The fall of the axe

I did not know what to do; my family was in a great predicament and my friend had advised me not to think too much about it, yet it was the only thing on my mind; a forgotten acquaintance had invited me to a party, and my friend pressed me to go, though a blizzard came down heavy upon us. I was living overseas and my friend, who happened to live with me, was the only person I knew. So in the end I succumbed to his incessant beckoning, and we left the warm apartment in a rush, barely catching our overcoats.

When we came out it was colder than what I had thought; the icy winter still endured and no trace of spring was to be seen, even though it was early March. So I wrapped myself more closely in my coat and followed him to his car. It was fully covered in snow.

My friend desperately shoved the snow out of the hood and windshield, but it was hopeless. By the time he dispelled the snow from one segment of the car, another became crowded with it. More and more snow kept coming down, making us more and more immobile.

“There’s no use,” I said, almost yelling.

“It’s true,” my friend said, dropping the last bundle of snow he had in his hands. “Let’s take the subway.”

It was an easy ride, slow but secure. There were only a handful of people in the wagon, and most of them kept their gaze down and their words to themselves. All save one lonely man in the corner who had a long, dark beard and a twisting mass of hair that covered his head up to his shoulders. He was bundled up in newspapers and zealously guarded several bags of garbage which lay next to his feet. Once in a while he coughed and banged his fists against the window, but it did not break. He would then gaze down and pronounce unintelligible words which nobody seemed to be concerned about.

“Don’t think about it, anymore, okay?” My friend said once we were walking down the street.

I remained silent and kept on walking. It was a hard thing to breathe. I had to press the collar of my coat against my mouth and nose so that the icy wind wouldn’t fill my lungs.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Must be around nine,” my friend said. He was also wrapped in his overcoat but did not have a hat. The snow kept piling up on top of his head, which he removed, every now and then, with a swift pass of his hand.

Finally we got to the door. It was a strange feeling. We were quite far away, but I had barely noticed the trip.

The door was a large, wooden piece, with doorknobs in the form of a lion and a frame with a serpent pattern. It was an old townhouse, well conserved overall, considering the weather. And we stood there for a while staring at it, having already knocked on it twice. There was a small, circular hole on one side, at about the height of our waists, but we couldn´t figure out its purpose.

“Are you sure it’s nine? It must be later than that,” I said, but before he could respond, someone opened the door.

My acquaintance stood before us. We greeted each other with a warm handshake and I introduced my friend. I smiled and looked warmly at him, shaking my body, trying to make him realize we were standing under the heavy blizzard.

“Oh, God, it’s snowing,” he said as if suddenly realizing the weather. “Come on in.”

We entered and he closed the door behind us. We took off our coats and hung them on the hooks on the wall, which were painted all scarlet. The house was almost entirely made out of wood, except for the floor, which was made out of hard marble and had a checkered pattern that pervaded also on the stairs which stood straight from the entrance and which circled all the way to the second and third floors.

“Can I use the toilet?” My friend suddenly asked.

“Sure, follow the hallway, third door to your right.”

My friend nodded and walked away. I followed him with my sight until he disappeared inside the corridor, at which point I turned and smiled at my host.

“So, how’ve you been?” I said,  for some reason feeling unfathomably stupid.

He looked down on me, smiled and tapped me on the shoulder, then he led me in the opposite direction to where my friend had gone.

“Rosa and the others are here, too,” he said. “You remember Rosa, don’t you?”

I might have said yes but the fact is that soon I found myself in a wide, luxurious living room. The hard marble had transformed into a maroon carpet on which there lay, perfectly ordered, the fantastic furniture that completed the room. On the far side, under a glittering frame that revealed a woman draped in fur, there was a red, velvet couch, on which there sat a man, dressed in peculiar formal wear. Next to it there was a cool, black, woman-shaped lamp that emitted a dim, orange light. Further to the right, there was a wide window, facing the street, though the curtains were shut and prevented any light from the outside from coming in. Given the angle by which I had entered the room, the last thing I noticed was the girl—a slim, grey-eyed teen who sat in a comfortable armchair and who wore an elegant night dress. On her lap there was a small greyhound that she stroke slowly and smoothly.

I said hello but I was barely heard; still my acquaintance motioned me to sit on the couch and so we both did. I could hear a soft, soothing music, but as I looked around, I could not guess where it came nor I could pinpoint its exact nature. While I scanned the room, my eyes met the girl’s for a second, but I quickly looked away.

My acquaintance had begun to talk to the well-dressed man, who was reading a magazine. They talked about something or other, but I did not take notice as I was wondering where my friend had gone and where the music was coming from. But as I began to stress my thoughts, the recollection of my family and their terrible situation popped into my head—they had been deceived out of all their possessions and driven to the edge of monstrosity. My father’s flourishing business was doomed and I, his appointed successor, had left for a more glamorous life.

