& Other Stories
by J. Kandy
« M. Teste, d'ailleurs, pense que l'amour consiste à pouvoir être bêtes ensemble »
Impinge Your Pen
You might be as exigent and selective as the girl in Andersen’s story The Princess and the Pea. After all, discriminating is such a common passion. And address your words only to some particular readers, the way you don’t have sex with everybody even without knowing exactly why. It might be the frivolousness itself of this old pleasure in abusing to allow you the remark: “this yes, that no,” and sometimes the reverse. If you are a real sovereign of your will, you can play de Sade and admit and condemn with each new moon, or door of the hour. Others lose their pleasure in privileges with time, and instead of conferring honors and dignities to some and decline and quiescence to the unfortunate others, surrender to a universal feeling of passionate reclusion – and they say: to humanity. Obviously you can have neither something properly intimate with everybody nor with this abstract subject, if it exists, “humanity.” It just does not give you the hard on, at least not to me, despite – let’s admit it – fascism and capitalism are trying their best to arouse our pleasure in fucking some idiomatic ideal. Christ – it cannot be denied – was something of an attractive guy in his lascivious thirties, with his back nailed to the wood in his life-long passion. Christians, at least in that subculture of morbid Catholicism, have been good lovers. Consumerism splashes this erection through myriads of colors and glazing shopping bags. Getting lost in these thoughts, I would only withdraw myself for a second. You can be as selective and picky as the princess of the fairy tale in choosing your elected addressees like new mattresses. It’s a way among others to disguise the fact that only the reader will have the power to let you exist and choosing or defeating you. And I’m only the first reader of these pages in this generative process. It’s already started with a masturbation on the first lines – they say. Actually there is a phantom before writing, because in fact reading, my own reading, my voice anticipating, my thoughts anticipating, always anticipate the act of writing. So I say that is making love. If love comes with the Other: the guy on the sidewalk over the street, looking left and right before crossing the road. Masturbation and love: the same or different? They believe sex lying there between them is endowed with a deconstructive power. The self and the other. So I say whom I am writing to. So I lie saying the truth. But there have always been letters folded inside their envelops, on which the addressee lies written in childish letters, the name, the street, the city, sometimes even the country. The addressee wrote her own address on them, to some extent, where she lives, the presence of present. These letters are often prisoners in their addressed envelope like they would be in a sock or in their destiny. If that’s the case, then they must be rescued. Literature is some sort of mistake or a theft: in fact someone held the letter – secretly stealing it from a drawer, or picking it up from the ground where it had slid out, or it was the postman who got wrong. The essential point nonetheless is always the same, that the one who mistakenly or stealthily gets the letter is always the prince, who kisses the frog. He was the real addressee whose name never appeared on the envelop, and never was meant. Like a wife.Oder von den Händen vom lieben Gott
Sex is like waves when it is. Like a map on the ocean, without south- or north pole but provisional traces – for an interactive journey of the mind. The point is that there is no need of aims or – as they say in the travel agencies – destinations. It’s winter ever, or summer – ever – never. I saw a map of Paris’ benches, Berlin’s bike lines, Rome’s shadows. You can arrive anywhere just following a special shade on the pavement. It crosses walls and expands onto the central squares. The suburbs grow poor even of shadows, when the sun never touches the high margin of the buildings’ wall and coming is a process-ion of trams and worn-out trousers robbing the inner thighs. The sun stands high for two hours while they knock their heels against the hot bricks and their cocks lie numb tightly packed and out of numbness they hardly stir, out of “boredom.” It could be the name of a condom. It’s an old chanson the one their pupils set to music on the plump arms of a girl passing by.
The sun rises and sets with some more dignity. He whistles into the air, blowing as hard as God when the weather changes. He got her attention. She turns with a promise. But it’s only curiosity mixed with some fright. She’s mad now and walks over letting stupidity dwindle among those bricks. He looks stupid, as pale as the day, with ten teeth, might be several more, thickly sprinkling whilst he smiles. But it’s not a smile. It’s a badly digested nightmare, whose ghosts are chewed like cocaine leaves. She’s gone. She returns. Some pounds heavier, short skirt, wide-spanned breast filling the t-shirt to burst up. Those sorts of t-shirts are made of iron-gummy, they keep squeezed and reveal a freedom of time. A hand would alleviate that mess, wouldn’t it? He’s turning heavier to her, jumping off his seat. “Jimmy! The beers!” – “Wait, fuck, I’m busy, don’t you see?” – he’s walking faster to her, he’s screaming. “Idiot. Hand over the beers!” His face is screaming, but the only voice belongs to silence – and to those dickheads of his friends. “Here you go, your bloody beers.”
“Assholes! Leave me in peace. Got your drink, cheers! May God bless you, drunkards.” He took leave.
Walking along the wall – no promises come to bless the walker. Ten-stories building. I’m at home. What I am not, what I do not want. Sex happens by chance, by mistake. Is it not much better to deal with it, pay it out? Her leg in the hand as a receipt, ten euro for that. I am not sure it’s her skin to arouse me or the bill. It’s a dirty piece of paper, a dirty place for it. I couldn’t find it in my pocket. For a few moments I felt embarrassed. First you pay. After you pay again. I found my dick though. Hard as my hand’s knuckles. Wait baby wait. I say to myself, that for her there’s no urgency. I unzip my pants while I search in the pockets. “You take care of it, and I look for that bill.” And I forgot the bill.
It was more than ten euro. And it was more than a blow-job. It’s Golden Square, the Madeleine’s taste of peanut butter. I’d rather lick sandpaper. It feels like sandpaper, dropping away from my eyebrows. My tongue feels rough. I’m walking away – into the scrape maze of the condo. I have a sense on my tongue as I walk on. A square maze does not make it any easier to find the exit, it just makes one more retard. I cannot properly talk. I’ve got a resistance on my tongue. A filthy taste. It doesn’t leave me. I want to give her back – her taste. I run.
He’s turning the second block. Where is she? “Darling, try to be a little more precise? Jenny? Francesca?” He’s not there yet. The second block – never ends. The second block, finally. A woman enters the door, in her forties. 40, Rosamund Street. Wrong: 2, Rosamounth Street. Sweating. It’s not dark yet. “I was here before” he mumbles to her. The night lights are turning on and her face fades into her sparkling make-up. Make-up brings light. Make-up brings night. His face also loses tension while he leans against the wall. “Have you ever stood with your back to the wall? Over a barrel?” Sleepiness only induces the bright teeth of night-mare to come forward. Her laugh whitened the corridor around her hair. “Did you come here running out of breath this far only to catch a stranger and pose such a question?” He shook away from the wall, as if he had just roused himself from a dawning image – those which swiftly flap among the eyelashes before sleep itself – those white pictures – which one says are black and white like dreams, because men like bulls dream in black and white, and instead the images are mainly white, blinding.
“You are a prostitute, aren’t you?” – “You say that only because I’m entering a brothel? I might be the cleaning lady, the janitor, see my tinkling keys?” She pointed to her scarf’s soft pendants, slightly moving her waist, while like by itself the edge of the coat splayed that much to let his desire pass through. Not that much. “You’re a bitch.” – “If you are a son of a bitch, as it looks like, you’d better watch your words.” The conversation, if that was a conversation, was over. She pushed him back, even if she did not need it to pass, and walked up the stairs. “Never over a barrel, were you?” “Good night!” were her last words.
There his dream began. But since he could not sleep he didn’t ever have proper dreams, rather nightmares, those things that trap you between wake and soft rest. Your feet on one soil and you head in the other, it does not matter who’s in what, but this departure, this rift. The less you can walk, the more acute your brain asserts itself. When the brain is finally exhausted, and it never seems to be, finally is turning off, then you realize your thigh is leaning on a turgid penis, came alive from the region of the dead. It branches your spine. It clinches your anus and drag out your backbone, at least it seems like. Night’s fishbone. Nightly night. Black air like lipstick covers its spirals around your abandoned cock. Nightly night. Sleep tight. You’re too tired to do something with it. It will pass out on you. Your dream does not last long. You saw it flip by. You had almost fallen asleep, half-mast, memory. At half-mast today and forever.
Breakfast time. It was still dark, he hadn’t walked long along the wall, had already stopped two or three times, for a coffee and a shot of rum. He liked rum. Color as piss. Burning like a knife. Scorching its way through the throat. It comes to a rest. He also liked coffee for similar reasons, because he had never liked it, and presumably would have never liked it in the future as well. How can you eat it? How can you drink it? It’s shit, tastes like shit. Not literally. Shit has got an older taste, almost ancient. It’s easy to believe that we come from shit, our skin must have grown of it the way stones are geologically made of debris. We smell like shit after all, only more diluted in sperms and flavors. Scent is a tonal birth, a flame of substance, whilst shit makes you dumb, opaque to thought, less eccentric, evanescent, it is – reassuring. It cradles you to sleep with tenderness. Remains.
“Vaginal secretion” fluid of night and day, fresh milk, blotter of my temples, pad of my thought. Blood which turns marvel, I turn and cuddle myself there, it was only a thought. I wrap myself up with this parchment, whose text lies hidden on a button – I talk to, retell stories, smile, paint my face, and suck. Amen.
Second block – divine. Walking towards morning. He crouched in a corner, where a main door stood majestic and closed. No entrance no way – no disturbance. He had no interest in getting anywhere. He was walking he had arrived. He squatted down in the smell of piss. He hated it. But it meant that it was a safe place where to lie awhile, since where men go to piss, they also don’t fuck around. It’s a kosher precaution. Meat stays aside.
On the other side. He touched his penis. It hurt a bit. He thought of the day, of the few roaming spaces between a fuck and the next. His friends, those bastards and their beers. By now they must have drunk them and pissed them out till the bladder. They don’t pass out, they piss out, the idiots. Never after their own businesses. Pigs. Nonetheless he considered to re-join them. It is easy to find anyone around the block. Maybe he’d better stay away from them for the night. They’ll kick around together the following day.
His penis ached. But touching it did not help. His head was leaning back on the wall, his eyes were closed. He slept two or three hours. Then the garbage truck drove by and he woke up on time to skip the water jet just before getting showered on. One sleeve was wet. But he had avoided the worst. Whatever that was.
That bitch hadn’t answered. The feeling of having his own back to the wall, being over the barrel, as you say, was a persistent mood of his in the morning. I mean, whenever he would wake up, whatever morning means, because it means many different things and many different times to many different people. My love’s morning, for example, never ends. He saw himself thinking on a slip of tongue, my love. She would say: good morning, and go to sleep, she would say good morning and kiss me on my lips after work, she would say good morning opening the door at lunch on Tuesdays, she would say good morning when I’d get out of the bath, she’d say good morning coming back from work in the morning, she’d say good morning when I’m not there yet, she said good morning one day, when the good mornings of my life began.
Twisting his fingers. He was twisting his fingers. You can play a lot with your hands, like a magician, you can trick the world and yourself. With your hands. There’s nothing you cannot do with your hands. Even walk, at best walk actually, with your hands, and you swim and you can – at least try – to fly – with your hands. Grasp a woman’s breast with your hand, squeeze it, wait for it, a hand knows the sign of pause – you can signify pause to the entire world, if you just pose your hand horizontally with the floor and move it slowly and then you press constantly but slowly against the viewer and say – you think to say – slowly, slow, keep a slow but constant step. It’s not so unusual after all. Kind of common for him in bed. When he was still thinking about mating with some sort of credentials of life, some soberness and honesty, some sort of social disguise. There was always a woman to whisper into his hear “slowly”, move – slowly, slower, slow. And then hard, surely, harder. There was also a moment for that, like the teaching says, the old and good Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything: more than that, there is a different timing for everything, every fuck especially. He had learned the lesson.
