THE SPIRITUAL WORLD REMAINS DARK
They just don't deliver food: globes of poisoned ether slide through my body, remembering Sabrina there with me, propped up in bed and listening to the Stones at the door of room 22, surprisingly long and elderly in musical taste: the red carpet, the astral lights, the white mantras like in a hall, giving the cinematic space an air of Hindu immateriality. The bathroom at the end of the room, the navy blue walls, with fake paintings and a plasma TV. "Oh, that's actually interesting," Sabrina said. "I want to take a shower—then it'll all start again, blood drawn." I was right to choose Sabrina to conclude, with her constantly renewed, fresh, acidic sense of humor, as I return from the bathroom naked, holding my clothes in front of me and lie on the bed, nerves sinking into my flesh, veins granted a time-limited rest, on the Bahian border of the Logos, bombardment of stimuli like indefinable particles trying to communicate something telepathically. "Who do you think you are, K? A celestial being?" she asks. "I AM one." I slide down, the sensation of breasts pressed against my lips numbing, red behind my eyelids. A presence above those sheets? I descend a little further, a comforting jelly, shifting position to better hide, my ectoplasm always climaxing, in the ebbing rustle of the sheets, slowly turning her onto her back, uncertain in the space between her thighs, a vivid inkling of orgasmic disturbance on her face; a soft noise moving down my spine, like an electric current. A man, finally empty and tasteful, swimming in his meanings in expectation, a luminous dust floating in the air, an apprehensive glow. The space we are in, the motel room, long and secret, transforms into an interior space. I slide further down, under the sheet, and fit my veiny I AM into the curved cleft between the cozy buttocks, along the also familiar curve of the waist, from ribs to hip.
Inner curve of flesh now, there where there are no more bones. – Ah, writing, there's something the Swedes call............¿---------------------------------
ResponderExcluir.........................."Mardrommen," images gathered from dreams linked by diamond tiaras, in a baroque architecture full of Kabbalistic logarithms, Mezuzahs and prayer mills, portentous phrases and—all the obscene graphics there find their respective succubi. Impartiality no more, my books are all dangerous, magnetic sleepwalkers, you know what I mean, millions and millions of small impulses of meditation a day, forming a cloud of indomitable words in the intra-day reagent of the world's image. This divine pogrom is the nourishment of my spirit, beyond drugs. She laughed. The damp cavity she found in my sweaty back united in her spirit the desire to laugh with the shallow shadows of the stretch of skin that descended from the bones of my limbs, like wings. A cigarette lit, and she drank from it a pure vision of me. Her face, still wet with sweat, is extremely beautiful, and her laughter seems divided into slices of meaning, obscure, remote, her lips already free of most of the lipstick. "How silly you are, Sabrina. Let's go."
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Excluir– sharp fangs on the streets at night, with their high beams on. As an immediate answer to my prayers, that was alarming. For so long, oh, so many disorderly nightclubs, guardian angels on the curb, and evil in both the received and the given, live and on cell phones, and also things too terrifying to describe. Every thought there left a deep impression on me, coming from the conversations of the people in line, with drinks in their hands. On the way back from that adventure, a bigger dose of Demo was in it. Well, I was talking at the wheel, when suddenly, the coconut trees leaped like fire on a sharp curve, and a silver car came toward me, appearing out of nowhere. Five-thirty in the morning. I slid onto the shoulder, and, faceless as death itself, the car passed me by tripling its speed – the insulting dusty trail of the scoundrel. Les oreilles ennemies vous écoutent – and, when Sabrina returns, her emphasis in my text is pure sociopathy-
ResponderExcluirA car on the shoulder, with the handbrake on—long names, arrows for small towns, squares indicating something, orange cones and circles of wind, and motionless clouds in the sky—is like being a victim of a virus; the person who gives in presents fertile ground for the sociopath. These egocentrics with no sense of responsibility, impulsive manipulative mythomaniacs incapable of lasting relationships, without symptoms of...........................
ResponderExcluir.................................guilt over nothing as an active characteristic, so to speak, an invariably excellent actor, a wizard with serene nostrils, they give the impression, with monstrous slowness, of being in control of everything. And what an impressive verbal flow! How many are blinded by that! In the frame, my characters are astonished by me; you have to know what's happening first, and then measure it in a frame. So many characteristics combined, and with many saying YES with winks to the reader, further confuses the book's confusion. I hear a clock ticking in my head, like in Graciliano Ramos's tale of insomnia. Through the landscape of coconut trees, I focus again on the movie Sabrina, which clouds my eyes, its name dissolving and reappearing, all those red and blue lines of sun reflections on the asphalt like a net in which my mind has become tangled at some point. I take a deep breath!