As my thoughts gathered more and more steam, I thought about leaving, bidding farewell to my hosts and run all the way back home, but my friend soon came back, almost rushing into the living room, and sat right next to me, giving me a strong hug that lasted more than what I had expected.

As he sat, I picked up the ongoing conversation, but I was unable to comprehend anything they uttered. They spoke a strange language; the words sounded as shrieks proper of a berserk animal, even though their manners were perfectly social and familiar. From time to time they turned towards me, gave me what I considered to be a condescending smile, and spoke to me in plain words. They asked me about my job and my life, but they quickly returned to their conversation.

My friend, however, seemed perfectly at ease with the situation, and followed their eyes as if he were following a simple game of Ping-Pong. Therefore, knowing myself cast off, I stopped listening and turned my attention towards the girl, who sat lonely with her dog. Her gaze was aimed towards the long, draped curtains but, noticing my gaze, she quickly turned towards and smiled. But her smile was not aimed at me, not at anyone else; instead it hovered across the room as if she had her mind focused on an entirely imagined life.

“You’re Rex’s friend?” She said.

“I believe so,” I answered, still vexed on the way her hands went hither and thither from the animal’s head and back.

“It was a good thing that you came, all things considering,” she said, blinking slowly.

For a second I thought she was talking about my family, but soon I understood she referred to the unmerciful weather that could still be heard coming down strongly.

“It’s been a long time. I hadn’t seen Rex in a long time,” I said, becoming suddenly aware that my hands were uncontrollably rubbing my knees.

“When did you meet?”

“Oh, I’ve known him for a long time,” I said, and tried to remember where I had met him, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember when and where. He was an elusive memory. Once or twice he had come back in a conversation with my family, but always as a side-note. His name I had completely forgotten and the name Rex seemed somewhat unfamiliar.

“And now here you are. I guess you never know what you’ve got in your own house, don’t you?” She said, and laughed strongly.

The laugh reverberated through the room and those that were sitting next to me turned at us. I quickly looked back, as if guilty of something, and noticed that Rex’s friend was missing. I began to wonder where he had gone, but the thought lasted no more than a second, for instantly he appeared next to me, with two cups of wine, one of which he was offering to me. I took it instinctively and drank a sip. I enjoyed its flavor, but couldn’t pronounce what was grape it was, even though when small I had been an outstanding taster, able to identify any smell or flavor.

“So, are others coming?” I asked, more to me than to anyone else.

“In a while; you never know who might come popping in your doorstep,” Rex said. And as he did so, he got up, walked towards Rosa and kissed her on the mouth.

I tried to ignore this, but the act offended me; and as he came back to the couch, I could not help my stern countenance.

“But honestly,” Rex said, as if withholding my threat against him, “I wanted to understand your situation. You are a doctor, as I believe.”

“Lawyer,” I say, glancing back at Rosa who had remained unmoved by Rex’s kiss.

“Basically the same thing, isn’t it?” Rex said and chuckled. “Anyhow, we have a situation. You see, our Rosa here is a wonderful lady, but she is hard to satisfy. She is ill. We need you to see what’s wrong with her.”

Rosa’s dog suddenly detached itself from her and came up to me, sticking his head in between my legs. He was a charming dog, curious and with a loving expression. And I was about to pet him when Rex came rushing to me, yelled out something in that strange language, picked it up and put it back on Rosa’s lap.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, coming back to me. “As I said, she needs someone to take a look at her.”

“But I’m not a doctor, you see, a lawyer is someone who—”

“She has moments,” Rex interrupted me in a sharp tone. “She has moments when we she gets this feeling as if she were about to fade, as if nothing could keep here standing. We have brought doctor after doctor, but when they sit with her, they are sickened by her illness and rush to the bathroom, wanting to throw up, as if that could free them from her, from that black shapeless mass that surrounds her at times, sort of like a crazed chimp trying to break loose of its bars.”

I slowly turned towards her with an aching feeling that I would look upon a monstrous figure, deformed and abominable, but she remained as she was, a good girl, Rosa, her lose hair falling beautifully down her neck, mixing with the dog’s fur that was healthy and lustrous.

“I don’t see anything wrong with her now, are you sure—”

“He can’t see it! He can’t see it!” And as he said this, his friend picked me up and began searching inside my pockets. I tried to restrain him, but Rex took my arms from behind and held them tight. His friend went through everything and destroyed all that I had in my pockets. And when he was done, they both released me.

I tried to reach my friend, but just then I noticed that he had gone up to the window and had stuck his head in between the curtains, so that all but his head remained on this side.