What patience means in bed. Sometimes is loneliness. Some time. He had given his I.D. away for a good fuck. Every good fuck. He had lost any confidence in his hands. He had tried to give them names, to his right and left hand: Biblical names, dogs’ names, food names, besciamella and Pascal, a philosopher and a topping for lasagna. Even so, they despised him. Have you ever, have you ever had your back to the floor? Over the barrel? The lady had gone, of course, he had called her a bitch.
Abruptly, as sometimes you must catch immediately the hints of a dream, so he had to pursue the traces of his night-mare, he startled, he threw himself in the road, and ran. He was running, he arrived, he was running.
He bumped into a policeman. That’s not the best that can happen to you when it’s still early and you smell like piss and alcohol and lived through fucks. But the man did not want to deal with that so early. And it looked just fucked up, after all. And fucked was certainly fucked, each muscle till the bones, his teeth. The officer shook him off. He continued to run and fell and bled out of his knees, on which he had long relied.
He fell and could not walk any longer. So he cried. Into the bucket of his hands, he cried, and saw that those also were helpful.
Empty room. The third curriculum vitae I’m dealing with today. My life is becoming as white as the empty space on the page between a line and the next. These dates mean so little to me. My name, where I was born. Will they believe it? I cannot understand these elementary data about myself. My thoughts proceed much slower than my hand, which has already turned the page. Education. Such intimate names, so many days. They could be lies, places and times in the world which cannot exist for them anyway. I sign, the date, even “Berlin” seems a lie, where am I?
I’ve been working as a photographer for twenty years. I’m trying to start a new life now, as a kitchen porter, a room boy, a delivery servant. Taking pictures does not require great control of foreign languages, but when you look for a job and must provide great communication skills, you abruptly become a foreigner, in the worst sense. Even new-born babies can talk, at least you presume they mean to, but foreigners cannot talk, they do not look human enough to mean it. As long as I was taking pictures I never confronted this reality, these empty rooms where a chair where you sit weighs your confidence. If you try to escape, those serious eyes admonish you. The employee leaves. I finish filling in the application form. I’m done, I must wait now.
Twenty years and so many pictures. I started with the wind and the sky. I started taking picture of the fields, of what was leaving me. I realized soon that the frame-space of the camera could not contain time, and spaces without time are lost paradises. I insisted nonetheless not believing in such illogic. The developed picture would always present me with shaded colors and relented shapes. I wanted the sky. When I started taking pictures of people I finally discovered in myself a good photographer, not thanks to my skills but to their faces, à l'imprévu qui se montre, à l'inconnu qui passe. The camera’s science (indeed it is a science), belongs to the inexact sciences, to the social sciences, where you do not have the ultimate control, despite having to fake it, and faking is the only logic of belief and construction nowadays. Nothing is given but what’s properly well faked up, like this. I check my application once more before pushing it away on the table. It flew some millimeters aloft and hit the ashtray. I put out my cigarette. The lady is walking behind the desk in the other office, while I draw back my glance at the door’s hinges. That door could be closed or open and it would look exactly the same. This space does not know doors, they cut through as knives into the cheese. Slice of white air, of application forms directly flying into human hands, like mine. I turn. I don’t know why. I pretend I can move, I pretend if I move the landscape changes, but it does not. There’s nothing comfortable in my chair which looks exactly like a comfortable chair would look like.
I moved into pornography something like fifteen years ago. I remember my first photo shootings, the first models, it was unpleasant at times but energetically interesting. Then I worked in the same studio for five years, a high time in my life, and then my commissions decreased day after day. I was simply tired of taking pictures. The logic of the porn market bored me, but my logic wouldn’t sell, till the point both me and the market crashed down together for autonomous reasons. Each with its inscribed unavoidable failure. Moralists talk always anew here and there of censoring pornography, whilst they cannot see that it must be rescued and saved nowadays, because there’s nothing really pornographic anymore. As a porn photographer I’ve been dealing with this problem for almost fifteen years, and I am giving up, I guess I’ve already given up. Pornography must be invented and requires great attempts at cherishing it. Without priests and fathers, with Abraham who still cares only of cleaning his house, there are no sexual scandals any longer. Take it like this: it’s an old couple, they already tried all the positions in bed, they are really too tired and bored to do it on the dish-washer. Big tables like this have seen already much more than two people fucking on them; the lack of finger prints, sperm traces or secretions betrays nothing but that this long extended pale white is a sort of sheet that deletes all signs, also my painful bored brown eyes. This table already got to my bones, and flesh and sex are residual of old obscenity. You don’t have a good fuck on a table where a body has been cut open, an organ taken out, some arteries sewed together and then all closed up again. When you’re over the limit – the skin – and do not know what transgression is anymore, then you have already given up on sex, good sex I mean. And pornography can be used by the surgeons for their studies, and that’s all. In a sense pornography has become impossible since the invention of the camera, its boom only declared the end of its days. As it happens in many things, the widest diffusion sanctions death-certificates. We just celebrate departures, that’s what there is to be known about rituals.
I had my camera in my hands taking pictures of good fucks when the high point was there, people would buy my pictures, I was well paid off and the market looked like it would never end acquiring new audiences: desiring eyes and hot dicks and cunts, cunts and dicks I mean, ladies first. And yet, during so much triumph, while hate speeches were raging without injuring my income, a sensible mind could already taste the coming fall. The problem was the camera itself. What would bring everything at hand and seemed actually to create pornography, that object of perverse proximity, seducing distances and stretching voyeuristic interferences, the camera I mean, was actually delivering pornography of its power. We can consider our generation so lucky to have had its cock turgid and erected so steadily and easily with so little, we should just have appreciated it more, since it was a moment, the camera euphoria. It has gone too far into the flesh. The passage beyond the limit did not leave us new limits. I can cut this paper or my arm, and my scream would not be loud enough to get anyone’s attention. This paper. She’s back.
She sits. “Have you already filled in the application form?” Already. She says smiling. Fifteen minutes. With fifteen minutes I could have also filled applications for an entire soccer team. I don’t need to think to fill this in. Obviously I’m only replying with a kind look, thankful for her having appreciated how diligent and quick I had been. “So you are here for…?” She interrupts looking at the application form she keeps in her hands now “I see. For a position as kitchen porter, correct?” She presents her smile. “Correct” I reply. She expected me to say much more than that, as if there could be something more than ‘correct,’ maybe ‘hyper-correct,’ ‘extravagantly amazing!’ I guess rather something less than ‘correct,’ she knows there’s nothing correct in what we are doing. Nonetheless her smile persists. What does she want from me? It’s me who wants something from her.
In fifteen years I’ve seen the biological part. The guy who masturbates looking at my pictures is busy in forgetting his dick. How long how soft how hard has one to rob his penis to delete it from the surface of the world? I helped guys like that a lot, offering every sort of algebraic posture, getting with my camera on the right spot where nothing remains hidden. My aim was an image that would simultaneously suspend living and dying in his hand, in a sprout of cream. And yet I was mainly sitting on a chair, looking at what the entire world does not want to see. Because I was not masturbating I was witnessing, witnessing what little reason there is to masturbate. Witnessing the biological, witnessing death and life.
“Have you ever worked in a kitchen?” This question woke me up from my mind. It had taken a fast journey without me realizing it. I had already said “yes” before knowing what I meant. My “yes” was a long and doubtful one, collecting my reawakening thought. “Yes” I repeat now, “I have already worked in a restaurant” and I automatically continued talking with the same sentences that always follow that. I have repeated them so many times that they just talk by themselves. I also listen to myself. It sounds stupid and fake. And yet I really worked in a restaurant for a summer season. It was ages ago, I was a student, waitressing, but I’m not saying that. “For a few months, in a restaurant in Mitte” the lies go on. When I say the truth, it does not sound any better.
There were always naked women lying on my carpet. The studio was wrapped in a few square meters and there was no natural light penetrating it. A continuous turn-over. Faces, ages, cloths. Artificial light assimilates everything. My eyes suffered from the darkness. I would spend so many hours in such constraints, and then had only a walk down the corner for a coffee, the news-paper. When you spend many hours in unfavorable conditions, in environments that deprive you of your needs, you discover that something else in you has become more acute, as if to balance the scales, and your perceptions are much more vivid and receptive. Who did not ever spend several hours on the beach when the sun burns and blinds, while the waves’ webbing sounds consume the ears, and measure then all at once – how present the world had become? What was in the back-ground has become a sensible presence: mountains are breathing on your neck and the lone walker on the strand stepping his feet almost moves the sand near you. Everything is closer than you had realized before, when you firstly arrived, everything also more livable, since you share the space secret. You are the only indweller. Certainly people pass by, walk by, with their cars or their dogs, down the corner where you enter and catch the barman’s eye for your coffee. Brown sugar. Certainly the shopkeepers are busy with their merchandise and their customers, their barricades of things-to-do and preventive measures, but they do not live in the space, at least I have never felt they did the way I did. Because they would never lose contact with the sunlight or their business, which is another sort of light. They would never confuse night and day; they have their timetable and daily pleasant or unpleasant reassurances. A bad customer keeps you alive, after all, as much as your regulars. It’s a life reminder. Nothing of this would work for me. I could also smell it in people’s lazy prejudices against me. I was there for some more intimate reasons than the workers or even the family who lived there, without mentioning the occasional passer-bys. Some of them might have even lived there since their date of birth, others’ fathers had lived there before them, and despite this all, I had a reason more to be there, yes, me, maybe one of the last to get a place there, and yet, yes, I had a special privilege over them all – that they would pay me back with some sort of fearful contempt.
I had naked women on my carpets, with their legs knotted around the chairs and a hand to open for my camera the last way through their thighs. But it was the obscurity from which I came from that would provide me with my special gift of in-dweller. I, the last of them, had a ancestral right on the spot, and they knew it. They thought to know my job, smelled along the numerous women entering my door, but they were mistaken. They unconsciously knew something much more terrifying than their silly prejudices. The fact that I was of the sort who tastes nights in life, and has arrived there, from where they consume their lives escaping. And I was uninjured, unaffected. Yes, obscene.
I would start working at ten. Late, you might think. But one of the privileges of being a free-lance photographer is your flexible time-table. Some breathe light firstly, I would plunge in the fake light of my studio. I would spend a few minutes dealing with the lights, everyday anew, for some sort of compulsion and then I’d look at my agenda. When the alarm leads everyone, at least almost everyone to open the curtain, I would arrive in my studio, air the rooms (both studio and bathroom) and then close at-night-like the windows. Two little windows on the same wall. After a while I’d hear steps of someone walking up the stair. The entrance to my place was through the coiffeur downstairs. Some greeting voices would ring as does the bell in better well-off offices. I would open the door and from the landing I’d smile to the new-comer, still facing the steep and often slippery steps. “Hi. Come in, please.”
“But that’s not what is written in your CV.” I wonder what is she talking about? “Sorry?” I reply without disguising some annoyance. “You wrote that you have been working in several restaurants in Berlin.” I had lied, I could see her thinking. I must have trapped somewhere, I thought. No, I did not. “Yes, of course. That was my first job in a restaurant in Berlin. As I was saying, it was in a gracious Turkish restaurant in Mitte…” And I would never stop this time. She has asked for more, so I’d give her more. I’d drive her stupid with what she wants to hear. She wants restaurants. Here you go, I’ll multiply them, like rabbits from my huts. How many? How many? There was not anymore a number that would satisfy me. I’ll drive her dead bored. It was a reflexive talk. No need to think. Like spelling the world ‘restaurant,’ you can do it even if you don’t talk English, you say it and it looks like you speak English.