ExcluirWe get back in the car and continue our journey. I have to speed up now, but the journey becomes easier, shielding our minds with the barrier of fatigue and profound boredom, the anguish of having ended up in a parallel world where nothing known matters. Easier, nonetheless. Between one breath and another, the desire for happiness left in its purest form, the Stimmung of the presentation of boredom, the Strukturmomente that defines the being-left-empty, sneezing the mosquitoes of its reality into the facts and news of the world, facilitator of disorders, whose skin seems to think for it, already entering Salvador. I can feel the bar turning rigidly, the differential gears separating, and the bearings turning in their grease-sealed tunnels. The windows of convenience stores, gas stations, neon signs on the shelves, chips reminding me of a young Sabrina, an anonymous girl on magazine covers, entire rows of them undulating their bikini-clad bodies in the sun, through huge summer parties sponsored by major beer brands and show business executives. How scary, how infuriating to think about this at a time like this.
ResponderExcluirIn the daylight, it was a terrible idea, shining brighter than the others in my head. I sat motionless in the car, staring sharply over the steering wheel, through the windshield, at the Saturday sky. The sky had a distinctly Saturday quality, but dimmed, a soot through which my soul breathed, returning each of my phone calls at that very moment. “They asked to call..........................................
ResponderExcluir........................again. And, back home, tranquilizers and cigarettes—Where do you live, anyway?—With Beatriz, her house is a Carmen ghetto—the whisper of the waking city is also the hypnotic lapping of the sea, of the old town, anxious and nauseous, thinking about what Sabrina really... her parents must be on their way to the city, so she goes back to being a family sheep with money. Could it be? Maybe not even the police know where she's stashing so much cocaine, I think vaguely, and I feel the torpid morning I left behind like a network of phone calls and oppressive races, trails of distrust and strings of obscure words, spiritualized in the white thread of concern, then sewn across the asphalt, in threads of thought, until it reaches the dimension of an invisible net hovering over the flat streets, in whose center I am trapped inside my own head, with my apprehensive smile of the open sea.
ExcluirNothing is a cage in the face of this incalculable difficulty, that of never knowing what is true or false in relation to a woman, a genesis, a genealogy, or a gender, and the discontinuity of the entirely other, literature reveals itself to Derrida's reading as the territory of all contaminations and all indecisions. Its very power, the author of Genesis and Genealogies... asserts, consists in "[...] withdrawing or denying the power and the right to decide, to choose between reality and fiction, testimony and invention, concreteness and imagination, the imagination of the event and the event of the imagination" (DERRIDA). What happens, like what happens, is a touch, a transition, a concrete step toward... in the macabre dialectic of uncertainty, its inflection points where lies lead to truths and truth provokes the flickering of lies. Lautreámont, Baudelaire, alcohol, prostitution and overdoses in five-star hotel rooms, as in the news, these residues of the cultural industry now and then dead in an inhospitable salt flat of comfort that they have filled.
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ResponderExcluir"Why is it that every time I see you, you're alone, K?" she asks. I look down at my feet. "Probably talking to myself too. Wouldn't you like to complete it?" I feign indifference, tiredness, as another slow-motion moment blurs my eyes and I see lunar craters between the tiles of the mall floor, next to my sneakers. "I haven't seen you since the day Beatriz..." blushing. "You must be joking, Sabrina." - refined patience in command. "Just remember it right," she says, pulling at the skin ----------------------------------
--------------------------thin and white below the eye with his index finger, her warm, blood-spattered breast throbbing, a feat of effervescent saliva, the kiss declines the rest of the whole scene—a desert installed in the being-left-empty rescued by the cosmos? In the confines, exuding from Non-Being. As soon as it blossomed, ahem, all that weak, affectionless solitude in which there existed only thickets of creosote, poisoning coldness seen on women's faces. "The Devil is brutal. But God is treacherous!" "I confess I'm surprised," Sabrina said. "Calling someone a whore is out of the question, and a slap in the face is an instant punishment. The disbelief that image causes me!" Showers of false indignation burst from the vampiric carapace, in that moment of soft flesh and silky ribs.
ExcluirMy eyes shone, a vampire too, waiting for the day to pass quickly, in a spasmodic effort of lunar promiscuity. Erect, with muscles of certainty and a desire to respond. Her shadow: hardened little breasts quivering in the V of the tear, thinking HE'S REALLY CRAZY! But maybe she even liked the idea being executed. There was always a strange sensitivity in me to the false happiness she always wanted to turn into a party, "in the law of the gentle," having fun, saving. "Youth is a task to be disproved later."
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