PRELUDE TO THE CARNAL HOUSE OF BALLS
I had spent the morning of the following day wandering through the Lower City, searching for second-hand bookstores and vinyl records along the alleys of the docks, stunned by the noise of open-air craft markets and tropical fruit vendors bustling around the traffic, shouting and screaming in the sun, while I photographed some landscapes and girls, which, with a writerly gaze, I later poeticized. Suddenly, strange sounds reached my ears, hearings and visions whistled amid the leguminous filth of the market, and the steel gnawed by the sea air of the entire dock interrogated the abysses of my being. In All Saints Bay, at that moment, I had to move on, like a shipment of expensive drinks in Mogadishu. Here, where the scarred reference of the old city rubs against one another, which the naive tourist may or may not believe in, the author is pained by the abyss that denies him the bridge, that flees into the unintelligible, undifferentiated image of the mind without an image...
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Lying down, already bathed, content to touch Sabrina's breast with my fingertip, I had that knowledge that falls like rain, for I understood then that love was not a gift, but a vow. Only the brave lived with it for long, and my hesitation stemmed from a vague indication of this: I had it with Beatriz, more recently, and with others, known and never seen again. I saw them later at the bottom of a bottle in my eyes, as I wrote about it. Always the same thing, LOVE WAS LOVE, it was impossible to refine it much, it was everywhere, but difficult to maintain. At least this way, we achieved the instant sensation of the night sea, flowing with its seaweed, deep within each other, like a long stream of memories, flowing and running with the ONE until late at night. The Undivided, the Tao—the traces of its remains in the puddles and nostalgia for psychic floods (the human, isolated fright in the linen sheet of skin spreading over Sabrina, with a whole inauguration of new ethics, of warlike steps exposed to repudiation, the social arrivism of the Thing, on the edge of so many stagnant contestations. Sabrina knew how to turn her eyes away from all this. Her hands and face were clothed with the temptation of "original luxury," of the Heideggerian high heel, of the Ursprung of the flesh furnaced in the poem, harassing its fragments besieged by Doxa. She did not bend to the chaos of others. Allegory that resisted its own history, making it, encouraging each of its replicas to become rarefied, engaged in the STILL ACTION. A setback for Sabrina?, as a character?, for her handfuls of uncertain multiples, her dubious abstractions quartered in her constant revelation of figures, dialogues, pretensions, f fixations, in a way so free from interruptions that it made me shiver under the strong sun of that moment. She glanced at her Cartier wristwatch and noticed that it was already four in the afternoon; I, on the other hand, felt that my life now consisted of searching for and bringing things, news and people, and fixing confusions, Sabrinas, plots that emerged drop by drop, I never tired of making and undoing them. And it suddenly seemed to me that I was tied to a lot of them, like broken toys, abandoned among people. Later, glasses filled with drinks, televisions turned on, like live faces questioning and debating my limits, like Res Publica. But I also realized it would be as easy to get out of this as it had been to get in; that was my trump card. To leave Babylon intact, tantric splendor fading into the distance, in search of the sheltered language that would allow it to go even further. Although two margaritas had been harmless for us until then, they were probably stronger than they seemed. And we hadn't eaten anything yet. The kiosk had, besides the meats, a whole block of Parma ham, seasoned rolls, brownies, strips of various types of fish, sushi and temakis, cold cheese boards and French appetizers, with shrimp and escargots, and a whole row of pâtés and colorful mustards. All on a buffet set up under Italian canvas awnings. My appetite had become monstrous, just before leaving. The other girls found rides easily in the crowded parking lot. An Uber took us past the dark, still very muddy saltwater lagoon to the right, swollen and streaked by the streetlights. I don't know what came to mind with that dark, fleeting vision, as the car maneuvered, now with only her and me as passengers, but a great psycho-lubric exultation, descending from heaven, animated my body. True and false love, passing over the bridge. The cold sunset to the right closes the scene of declining light.