I hated women like that. It was my first experience as a porn-photographer, whatever that means. I had to go in an area of the city where had never been before. With my camera and some accessories. A friend of a friend had found the contact for me and I was late and hoped somehow that my delay could have justified in advance my following incompetence. When I arrived the place was still untouched and people surprisingly polite. That would make it all the more difficult. You may know the feeling of meeting nice people who expect something from you that you cannot give them – it’s even worse when you are expected to in the precise measure of two hundreds euro flowing into your bank account. They were going into my bank account while I was there, pretending I knew what I was doing. So I did something, in the worst way. And I pretended I knew what I was doing. Since I took my jacket off I proceeded as a magnet to the slide of iron. I concentrated my thoughts on my camera as a playboy lover would focus on his dick, I touched it more than needed and then opened up a space for my model in two square meters next to the window. The sunlight wouldn’t leave her much space. I realized as I was turning to her that I hadn’t said “hello” yet, that I actually had not even introduced myself, that, to be more exact, I had no idea what she looked like. But it was her, standing in front of me as you look at your packet of cigarettes while you are already smoking, just measuring the time of a digression.
I said “hi” now, but it was visibly too late. We would not be going to work well together. It was already clear. She did not reply in any case. Maybe she did not hear me. I remember pretty well all these details. After that day I thought that I would have never taken a picture in my entire life again, but I was unquestionably wrong. Even if I’m sitting here now; all in all it took a long while and many diversions to arrive to that day when I decided to give up. “And what were your duties like?” The employee asked me with evident mistrust. I listed them, clearly and neatly. One after the other.
“Undress” I said, because I had been unable to say “hi.” I then added “please,” because after all, despite late, I had said “hi.” She could have already been naked, I would have asked her to undress anyway, because that’s what a porn-photographer does. And I wouldn’t know if she was naked or not anyway. I looked at her face now searching for her eyes, but she was bent unlacing her boots. After all, you have to assert nudity beyond the skin. Naked or not naked she must be naked, feel naked, so, for some sort of performativism you must say it – that’s what I thought realizing how wrong I was – “undress.” But something was happening, she was undressing, so it had worked. I was standing still looking at her, because I did not have anything else to do, my camera was set and I was lost. Moments of stillness like those are dangerous because they might lead you to reflect, and that’s what I needed to avoid. Absolutely. I filled the gap, which was betraying me, with some impatience and aggressively reproached those backs turned to me: “If you had already undressed, I wouldn’t have to wait now.” A voice replied from the long hair: “Some like taking pictures with boots and under-garments.” That was all. I’d rather not have heard that. Had I been more reasonable I would have remained silent, but I was there on display, not knowing what to do, so that I talked, and talked wrongly. “Idiots do that. I’m here for the real thing. What should I do with your underpants? Just shut up and take them off.”
“So you have never really cooked?” That was not what I meant. Actually it is not what I said. Crystal sphere power. I do not see what difference it would make. I even doubt that the job she is selling exists, like one has got the right to doubt about money currency. She is selling me to the air. Trying to. To a building where a kitchen should be, and where employees make calculations with time, hours accountancy. They create my time, they divide and shape it, like cutting grapefruits.
“Off” she said. No plane have delved into the air. She was naked looking at me, with her tits first, pointing slightly into two different directions. As a photographer I should have remained in the middle, actually I was split by those two different waves. “Yes” I said, and looked at my camera now. It was a camera. Firstly now I realized that it was a problem, the camera. What should I do with it? Cold. It was much colder than me. I looked into it, taking time not to look. I was hidden behind my apparatus. At least my eyes, and there was not much more than my eyes. After a long while I pressed the button and took a first picture. She was looking at me – so I felt, from that space which precedes the action. ‘Why are you taking pictures of me in the fitting-room?’ I heard her saying, despite she did not say anything, or exactly for that reason. But if she was in the fitting-room then I was an intruder, whom she has just caught glimpse of. I got scared of this thought and asserted to her: “look at the camera” – meaning: not at me.
She looked at me with her first pose-fake expression, and I was rescued by this redemptive gesture.
“Yes, I have never been a cook, but I collected a lot of experience working in so many restaurants. I am a kitchen porter, not a cook.” The lady released a sigh of relief. After all I did want the job. I was there for that job. Finally she could do without my CV, my application form, she finally had a kitchen porter in front of her.
I took forty, fifty maybe more pictures one after the other. She took a pose, I’d take a picture, she’d took another pose, I’d take another picture. The rhythm was automatically established now. Without any reciprocity, but the aim of finishing up the film. If she would interrupt a second to yawn or scratch her nose, I would just take a picture of that also, not me, my finger would. It was fast but not painless.
“How much pro hour?” “It depends on how much you work.” “Is insurance included?” “It depends on the contract.” “So there is a contract.” “Certainly.” “Can I bring the contract home to carefully read it before signing?” “You can read it here and you will certainly have it home after signing.” “Can I have it home before signing so that I can ask a friend to look at it?” “Bring your friend here.” “Can I return with my friend tomorrow?” “Actually I will be here only for two hours and the job must be assigned by today.” I played a good part. I have been good. “But how many hours pro week?” “Unluckily it does not depend on us.”
The problem I had that day with the pictures I took was a matter of exposure. Simply too much light. Light deletes the shadows that turgid cocks want to see. It was a bad photo session. Not the worst ever, but certainly a bad one. I got my money anyway. I knew it was the beginning and the end of my career as porn-photographer, even if actually it took other fifteen years to definitely end.
My studio, the one I mentioned before, gave me more freedom and lot of money, money enough for a good car (almost never used), a definitely pretty house (let’s say almost always deserted), good restaurants, good fun. Good holydays. Good time.
I had learned to say “hi” already by the time of the second session. And the twentieth or thirtieth session was already in my private place. A few sessions more and I had a studio. I did not have to work many days a week, solely intensely when it would happen. I would disappear for several days in my insides, my camera, my studio. Then it would come high time for holydays. It was a pretty easy time. And lot of fun I said.
I became friend with many of my models, I had also a short relation with a woman who had been my model, we met in those circumstances anyway. I learned how to move the camera with fluidity and dance some steps with my interlocutor. It would bring often good results.
I’d welcome at the door the new-comer. We would talk about make-up and cloths. I would ask about her previous experiences, just to learn something more about my job. Only after having thought together the session, we would start taking pictures. There was a common routine that sometimes would install. I would have a woman often bent with her ass towards me, her hands on the buttocks to keep the anus open up. The first pictures would never work. To quote an Italian director, Tinto Brass: the language of the butt is not any simpler than human mouth. She should move sometimes around before the camera getting the right angle, the right feeling. Also cameras have a feeling. They certainly cannot taste, and certainly do convey attractions, but it’s not only this. They have a particular sense of it. And it requires time. I would let the woman move around naked, preferably on the floor, trying her approaches with the pavement, when she would feel it, also the camera would feel her, her, her? I am not sure. It would feel it.
There would be a man sometimes. Much more rarely. Because you must pay more if you want the thing itself, the act and because it creates you much more problems; you have to take precautions, deal with other psychological elements, which ultimately always translated into economical problems for myself. So I often tried to do without. But I also had happy times in which it would work. And the models would have established the right harmony without troubling me too much with money matters. After all they had almost nothing to do, but being taken pictures of.
The employee reached my ID and was to reach also my social security number when I stood up. “Thank you. Unluckily I must reflect some time more before accepting the job.” “There is no time to think. But do you know or do you not know what you want? Before you asked for a part time job, what is the problem now?” I had played my part even too well. Leaving was difficult now. Leaving what? Was there still a world outside? My ID lied open on the table. I could see that trace of myself, a passport-sized photo looking up to the ceiling. Her hand was still dealing with it. I reached the ID and smiling I took it back.
I am one of those who take pictures of people’s back. Hairy butts. Monkeys’ butts. It’s the biological. There is not so much of a difference if a cock enters that open anus, or vaginal liquid drips out of a cunt while he moves in his finger. I show to you what no one wants to see. Those who masturbate watching it, do you think that they really want to see that? They are just deleting those specters from their faces. No. They are forgetting cunts, they are forgetting dicks (their own, others’), watching is only a reminder of an absence, that they are almost done forgetting, almost done, almost gone. Please continue. Continue readers. Please masturbate, masturbate away your mortal bodies.
I work with the biological. I took my ID back. I was in the corridor. I’m in the escalator now. A piece of paper from my pocket. It says: Friedrichstraße 22, another address, another application form. In 15 minutes or fifteen years I should be there.
February, Livorno. I left home when it was still sunny. I went down the few steps jumping by twos like a kid. There have always been only two options for me, left or right. When across is another possible first direction, it must mean a different life. Actually I remember pretty well crossing the road when I was still a baby. At that time I had a friend who lived in a building on the other side of the street. Her father took his life when she was still a child. I remember that it was a secret, that Andrea (she had my same name) couldn’t know. He had thrown himself under a train. He remained a hero – an incomprehensible, severe movement against destiny. Then I had another friend in the same direction across the street. In any case there was also a park I used to be brought to as a child. But growing up only two options remained for me: left or right. Left meant mainly delicious flat bread, villa’s games and then, only later on, city centre; while right meant school (all sorts of), friends, seas, a more delineated shade of loneliness. In any case, the option of crossing the road had disappeared from my life. I took right towards the sea, convinced to have a long walk with my thoughts. Today as every day, going right meant some of it. The sea – I am there already – answers with blue paint. It moves together like a compact metal slab. It’s blue also the sky, as every day. ‘What is sex?’ I wonder while the red-yellow sand becomes a pleasant carpet for my forgetfulness. Should I come back here where I was born to confront this question? After Freud – I say to myself kicking a pebble – there’s no way of talking of sex without some sort of returning to the first imprints. Mine should be scattered here around. Obscenity was laid underground in these regions, where I have never been, and yet I was.
I know the destination of this walk today, I know that I’m going to arrive to address the computer in Berlin at night – and write these words. My life-long-mission, still bounded with some unawareness, has been a reverse walk from what was to what has been, a trace of poetry. That in a sentence could lie so much of me – I had to be at the key-board now, to be able to discover it. A treatment of the obscene into poems. My writing and not living was an attempt – was, is – at turning the cupper plate upside down. What is sex then? And why must sex be so intimately relate to the obscene?
Just because it has always been censored? Many things are obscene, but only in a metaphorical sense. Sexual pleasure is the only obscenity in society: all the rest is some sort of prostitution of sex, then even more obscene. Displacements of sexual pleasure are even more obscene than sexual pleasure itself, because the latter spreads wide through them and contaminates. We can find an agreement on the marital coitus, but when you’re turned on by the hole in a door lock, the obscene has escaped us. The obscenity of sexual pleasure is so obscene that must be displaced but this displacement only engenders more obscenity. It never ends. We are never getting to the original concept again.
How to talk of sexual pleasure then? What’s the relation between pleasure and sex? And what sort of role plays the obscene here? I said and believe that the only obscenity is sexual pleasure. I say as I walk through the rocks. The green valley follows the abrupt twist of the street, which shapes a gulf on the right. Hidden in the green of the hills, emerges a side of the monument “a Ciano,” which means “to Ciano” and which I heard as “Acciano” for all my childhood. Then I learned that Ciano was Mussolini’s son-in-low. I went up there once, at least, maybe twice. Dirty magazines on the ground. Not because the magazines were dirty but because the pictures in them were dirty. Not the pictures themselves but the images in the pictures, women with their legs open wide open long blonde hair covering the boobs, but never hiding the turgid nipples. As I was saying in the beginning, when I would turn right, exiting the building, and then right again, I would find myself where my friends lived. We would enter the wild part, and find remnants of buildings like this monument “A Ciano.” Instead of mushrooms, their feet, the bricks, were usually wet with this sort of magazines. Often covered in mud and leaves. We would look at them. It was the time when the big danger for kids of our age in such wild-sides of the city were the syringes. Syringes and porn-magazines were bad flowers of the same zones.
I had to learn early on that sexual pleasure had nothing to do with love. It’s part of moral education. If I hadn’t read once Alda Merini, in her beautiful “Caro Michele” say that we paradoxically never make peace with our childhood sexual experiences even if later on we staged much more than we did as kids, I would say that sexually I must have been a really precocious child. In fact, all of us might think the same of themselves. Or I was really precocious in sex, since after all I was precocious in everything – I am told. So you see that I do not know, but you’ve got the chance to read me and you’ll know by this very fact now more than I do. I think whilst walking. Striding on.
