TOBY 2

 (no big deal about approaching the kids at the Sign Bar after the dance floor was packed, and no big deal about falling in love with a group of friendly stoners from the Art History program at Austin University (College of Liberal Arts) --- although everything happens at a dizzying pace in these American college nightclub environments, which are extremely similar all over the world, I noticed that the skunk I passed to Charlie (Vot Tam Chelovyek!), as soon as he and his friends smoked it in the bathroom line, not only slowed down the sensation of time between us, but also expanded and completely swallowed the constant flow of our conversation, in a circle on the periphery of the dance floor full of girls drinking and dancing --- there was also Charlie's self-reflective flow, as I discreetly studied his face, glancing at the large head-on mirror at the back of the bar --- with the skunk, Charlie had started smoking cigarettes and smiling minimally, which contrasted with his initial bad mood at the table with his friends; he now seemed like a more mature young man warm and disorganized, perhaps shyly harboring some desire to hold the hand of some girl there --- At the moment, however, he still hadn't been able to flirt with anyone, and I could see why: group support versus collective deterrence: his delay in taking the initiative he wanted to take left him with the feeling that life was out of his control, and happening too fast for his heart. --- "How long have you lived in Austin, Charlie?" I asked him. --- "Two years, I'm from Dallas. I study art history here. Where are you from?" --- "Port Allen, West Baton Rouge. I work at a book distributor." --- Really? Literature? --- "Basically literature, detective fiction, espionage, etc. Very select authors. They don't sell that much, but they have a loyal clientele. "Most of them aren't even American," I said, and he began to take an interest in the matter, lit another cigarette, looked around, reflecting the mental disorder of the environment around him, apparently imagining hidden, secret stories, as if he'd suddenly decided to play the agent to feel superior to the mass in which we were immersed --- "Modern literature seems a bit banalized today, don't you think?" he asked me --- "It's an endless sameness, if that's what you want to know. A generalized crisis of representation, an escape into the entertainment of turkey literature, a kingdom of simulacra of reality with moralizing and low-intensity melodramatic psychologism, a literature of weak nerves"--- i saw images floating in my consciousness as I looked at him studiously; the drug had imprinted on him deep emotional, biochemical, molecular, and spiritual secrets, or I simply noticed the boy trying to flirt with a determined girl without success, and I deliriously imagined several scenarios simultaneously: "What rules social life is hypocritical interest, Charlie. It's best to take it easy with that one," I said suddenly. He smiled and asked if it was raining outside. Then he added: "It's not that. That's Cynthia; she's very religious. I find it strange to see her here. And strange that she doesn't come to greet me." "Did I look really upset because of the joint?" he asked me --- "Actually, I think everyone here is upset. Go wash your face in the bathroom, drink some water. Maybe something can still be done," I replied --- ten minutes later, Charlie came back, slightly composed, and started talking to me about Cynthia as if she were the only girl in the world: "In class on Wednesday she almost went crazy defending the dogmas of the Church against the anthropologization of culture and materialism in politics, saying that the passions of the body teach nothing to fallen man; that the lust derived from the excessive refinements of the hyper-realistic technique of Renaissance artists was the Luciferian arrogance of being as perfect as God; at bottom, an attack by the Devil on Humanity disguised as magical talents, a great ruse of the Prince of this world; and that the exuberance of the flesh was destined to exhaust the strength of the human being; and that from the Renaissance onwards, LOVE had never again been a PURE NOTION; that the world below, the Hells, had risen to the surface and implanted the great navigations, capitalism and the Reason of State, and since then the world had become a sea of blood. And finally, she quoted Marguerite Youcenar (do you know her?): "Just as the crassest ambition was still a dream of the spirit that strives to harmonize or modify things, the flesh in its audacity made its own the curiosities of the spirit and FABLED with them as it pleased; the wine of lust drew its strength from the juices of the soul with the same dexterity with which it sucked those of the body'' and that it was the soul that paid the price for these FABULATIONS, for it becomes inflamed and revolts against