Twilight: indigo blue, glassy water, tropical trees liquefying in the shadows, cars disappearing among their own lights under the viaduct on Avenida Garibaldi, the long metal caterpillar, enameled with steel, plunges like a roller coaster: it's not Paris, it's not Buenos Aires, it's not Coney Island. Salvador, at that moment, is a twilight blend of all the great coastal cities of Central America, in the movie in my head: a clear, fiery sky from which the fluffiest clouds have been swept; thin coconut trees stretched infinitely, their broad leaves gesturing like sleepwalkers, dark and spectral, trunks streaking vertically against nothingness, and a supreme, utterly European silence inside the car. Outside, many shutters are closed, shops are closed, red glows lost here and there in the paranoid chaos of street commerce; abrupt, almost forbidding facades in certain bars packed with drunks, prostitutes, etc. But my mind was occupied with appreciating the landscape, lying to its concrete and its "greens." I was blinded by the desire to fuck, and Sabrina confided the same desire to me, in the same fractions, as the car advanced through the city.
ResponderExcluirA mad, manufactured desire, stirred throughout the afternoon in a pressure cooker that only a tantric can manipulate well, concentrating it on its own sound, on its buzzing in some part of the head that is the entire Cosmos, with the expectation of going up to her apartment with her pulsing within me at every turn. Two full breasts within her dress, releasing a balm into my nostrils, when she opened the car window: a kiss of flesh, a fragrant breath, sending an incredible amount of life into the carnal home of my eggs, something that longed for her body detached itself from mine, coursing through that force field that kept me tethered to the Tao.
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ResponderExcluirWe turned onto the street where her building was located, in Itaigara. The sky was already dark: to the right, across the avenue, the heart of the city glowed with neon gas: the neon outline of a giant high-heeled shoe at the entrance to a shopping mall; a peanut vendor, a sunflower garden, the six-story tall green neon pole of a building, symbolizing the brand of an eco-friendly beer, the yellow center like a second moon, and the spotlights passing like fireflies in the grass. Sabrina got out of the car, lit a cigarette, and asked: "Aren't you going up? Isn't that what you want most? Ria? I don't even remember." The smell of cigarettes mingled with the scent of violets at the entrance to the building, where bats circled the air beneath a huge mango tree. We entered the elevator, following the force that held me to my own eggs like an embrace. At the apartment, I followed her without hesitation. The light from a lamp in the living room was still on, filling the living room windows with reflections.
ResponderExcluir“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she said. The hallway has a row of hangers under metal boxes for storing women’s creams, a varnished wooden hanger, a pink rubber mat on the marble floor, and two doors: in the cold fluorescent light of the neighboring building, I feel a shiver of anticipation run down her legs, then the skin on her sides. She reaches for the light switch. When the room lights up, she already has that mirrored case in her hand, spilling powder all over it. As soon as she finishes, I lower her arm and kiss her, my first electrocution. At first, my mouth feels like it wants to crush her, a small pressure gauge inside my ribs doubles and redoubles my need for pressure, without any love, love just watches us from afar and slides across our skin. No awareness of the water in her heart. It’s her skin, her body, that I want to crush with mine. By nature, in a kiss like this, she remains manipulable, taking whatever shape I give her; the small -----------------------------------------
ResponderExcluir-------------------------------------- a moist cushion of flesh from her lips with a careless disposition; the windows closed, the air thick, the room a greenhouse of buds and throbbing nostrils, a bubbling tide of semen being heated in a crucible of eggs. We advanced in a kind of continuous crime, toward the double bed, her panties lowered on my fingers, in that part of the libido where she is truly a queen. Not another word. Sabrina's face was somewhat surprised, in that pose, queen of her own fever and mine. The atmosphere of the room trembled for a moment, as nudity was reached. The curve of the bones of my hands, her red lips, her long legs were part of that fever, coming from her and duplicating themselves in me, while a new breath of boldness, as if boldness were now part of my being, made me kiss her hands hastily, drawing from them a damp wisdom of etiquette. She let out a few nasal sounds, ready to retreat for a few seconds, and then again on the verge of giving in, the crazed moonlight in her eyes, something dear I'd stolen from her mind with those kisses I'd showered on her belly. A foretaste of the rest of my body, something hot and vile, yearning to juxtapose itself with our faces and minds. The low road of her belly, beneath her breasts, also sheltering one of her fists, while her mouth offered to descend, always a lesson.
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