“You pigs!” I yelled, but my voice sounded utterly ridiculous. “I am not a doctor—have never been. I am a—”

“Look upon her!” Rex cried, and immediately called his friend, who took me by my arms and carried me all the way to Rosa’s armchair. “Look upon her. Heal her. Heal her. And if you don’t” he turned to his friend, “then kill him.”

I was still shocked by the sudden turn of events when I felt her hand touch my shoulder. I looked down on her and for a moment she seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world, genuine and pure, as if incapable of any violence whatsoever.

But suddenly I heard someone get closer to me and whisper, “Please, let me die.” And as I heard this, I noticed her sad, pale face. I peered back to see if no one had heard her, but nobody had. Now she looked decrepit and weak, but she still had her hands running on the dog’s back.

“What are you talking about?” I whispered. “You are a healthy girl, somewhat skinny, but with your whole life ahead of you. Don’t listen to them.”

She straightened herself and picked up her earlier expression. Rex and his friend had left their spot and were now close to my friend, who still had his head stuck inside the curtains. As they caught my eyes, they revealed a huge axe. They showed it to me and began to play with it, swinging it from side to side. Quickly I turned to Rosa and pleaded her to stop them, but she was only focused on her dog.

Ultimately, she appeared to listen to me and put her lips close to my ear. “You know, I have lost all faith in you. You thought you knew what you were doing. You were so secure of what you knew. But if you have such friends as Rex, you should never have abandoned your family. Before you only knew about yourself. Now you know what else is there beside you. And your family is out there, in this icy winter, suffering the frost, while you’re about to be beheaded by the stroke of the axe.”

“You joker! Everything has been an act!” I shrieked upstarting. “My friend tricked me into coming here. And what for? So I could forget my grieving family and watch all of you perform around me?”

Rosa looked at me with a sudden compassion, and said, “That axe is not so bad. It creates a sharp wound around your neck. You could barely hear it if you were lost in the forest.”

“Of course, not bad at all!” I said, mocking her, but the words sounded deadly earnest.

There was a loud bang outside and I turned towards the window, but I had forgotten the curtains were shut and nothing could be seen. My friend was still in the same position, and Rex was now sharpening the axe.

When I came back to Rosa, she had already taken off all her clothes, and lay naked in the armchair. Quickly, I pulled a blanket and covered her, but the dog, becoming suddenly vicious, tore it apart.

“I would love to scratch your brains out,” she said, moistening her lips.

And at that moment the axe was brought down. I could hear the head falling on the other side, but when I looked, my friend’s body remained still in the same immobile position. It was just then that I remembered my family. So I gathered all my remaining strength and unglued myself from Rosa. I rushed towards the door, and attempted to unhook my coat, but it was stuck in the rack, so I left it.

I rushed out the door and ran. I thought about my family, how I, the prodigal son, the pride of my parents, had abandoned them. I knew I couldn’t go back to my apartment, my key was useless now. So I kept running, aware that none of my fellow coworkers would come to my aid. I had been deceived. Once you have ignored the alarm of the night bell—it can never be made good.

Birthdays

(Today’s my father’s birthday, so in honour of that, I wrote this little piece of fiction. Congratulations!)

H walked down the street when a man stopped him, looked him up and down and said, “Happy birthday, sir.” H stared at him. He was a tall man, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a tall hat and holding a polished wooden cane. Next to his left eye he held a monocle.

“What did you say?” H said with surprise.

“I said,” the man began. “‘Happy birthday,’ sir.”

H took a step back, frowned and opened his mouth to say something; however, after a moment of indecision, he closed it again. He gazed at the suited man for a couple of seconds and contemplated the particular situation. But before he finished thinking about the strange scene, the man touched his hat bidding goodbye and walked past him.

H stood there for a moment, going over what had just happened. But suddenly he remembered the appointment he had with M (she’d invited him for breakfast), so he shook his head and resumed his step, quickened the pace. Soon he reached a crosswalk that stopped him cold and made him look with annoyance the hand-shaped red light above him. He sighed and looked at his watch; anxiously he gazed at the seconds’ hand of his golden watch, moving fast. All of a sudden, a hand touched his left shoulder. H turned around and saw a young woman standing in front of him. She was short, had long dark hair and wore gym clothes. She was looking at him, smiling.

“Congratulations,” she said.

H, as he had done with the monocled-man, stared at her with surprise. “Why do you congratulate me?” he said.

The woman widened her smile and said, “Why, for your birthday, of course.”

The light turned green and everybody around them began to cross the street. H stood amidst the chaotic gait of businessmen and passer-bys, wondering what the hell was happening. He looked at the woman, then to both his sides and back at her. She had grey eyes and now her smile had been replaced by an idle sense of uncertainty; whether she should walk away or wait for the birthday-man to say something. But H said nothing; he frowned, stepped past her and quickly crossed the street. When he reached the other side he glanced behind him but the woman was no longer there. He began to run.