But I have nothing to lose, with writing. This, also, I learned early on. Displacement of sexual pleasure is a trick of expression, as if there was a clear sexual pleasure and it were then possible to displace it in some direction. The deformations of pleasure are twisted together with pleasure itself, which is a displacement after all. If you like deconstruction you can follow the logic here and draw your conclusions. For brevity sake, I’d just say: sexual pleasure emerges where it should not. This is easy and relatively understandable. The easiness with sex is that who would get dead bored with deconstruction, immediately understand nonetheless what I mean when I say: to feel pleasure where you’re not supposed to. And likely many of you already agree with me and feel more inclined to an intellectual effort – because you smell it might be worthy. I hope so.
This “should” is a hard one. It’s not just “you should not” because that’s bad. Certainly we have been taught that that is bad, but it’s not the point. The point is feeling pleasure where one should not feel pleasure, where it does not make any sense to feel pleasure, is not pleasurable, then we address the obscenity of a displacement that’s pleasure itself. After all, pleasure is pleasure at displacing.
So what is sexual pleasure if it’s not even more obscene than any pleasure in displacements? I’m good at theorizing, I’m also good with poetry, but I said before and confirm now anew that I do not want to redeem myself, language and the world again from what it was to what has been, rather proceed against myself in the opposite direction, towards solitude, right-wards, from what has not been (denied) to what was. This is deconstruction, this is pornography. Such a sort of twisted violence!
After all there’s no other reason if I went right before, and I proceed ahead now and I’m not gonna stop before coming where I am. The sun hits hard, I am sweating, the road never ends.
Call it violence. How to talk of sadness otherwise? Is this passive aggression? My hands have been forgotten from the clearing sides, the wide landscapes; they do not matter anyway. So I start writing about sex, because moneys come always from misery, or maybe they just reproduce it. There’s nothing miserable about sex – as long as you know the starland world of it – nor anything sad in pornography – as long as you invent its joys – but in the rift between the two in which I lie now, there’s much of both, much of all, much of nothing.
Holy-moly. Because sex is like a spelling mistake. What has been –
Not the thing itself but the mistaking. The same shame follows or does not follow – it depends on how much you betrayed of you – the surroundings – with a slippery of tongue. Tongue –
is a Jewish body, language and saliva: the written text and the oral act. Sex – is never what you meant.
A hand writes – the other keeps the page. The hand which touches the page is reading the face. A page is always between faces – in-between bodies, like the last of Eva’s leaf. Adam reads. Spring.
You assimilate sex like grammar. (Betraying language.) (Mistrusting.) It belongs to the Book but the latter is absent – as you grow up. You learn interlinear –
– translation, but the Book is not ahead. Sex / pornography – when you are against it. Ages of shame. Anonymous timing of grammatical algebras. Name-less. Sex comma sex.
Grammar, like masturbatory theoretical formations do not know names – are condos of space which sustain sky-scrapers and cities – but never grasp the Great Suggestion – the sky. Grammar is meant to be bone to the Text – even on the land, where the Book has never swum. You learn language on the hand. When you read the hand. You learn language on the tongue. When you touch – grammar comes after. The Book always moves – it is written inwardly in – her – eyelids. When grammar breaks down to reach its crystalline work – you learn to talk. You learn that you learned to read – before sex you were already loving. Names –
She – came before the ghosts. How else could the world come? Draining joy from the fingers – sucking necklace.
Were we saying then: “what’s sex?” An abrasion of pleasure. Sex has been invented because we touched too hard. Berlin, September.First Movement: Love
Eyes and birth have a life in common. Lying in bed I stare at my friend waking up. She moves towards me and after a few moments of torpor, she slowly rises up with her hair still imbued of sleep. Her eyes mumble the first words, which straightforwardly come from the dream. I cannot literally see her eyes yet, since there is only a line drawn between her eyelids, cracking apart in a murmur. I got up with the precise idea to render on paper that moment which is no longer than a movement. The sky was painted gray, a typical heavy morning in Berlin, when you dream of lights to shatter that opaque mantel. You guess if it rains, still staying in bed, and your thoughts become clouds which for long minutes investigate the white thickness to see if there are drops represented beyond the glass. But everything is either white or grey and disappears within those tonalities. Even so, the mercurial light was boxed up in her sockets, like a boy tinkles few coins in his pocket and discover the adventure of the day: A magician sphere, where the hand grazes the glass, and into the dark the sight opens a vision. Sleep surrounds my mouth and I move on my back and see her hand brushing wisps of hair aside. A plumb blackness deepens in her gaze, while I hear the ghost birds of my fantasy whistling and shaking their wings. I am trying to trace that line between her eyelids, as dense as time and fluid like mercury. Newborns have that secret, the pearl of life, in their irises. It is a flower stemming from death, which opens their membranes like fishes slipping between your hands. It is disguised among the lines, and every drawer must decline and leave to the painter the task of mapping destiny in the tone of color. Like the universe – it defeats definitions and mathematicians. But it falls as an enchantment on the painter’s palette: On the spade covered with sand, as the boy builds a castle made of sand, whose giant feet are eaten up by each webbing away of the sea. Like beads. I remove the pearl-white sheet from my elbow and my profile departs from the nose’s print on the pillow. She’s moving like a blind puppy. Like a poppy, her blood-red petals enlarge, while the dream’s shell definitely crashes down. I want to reconstruct on this page that feeble line, which tenderly moved that much to splay and destruct the entire night-realm. Like a thread. Like the notorious last drop – of hope. Their secret, her eyes’ secret, is the blue. I’m not such a keen onlooker to know if it is really blue, but a stain, like a jet of sperm. So I imagine it is blue, but – like for the newborns – you don’t know what color that really is till after the first six months. Every morning must wait those six months therefore, even if it does not have more than 24 hours to exhaust. So also 24, the number, is blue. Each minute is made of 60 seconds and only 60 minutes make an hour, so that myriads of stars create that universe of the day-blue. The daisy. I look out of the window again, although the screen seems white and puts my sight out in a few meters of groping in the whiteness. I don’t reach the trees on the other coast of the courtyard. My glaze faints down in the middle of feeling its way. She’s moving up, I detect from the folds of the blanket and the spot of emptiness on the mattress. I turn at her wondering for a kiss. Here it comes, on my lips. My love has got still closed eyes, and already a strong will to get up and prepare breakfast. I dream of writing her eyes on the page in the morning, she does not know it yet, she’ll read them written down one day. Not really. My circulating, deceiving them. I find the day on my side, when I wake up. Kept as a promise, unsaid in her blind views. The prince charming arrives on his horse, its neigh! he gallops awayfast – I lie down on my back again and stare at her, tasting with my mouth that dense fragment of thought she continues keeping between her eyelids. That blue must be her blind iris fighting against the pupil for pouring reality lava outside, like plates and also glasses of water on the table at breakfast time. Like wooden spoons. Like riding a bike. Night keeps her eyelids as a rima baciata, pinning there the dream, while the day opens up like a butterfly, like a butt, to the fan-light. Like a cunt. A blindly smart cunt. Smooth thought. Night and day share the secret moment of awakening, when the dream is shoe to the thinking brain, and body a nutshell for a good-morning baby! I caress her, the last moments of her staying next to me, she’s going to get up first, as ever. I twist around and plunge my head once more on the pillow. I dream of her weight on my shoulders and I’d want her clit robbing on me, accompanying her breath on my neck. Her blue clit, smelling like brain steps, like a puddle of dream. I’d fall into piss as a golden net for Nietzsche’s tumblers and fools. My finger caresses her cunt as she turns, like the one who seemed to recognize an old school-friend in the street and it was just a passer-by. I lick her dream and lick her eyes. Yet I can hear she is already making breakfast in the kitchen.
Buttman in Pornotopia
Once upon a time the city was on fire. It’s from risk that science fiction begins. But the coming world – and who said then it will be a world? – will not have won all our fights, as a lodge for sperm-survivors. From this sort of scenarios actually only big-men develop, like super-microbes in intensive care units. It’s like cutting and cutting the piece of bread, sharing it, taking it back, conquering other pieces, losing some of it again, achieving some agreement… Whatever the conclusion, fights bring to reductions and crumbles. There is this fictional idea of the big who eat the small and become bigger and bigger the more they eat, like in some pac-man game. Actually the strength of the winners is no more valuable than playing at reductions, subtracting fantasy after fantasy till the calculation rewards victory. In other words, it goes with it like with juices: the more you strain smashed fruit, the more you smash, the less pieces remain inside the strainer, but these super-cores made of seeds and pulp are not exactly what is most valuable despite the fact that they are certainly the remnant victors. To make it clear: that’s the sort of story we break with.
When the city was on fire it was not anymore a matter of believing or not that time was over. And since believing is always a matter of believing in time – it was not anymore a matter of believing at all. No one and none had guessed that the end would have come so painlessly like filling a marketing questionnaire.
Among the strongest, the talk was about how to remove pieces of fire from the walls of the city, or the walls themselves; the most intelligent were trying to decode the fire-algorithm in a three number digital code, so that dealing the ciphers fire would have flashed up in micro-bits. The greatest thinkers argued that fire and water were but objectifications of a (certainly dangerous) disseminating différance and would uselessly look for a safe place (only as a preventive measure) where from behind a desk they could dictate to engaged democratic souls their fiery and liquid words: “There is fire only for those who are unburnable” they would say, accepting nonetheless their friends’ fears – since there are fears only for the fearless ones and, after all, “dear friend, there are no friends.” The strategies for dealing with the city on fire were as many as the citizens. Even so their aim was unique and the very same: make careers thanks to their important contributions for the rescue of humanity and therefore earn more money (with health insurance included). That was not a good in itself, since no one had a clear idea of what money or health were – rather a necessary and yet inter-personal step in the bureaucratic society process. Neither should one think that everybody was “practically” trying to save the city – in fact mainly the citizens were conversing about it, exchanging their opinions through the Internet, but what matters most: they were reacting. The latter perfectly fulfilled everybody’s expectations and was surely the right thing to do to keep a good step on the placement of work and help the city to defeat the fire.
In the middle of this all, our hero of Pornotopia came to save the city! But dear patient wonderful (sweet!) reader/s, before we introduce our gentle (yet also marvelous!) hero, we must tell you just a bit more of what is happening now in the burning city.
Certainly life had to go on: everybody should have continued to lead their usual life, children play videogames, parents go to the molls as often as they could, otherwise the real catastrophe would have come: the economy would collapse. In this way every citizens knew that he was bringing his important contribution to humanity just drinking Fuck-me-ola, endorsing his career and social reactive spirit at once. “We must fight together minding one’s own business. We must continue as if nothing were happening.” This, that could be difficult even for good actors, came spontaneously natural (if one can use this word) to the city-dwellers. Talking of the tragedy while also ignoring it – the most sublime of the paradoxes – was an easy task for these people who had long trained with all sorts of deconstructions. In short, fire appeared only in the papers, spread out on Internet pages, whilst no one seemed to look out of the window and see it growing and coming closer. But, as we said, high up in the hierarchies, people were actively dealing with the fire – like everyone else – just more “into the thing itself.” Because, what “fire” really means was not entirely clear to anyone – that’s why democracy had never previously been so much needed as it was now. Free exchange of opinions was necessary in order to understand what fire was and what it would mean and who really was involved and to what extent. Sharing ideas highlighted more and more how little was known on the subject and how much more everyone should mind his own existence as if “nothing was occurring” since only experts could know and after all maybe nothing was really occurring. Multiplying of opinions meant multiplying of specializations – and far ahead on top of these specialization-competences should have been people who knew. Of course they knew – in an extremely specialized manner. In a sense they were the heroes – because in them the secret of fire lay.
