Count the present days until today arrives (ME)
(strongly inclined toward the practice of the occult since childhood), knew how to control the flow of disordered reactions in my spirit, passing from cigarettes to the pipe (much less harmful), and from the pipe to nothing, that is, Prajapati, the supreme god of Hinduism in his three aspects: Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the preserver; and Shiva, the destroyer --- fortunately, at that moment I was too scared to be afraid, and I thought it was funny how fearful people like to experience terrifying sensations, as if a masochistic pleasure almost sexually stimulated them to play with their own weakness --- The brightness of the hotel bar bathroom blind, however, revived me like a glass of cold beer after a long walk, while I peed and thought about what to do --- the sound of the helicopter outside, more or less above where I was, was very clear; and it gave me a close-up view of big problems; agents with a lot of money to burn in a few days of operation? --- highly attractive, Yerma, in a miniskirt; as soon as I saw her for the first time in the photo (recommended by our incredible top-of-the-line source in Madrid), I started reading her first book (the only successful one) in PDF; it seemed to me, right away, poorly composed, those dialogues full of sentences were horrible (I laughed, frankly); however, I liked the main character, the climate of the European bourgeoisie kind of getting screwed in 2016, amid President Trump's squeeze on world trade --- I liked how Yerma felt about her characters, it was something that in a way evidenced her great literary culture, despite the tedious swamp of the first chapters (in fact, she didn't let herself be carried away by the temptation of a story completely crushed by the meditative gymnastics of carefully chosen words, of armies of useless phrases drained by sleepy and sulfurous nights inside the heads of the characters immobilized in the immobile world of the meantime --- By God (the helicopter!), they know for sure that I'm down here, and they want me to know too --- perhaps already aware of everything, because of the amount of flybys, they want to see if the rabbit comes out of its burrow running erratically --- no ---
ResponderExcluir--- so I zip up my pants and head back to the bar: Yerma is already there, at a table I reserved for us, sipping her coffee and croissant, staring vaguely at the other guests like someone gazing at the Himalayan peaks with gnome-like distrust --- participating, offhand, in the fatal discovery of the true identity of a country, a government, a police force, or an intelligence service; successive layers of masks of a world corroded by the fascism of every nation's backstage, the absolute monarchy of Capital disguised as democracy and the rule of law, a family-sized "cover legend" in the newspaper and television networks to cover up all this obvious vilification made legal by the domestication and immobilization of nomadic instincts ---
--- "You were quite controlled, when I left you alone with those two" (I said to Yerma) "Did you feel them unstable?" --- Yerma took a deep, almost trembling breath, a final concession to largely unprepared nerves --- I immediately put on my steely face and said: "You will receive $500,000 just to obtain for us, in an impeccably civilized manner, that pile of political and geopolitical concerns unpublishable until tomorrow morning. The 'task' is not simple, nor even safe, but we have neither time nor adequate positioning. It's time to move from essence to substance, without further ado. In this, your habit of spending endless sleepless hours will be of great help, I believe. In the vast market of 'intelligentsia' of the 'free world,' my instant trust in you may seem careless, somewhat amateurish, or hasty, but I see flashes of a mischievous child in your eyes, wanting to walk into a trap;
ResponderExcluirperhaps occupied in the last hour in unconsciously delighting in making associations with insufficient data, giving one last chance to the terminal state of your writer's vanity to become the protagonist in a small, suddenly improvised, deadly operation, an operation of intelligentsia that for the next few years may perhaps free you completely from the ridiculous and cretinous effects of the hypocrisy of the literary world, that narcissistic tribute that character vices have to pay to authentic virtue in real life'' ---
Excluir--- I was probably radiating perfidy when I said that at that moment, because I wasn't speaking seriously, but rather managing the psychic tension within her to where we 'needed'; however, women of sexually active age, especially those in their Balzacs, in any circumstances tend to instinctively forgive anything in an educated man who gallantly expresses a desire to go to bed with them --- ''It's just my impression'' (Yerma said suddenly) ''Or are we surrounded by secret agents on all sides here?'' --- ''Indeed'' (I replied) ''The world of commerce in human destinies is always a little more pragmatic than we imagine. Maybe not all the "big beasts," but certainly many officials and press officers here could at any moment pull an automatic from their belt and blow our brains out, or shove your unconscious body into a car trunk and disappear without a trace for two thousand kilometers or to the nearest clandestine airport hangar, and then WELCOME TO GUANTÂNAMO, or one of those ranches the CIA keeps in Virginia, or those remote and invisible islands of the Southern Command, to interrogate "extra-class guests..............
ResponderExcluir....................As you can see, it's a historical prejudice that all the world's secret agents (Russians, Israelis, Iranians, and English) look like American businessmen, and that only the Chinese disguise themselves as Japanese tourists (it's quite the opposite, if you ask me); all prone to swallowing excessive operational instructions too quickly and generally digesting them only briefly (all to quickly advance their careers), but watch your tail when you decide to execute them at the drop of a hat. Now, on to your instructions: Do you remember a writer from Malaga, a friend of yours, who died in 2009?'' --- Yerma stared at me in surprise; I thought she was beginning to lose touch with reality or that I was moving too fast with her (there was no time to beat around the bush); I would have to deal with this perilous possibility constantly, from now on --- "Julian Monléon?" What's wrong with him?'' she confirmed and asked --- ''What's wrong is that he was married to a writer called Bernarda Torroella shortly before he died; you've probably heard of her, she's here in town'' ---
Excluir
ResponderExcluir--- "Obviously, but I never met her. Julian had distanced himself from us greatly in the last years before his death; when he married, we hardly saw each other anymore, so 'encouraged' by his 'wife' had he become, raving with immense mental energy for an imminent masterpiece, capable of bringing Europe to its knees, fusing a jumble of ancient tales with a mass of schizophrenic notes that (I'm told) Bernarda herself saw as the ultimate substratum of genius. Poor Julian became so agitated and sickly with these encouragements from the marital bed that he plunged headlong into drugs and megalomaniacal delirium, hallucinating day and night about unsympathetic and lifeless characters amid 'women who bore the moon and the sun in their bodies,' and who 'opened to him the baroque curves of the secret word.' The posthumous edition of this "mental disorder" (paid for by Bernarda herself) revealed to us only a poetic prose without rhyme or reason, incapable of coherently capturing the simplest novelistic situations. Despite everything, Bernarda wrote in the preface to that commemoration:
"A sense of plastic ordering in free verse transposed into the crystal of the stream of consciousness, resonating in the flowing prose at the touch of each consonant like subterranean harpies of an undulating psychological time. The vertical cry of the 'ode' (read by Góngora) summoning a surprising vocabulary that constantly coalesces around the metaphor." I never forgot that preface that (God forgive me!) had us bursting out laughing in bars for a month straight," Yerma concluded. "So!" I immediately retorted, marveling at the photographic power of my new 'operational extension's' memory. "It seems our mutual understanding of all things emerges less slowly the more we drink. A toast"
Excluir