The diner’s name was Rick’s and H came to its doors sweating, breathing heavily and with a deep cut on his trousers. He rested his body on the metallic bar of the door. He breathed deeply and looked at his reflection on the glass. He somehow fixed his hair and dried his face with his sleeve. Then he pushed the door and walked into the diner. As he crossed the threshold, dozens of people jumped and yelled at the same time: “Congratulations!”

H stood motionless, his mouth locked; his eyes wide open, not blinking. Confetti and pointed hats flew everywhere, the restaurant a sea of blue, red and yellow. A few children inflated balloons and blew them up right away; older boys made strange sounds with their hands and whistled loudly; adult couples simply grinned and clapped mildly. Behind the counter, cooks and waitresses looked at H in sincere happiness, some of them showing more teeth than they should have.

A piece of cake splashed on H’s face. H immediately woke out from his state of estrangement, slowly he raised his left hand and began to wipe the chocolate cream off his face. He stared at them: two teenagers at the right hand corner of the entrance lobby, laughing, celebrating the bullseye shot. H smirked. As he tried to wipe all the meringue off his hair, one of the waitresses went to him and handed him a small towel. H took it and cleaned his face carefully. Then he made a thankful gesture, gave her back the towel and gazed at the crowd. M was standing right in the middle. She was smiling and held in her hands a big chocolate cake of which a piece was missing.

“What happened to your trousers?” She asked, tilting her head; her pony-tail rose, floated in mid air for an instant, and fell back on her back.

“Nothing,” H said, his voice shallow. “I fell down, it’s nothing.”

“Come, let’s go sit down,” M said, walking towards him. She took him by the arm and led him to a table.

They sat on a booth facing each other while the rest of the crowd went back to their tables. One of the waitresses went to their table and asked what it was going to be. H said nothing. The waitress looked at him and then at M, who simply smiled. After a couple of seconds she intervened and said that a couple of scrambled eggs and a tall, pulp-less orange juice would be fine. The waitress wrote it down and walked away.

“So?” M said, grinning widely. “Happy birthday!”

H stared at her intently just as he had done with the hatted man and the grey-eyed woman. This time, however, he said nothing. Instead, he thought about what had happened and tried to remain as far away as possible from metaphysical thoughts. He nodded a few times and whispered to himself, “What-the-hell…”

Then, out loud, he said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

H smiled.

It was not his birthday.

On the phone…

You got it? Excellent… What? Don’t fuck with me, man. No, of course I don’t wanna do that. ‘Cause it’s fucking insane. Why don’t we– What? Really? Well… we could give it to Stan. What do you mean ‘Stan who’?! Stan, man… you remember him, right? No? Well, Stan’s the man, trust me. Yeah, I trust him. He’s gotten me out of some deep shit. No, of course not literally, but he’s some cool dude. We do it behind the Chinese place around the corner. Nah, its cool, man, nobody’s there… What? The girl? She’s not a problem. I got someone taking care of her right now. No, I ain’t gonna kill her, what’s wrong with you? I sent my boy to buy her a cup of coffee while we do our shit. Of course, he’s got something that kind of girls just can’t resist. Nah, not money, charm; he’s one sweet talker. The deal goes red at midnight, remember? You got to be there exactly at that time, don’t show up early and fuck it up. Yeah, right, you better not fuck me this time. When? Remember that time you were supposed to blow a fucking door? Yeah, you needed to press a fucking button and you didn’t ‘cause you were too busy getting a blowjob. Ah, yeah… now you remember, you fuck. Midnight sharp, you bring the squeezers and red tape. Just bring some fucking red tape. ‘Cause you don’t need to know, you just need to bring it. Fuck, man, just show up with red tape, what’s the big deal? Are you retarded or something? Then you’ll get a signal and they’ll tell ya what to do. I don’t know the signal. I don’t. It’s a giant penis. Yes, a giant penis. Fuck, man, yes, of course I’m fucking with ya. Someone will show up and tell ya this– Nah, no hooker is gonna show up, just some guy. Well, you want me to tell ya? Then shut the fuck up. He’s gonna tell ya “Give me the tape, retarded monkey.” I’m not kidding… He’s gonna call you “retarded monkey,” that’s the key word. Well, if you wanna do that, do it. Go ahead and blow that guy’s brains, do it, but they’ll probably chop your balls and force-feed them to ya if you do that. Yeah, to Frankie, you remember? Frankie, short guy, bald, black, he thought he could fuck Lamar’s daughter. Exactly, that guy… No, not that Frankie, the other one. No, man, fuck, that Frankie got killed by a ice-cream truck in valentines. Never mind, you be there, ok? You fucking be there, I got to go now. What? How the fuck should I know? Second date I think… What? I guess so. Yeah, I know he’s only fifteen. You don’t need to meet him. ‘Cause it’s not something you can teach. He’s got it, you ain’t. Shut the fuck up and get ready. Don’t you fucking do that…  I’m telling ya, man, don’t fucking do that. Dude? You there? Fuck. —-