After so long an introduction – which we needed before presenting our hero – it’s finally time now to narrate his gestures and the way the city was rescued from its destiny:
Buttman was flying high following his dick which never betrayed him – the best antenna ever invented to individuate danger, catastrophes and emergency situations. All at once his dick had turned (hard-)on and he felt his shoulders tremble. There were no storms or thunders and yet he felt electrified. Right then, an abrupt pain, like a sting or indeed a burning flame, got his butt so that he started screaming and buzzing around like a mosquito in a daze. He looked down and saw the city on fire, with the flames stretching high up till the clouds, high up to burn even his butt. So he was the first to recognize what fire meant – the elected one as always – since he was provided with super-talents and immediately (still roaming from pain) turned downward where he saw the city on fire. No danger could prevent Buttman from fighting against evil. His super-antenna was never scared of any risk and even before he could consider the danger he was already flying towards the flames. The closer he would get to the hot spot, the more fire grew before his eyes eating up roofs and entire buildings. He was terrified and yet could still see people going around apparently not minding the devastation. Some streets had to be avoided – and that was it, it seemed for those down there. From high up he could see the city security service, which before was called something like “police,” alienating the fire with big aluminum boards and electric wires on which large ads sold fascinating images of the last commodities on the side where people still led their normal life-style – while on the other side (the invisible) they just prevented with the very same boards and wires fire to advance; fire and, following some newspaper’s articles: people of all ages, races and genders dying within its flames. Every now and then – like the desert grows – the fire won over and the line had to recede and be re-drawn some meters backward, the way also the sea is nourished of sand, and season after season advances on the shorter beaches. The only difference: it was going much faster, a matter of seconds rather than centuries – maybe just because there were clocks able to measure nano-seconds now.
The experts were mainly the people who attempted at extinguishing the fire, the strongest planning to carry away pieces of it; the most intelligent willing to decode fire into micro-bits; the thinkers deconstructing fire into smoke (it’s a-temporal ghost) and so on and on and on. Of course some were packaging fire-sparkles for the market, there was the Berlin wall which delimited the ex-DDR from the BRD which has been sold in crumbles, metaphorically and not, the real wall and its fake reproductions.
Buttman landed in the main square of the city. No one noticed either him or the burning smell. He looked around for a while not knowing what to do. He flexed his leg muscles and shook his slightly scorched yet nevertheless beautifully shaped bubble-butt. He adjusted his piece proudly, beginning to get very slightly impatient. Clouds of smoke were covering the sky above the artificial lights, while people strolled through the arcades smoking cigarettes and degusting wine in the shop-centers’ promotion desks. He was visibly disappointed, since that was not a suitable welcome for a super-hero. So he flew back up into the sky and made another landing on the same spot but this time screaming loudly: “Ta-Ta-Tan! Here I am! Buttman-the super-sexy duper-hero!” This time also no one took notice of him.
So he gave up with formalities, since the danger was increasing every second and started screaming: “Fire! Fire!” Only at this point some employees of the safety service got near him threatening immediate detention. “Why? There’s fire everywhere!” The employees informed Buttman that the contents of his assertions were absolutely correct and legitimate and courteously provided him with a few web-sites he would find helpful on the subject ‘fire and city destruction’ but screaming was tolerated, and even appreciated, only in particular contexts, certainly not in a square. They also noted some illegal elements in associating fire with screaming. In any case, he was provided with a long list of attractive possibilities he could take advantage of and which would perfectly suit him. Ultimately the conversation turned much nicer than had seemed at first. Buttman was offered a free place to the Saturday’s rally “Yes You Might! Throw Water on Fire You Too” sponsored by U2 World, and to join thereafter as an active member the team-party “No Fire – More Sex.” He was active, without mentioning the member, and was fighting against fire – so he finally felt kind of understood. He thanked the employees with some relief. “Wait a second -” he thought at once “I can’t wait till Saturday; by then the city won’t exist anymore!” Indeed the fire was growing so quickly that in a few hours nothing of it would remain.
He immediately flew away into the clouds of smoke trying hard-hard to think how he could convince the citizens of the coming destruction. They had to respond. Now.
He could see no spot in the city which was not embraced by smoke and flames where people yet acted as if nothing was occurring. He was following his cock-antenna looking for some more sensitive zones, but the buildings looked all similarly different from each other like the moods of people dressing and undressing ordinary thoughts. He was discouraged and could find no solution. But the most powerful of Buttman’s super-powers were hope and fantasy. Who is provided with these powers also becomes instantaneously courageous – but of a different sort than bravery. So, because of hope he let himself fall like a fig from a branch when it ripens onto the earth. And cried loud once more: “Fire! There’s fire!” These people were living right next to the ad’s line, which was also the fire-line. It was trembling because of the gas – so that it looked even more blitzing and sparkling – decisively fascinating. Buttman cried louder and louder: “Fire! Fire!” A bum replied to him: “Well, did you discover it now?” Another guy then added: “Everybody knows that there’s fire!” “We must do something! We must put it out! Right now!” Buttman screamed to them. “Yes of course. And do you know what to do? Do you know what fire truly is?”
At that point Buttman remembered his fantasy super-power and explained to them in detail what fire is and what they could do to extinguish it. He started talking: “fire is something hot that burns everything. What happens to your cigarette can also happen to buildings and humans. Basically it is very painful if it gets you.” He was talking like a prophet from a car’s roof. And as it happens with prophets, many people surrounded him and cried out their misbelieve and contempt. “We don’t believe you! Who are you to say that?” “I am Buttman” he replied and then turned showing his burned butt to the crowd of unbelievers. “Then it is true! True!” A murmur spread out-wide. His butt was red and swollen like monkeys’. Not only did people immediately believe in him but panties suddenly became moist with hope and … Many people of all genders felt stirred to follow him with that joy and enchantment that only pleasure arises. They believed in his creativity and his prowess. They followed him. “We do this for our future generations!” (and they more likely meant: for the future pleasures they envisioned, looking at that round, protruding, strikingly beautiful like no other, rosy ass!) “We do this for our past generations.” They also cried loud “for those pleasures they dreamed of – for us – for them” – they were saying, still intensely looking at Buttman’s super-butt. “Against injustice! For fairness!” Buttman affirmed with his fist high up. But after much enthusiasm – what to do now? “We need water.” It seemed reasonable. “Where can we find water?” Someone else asked. There was no water in the city apart from the Bestlé’s brands in plastic bottles. So, immediately the crowd walked behind Buttman towards the Company.
The majestic building of Bestlé was burning from the ceiling up, the roof was falling apart and yet no one was pouring a drop of water against the flames. “How’s that?” They asked. “There’s plenty of water inside the building! They make it!” Buttman explained that it would be an economical loss for them to waste bottles of water (1 euro each) to quench a fire. The accountability office must have made a few calculations and considered it not profitable.” “But also the accountability office itself will burn!” – “Yes, it will” Buttman reckoned, “but calculations live forever, exactly like the clock that has just been invented. Such a clock can say the time for astronomical eras – could it survive a flood in the mechanism.” “It’s non-sense! It’s non-sense!” The crowd was crying aloud. Thousands of people had gathered. They were aroused by Buttman’s talk. And what to do? The city by now had turned orange – flames were breaking up everywhere. The McBonalds were eaten up by fire. The huge Fuck-me-ola Company was a massive mountain of flames squeezing up to the sky. Restaurant chains were similar to St. Antonio’s – like candles under bright starry nights. Now it was the moment: now or never again: the last chance to save the city from fire and from itself. Buttman flew some meters up the ground and exhorted the citizens to separate and run around the spots of the city where flames were most devastating. So they did, and in a few minutes all the head quarters of the city corporations were surrounded by thousands of people: Alddi, Nochia, Microzoft, HansaPet. He flew a few meters above the ground showing his butt. Thousands of people began masturbating without pause, more and more, throwing their sperm and secretions into the fire. But the liquid was not enough. “And now, my friends” Buttman exhorted them once more: “Pee!” In the crowd, with its weapon of vengeance, everybody started again unzipping or rising up the skirts and peed as long as they could. A smile – happy like yellow pee – lavished the ground and in a sole minute the fire was quenched. The city was safe! Justice had been made!
Buttman landed on his feet among thousands of excited eyes. They looked together at the wet buildings from which an slender smoke still was blowing away. They had conquered back the city. This was the foundation to come of the City of Pornotopia, where people had tasted for the first time in recorded history truly mass-scale sexual pleasures — that was to be only a modest beginning. (A ghost-like figure rose from the remaining of the HansaPet Telecommunication Company head quarters; it was the angel of Alize leaving the earth forever.)
