COUNT THE PRESENT DAYS UNTIL TODAY ARRIEVES (ME)

 

(the streets in New York weren't looking at all attractive to me at that moment, and I felt ridiculous having to stroll down Fifth Avenue again --- finding myself there kept me in a state of congestion that was becoming the rule in a period when "starting all over again" didn't seem like any source of pleasure --- so I refused to enter the lobby of the Hotel Santi-Régis in favor of some bar, so as not to meet some typical blonde and start one of those typical literary dialogues that later, like a useless burden of my existence, would weigh on me like an excrescence regurgitated a thousand times and without any result, by tutors, commentators, advisors, sympathizers (see our relationship with the people of the Gramsci International Society for years, and with the Russian ambassadors in Latin America - all of whom we pretended to work for (and ended up actually working for) just to throw off the CIA and MI6) and other defenders of idle opinions --- there, in the bar, I would have free time to distill all my bad mood in front of of the switched-off cell phone, feeling the acute pressure of the hour. There were no calculations or rough estimates for the "pressure of the hour," and both Fay and I sensed that something must start to "fail" right now. We, the visionary animals of the PLAN. In any case, we'd be crushed if we wavered a bit and stopped to "rest." Oops, the waitress's green-cloth-covered ass: well-cinched, on young thighs, the blond hairdo rippling over her neck, and loose strands suggesting good fun, a strange personality, easy and childish excitement, blond flesh, a rosy ass brushing against silk sheets, and typical literary dialogues --- bars, breweries, and restaurants in New York, and dozens of large cities in the interior: how many times have I lingered in the blood of these situations suspended in nothingness, understanding that I was being observed there by a kind of UNIVERSAL READER and never expressing my real opinion on anything, unlike the willful naive --- YES!, I repeated to myself, PROTEUS, a great mythical criminal of perception --- the first step to a great maneuver of perception is to say nothing, to mutely feel all the cultural malaise, the ruin of the soup of small and large vagabond spectacles within which we live, spoken spectacles of the mediated discourse by the trivialization and manipulation of history as a functional ideology to the dominant and hegemonic interests of the era of homogenization and one-dimensional standardization of man and culture --- what so many pseudo-intellectuals have been calling "post-modernity" for some time is, on the cultural plane, the HIGHER STAGE OF CAPITALISM, whose main function is TO DESTROY HISTORY, TO ALIENATE PEOPLE IN ONE-DIMENSIONALITY, TO CUT ALL LINKS WITH THE PAST AND TO ORIENT ALL EFFORTS AND ALL IMAGINATION TOWARDS WHAT IS ABOUT TO OCCUR (according to John Berguer in Puerca Tierra) --- the intellectually disconnected world of news debris and fragmented images in which the naive victims from this system they believe they "live and think", and what is worse: "freely", and from where the only value that emerges is MONOPOLIZED PROFIT --- and the only valid response to it: DARK IRONY, SARCASM and, on a literary level, the PARODY of the construction of a cultural world ---