VAMP RETHORIC 3
In short, I was beginning to be surrounded by mallarmezinhas on all sides, which resulted in a certain lens disarmed by the excess of female characters so similar to each other, yet capable of proposing other mallarmezinhas, mallarmezinhas of “rechange,” to climatize that “fire.” In any case, there remain from that episode of THE STORM, by effect of tangency and parallelism, wonderful verses by Stéphane Mallarmé himself, inserted in the Overture Ancienne d´Herodiade: ‘’Ses trompettes d’argent obscur aux vieux sapins!” "Reviendra-t-il un jour des pays cisalpins!" Beneath the glossy black expanse of her dress, Sabrina's bottom fills the fabric with remarkable distinction, her elegant waist fitting her hips, nodding to the lines of her face and the deep V-neckline at her back; the scent, or sharp perfume, of her hair joins the perfume behind her ears; her earrings are silver; her nostrils throb; she eats slowly, leisurely, and very little indeed! There's still the occasional brush against me or Beatriz, while Carmen rings the intercom. The skin of her shoulders glows under the lampshade on the sofa, and then fades into the shadows of the table. I feel her like something constantly moving beside me, bumping into me, warning me against excessive purpose and personality alignment. Carmen settled into the living room armchair as soon as she entered, as if building a nest, and said: "Rehearsing, Sabrina? In search of 'that usual female way,' as you said yesterday? Now, you're a pale, inert skin next to K, there on the couch, perhaps a little sleepy, no? Would you like a glass of water?" Sabrina makes a gesture of refusal and yawns widely, she's dying of sleep. She takes out a cigarette and sticks it to her lipstick-red lips, frowns, and gets up from the couch—I follow it all cinematically—and stops at the window. Carmen makes a kind of marking, like one person questioning another: "That 'usual' female clumsiness when lighting cigarettes."
I glance at Sabrina at the window, the base of her left nostril slightly caked with dust, her venom seeming to be salivating, her gaze lost in the traffic below. Suddenly, she laughed and ran her index finger across her nose. "Yes, even in self-harm, human beings are capable of finding fulfillment," she said. "In the sanctity of fulfillment itself, in the form of giving one's best to destroy oneself, or worse." In her glass, only ice cubes descend and rattle against her lips. The slow motion of it all confronts my attempt to escape limbo. The poem comes as she drains the rest of her Daiquiri, her chin a little green from the green light of the liquid:
ResponderExcluirA delicious saliva filled my mouth. I truly believed those Mallarmé girls didn't even know French that well, but, armed with that kind of tension, Hellas, it was as if the succubi were rolling the dice again, transforming CHANCE into new depths of attraction, governed by the mystical synchronicity of no man's land, of dream suggestions and telepathic, demonic certainties, of powers and false laughter in the shadows, gaining the rhythm of theatrical muscles in action. "I know very well that Emperor Julius Caesar doesn't appear in Mallarmé's poem. However, the word "cisalpine" compelled me to distort the story again. The Anomalous, the elusive being, The Thing, once again laughs, shamanically, at its "pedagogical ----------------------------------
ResponderExcluir----------------------------------------We ate well. Our faces gained warmth and strength from the dishes covered in sweet and sour sauce. As we ate, a silence laden with larvae of words and throat clearings filled like a cloud over our heads. Silent telepathic insinuations, yet ready for any moment... They look at me ambiguously, expecting "prices" and "adjectives," book titles, free translations, mockery, and a certain fear of telling the TRUTH (pride and something less than pride, pretense, moving the corners of the mask). But there is indeed a fundamental organ in that laboratory of betrayals, perhaps the only one that also captures something real in others.
ResponderExcluir"Strange, honestly," Carmen said, "and, to my surprise, that was almost all she said." "Honestly, I had no idea there were so many organizations. He was even a member of the Rosicrucian Society before joining the theater group." Suddenly, the phone rang. Beatriz answered it in the living room. Sabrina's raspy, irregular breathing invited a change of subject. "I have a friend who's the same way," Sabrina said. "She's one of my ten best friends, for a month every six months. They arrive in theater and television with a surprising kind of narcissism, until they start appearing in interviews and newspapers. And even though they speak poorly, in most cases, and become sensitive, revealing in public an existential void whose shells are mere allegories of themselves, they reign over a tide of paparazzi and reporters, and their script readings involve a good game of budgets and contracts. I'm very sleepy, I'm going to sleep."
ResponderExcluir"We'll talk about this later," Carmen said. "You are indeed a gentleman, K..." Sabrina and Beatriz notice it too. Suddenly, Sabrina raises her empty glass to eye level: the glass is a kind of short-stemmed goblet, like an ice cream bowl at a birthday party. It emits pale arcs of reflection that float across her face. "I won't bother you anymore today. Good night," Sim says, and she leaves. We, the remaining ones, will try to come up with something alternative then. Of the three of us, Beatriz is the one with the most committed sympathy, relaxing our features, hardened by contact with Sabrina. Carmen is just another ironic smile in the face of this, but I immediately become inviting, conversational, assertive in the conviction that even that smile of Carmen's, compared to Beatriz's pleasant empathetic coldness, has multiple uses and infinite possible alcoholic shades, even with promising health!
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