War Stories

You’ve probably heard this story before, right? You know, the one about these two squadrons in World War I. Yeah, you know, these two squadrons, one was German and the other French. They were deep in their trenches and it was Christmas morning and so, given that the current situation was super depressing, the French commanding officer came out of his trench and yelled out, “I offer a truce, in light that it’s Christmas morning!” Or was it the German? I don’t really remember, and I know you’re going to get on your high heels about who was the benevolent son of a bitch, so suppose both commanding officers, at the same time proposed the truce.

Well, obviously, both squadrons accepted. Bear in mind that these guys had been in that field fighting for over three days. Now, you probably don’t have the slightest idea, and neither do I, but being there must be a bitch. You know when you got a rash and you can’t scratch yourself down there because you’re at the dentist and he’s trying to pull out some bad tooth? Well, that has nothing to do with anything, but these bastards were there for three whole days, watching their friends get killed by other men. It’s brutal. They were down there for 72 hours, thinking about their girlfriends or their wives and thinking that they’ll never again be able to hold them or kiss them or have a nice blueberry cake, because some guys are gay, you know? And there’s nothing wrong with being gay, really. No, there’s nothing wrong about remembering your wife and thinking about cake. Well… where was I? Ah, yes of course, well these guys were in the shit, deep in it, covered all over the place, and it was Christmas. But the field where they had been engaged in deathly combat was coated in snow, so that all the white had covered the dead bodies and it looked awesome. So, they both agreed a truce, and got out of their trenches and recovered their squadron’s dead bodies and brought them back to their trenches. But then, as you are surely expecting, out of some misplaced sense of brotherhood or deranged Stockholm syndrome (I know this has nothing to do with anything, but I know what the Stockholm syndrome is and I just wanted to show it off), some of the brave young soldiers, from both sides, began to talk to each other. Now, these were French and German people, so they spoke more than one language. And so they began to talk, about how it was back at home, about what they were doing before they came here, and all that heartwarming stuff…

Anyway, before anyone knew about it, they began to play football (no, I don’t know where they got the ball, maybe it was just there, some poor kid dropped it, or the gay soldier had it in his backpack, just in case). No, I’m not talking about the skull-breaking American Football. I’m talking about the proper, foot-the-ball game, where you got to kick a ball into a rectangular frame (I refuse to write “soccer” outside a parenthesis). They used the snow to draw a pitch on the field, and they began to play. They had fun and they scored goals, and they took their shirts off to celebrate, and then they put them back on because it was freezing and if they didn’t they would die. And then it was half time, and they had lunch. They had sausages, because that was the only thing they had. No, that’s not to say they had a gay orgy. And they talked and showed each other pictures of their beloved ones, and again all that heartwarming stuff.

But then the second half started, and suddenly the game started to get physical. Out of the blue, the game began to mean something. Suddenly they fought every ball with passion, and they yelled at each other for bad misses or misplaced passes. Now, don’t think that this was due to the fact that they were at war and that they suddenly remembered that they were representing their countries, because that had nothing to do with it. They were proud people, and they were young and football is a very animalistic sport. I mean, you got twenty-two subnormal men chasing a ball, kicking it with their feet… When you think about it, it’s pretty primal, pretty retarded.

So, as expected, they began to fight. Out came the goalkeepers, and the coaches, and the crowd came into the field. Okay, there was no crowd, I made that up. But it got pretty bad, some of them boys lost several teeth, one or two were knocked down, and there was one guy that actually broke two ribs. But that guy was the dumbest of the lot, he was French, of course, and while running away from a German, he fell into his trench and there you go.

Well, obviously after a while they stopped the fight and shook hands again, and with toothless smiles they grinned at each other and laughed at their stupidity. It was a tie game. At least that’s the official version of it. Even though we all know that the Germans probably won, because… well… they are Germans. They’ll mess you up.

Anyway… after the game they spent the rest of the day together, yeah, you guessed it, the same heartwarming stuff. But it was winter, and so it got pretty cold at around four or five when the sun came down. So at that time they all said goodbye, they hugged it out, and went back to their respective trenches.

Now, I just told you this whole story because, supposedly, when the two commanding officers were saying goodbye, they engaged in this little dialogue.

“Well, Captain, it’s been an honor,” the French commander said.

“The honor was all mine, Captain,” the German commander said.

“Oh and I’m sorry about the fight,” the French went on. “In the end, it’s just a game, right?”