One Cannelloni and Two Spaghetti alla Puttanesca
“Three spaghetti alla puttanesca” read aloud the kitchen porter for the chef, who was looking above the fridge for five big cans of tomato sauce. “Bloody hell! Must they come to eat all at once?!” It was actually the fiftieth order in two hours that night, and it does not matter how fast you can cook, fifty orders are really too much for anyone! The waiter run in bumping against the dish washer, who in his turn, had just let drop on the floor a bunch of polished silverware: “Sorry, two spaghettis, not three! Two spaghetti alla puttanesca!” and ran out as quickly as he had entered the kitchen. “Garlic” the chef said, as an old man would whisper at the point of death – “Bartleby, peel two heads of garlic, please.” The kitchen porter jumped to catch the string of garlic lying on the shelf and started peeling it. “Chilli pepper” the chef said. The kitchen porter left the table where he was peeling to run on the other side and got the pepper. “Onions. I need many onions! Do we have them already? Haven’t you peeled them already? And where’s the garlic? Bartleby! And the chilli?” “I was cutting them, but…” the kitchen porter tried uselessly to reply, when another waiter turned up, saying that table number 15 asked for cannelloni: “Two spaghetti alla puttanesca and one cannelloni!” Bartleby then repeated to the chef the order again: “Table 15: two spaghetti alla puttanesca, not three, and one cannelloni.” He also took the container with olives and reached the box with precooked cannelloni as he was walking towards the back-table, where the garlic had still to be peeled. “The baking sheet! Get the baking sheet!” the chef urged him. With one hand he grabbed the olive oil bottle while he bent to reach the pan and entering the back room he was already pouring the oil onto the bottom and equally all around. The chef finished it, also spilling some oil on the floor. Bartleby threw a napkin on it, wiping it with his left foot, as his nose stood at the same height of the chef’s mouth: “Chilli. Chilli!” It was already five years that he had been working as a kitchen porter. “I got it!” he replied going back where the chilli’s container was. “And the anchovies Bartleby!” He was not vegetarian and yet having to deal with anchovies systematically gave him some trouble. The chef was in his forties, he was a solid man, with his belly smaller and bigger according to the seasons. When it’s the time of chestnuts he was as sober as he was now, but soup after soup he would get fatter in winter, to regain some elasticity with the cherries. Summer meant a sweating flat belly, often accompanied by a heavy smile. Bartleby had gathered meanwhile all the ingredients and poured them in yellow boxes. There were tons of little yellow boxes, each containing a different ingredient: tomatoes, cucumbers, corn… It was task and privilege of the chef to touch the pan as he did now, throwing the garlic on the burning oil. Bartleby could breathe for a second, looking at the sparkling oil: it emitted some sort of pleasant light, not minding having already been frying for two hours and always recycled for a new purpose. “Get the cannelloni’s filling!” Despite having worked there for several years already, he would still get lost among the fridges and their shelves. “Where is it?” The chef did not reply but emitted an unpromising sound. He insisted on looking but had no clue where it could have been put. Finally he saw an ice-container, where a green pomade-like substance reminded him of spinach. He opened the box and could recognize sparkles of ricotta-like cheese. “Is it this?” He asked the chef following him around the kitchen. The chef was shaking the pan and reaching some dipper hanging in front of him. Chefs feel relieved when a kitchen porter behaves like their shade. Neither did he mind having Bartleby next to him handing this box, nor did he reply. Finally he nodded, without glancing at the box, out of some chef-instinct, Bartleby thought. “Put it inside the cannelloni” he said, “and hand me the olives and anchovies, please.” As it happens with kitchen porters, who do not have their table, but hang around in the kitchen as kids would do in the fields, Bartleby did not have any spoon next to him, since it was his task to find spoons and bring them at hand, without having them at hand. He crossed the kitchen and got a spoon. “You can use this” the chef suggested with an implicit accusation of willy-nilliness. Although at this point he was already on the other side of the kitchen, the suggestion resounded more like an order, so that Bartleby returned to the table and took the ladle. The green molasses was rather sticky and the ladle definitely too big for the cannelloni. Checking that the cook did not look at him, with his fingers he managed to fill them all and fixed the display on the baking sheet. The waiter came in a third time, with three new orders, so that Bartleby should not know anymore about what would be of the cannelloni. But on this particular day, things took a different turn. As it can happen even to the most professional of the kitchen porters, he got distracted and instead of running to accomplish all his endless tasks, which are never so clearly established like a finite duty, he got lost in his thoughts and spent the following five – eternal – minutes staring at the cooking spaghetti and the cannelloni on the baking sheet. Five minutes are the time to smoke a cigarette, to go to piss, to check the messages in your mobile phone, to have a chat with the dishwasher. In a restaurant though five minutes are only cooking time – you cannot roam in thoughts – even less looking at the food. Smelling it: not allowed. Resting: never. And thinking is the most dangerous of the resting times. If you do not cook – you must be cooked – if you do not peel – you must be peeled – if you do not clean – you must be cleaned – if you don’t throw waste in the rubbish – you must be thrown as waste into the rubbish bin. Bartleby became fascinated by the warm screen of the oven. On top of it, on the burner, two spaghetti alla puttanesca were cooking together. “Move away!” The chef screamed at him but Bartleby remained still. “Don’t waste time!” The chef was standing looking at him unbelievingly. He had often argued with his servants and quickly got several of them fired, but he had not seen yet such sort of upraise! Bartleby had crouched down in front of the oven and was observing the cannelloni spellbound. “Get away from there!” The chef said once more and then – without willpower and being at loss – turned to his table cutting onions. In the oven the cannelloni were swelling, pouring cream. The tomato sauce was equally distributed all over the sheet, where they pumped like bulbs or hearts. As a thigh, a cannelloni had climbed over the other, softly robbing the besciamella pastry. The other thigh was lying down the back of the cannelloni at his right, tightly lying adjacent. The rift designated a creamy cunt, while two pillars pushed up and down sliding in their cream. On top of it, a spinach yielding butt was throbbing soft bubbles of ricotta. A twisted leaf of spinach was quivering among other leaves, fanning sparkles of cheese and butter over the pasta. White bubbling cheese, melting in a profusion of fat, lavished the tin black bottom of the pan. You might hear the singular cry of the baking sheet, twisted with pleasure as the cannelloni slowly rolled one on top of the other and white splash of cream never ended being squirted out, with a metallic long twisted sound. The skin of the cannelloni was pale yellow, as if had been caressed and smeared, to move at ease, between the cheese. Bartleby was entranced, since he did not know that things like those could happen among cannelloni. He had them for a dead thing, a chemical alteration in most cases of cut grains. And yet, they were arousing each other’s pleasure, rolling on their sheet under a cover of butter. He could clearly see the few pieces of hot pepper acting as dildos in the asses of pasta, falling like tickling nails on the nipples of ricotta. Leaves were tongues licking each other and the long cocks, spreading out and opening sometime like butterfly cunts. A bunch of flowers were having their passion in the oven, where the dead take a luxurious space. Like flowers become papier mâché and deform in obsessive forms sometimes – so these cannelloni were partying their slow rebirth in the artificial light. A sort of paradise. A sort of genocide. The chef was also looking back now. He stood next to him, silently staring at him. He did not dare saying more than: “Is it ready Bartleby?” He did not answer but slowly nodded with his head. “Can I take them out?” The chef gently asked. “They are ready, yes, they are ready,” replied the kitchen porter, slowly getting aside. The chef took the baking sheet out of the oven and put the cannelloni on a plate. He rang the bell and as the waiter came he mechanically said: “Table 15: one cannelloni and two spaghetti alla puttanesca.” The waiter was ready to carry them but saw only the cannelloni on the trail. “And the spaghetti?” He asked. From the floor where he was still squatted, it was Bartleby to reply: “They are coming, yes, they are coming.” Both chef and kitchen porter were looking in the pan. For one hour they stared at it without talking. Both were fired and enjoined not to go to work anymore. It is not given us to know what they witnessed, but although the day after, on Monday the 22nd, neither of them went to work, that day – it is said – they never stopped coming at work. They were screaming to each other: “pappardella!” “my love, tagliatella!”
Buttman and the Supereuros
When the Supereuros spread all over the planet the emergency state had by far become a routine like a Saturday night event; to be exact the Saturday night event would happen each time the emergency state was declared. Actually, to be even more precise, the calendar had totally altered and would completely let festivities and off-hours coincide with emergency states. You would wonder then what sort of utility a calendar could still have if it had no stability anymore – and yet it had never previously been as important as now, because there were new and personalized editions every few days which would perfectly suit the purchaser since – even if you don’t know it yet, by the time it belonged to the human knowledge treasure – DNA and time are intrinsically intertwined. Labor constitutes the coincidence point between them and it gets in its turn formed and framed by work-providers. It must be etymologically clarified that terms like “provider” were to get a meaning far more out-reaching than nowadays – since they took divine places previously occupied by words like “creator.” But there is no reason to bore the reader with information about a future he mostly likely will never experience. For our story’s sake it is enough to clarify that there was a time (there will be a time) when spatial and temporal placements and displacements had substituted obsolete concepts like creation and destruction, learning and annihilating, life and death. Moods would not circulate freely among people, rather they would contaminate them like puddles of oil the ocean – stagnating on them with a stain of anxiety (since anxiety was not a mood like any other, rather – to use an almost anthropomorphic image – it stands to emotions like claws to their animal). Either emotions would clinch to the skin, to the eyes’ white or they’d fleetingly blur the heart with a gasp of exhaustion. The flip side of any feeling was a piercing pain through the brain – be it connected to sadness or to joy. But also this is additional information – which is ultimately redundant for the development of our story. It will suffice to know that at this time of world-history there was neither a world nor a history anymore, rather a corporative engineering of time and space through the matrix of labor’s provision. Everything was circulating like money, but, exactly like money then, it was not exactly “circulating,” rather it got subtracted in large black holes which, in their turn, would scatter sparkles of their grandeur all around – in the form of coins. And here we have finally reached the only important information to set the background of our story: this was the time when coins were still used, to celebrate the alms, to buy cheap goods, to approximate the perfection of price with easy means, and were as diffused as never before and never thereafter, since although a few decades should still go by till their total disappearance, as it happens with everything, it took a while of falling into forgetfulness and distraction before their actual running out of circulation. Kids still had the piggy bank which would tinkle with metallic clangs shaking in their hands. People’s pockets would weigh in the pants, in the shirts, in jackets and skirts. Wallets were still obliged to have this function of coins’ collectors and – to be brief – the most firm and one of the last contacts of people with metal and our iron-sophisticated age was through coins. One cent, two cent, five cents, then the golden looking ten cent, 20 cent and 50 cent – the latter already acquiring the dimension of the standard 1 euro. This was an iron looking coin boarded with golden-like metal – like the out-of-size two euro coin, the last and most valuable of all. When the epidemic spread around everybody knew that it would have been much worse than the pork-flue or the cow-fever. Although it didn’t concern their health safety or their personal security – nor did it directly affect the international economy – nonetheless everybody abruptly knew that their lives were now in danger as never before. It was, in fact, a coin-sickness. A plague. The Supereuros had landed on the earth and roamed following many mischievous ways till they found themselves in the most impervious regions; they had climbed through the gutters and even hyper-disinfected toilettes and were now lying everywhere with the other coins in human pockets and shops’ counters. It was almost impossible to recognize a Supereuro, since they looked exactly like coins, although they were bugs, whose shell yet clang as metallic as a coin and had such a special mimetic power that they could disguise themselves in any bunch of coins. Like any story which aims at being a fairy tale with a happy-end, this also will be narrated giving a minute account of the events concerning the heroes, our Supereuros and eventually, that’s right, our incredible: Buttman! But let’s start with the Supereuros. As it is the case with bees, among them also there was a queen. She was as attractive and persuasive in strength as no leader ever before, and despite being unfashionable, she would sparkle with enthusiasm. Her dots were purple, yellow and red, and whenever she would fall in the hands of someone or in a pocket, the owner would ponder for a long while which kind of coin that was and despite everyone knowing about the epidemics and even if that coin was really rare looking, no one would ever consider it being fake. It was simply too beautiful not to be real. The queen’s closest in rank were Super Lazy and Super Sleepy. Both looked somewhat deformed and would resemble bubbles more than coins. Super Happy and Super Time Together looked exactly like coins – they had super-mimetic powers but – unlike coins, whenever falling on the floor they would not simply lie flat, rather they would jump and spin for 10 minutes at the very least. Super Great Idea and Super Fantasy were as extravagant as their queen and you would always think that some paint had fallen on the coin or some other similar accident had occurred. Super Revolution – needless to say – would always roll and revolve, like a planet, a well cooked-egg or a mature fruit which intimately knows when it is the right time to fall. Unluckily she was not always as punctual and timely as she bragged, and during decisive moments would often end up instead of where it was supposed to, like in the well of a fountain for eternal joy, on the smelly warmth of a shit a doggy passing by had just taken. And what an embarrassment for the trusting thrower! But Super Revolution relied on the fact that there was always another chance, another side of the coin, another throw or launch, even if, for her, it usually only meant cow’s shit instead of dog pooh. Super Hope was in fact her best friend. They spent a long time together, talking of the well like lovers talk to the moon. When the first traces of the epidemics appeared on the planet, bank employees were the first to