THE END. 2nd edition
The author wishes to thank his friend Jeff Hargrove for proof reading the following...
The vanishing point theory. You walk the University. Like an angry pony prancing around fresh meadows of knowledge. Frolicking aimlessly along pastural sinology fields. Until you find a new place to venture. To parade into. Another hallway to explore. Like this one. And you trot right in. Into these new territories where your waddle is yet to set its foot. That’s where you meet A. She walks your way. From these distant lands still unknown to you. You are enthralled. She walks fast. You look everywhere. Except in her direction. Except you don’t really know. Where to direct your looks. And an uncontrollable glimpse in the wrong direction makes you discover something. Something that will haunt you for the rest of your life: The Vanishing Point Theory: A. looks ahead, straight to her horizon. Decidedly. And all her person is moving towards it. Seamlessly. To a defined point only she can see: The Vanishing Point Theory applied in all its magnificence. You love to learn. The situation commands you to learn fast. So when you cross her you grasp the horizon ahead. With all your might. Your effort is probably written all over your face. Constipatedly. A. passes by you. Seamlessly. You keep walking. And yet you look back. Realizing you still have a lot to learn. The end.
Genie trash. You are smoking outside. Amongst a line-up of dudes. A. comes and asks you if you have a lighter. You thought you blended in quite well.
Again. The situation commands you to act fast. In panic mode you start emptying your pockets. Showing her what you got. Or rather what you should not have. Displaying a week long exhibition of trash: A bottle of milk. Subway pass. Banknotes. Lips balm. Aspirin. Paper. Pens. A vintage mobile. A Swiss army knife. Keys. A lollipop. The genie trash. Tell me what you junk. I will tell you who you are. You take note of the fact that should your pockets be bigger, you could probably produce anything. Except, obviously, a lighter. The end.
Rock and roll. In the train. Back from Germany. You will not see S. again. But your MP3 player is loaded. With the good guys. As you pass an apathetic bunch of cows, a song pops up. You did not know you had it. And you realize that she, on the very last night, might have put it in your player. A farewell gift. And what a gift. Bon Jovi. “It’s hard to let you go on”. Tears roll in lines on your cheeks. Train wheels rock on the rails. Rock and roll. The end.
A shell. In a plane you write the name of N. On a shell you picked up from the beach where you first and last saw her. Turbulence challenges your will to be neat. You misspell her name. And fingers the clouds. But you keep the shell. For 5 years. The end.
Idle motion. You are way drunk on a chair. Legs spread out. Very elegant. Made to be desired. You face bombed by Cosmopolitan artillery. With a cigarette hanging miserably on your lips. A little white flag indicating the war is over. The defeat touch. You look exhausted. Like you’ve just invented something. Something big. Something unconceivable. Something beyond the human mind. A device. Of perpetual motion may be. Or something even better. She comes from the bar. You obviously “block” her way. She crosses you over, looks at you in the eye. An emissary of peace in alcoholic warfare. From your vantage point it looks like she’s riding you. Backlighted. Symmetric. All from above. The type of diplomacy you love. She stares at you. Like she doesn’t quite understand what is it that you have just invented. And what is so great about it. Neither do you anyway. She moves on. You don’t. The end.
The comb question. Your song is finished. On the KTV screen, a new hit comes up. MO. takes the mike, sings and looks at you. She passes her hand in your hair. Three times. You look at her. She looks at you. She smiles. You adore the way she looks at you. The deepness of her looks. The strength of it. Its goodness.
It’s intense. Yet not suggestive. You’re not sure what to make of it. The end.
Cause to consequence. CL. tells you you are a cool guy. Natural, honest and outgoing. That you are a nice person. May be a bit special. So you open up. She listens. And sighs. She says you are complicated. That she wouldn’t date you. And that it might be very difficult to be with you. Truth of the matter is, she has a point. You wonder if you will ever master these famous ways of logic. The end.
Ingrid. Ingrid gives you a lot of pleasure. You feel close to her. You can tell her things. She listens. And doesn’t judge. She is not of the best advice. But it’s better than bad advice. You can touch her anytime, anywhere. She is always there for you. Only problem: she wears out easily. It’s a small problem anyway. She is a great inflatable doll. The end.
Stealth fashion. D. has been invited to the party of your friend. Unbeknownst to you.