“Yes, Captain,” the German smiled. “But to which game are you referring?”

My initial intention was to end this little piece of mindlessness after that last thing the German said, but I felt that I was being too serious and brainy. Though, to be completely honest with you, I just felt sickened at the idea that some bohemian, guitar-playing, dumber-than-a-toilet architect-wannabe would finally link the two neurons in his brain and realize what the fuck I was talking about and actually use that pseudo-epiphany to lure some submental baton-twirler into bed.

It would bother me so much. I can almost see it, this guy, in his deep, masculine voice, going “You see, Mandy,” – these girls always have the stupidest names, right? But I’m sorry if your name is Mandy, not because of what I just wrote, but because your actual name is Mandy – and then he’d say, “This story here, even though it’s written in this humorous, light-hearted way, it’s actually a reflection on how pointless war is, it’s just a game. There’s so much suffering, so much death, and for what? Nothing! There’s so much beauty in the world, dammit! why can’t we focus on that? There’s so much beauty in this world… so much beauty in this country, in this city, in this crowded town-square, in these magnificent buildings, in this café, in these hands [caresses her hands], in this face [touches her face], in these beautiful brown eyes, these porcelain cheeks, this honey-coloured skin… in these soft lips… these strawberry… silky…. delicate… soft lips…” And they would kiss, and the girl would think “Oh my God! This guy’s so cute! Oh my God! Oh my God!” and when they’d finished making out or whatever, she’d go back home and go, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” and she’d call her friend, Sharon, and yell in that squeaky, irritating high voice, “Oh my God, you won’t believe it! You won’t believe it –eevit –eevit! I met this guyyyy! He’s so cute, and he’s really smart, and sensitive, and, like, totally gets me,” and they would talk for about five hours, give or take, and then they’d have to hang up because Sharon’s dad would come into her room and hit her. Too dark? I’m sorry… let’s say her mom would come into her room and tell her that dinner was ready.

But this is Mandy we’re talking about, so she’d be too excited to do anything else but be in a state of total euphoria, and so she’d star jumping on her bed and again with the “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” until she’d finally hit her head, get a concussion and shut the fuck up.

So, there you go, the German officer was implying that war is also a game. And he’s right, it’s a game. Somehow a more sophisticated, technical, and less retarded (yes, it is less retarded despite whatever you damn hippies say!) game than football. But it’s still a game. Something we use to fill our lives with purpose and meaning. Something to hold on so we can safely say “Heil mein Führer!” or “Pour la France!” or “Viva la Revolución!” without feeling stupid. But hey, in the end, it’s like anything else, you know. Whatever works is fine. And it works for them, so who the fuck are we to judge them?

So, there you go, it’s quite a story, isn’t it? Fun, charming, touching, and with a little twist at the end that makes it somewhat less stupid. So, in conclusion, fuck you bohemian, good-looking man! Now you need to find other ways to lure woman into bed –ha! But hey, it’s not all bad; you can always try this line: “Hey, could you come here, sit on my lap, and take a picture with me? [Why?] ´Cause I want to show Santa what I want for Christmas.” [Drum-beat] You didn’t like it? Go fuck yourself.



Lousy Editing

I don’t know if you’ve noticed but lately people seem to be making a lot of mistakes. They begin a sentence and right in the middle of it they change it they modify it succumb to a different slightly different radically different concept or idea. They think that believe that if they somehow manage are able to shove into your despicable introduce many several the greatest amount of ideas into your pea sized into your brain they’ll manage to squeeze their way to success to money to pussy to getting better jobs and respect. I profoundly gravely meticulously disagree with such philosophy such way of thinking and I truly think these people are jackasses these people don’t know what they are really doing. I’m not a cynic I try not to be a cynic but I can’t help but thinking believing agreeing with those that send out letters of anger and hate of anger, hate, despair to the magazines that print out these so-called opinions these inane observations this bullshit. I don’t know about you I command you to join me in this fight against these people that don’t even know what the fuck what the hell what in the name of our Lord they’re talking blabbing on about. Who do they think they are? Who are these people? This is what I want to know what I need to know what we need to know. We need to learn where these people these animals these beasts are living are hiding are lurking so we can track them down and hunt them like dogs like mongrels like the terrorists that they are!

Modern Cities

“Hey, did you see that building over at Miramont?” Ed said.

Ed and Mark had been in town just for a brief meeting and before heading back to Capital city they’d decided to have a quick lunch.

“The one that looks like a giant banana?” Mark said, reading a newspaper and eating a sandwich.

“Yea.”

“What about it?” Mark mumbled, munching on his sandwich.

“Well, don’t you think it’s kinda weird?”

“Nah,” Mark said loosely. “It’s like that thing we saw over by the bridge that lets you cross the river with lianas. They like that sort of stuff over here.”

