing in the depths of the buts all that became legend with chills in the feet although they say graceful mystical poet despite the cold psychopathy on his forehead Never were they so thoughtful about the consequences as after that scene the rattlesnake of the palpable rate would return to haunt the boy then they accused him of having stolen some sunglasses from the house where his cousin lived as a favor so carelessly when asked he said to his cousin damn it's true I really stole them theoiconically he became inaccessible impossible to talk to until he was seen with a pregnant woman at home and then he left the city and then was never seen again (probably he kept the trunk pure under the genus of Inexhaustible he would probably always have a habitat to do a world of things to recap delicious arbor vitae somewhat rude in the truths charred by desire some boredom then in the middle of some reading I think I met him again quickly in the airport cafeteria when I arrived from Rio he was at snack time and with a very concise escape he said that---------------------
ResponderExcluir-------------------who had taken advantage of the accumulated time off and gone to Ilhéus in Bahia with a cousin from Belo Horizonte to visit some cousins there in a large house at the top of Pacheco Hill, read the entirety of Plato's Banquet in a window overlooking the sea, and at night left his cousin with young friends from the street where they were staying dancing at the Frank Aguiar show and went with his older cousin to a nightclub near Olivença where an eighteen-year-old blonde in tight Spider-Man tights made him jealous, I asked, The same histrionic story of hide-and-seek, but with paradisiacal beaches and rotating lights on the ceiling and mandatory reading, hot pre-purgatory in the fiery part of the party, what was her name this time? No, he said her name, I don't remember, it cost me R$300.00---------------
ResponderExcluir----------------------He might still have had some gap in his knowledge under each tooth, pursuing the fate of the waters, even the endemic nature of baby teeth, although he had no shortage of deeds, aptly and correctly verified, allowing himself to convey the whole truth when young, there, two strong stenches, he and I, sensing intercourse and complaints. K, I need to tell you, I, I, I need to tell you that you're all wrong, rotation at the top, containment at the base, misunderstood, when understood, he will fall, depreciated, from the satyr-dynamic wall to a more economical helixtrolysis, until he finds space to look within himself before continuing attentively, ruminating before a female, to focus, signed with pleasure, the milking machine at the boiling point of male Platonism, to find the plum pudding. For You, I am hopefully the Margarine of your cheesy effort, the precision strike on the tip of the toast, that morning).
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