Would you have known, you would have stayed home. But home is a one day walk from where you are now. And itʼs late. So you do what you do best. You go stealth. Turns out it works. Your enterprise eventually pays off. Twelve bottles later. You are still up when everybody is asleep. With nothing to do. So you clean up the place. Stealth. You develop a new set of skills. Stealth cleaning. You pick up some trash next to the couch where she has passed out. You watch her sleep. Not long. You learnt fast is best. Yet. You notice she has a piece of pop-corn on her cheek. Like a mole. New Age. Versailles rave parties. Fashion never sleeps. And pops in mysterious ways. You would employ all your knowledgeable dexterity to get rid of it. If only you could be sure to not let the garbage drop on her face. So you opt for cleaning around instead. And purposely forget the piece of pop-corn. You feel great because you are doing something she will not remember. Fueled with the belief that she will have an anecdote to talk about in the morning. The end.
Powder-proof. You are out of the dentist. Candies have always been, well, your sweet spot. You jaws hurt. You cannot talk. You cannot articulate. On the way home you buy washing powder. Walking to a street corner you bump into D. She is with a common friend. They come to say hi. You are a man of instinct. Which does not necessarily mean of good instinct. You brandish your washing powder bag. The last resort shield.
From behind it you try to explain you cannot talk. Making out what might just have been the first few words of a new language. Incomprehensible. Just like that. On the spot. A moment in history to remember. Or to forget. They both step back, wave and go their way, unsure of what you said. Probably thinking you have a serious problem. You cannot disagree. That’s why you come up with serious solutions. And you make your way home. Behind the washing powder bag. Relieved. Secured. Shielded. The end.
An incident. You just hang up with your friend PK. As you’re having a drink with EM. That sounds quite simple. But you mix up both names. The end. Twice.
Cultural exchange. You met RK. and all you do for 6 months is smile at her. To which she answers by bending down. Politeness rules. You love Japan. One day you try to ask her for - her phone rings. She picks up. And talks japanese. Watashima-eru-akimonodo-sokatasane - or something of that effect. She smiles and says she has to go. You find yourself bending down and apologizing to have her delayed. Cultural exchange at its best. The End.
You enter the recording studio. She is there. At the reception. The Audience. She is beautiful. You are stunned. Petrified. But the show must go on. You push yourself. A little too hard. And trip on the doorstep. An actor urged to perform. You did not really think of it. You improvised. It made a theatrical entrance. Well received by laughter. From the Audience. What else is there to do? You salute in ridicule. The end.
Dilemma. She’s cute. Lovely. A little sunshine. And she made you a drawing. She is only 6 years old. Would she be above legal age, what would you do? The end.
No parley. In O. you find a great playmate. You play everyday in the agency. After work. Nobody gives a fuck. Neither do you. But it’s ok. One time she takes a pen and draws a mustache on your face. You look like a pirate. She adds a scar on your cheek. You look like a pirate with a scar. She complements it with an eyepatch on your left eye. You look like a pirate with a scar. And a black left eye. She says something is missing.
You propose to add a fruit basket somewhere on your face. Creative people like her might just get it. She loves your suggestion. And adds a fruit basket above your eyes brows. You now look like a pirate with a mustache, a scar and an eyepatch. And a fruit basket. Right out of the asylum. Aye mate. Follows hide and seek. But your brand new look does not help your brand old abilites to camouflage. She finds you easily. As you thought under a table might do the trick. She laughs her head off. So to speak. And crawls under the table with you. You too stay there for a while. Together. Drifting underneath a sea of desks. In a now deserted agency. When inspiration strikes again. She seems to like your pirate look. So she holds your face in her hands. Deciding what to add. And where to add. In this perilous endeavor, you dive into her green eyes. A slight moment of misconduct. Bombing into a private pool you don’t own. This breaks the spell. Instantly. She says she has to go. And leaves. You say you will stay under the table for a while. Because no matter what, you are a now a pirate. Crewless. Boatless. Clueless. But a pirate. Still. The end.
Flipping destiny. Heads you go say hi to her. Tails you don’t. Tails. The End.
This hero that lies in you. First time you meet XK. you involuntarily discover there is a noble hero. Somewhere inside you.