“Or the park that had banana peels scattered all over…” Ed said confusedly. “What is this, monkey-land!?”

“Well… yea,” Mark said. He showed Ed the newspaper, pointing at the headline, “See… ‘Monkey City tops world economy!’”

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Ed said rather relieved. “I kept wondering why there’d been so many monkeys at that meeting.”

Living Dream

Once upon a time there was a man, and one night that man dreamt a dream, and the dream was alive.

It was a woman, a beautiful woman. She was tall and she was skinny, and she had eyes about the colour of the moon. In the beginning she was there inside a lonesome room, and she was in the dream, and she was the dream. She began to see, to feel, to taste the pleasant waters of the Platonic seas. There they were because it was only a dream. But alas! It wasn’t only a dream. She was alive, and the dream was alive, and one day she noticed a sphere floating just above her bedroom cot. The only thing there’d ever been had been that room, the only thing she’d ever known had been that room, and she loved it deeply. There’d been oceans and meadows and clouds in the skies, but they all had existed inside that charmed room. It was warm and it was cozy, but there it was: the fantastic lure of the shining, pallid sphere. At first it was nearly the size of a apple but soon it began to grow and grow until it covered half the room. It began to have color; joyous colors. And she longed for that sphere and the infinite space that it contained. Ah, bear in mind this sphere was enchanted!

Soon after, she began to think. But the thoughts felt heavy inside her mind; as if they were big fish she was trying to pull out of the waters; deep, turbulent waters. She thought of music and she thought of dancing, and her porcelain cheeks became filled with rivering tears for the make-believe kingdom that escaped her in that sphere. Her curly hair began to grow and grow, all while she sat with her hands upon her knees, studying that golden sphere.

Suddenly she saw something, deep inside that glowing orb. It was a man. There upon the pillows sinking, he was resting and he was sleeping, and the lining covered all but his dreaming face. And she smiled a smile so wide, so pure that the room’s boundaries began to crack; first the roof and then the walls until there was nothing there but she and he. And she betook herself to linking, fancy unto fancy, engaged in guessing what this man’s presence meant in there sleeping. But the beauty and the warmness in her heart was stronger by far than the judgements in her mind, and she let the cathartic ecstasy fill that room and cast away the intolerable thoughts.

After some time she grew weary and fell asleep. And she dreamed about that man, who still is dreaming, still is dreaming, on that cushioned bed inside that golden sphere.

And her joy from out that dream will never part, will never leave, and the man was in that dream, and the man became the dream.

Working People

John discovers by accident that in his office there’s a drug dealer doing business right under their noses. He decides to go talk with the boss to point him out and make things right.

“I don’t understand, sir… Why won’t you do something?!” John yells out. The boss roars, howls and shouts problems and complications and kicks him out of his office. But John doesn’t give up and goes to the police. “What do you mean that you’re not doing anything?! Don’t you see that…” he gets kicked out into the street wrapped in curses and violent warnings. But John doesn’t give up and goes to the press. They throw him out black eyed and bleeding from mouth and nose. John still doesn’t give up and goes to the president: two broken ribs and five missing teeth.

John tries to convince himself that he must not stop fighting because of morality and ethics and because that’s what he believes in. And it comes the day when John, seated on his favourite leather armchair, turns and with a frightened stare studies everything around him. He looks at the wooden furniture, at the oil paintings of fruit and roses, at his whisky resting on the coffee table, at the picture of his family at the beach… and he realizes that they’re all varnished with the white dust with which everyone toils. It suddenly becomes clear that he also depends on the bastard in his drug palace. And suddenly he gets the feeling that everything around him –the Christmas tree, his wife’s black dress, his youngest daughter returning from ballet, now running towards him– shrouds him under a blanket of corruption and decay. However, he quickly pulls himself together and, spurred by a sudden feeling of determination, he finishes his drink and slams the glass on the table, cathartically dusting the white powder off his thoughts. At least I won’t have to kill myself in protest – John thinks happily – down at the town-square tomorrow.

References

The first time they met, they both dreamt the same dream and they looked at each other’s eyes across the fields of a castle in the sky. When the dream was over, on a stone it was written, ‘When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.’ The second time they met, they sailed on a boat for several years, and when they returned to land, bidding farewell, on the sand it was written ‘Whoever you are, here is your master; He is, He was, or He will be.’ The third time, during a formal dinner party, accompanied by their spouses, they greeted each other happily and then they never saw each other again in their lives; on the sky it was written ‘There are no messages, only messengers, and that is the message, the same way  love is the one who loves.’

The last time, two clouds found each other during a storm, and one whispered into the other, ‘Nothing is ever forgotten, even if you can’t remember.’