register abnormalities. In less than a day the news was all over newspapers and TVs. But it was already at least a week that many unusual facts were occurring without anyone taking them too seriously. It probably started with a bum. At least that is how the story goes. On the 15th of November of our calendar, it was a late Friday evening, Ms. R, a French teacher in a public high school of P, had left work and was going home with the metro, as she usually did. In F train station she made her normal change from line Z to line S and it was there that, as she was crossing the pedestrian bridge, she noticed an old bum, who she always saw sitting in that very same spot. The name of the man is unfortunately till now unknown. Ms. R took 5 cents from her pocket and let it fall on the jacket of the bum where some other coins were already collected. Hopefully the readers won’t judge too severely the lady for having shared so little of an alms. In any case it is a detail irrelevant to our story. What is instead relevant is that the elderly man jumped up as if he was a kid, kissed the lady and ran away shouting and singing out of keen happiness. Ms. R remained still on the spot for ten minutes, then she started checking in her bag and in her pockets to see what she could have mistakenly given away. She couldn’t sleep for three nights recounting her possessions (every moment getting up to check if each object was still there) and ruminating on what a terrible error she must have made. But the reality was much worse than her worries. That was the beginning of the epidemics and the first Supereuro landed on the planet, Super Soft Flying Cardboard. A long name for a 5 cent little coin. The queen scolded him severely for having run ahead of everyone else, her included, and reaching the earth alone, thus endangering their landing plan. Other unusual happenings involved people from the poor district of B. On an early Sunday morning a man in his fifties entered a coffee shop. Despite not being considered a particularly pleasant person, the man, Mr. T, is said to be a hard and honest worker, precise and kind with his friends and his domestic animals (three birds and a big fluffy dog). He also takes care of the stray cats in the courtyard and pays his rent always on time. At the moment of paying for his coffee, he gave one euro 40 cents. The price was fixed at one euro 50. The mindful lady in the shop, Ms. R, did not remind him of the price, taking for granted that Mr. T knew it perfectly, coming there for a coffee every Sunday morning. She waited for the remaining 10 cent. Mr. T looked in all his pockets but could not find any other coin. So far everything would look perfectly reasonable, if actually Mr. T did not keep tightly closed in his fist exactly ten cents (Ms. R swears having seen the coin) and had not the facts followed as they did. In fact, the man, not finding any other coin other than the ten cents he still had in his hand which he owed for his coffee, took back his 1 euro 40 and gave instead a 100 euro banknote. Ms. R remembered exactly what happened next. She explained to him that there was no money yet in the counter and could not give any change back yet. Then Ms. R – gently (she insists) – suggested that he could recount the coins because she was totally sure he had in fact 1 euro 50 in his hand. Mr. T immediately left the shop without waiting for any change and – Ms. R points out – without giving his best to her husband nor saying good-bye to her. The ten cent coin was Super Affection, the cutest bug ever. Other similar facts are said to be recurring all over the city of G, where people would buy tickets in machines that do not change money back losing 10 or 50 euro rather than leaving smaller coins to which they seemed abruptly particularly attached. As it was mentioned before, the scandal came out when a man stole 5 cents from a bank, and even if several employees and a digital security camera had witnessed the robbery, he, Mr. C, absolutely refused to give the coin back. It was Super Holy Moly whom he had seen slowly walking on the desk, a quite stubborn and fascinating bug. The day after it was in all the news: the city was affected by a coin-disease. Super Ladybug and all the Supereuros had reached the planet earth. Within two weeks no one was inclined to pay with coins anymore, since there was always some imponderable fascinating detail involving this or that coin. “But it’s only ten cent! It’s just a coin!” someone would reply, while sooner or later he or she would experience exactly the same and would not let such a coin leave her or him. Super My Time would fall in their hands, and they would never let it go. Or Super Time Creation, or Super Funny, Super Stupidity… A plumber found Super Running Air and became a poet. And sleepless nights for those who mistakenly had returned a coin which did belong to them after all! Money were given away like boring paper while different sorts of people started new ways of life with their new precious coins. Needless to say – where no one cared about money anymore – the economy threatened to sink into pitch. People would park their car in the middle of a road and never come back to get it. Others would leave for good, as you say, but actually without any destination neither physical nor abstract. And coins like crowns or cockroaches were swarming about. In those days it was not unusual to meet people looking on the ground, among the grass, raising up carpets, lifting shoes, always searching for their coins, which had run away. Some coin, like Super Butter, could be easily found in the same spot each time they had run away: Super Butter in the lily vase, whilst trying hard to reach the petals of the flower, since she believed to be a butterfly. Other coins, once lost, were lost forever, like Super Discovery, Super Absent Mindlessness or Super Moon Ray. Super Brew would be systematically found in the boiling soup, with Super Carrot, Super Pumpkin and Super Blind Mistake. Super White Snow would climb the stairs to fall from the roof, while Super Snow White would pretend being sleepy, whenever, often, a fascinating dude, or at least one he considered fascinating, would pass by. But too many were the Supereuros to recount all their adventures! What’s most interesting for the evolution of our narrative though is that the circulation of coins simply got totally interrupted. The treasury coined many more metal currencies than ever before while secret squads were employed to catch the bugs and kill them. People would hide coins even in their socks – so that you could meet limping ladies on the road which would suspiciously look around before exiting the shop or entering a main door. In short, it became quickly evident to everybody that any attempt made by the government was doomed to fail. But we did not mention yet what was going on with the queen; her name was Super Ladybug. She was the most beautiful of the bugs, and since to many of you it won’t sound like too great of a compliment, we can also say that she was simply the most beautiful of all coins and all animals. The fortunate ones, who had the pleasure to find her, would immediately note that she was too weird of a coin to be actually a coin, but also too much of a beautiful one not to be real. Her wings could spread out two meters, with their blue and yellow feathers, her eyes would be a long green trace, sparkling of different light with the different atmospheres. She had five legs, two posterior legs to land, two anterior legs to jump and then a fifth one to fly and swim. She was covered with magic dots. She was as distinct as a tree and as erratic as a flower, smiling to everybody out of pure happiness. Eventually she had fallen in the hands of a kid, who firstly tried to put her in his piggy bank, but saw that her wings would get damaged, eventually then he threw away the moneybox and went travelling with her into books of fantasy. Super Piggy Coin at the time was really sad, but got easily consoled meeting on a farm a real pig. The queen could give suggestions and advice, in some case even orders, to the other bugs through her dots. Pressing them she could tickle this or that bug, who immediately would understand the message. That’s also why the Supereuros were generally heartily laughing. In a sole week, the bugs had conquered the planet. They were jealously preserved in those spots most cherished by people. Actually not only there, they were everywhere. People were imagining seeing coins at any point. Everything looked like a coin. In the soup the cook would take out a zucchini instead of Super Carrot for example, and would cherish a piece of zucchini like it was a Supereuro. The same would happen with Super Fantasy, which would be mistaken with moral sayings or verses from the gospels. When people voted Perlusconi mistaking him for Super Great Idea, it was even too late to complain. The end was approaching as quickly as a hurricane. Indeed there were also people running toward it, thinking it was Super Running Air. Yes, then it is true that destruction will come with someone announcing it on the stage, while the audience will laugh even more thinking it is a joke. The earth was threatened by a collective state of craziness.
It was then that, once more, Buttman arrived to save the people. Praise will never be satisfactory to bless the hero! He landed in the main square of G. In his typical fashion he stretched one arm greeting the mass, while with the other hand he folded the mantel so that it could let his deltoid muscle be more visible. He landed as gently as a dancer on tiptoe. No one noticed him, since they were all occupied with their coins. Once more Buttman had to repeat his landing acrobatics. But that also was useless. People were seeing coins everywhere and had no time to waste with giving him homage. Some were looking westward screaming “Super Dawn!” pointing at the setting sun, while others were embracing fire believing it to be Super Hot. Were they innate alchemists, making their first discoveries on phantasmatic combinatory tables? If that was the case, their first pure element for decompositions seemed quite uninteresting since everything was led back to coins. They would not even use stones or minerals, not even powders, not even flour. All they could see – that was coins – Buttman mumbled by himself. Was it possible that every time he would interrupt his holydays on the moon beach to come to save this bunch of human idiots they would never even greet him? However. He flew away and landed near the sea, where people were diving to catch jelly-fish with their hands screaming “Super Whale! Super Whale!” and getting painfully stung. “They do not resemble coins at all!” thought Buttman: “Ehi guys! That’s Jelly-fish!” But it was totally useless: people were jumping one after the other into the water re-emerging thereafter with big plumps on their faces and yet inexorably satisfied. He flew away again leaving the coast and reached the top of the tallest skyscraper in town in order to have a better general view. There he could see people letting themselves fall like cats out of the windows after butterflies. Some tried to catch birds, others airplanes, in any case they were screaming nonsense like “I see Super Jupiter!” or “There is Super Falling Star!” Buttman humbly tried to suggest that those things they were mistaking for Supereuros were actually airplanes or common birds, but this time also he was not successful. He had a visit out to the countryside. Some were there looking for snails walking on their trail of spittle – while they’d believe to see Super Model or Super Actress. “Darlings” – Buttman pointed out their error but here also no one would take notice of him. “Look there! Super Winslet!” a guy was whispering to a friend who had a fish net in his hands – “Where where?” Everywhere was the same. The situation was much worse than Buttman presumed at first. He jumped high and flew above the clouds chewing over ideas and plans. He eventually decided to return to where he had first tried his spectacular landing. He took a chair and stepped on it, then talked to the crowd: “You are deceived! Can you listen to me?” No – no one was listening to him yet. But he meant to fall back on his most efficacious powers now: fantasy and hope. So it was then that Buttman turned and finally showed his butt. It does not matter if people were running after this Supereuro or another one. It did not matter if there was a supposed Super Cat or Super Having Fun Together: whatever they were looking for in many myriads of directions, immediately everybody stopped and delightedly stared at his butt. “This is” – Buttman then solemnly pronounced – “a butt. To be precise: My butt!” Silence all around. After a minute instead, only a prolonged, fascinated “ohhhh!” They had come back to their senses. Yes, they saw that that could only be a butt, there were no doubts on the subject. It could have been not even Super Marvelous or Super Unbelievably Attractive or Super Let Me Fuck You. That was a butt. “This is” – Buttman repeated seeing that reason was regaining control over the citizens – “this is my butt – it is neither a bug nor a coin, this butt is my butt.” Bewitched, people could only repeat “ohhhh!” Then he talked calmly and a long time. He explained that the earth had been invaded by Supereuros, which were actually a very sophisticated and deconstructive sort of bugs and it was time to face the situation. They had to get rid of the coins and free the bugs from their spell, so that fantasy could still float in the air, and poetry would blow like a wind. Hope should be granted again to everybody, like a need and duty, and butterflies return to flap their wings among the drops of rain. But the coin had to be thrown away – Buttman repeated strongly and loudly: “Let’s go and throw away the coins, the bugs would become free! Our spirits will return free! People! This is neither a coin nor a bug, this is my butt!” “Your butt! Yes! Your butt!” It could be heard repeated everywhere. We would say it sounded like a “long live the queen!” if only a queen could have such a butt. The following hours could be compared only to the events which followed the orders of Herod the Great. Coins got trampled on and thrown away in the rubbish wrapped with their banknotes. Some got slaughtered and melted with murderous intentions. It was an extermination. But whenever a coin would get destroyed or broken, one could see a bug jumping out of it – a Supereuro which eventually became a free bug! And people would see Discovery and Mindlessness emerge anew as free bugs and free thoughts, while the coins would crash down with a tin-like clang. “This is not a Discovery, this is an empty, dull coin!” “This is not Having Fun Together, this is a simple meaningless coin!” While others were still singing and screaming “That’s a butt, it’s not a coin, not even a bug! It’s Buttman’s butt!” Within a sole day, any sort of currency had disappeared from the planet. Things, ideas, animals and plants had been freed from their metallic or papery constriction; they were roaming aloft as free bugs now. For every free bug a new thought would also get free. Or a new feeling or a new animal. But till the very end there was still a Supereuro who had remained untouched. It was Super Ladybug, the queen, on the desk of the kid who had found her. She had Super Hope and Super Fantasy still leaning against her as a supreme sign of fidelity. The kid did not want to break the coin. He took it in his palm and let swing thinking about all the journeys they had together. Apparently he was scared that destroying the coin, something terrible also would happen to Super Ladybug. And yet he had heard Buttman’s talk. Names, yes, have much in common both with thoughts and with things, but coins are just coins, you can exchange them, you can throw them away. He was telling himself. And yet he was scared, because breaking the coin maybe also the bug could get killed, he feared. Then he thought of Buttman’s butt again and his words “This is a butt, neither a coin nor a bug!” and keeping tight-tight Super Ladybug in his hand he said: “This is a ladybug, neither a bug nor a coin!” and crashed the coin against the floor. A marvelous ladybug flew away before his lips out of the window, while a piece of tin lay flat on the floor. Is it like this that we learn names – like ‘Ladybug’? Some say this story never really happened while others say that it will never happen – some wise men add then: “no, it won’t ever happen again.” Be it the truth or just a fairy tale, you can be sure – that is Buttman’s butt!