You never knew he existed. You find her in a washroom, all messed up. She puked on herself. And all around herself. Spew perimeter. Not only shit happens. You lift her up, cleanse her and take her to a couch where she can rest. Away from vomit swamps. With clumsy, yet heroic hands you put her hair away from her mouth. So she doesn’t throw up on herself again. Optionally so she can also see her savior. With a tiny voice she says she doesn’t feel well. The self-proclaimed hero in you says he understands. And adds if she needs anything. She says to not look at her. And to leave her alone. The now obsolete hero in you says he understands. And leaves her to rest. The end.
The big picture. You have become quite good in web searching. You find XK’s blog. And you read it. Daily. She is learning French. She posts all sorts of extracts, from Hugo to Baudy. You like it because it makes you reconnect with your mother tongue. She uploads pictures as well. Once she uploads ZE picture. She wears futuristic glasses. Like the ones you wear when you watch a 3D movie. She stands against a futuristic background. With photoshop-made light rays. Abstract. Tron-like. But in green. Environmentally Tron friendly. At its center, like she is a prism of light. You like her style. The emotion in you makes up the headline. “XK. is Kool”. Rising back from the swamps. The end.
Wrong time wrong place. AL. is talking to you. Because you are afraid you look down.
Bad idea. Your eyes stop on her cleavage. A postcard of the Grand Canyon. You wonder what her baby will think when it gets to see her tits. The future cowboy in a not-yet making. And you feel it’s a bit out of place. Also out of time. You get back to more practical matters. And wonder the size of her bra. The end.
The waiting. You are having coffee. She sits at a table next to you. She leaves lipstick marks on her cup. It glitters in the sun. A beacon of love. A hand comes onto her shoulder. She smiles. He’s here. The end.
Archives. LR. is in your room. Sitting suggestively on your bed. Awaiting what is supposed to come next. Looking at you. You go in the archives. Of conversation topics. And you ask her if she likes sports. Obviously you realize your archives need to be better, well, archived. The end.
A moment of philosophy. LR. advises you to be more loose. Or less stiff. To take things as they come. And to have some fun with it. You answer having fun is not something you are good at. Because you do not find something intense amusing.
Or something disappointing for that matter. She tells you these are the possible outcomes of having fun. You look at her, wondering if what she just said is genius. Or if what you just answered could actually be beyond genius. The end.
Butter do not fly theorem. There are 30 405 bars in Hong-Kong. You google-post-proofed it. Did you have to be in this one? And did she had to? No. Then what? Fate? Rather coincidences of life: You get introduced to LN. She is your muse. Your e-muse. A web butterfly. You know she would fly in to Hong-Kong. While she lives in Beijing. As she is from Shanghai. Of Cantonese descent. With a british passport. Yes. You know it all. Or more precisely what you need to know. Online spying is your bread and butter. Butter do not fly. You have demonstrated it. Empirically. You still want to prove the other side of the theorem. Bread just might. Or not. So you get introduced. Thru common acquaintances. You are not alone. This is the thing you wanted to avoid. You thought it would be quite easy with 30 404 bars at hand. Fate decided otherwise? You choose otherwise. You go ballistic. Kicking a penalty. In the net of destiny. Goal! You also love google. You have been collecting her images for six months. You could be her e-scribe Or her web display manager. No. You are not a psycho. Well.
May be you are. The fair psycho type. The e-psycho. You just get what she feeds. You admire her. You think she’s so cool. You think she’s so smart. You think she’s so e-spiring. Once you thought of sending her an e-mail. But you are always one technology ahead. You do e-mind. You are e-ware. Dedicated to make it functional. It works already well. When someone is way out of your web. But it’s not fully operational yet. All in due time. As of this moment you are getting so busy. Having a theorem to prove. Actually you did met her before. One time. Long time ago. In the post-modem era. Except that you did not know her name then. Plus she had long hair. Now it’s short. Times flies. Like scissors. Or the coincidences of life. Either way. Back then you bought a T-shirt from her. Three T-shirts to be exact. Precisely because they were just like her. So cool. So smart. So inspiring. That was a long time ago. So tonight is the night. Bread will fly. This is the night where you scroll down on your best page. Zip the usual stuff back on your inner hard drive. And download one of these terrifying weapons you save for moments like that. The judgment day solution file. Wesleepedia™. You become an encyclopedia. Of boredom. A user de-generated, in-comprehensive and un-interactive database. You are boring out everyone around you. With everything you know. And especially everything and don’t. Listen. And we all shall sleep.