Prologue – Virtual Book Project

“This is the most ambitious project that I have yet pursued: to try to evoke, through loose paragraphs, seemingly absurd and incoherent scenes, and ‘outside’ scenarios, a narrative, a story, a group of characters…”

This is the opening passage of a letter that I found on the mail-pile by the entrance door of my house, a cold January morning. I remember reading that letter that same morning. It was badly written, too long and too dense, unorganized, and filled with orthographic mistakes and sentences that never had a verb. It had coffee stains all over and the paper was crumpled, as if he had thrown it into the garbage and then recovered it a week later. Still, in each of its five long pages, I could sense an immense lucidity and a subtle humility and confidence.

“And what would be the purpose of such a book? I asked myself one night. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, and at that moment I imagined that there was no ceiling and I was looking straight at heaven, at an idea that surpassed any other that I had yet had –or at least that’s what I thought at the time […] I realized that for most people, reading a book is an passive exercise. They accept whatever the author gives them: characters, scenarios, problems: the blueprints, the stonecutters, the tools and materials to build a house, a city or whatever-it-was. And so it came to mind… what if we only gave the readers a vague trajectory, a vector;  we could give them the chance of using their own materials –their own life experiences, memories, characters, funny dialogues…; to allow them to change the design of a city, or the direction of a street. […] this is a book that makes the reader the main character, for he is the architect of the book’s world. […] I will allow them to transcend that Everlasting Convention, and let them reject the idea that for things to go right, they must end right…”

The letter was a collection of loose ideas and questions that at some point or another he answered in the most unorthodox fashion. The letter itself simulated what it was to talk to him in person; flying over themes and concepts like moths around a lamppost.

After I got that letter I wondered whether I should respond. It took me three days to decide against it, but I didn’t ignore it.

A couple of months later, I bumped into him in New York, and we had lunch. We did not talk about the letter or its contents during the meal, even though I wanted to. Instead we discussed many other things: a couple of Russian novels and a Japanese film that we’d both loved. We talked about anecdotes, about the old times. We remembered how it was back in college, and back in High-School (“Remember when we submerged the school’s mascot into the swap by the…”). And he asked me something that I will never forget: Tell me, Robert, can you hear the shape of a drum? Can you touch the texture of time? I cannot remember what I said at that time despite my greatest efforts.

After that, we went on to discuss other things, family, kids, money; real life problems. He was about to get married at that time, to a gorgeous Spanish girl, though he finally didn’t.

Two hours flew by, and had to catch a plane and we said goodbye. However, just before we parted, I asked him about his latest project. He looked at me, smiled a smile that it is until now that I finally understand it, and said, I’ll send it to you.

Two years after that meeting, I received a package from him. It was a big, heavy box that contained a manuscript of 413 pages. Attached to it there was a letter. In it he asked me whether I would be so kind to write a prologue or a brief introduction for the book. I opened the package immediately and found a rough version of the book you now hold in your hands. I read it in three weeks; three weeks filled with laughs, sobs, and absurd interpretations. Those were some of the best weeks of my life. I remembered people I had forgotten, went back in my mind to countries, cities, old college campuses that I’d forgotten. If time is space, I traveled hundreds of miles back and forth. However, the moment I finished reading the book and recalled that letter he’d attached and what I had to do now, I began to feel a pressing anxiety: I couldn’t come up with anything that would serve as an introduction. Every attempt I made irrevocably dissected and destroyed the book itself. At night I would wake up and write an idea on a piece of paper, only to feel shame and embarrassment the next morning. However, a month later I discovered that, maybe unconsciously, or just secretly, he had already given me a taste of a prologue: I realized that the crumpled letter I got, two years ago, that snowy morning, would serve as the best prologue that anyone could’ve written.

Here is the letter:

[…]

“Try to remember, Robert. Try to remember when you were walking, or driving back, I don’t quite remember, from the house of that old girlfriend you had in High-School. I assure you it is one of your strongest memories; it triggers thousands of different emotions and fires away hundreds of other thoughts. What if a passage in a book had that power, what if a passage in a book were that memory? What if I could make you blend that memory with a different scenario… blend it with, say, Mexico City or a small English town?”

[…]

“You must love it, you must build a connection. That is the only thing that matters, a connection where opinions don’t really matter. The norm is not social impact or any of the other stupid things writers often write about. The norm is art, it is the Sublime and the Beautiful, that which has the power to destroy us; that which has the power to make us feel anew.”

[…]

“However, one would have to accept that maybe this attempt might become a failed experiment, a unrewarded leap of faith, a senseless answer to literature’s senseless nature, a misunderstanding of the world […] Best wishes […]” Thus finished the letter.

Robert ‘Can’t-Remember-His-Nickname’ Jones

Bristol, 2010.