the lies of the body and can do nothing; it then turns to hatred, wants to kill, becomes a danger to itself and to others and a helpless killer. At this point (still according to it) the SHADOW OF FABULATIONS born from the corruption of the body takes advantage of it (the soul in agony) as extra fuel to finish its work of destruction: It sucks up your angry energy and uses it in the work of materialistic densification, which consists of violence, ignorance, and attachment (the three poisons of the mind, according to the Buddha). And all this happens deep within the organism, under the auspices of a cold astral light. Thus (she finally concluded, an awkward silence in the classroom) Christ's recommendation is the only remedy to overcome this vicious cycle, which today is stronger than ever: embrace faith blindly and accept defeat in life, free yourself from wounded and inflamed pride by accepting yourself as a loser, free from any illusion of power. Even desiring the state of humiliation as a path to the LIGHT'' --- after Charlie finished his story about Cynthia, I wondered in astonishment what kind of privileged metaphysical life those young people led at that College of Arts, what an inexhaustible source of (perhaps?) healthy amusement for the mind --- if I had had those facilities when I was young, I would have been much happier --- I felt a quick touch of envy, before retort, theatrically playing the idiot: ''Let me guess: that's when you were dying to eat her, right?'' Charlie made a guinea pig face, and I noted his psychic reactions: I saw Charlie divided: on one side, a life of hours dedicated to reading and research, in his room and in the university library; and on the other, a wide range of shadows condensed into a sleepless desire immobilized in the plexus of his mind. Then he said: "I'm twenty-three already, it's time to start thinking about entering the world of pleasure and work hand in hand with an equally young wife, isn't it?" and he laughed strangely at me. I found his confession surprising; after all, as Nabokov says in Lolita: "This is America, the land of pink children and tall trees," but I also thought: "What he wants is a comedy wife, by God." --- "And don't you think Cynthia is a little too 'eccentric' for this role?" "Is this a smart bet?" I teased him, suggesting that she would soon become a big, fat matron in the Episcopal Church. --- Charlie showed signs of nervousness and irritation: "You don't know anything, Adler. You don't know Cynthia. I'm not as stupid as you think." --- "I didn't think anything of it, Charlie. In fact, I immediately sensed in you a deep and rare personality, with probably unusual creative abilities, but planning a marriage with a girl like that seems to me to be the result of some disorder," I said. ---  "I don't think so. For me, she represents the possibility of a sedative coexistence, a prophylactic routine, a bedroom for two. Her enigmatic rhetorical isolation enchants me; I perceive in her an incredible sense of proportion and history, extremely charged with moral values and dry spirituality. A temptation for a spiritual outsider like me. Rimbaud was also a damned profound Christian," Charlie said, trying to hide from me his plethora of insecure predatory air. I glanced at Cynthia, standing with a friend across the bar: she wore black ankle boots, thick red socks, a plaid skirt, and a parka full of pockets. "Why don't we go over and say hello?" I suggested. "I'm not much of a talker." I wanted to talk to her about Wednesday's class, but I don't think I could say here what I'd like, or need, or it would take too long, the sound is too loud. --- humble before life? I thought, silently then? That's what he seemed to be believing he was doing, through telepathic concentration. I know how such vampiric predispositions end. --- with a smile and an almost openly mocking look, I replied: "Now that you've confessed your secret ambition to me, I tell you: you need to control your nerves at these times. It's a clear opportunity. Please enjoy the element of risk, without neurosis. If you like, I can teach you some mental exercises later. Consider that if you don't take action now, while you're young, your brain could start dying of depression before you're thirty. You need to start from a risky position, at your age. Always!" --- I wondered if that nonsense was capable of breaking the emotional chain of such a cultured boy, whose fantasies seemed so overwhelmed with heartbreaking fatalism. After all, he opted for a lukewarm immobility, a lukewarm and fruitless vampiric apathy, while Cynthia's agile, narrow hips swayed in the distance. What attracted him to her were her long eyelashes and her young, white body, full of the Holy Spirit (laughs). After this, it's best to close the chapter: the ruins of life and, amid all this confusion, the chaos and the old Texas night.)