E-diots implore you to sign out of this awkward sailing knots explanation. Implore you to quit these fraudulent quantum physics assessments. Implore you to delete this sadly inaccurate history of tea (from 1265 to 1975). Implore you to refresh those financial predictions on the exponential downfall of the Chilean GDP. Only LN. does not implore. She is tough. And somehow feels like double-clicking. On your cryptic argument about the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Surf more on those hazy scientific evidence of nitrogen in the ants digestive system. But you thought it through. Sharp as a blade. Like your final will for the end of times. Your are firewalled. Like a PC worm on a Mac. Threatening. But useless. It’s never too late to be one technology behind. So you restart. Go the vintage way. And talk. To her. One word. “Bye”. And off you go. Your theorem gone with the bread. The end.
Abseiling in oblivion. You’re naked. Leafless. So is she. Helpless. Re-creation begins. You go full monty. Bungee-ing. From her throat up down to her belly. And beyond. Under. An adrenaline ride. Rappelling to Eden. And take her to Heavens, Before someone else swings in the way. Organizing the cunninglingus of her lifetime. As you are just about to reach the - she motions you up. A message from above. You get climbing.
From the hills of her hips. Thru the pass of her cleavage. Up the cliff of her chin. To plant a hungry kiss on her - she tells you to stop. She turns around. Oups. Woman psyche problem warning. You wait for it to revolve. It doesn’t. Until she says she’s sorry. That what you are doing brings her back bad memories. You could not really tell. That’s why you have just been told. So you put back your best leaf on. And offer to take the bad memories for a walk. Yourself included. Abseiling in oblivion. The end.
The shoe whisperer. When you talk to WZ, you know timing is key. No more than 5 seconds in the eyes. 10 seconds looking away. And back on her eyes. Choose your spot carefully. And move on to the other. Seamlessly. And back on her eyes again. Because you know. You know if you fuck with it, she will wonder what you are thinking about. And you might end up breaking your own record. Currently standing at 5000 words a minute. So you work out your timings carefully. Each time you talk to her. One day you almost go 7000 words. Unheard of. So to speak. And this is the day where you find the perfect spot. You look at her shoes. White converse shoes. A nebulous of laces. Against a cosmic palette of floors and dark carpets. An anchor of peace when you are lost in space. And speed. It’s your spot. So you look at her not in the eyes. But in the shoes. You. The shoe whisperer. In no time her shoes walk the path of life. And with time your whisper echoes on all the other shoes you meet. The end.
Communicating vases. You watch a fashion show on the web. A beautiful model walks in. Topless. She has tiny breasts. And small nipples. It’s a piece of porcelain. It reminds you of the Ming dynasty ones. You wonder: are WZ’s like that too? And imagine WZ. standing next to you, breaking a vase, enraged: “Are you looking at my breasts???” The end.
A good decision. You delete WZ. from your MSN. She never talks to you. And you spend most of your days checking whether she’s online, away, busy or offline. The end.
One of those nights.
02:30 am. She is crying in your arms. In fact you are breaking up with her. She says she will always be there for you. You do not doubt her words. You just feel uncertain of your capacity in being loved. And stutter. The end.
On the road. MS. is giving you a ride home. You are seated next to her. You and her talk about something you probably should not have mentioned. Video games. Jokingly she tells you you are boring.
Jokingly you acknowledge she is right. The end.
Ping-pong. MS gives you her phone number. She laughs when she talks to you. Sometimes. She asks you a lot of questions. Especially the casual ones. She comments a lot on your answers. Especially the obscure ones. She hardly mentions her boyfriend. The one. And she calls you. Once. You are not sure what it means. And your art of seduction being at its best. You end up doing exactly the same. The end.
The fine art of disappearing. You look at SY’s hands. Chopping, cutting, lacerating. They look so soft. For a food stylist. You are not the lucky one they touch. That’s why you are ready. To change your life. And become someone else. Or may be not someone else. Something. Something lucky enough to be touched. Anything. A frying pan. A tomato. A mug. A grape. Something smaller. An atom. Change your life. Become an atom. A small one. And vanish from the surface of the earth. The fine art of disappearing. On her hands. The end.