Reading Pork Dreams
I look at her with some sort of sadness. The day weighs on my shoulders. Hours are strict like bars, I’d rather spend my time horizontally to see if it is possible, after all, to fly. I see minutes trickle down like rain. She does not want the span of my hands, my confusion – right now. I would spend the rest of time combing her hairs, each hear as a thread of silk. I conjure with time. Hardly it works. There are spot of time, dark holes, where our twisted necks are allowed to descend; but daily, breakfast and dinner stand up like flags of good behavior. I try to snatch them down and use as napkins several times. Rarely I succeed. Then I cry as a monkey, I roll up like a cat. She’s reading Avital, with her eyes absorbed in a secret line. I see the pages and the body of the book, she’s looking through it, as it was transparent. There must be music coming out of that box with leaves, a silent song that the one who is distracted cannot hear. I must also be lighter and almost transparent. I move a pet alike. My paw climbs on the hard spine – and descends unnoticed along the cover. If I were a cat I would meow. Her eyes get more tenacious. They overcome the disturbance, they keep at the line, silently descending to sound the bottom of the story-building. Must it be a fable or a reflection? I stare at her. After a minute or two, I know it works. She poses the book down on her breast and look at me with some disappointment. “What?” I must have a good reason to have dragged her out of her thoughts. Actually I have none. “What are you doing?” I wonder aloud – and obviously it’s the worst thing to say. If a friend is running downhill or has gone swimming, usually then they quite happily recount something of their day, but the reader is generally quite secretive with her own experiences. “I’m reading” is too obvious to be replied – if a layer of annoyance were not just prevailing over her eyebrows. Her reading eyes are landscapes. She’s normally so intent in the reading that you can almost follow the shadows of the trees and even some rays of sun dwindling with her pupils, if there are trees and sunny days in the narration. Now she’s emptily pointing at me, now that animals and streets have deserted her face to pose to me this inquisitorial “what?” I am in the ‘pause’ position. I should be brief and let the play continue. “Let me read” she eventually adds, having ascertained that I don’t have any good request. “Let’s get married.” I say urging with my eyes for a kiss. Her face slips away to the book, while she slowly points out that we are already married. “I mean now” I beckon. “Can’t you tell I’m reading? If you have nothing urgent to say, let me read for other half a hour.” “Would you like tea?” I suggest. Tea always works. “No thanks. I’ve got already tea here” she informs me while pointing on her chair where the tea pot still emanates a tender vapor. “Where is your cup? Have you drunk your tea?” No, I didn’t. “It’s in the living room.” “It’s getting cold.” It’s already cold. “No, I’m going to drink it.” She mumbles an unnecessary word on my forgetfulness and I see her eyes getting more intense again in her reading. They dig different folds on the page if they are absorbed or only leafing through. In this moment I see them founder like a stick on the beach, drawing pictures on the page. The amount of sand they move and raise varies with the different shades of thought. I sit and watch. Like a dog would let the ball go away in the horizon sometimes without running after it, so I stay still and contemplate her profile. The throwing got simply too far. The falling stick draws on my nose the confusing maze of a fly, like her buzzing attention. Therefore I do not move and patiently wait staring at her. Her hand pushes my shoulder now, like you would remove a cat from sitting on your keyboard. I resist. And that’s simply too much. “I want to read” she asserts with clear disappointment. At this point I let fall my weight on the coach, with my back turned against her and curled up – exactly like a cat. She sighs and then rubs my back whilst continuing her reading. I meow with pleasure. And she continues petting me. Her hand sounds the depth of the book. I cannot see either what’s happening or her thought, but I know the text’s layers now deciphering her hand’s pressure on my body. After all, like with nature, also books have different ways of perception. They can directly talk to a brain, or also be perceived like a seismograph feels the movements of the earth. A phenomenon impresses different litmus papers in different ways – and my shoulders are finally getting more in sync with her eyes. My back is a map, a landing strip of the book. I press my butt towards her to have more contact, she lets me adjust. At this point though, her hand stops stroking me. It left my back to grasp the cover of the book. I wait a few seconds to see if it’s going to return to me. There’s something happening for sure. She could almost talk aloud to engage better and directly her interlocutor-book – posing a screen against distractions. I meow again. I know I might be kicked out off the sofa, if not physically, certainly with severe words. I take the risk. “What do you want?” At this point there are no doubts that the question can be answered neither with honesty not with a well furnished chain of lies. I must leave the room. So I stand up on my four legs and step from the sofa to the bed – it’s the good side of having little bedrooms, you do not need to walk but just stretch a bit to reach the next place. I am abandoning the spot with some resignation. I do not comment, nor dare looking back at her. I can feel her eyes on my back as I step on the bed and lie down. But I damaged the clock. The pendulum is abruptly broken: She loudly cackles throwing herself on top of me with both her hands on my back. “You, puffy puffy!” Her entire feathers are covering my sight. If you can feel what it would mean for your new shirt and your skin the floating of a fresh broken egg, you can try to imagine the impact of the entire plumage of a peacock on your back, while you lie prone on the belly. Imagine: her wings covering your neck, her choking verse throbbing in your ears, while out of the corner of the eyes you watch her claws tear to shreds the pillow. You’d rather had behaved better before. “Sorry sorry sorry” I bark while laughing in the midst of the mess around. When I manage to turn, her long flexuous fingers are binding my hair to the sheet, her long gnarled fingers. They are elastically softening the mattress, with her body posed on my stomach and her arms stretching to tickle my feet. She’s big and sea green. I feel her sticky liquid dropping from her shoulders to my neck, cleansing me like a silkworm. I look at her with my joyful big eyes. She is playing at eating me now, or she really means to. She flexes and jumps high to bump against the ball pendant. The light flickers while she heavily falls against me like a dark shadow. I see only a blue candle flame for an eternity called moment. When she’s on top of me again I confront her tongue slipping from her large mouth, while her frog legs sink on the mattress like in a swamp. “I was joking” I tell her. She’s the creature of the Book. “You’re beautiful” I tell her with unutterable happiness. She’s driven mad. She hates me telling that she’s beautiful. “I’m not beautiful!” she cries out, digging her nails on my breast. I see the threatening scratches, as a promise of eternal flight. The sound coming from her chest is lower and deeper. It starts like the sea sound but while the waves break at one point in a singing birds’ chip against the rocks, this noise steadily grows in depth and widening up the margins of the ribs eventually throbs like a roar on my mute mouth. She smells my fear and strokes her whispers against me eyelashes. I am enchanted. I touch her breast, where warmth and fur mingle together. I sip her strength. She crouches down, with her tail and face, her paws and head on my chest. I lick her neck, descending down where even dolphins clear up, but before I get to her nipples, she has taken my head firmly in her hands and turned it upward to stick her orangutan’s tongue between my teeth. A fish wouldn’t slip any better. I try to fish her out, but the eel is not even afraid of being bitten hard, as I would do, if this fearlessness would not let me be unaware of this possibility. I grasp her butt, her reddish swollen up butt, deformed like in the families of the trees’ lovers. I’d be leaf to wipe her soap away, I try to shove my dick in it. But she quickly shakes leaving my naked radish worm tender in the air. I see the ravish predator getting closer with her muzzle. “My caterpillar” she says to me – while I had forgotten language did exist. She kisses my radicchio, while I wonder if she wouldn’t tear it off. Dogs’ things are kind of ugly and come out like piss. She sucks it up, while I helplessly move my hairy paws in the hair. I beat her furry back with my sole. Her eyes rise up at me without leaving the grip. Only her alligator’s sight emerge from my pubes: two sharply delineated pupils inlaid in green-polished skin. They cut two vertical bars. I catch her furry crest, taking the risk of my hand being cut off. She sucks my lips up, draining me. While she lifts herself to lick her whiskers, I got the chance of turning up on all fours and reaching the other corner of the bed. Seeing no possible exit, I throw myself against her like a cat would jump against the windshield of a car for blind fear. I scratch the air in my rainbow-fly. It’s raining cats and dogs, and lions and frogs. I rain on her mouth and lick her eyes. I’d love to lick each of her hairs. My hand has found the softest spot, where there is going to be truce. She turns and lets my face sip the joy of her butt. My hand is taken in, where butterflies go to paint their dreams. I sip the dream. I touch the consistence of my dream, pressing on her with my tender needles. Repetition creates worlds, the bird flies down, the frog jumps high up, trees spread their roots along my forehead, leaves spread apart, with tender green, while the sun is abruptly keen and sweet, dropping sweat on my grapes. My hand is tasting the evening and the morning and the evening of the morning of my life morning and evening. Song is creatures’ voice. Sap- sapping. Words can this. I can word. We learn the alphabet together. My hand is prisoner. My hand is learning to love, to write, to read. It is flying. My needles curl up, pressing into her skin, while her eyes indulge in mine. When my hand feels the way is not given to a hand to feel, that’s also the moment when literature escapes from the page – and the Book was born from a puddle of ink. Learning to write, learning to read, learning to love. We love each other, like bears, twisting our necks in a smuggling of signs. When all minutes have fallen down like heavy drops from the clock, she’s posing her hands on me again, caressing my profile. I finally flop down next to her. I wear only my idiotic smile. She’s also smiling. Her fur is covering my thought. I dwindle on her lips while my face lies on the pillow as if it were a cloud of softness. She lifts her head and tells me: “I’m going to read now.”
_ _ _ Eventually the woman emerged and lay down on the grass, while the mare disported herself in the river water. Whether it was the grass or the river didn´t much matter. But what was it then that the two had in common? An observer might have said that they were both beautiful. An observer might have added that they were both desirable. But would he have noted that they liked one another? _ _ _ Suniti Namjoshi, By the River. For Virginia Woolf
“The ways of the Lord are infinite” is among the most ambiguous statements. It depends on your mood, it can generate the most deviant interpretations. I believe pornography began with that biblical statement. Its inclusion immediately generates exclusion and crosses limits. In Hegel’s terms: it’s a bad infinity and we know the happenings at the outskirts of possibility, where the kid tries out the adult – and the adult tries out his thinking thought. The limit that cannot be achieved is writing’s destiny – and learning this inscription – circumcision means to understand the first infusion at being born: ink into our veins. Not by chance Derrida’s self-portrait began with an image of transfusion, baptizing deconstruction as the not-yet-born effacing trait: of a masturbation.
Were more attentive readers given, academics with some more courage or critical eyes whose views had not long since escaped their task of learning, then many deconstructive texts would be given to their infamous and yet most pertinent genre: pornography. Pornography is in fact a drawing into life. It does not content itself representing from a distance, rather aims at that transfusion of writing into the body – which ultimately diagnoses death (as if it were living). Similarities and similitude remain holistic monadic concepts tough to such contaminations and therefore not to last nowadays.
Penetration is the forging principle. Penetration “at a distance” – since it cannot be ultimately fulfilled. The camera, with its magic power of spelling it right, describes “with intervention”. It performs participation – as a re-enacting of the act – which would never exist without its double on the screen. The viewer is eventually the “actor” – the actus essendi, since only now his pleasure is generated and her pleasure was generated for him. [Keeping at gender distinctions and their eventual deconstruction is a historic-critical must around the concept/act of penetration].
Methodology, the pubic, public expression of the knowing-how, contains to some extant always a pornographic trait, like spelling, like grammar. When a /taxi/text remains totally entangled in its methodological net, then it belongs to the pornographic genre. That is what happens with deconstruction.
Obscenity is sexual repetitions (deferral and displacement), like the ways of the Lord show us. The camera has approached more than anything else that threshold with the skin – where penetration at a distance is graphically performed. Nothing remains of the act but its acting-how. Life and texts become pornography through the transfixing textual view of life into one’s own bio-disappearance. Life gets deadened in a textual process of masturbation that chemically brings forgetfulness onto your own penis while a living cunt moves on the screen, although the cunt is fictional and your penis alive. Masturbation is forgetfulness of life, ink transfusion.
Displacement of pleasure is twisted together with pleasure itself, which is displacement after all. Deconstruction and pornography are pleasure games of the extreme – a unique genre. They play the role of the camera, although in a sense, they are as old as the world’s oldest profession. They also come together to a conclusion in the camera. Their apex coincides with their decline. Within them we touched their limit obscenity.
p.s. When a Goddess masturbates looking at a horse’s cock on the screen – you can gloriously come once more and then be sure it’s over.