The ways of the wise. MS. brings you to her place. And offers herself. To you. Why you is what you come to wonder. Who cares? You seem to be the only guy around. And so, much obliged, you go for it. For two hours. Non-stop. The convenience store of love. You are on a roll. Producing your best show. Or so you think. Very careful about how you touch her. You do not want to disappoint. And quite carefree about how she touches you. She does not disappoint. It’s great. You are obsessed with the idea that she doesn’t get cold. You do not want it to end. The sex that is. Not her being cold. You do it not so much because you wish to impress. More because you want to provoke history. See what happens. Live up to a reputation you don’t own yet. Get your name in her good books. May be even erase all of the other names written before yours. Interestingly all you want her to feel is you care. That she might be the best thing that happened to you. Even though you are more of the 处男 breed. But this small detail gets dismissed. Just like narcolepsy when you entered into her room. She lets you stay at her place the next day. For a while. You hug. You kiss. It’s great. Like you’ve been doing that for ages. Or so you think. Yet you do not find anything to say. May be because you have been told that when you kiss you verbally cannot dwell on your life. But you remember you have also been told you are boring. So you venture if you’ll see her again. She uses the ways of the wise.
On you. And quotes: “电话联系”. The end.
The job. When you go out with MA. you stay behind her. Always. When she dances. When she talks. When she drinks. When she texts. Even when she looks for you. Which makes it difficult since you are always behind her. But you somehow manage. And it doesn’t happen much anyway. You stay behind. Not necessarily close. You can be one, five, ten meters away. As long as it’s behind her. Always. This way you feel useful. Offering protection. Secret, unnoticed protection. A dude with a purpose. The free of charge body guard gig. Against drunken guys, walls, air streams, natural cataclysms, falling airplanes. Spilling drinks and airmailed cigarettes. Even assassins, lost bullets, ghosts and any other unexpected guests. Or anything that can potentially come from behind. And be of harm. Letting her manage the front. Over time you find that this gig has three very distinct advantages. First, you get a wider view of what she sees. Always. Your world hence feels bigger. Two, you get all the reflections glittering on her hair. It’s your own party ball. And you spend your evenings realizing portraits and profiles are so so old school. You dedicate yourself in back studies. Her back. You start knowing it like, well, the back of your hand. Her curves. If you could sketch her back. That would do a nice portrait.
It might not make sense. But would that be something. Oh. Last but not least, would something happen behind you, you would naturally take the first hit. The first blow. The Great Customs Wall. Until the day when you know there will have to be someone else. Behind her. Sooner or later. Someone who will hold her. Sooner or later. A better candidate. The close body guard gig. He will block your view. End your career. But for now each time you go out with her you stand behind her. Waiting for the day you will be unemployed. The end.
It’s amazing what hands can do. You are on watch. Fully awake. GG. is asleep in your arms. You wonder what she’s dreaming. And the lamp is on. Far. Too far. You are thinking of switching it off. But you cannot move. Your whole body is glued onto her. Except your hands. You have potential. Use the Force. But you might wake her up. And the whole Jedi Order to shout in unison: blasphemy! So you let the electric bills erect into light saber class numbers. And show her instead what you can do with your hands. As she sleeps. You make chinese shadows. On the ceiling. You can already do the dog. The goat. The pistol. Even the water pistol. And a doubtful profile of Abraham Lincoln. You spend the evening like this. Improving on your skills. In making up a rabbit. A teddy bear. A butterfly. An elephant. A star. A boat. A wave. A moon. She is sound asleep. And your superior deduction abilities all conclude she won’t see it. Which doesn’t matter. It’s for a higher purpose. Fueling her night with augmented imagery. Casting shadows above her head to keep bad dreams away. The end.
Wild ice west. Over time you start to wonder why you feel cold all the time. The answer sneezes right at you: winter. True, the season must have something to do with it. But not only. The explanation is frozen elsewhere: You always meet M. in cold places. You don’t know why. You don’t really plan it. You just go with the flu. And its inherent contradictions. Like chilling out in a coffee shop. Over a hot chocolate. Or holding a boiling soup. On an arctic terrace. You become an agonizing snowman. Burning from within. Trying your best to not to shake. Like you could do it for a living. Remaining cool under your diving suit. Since M. says you must feel quite hot in it. You have a ticket with her time. You want to make good use of it. So the weather doesn’t bother you that much. As there is a place all icy tide cannot reach. A fragile sanctuary for lonely sniffs. A sacred place where you are with her and where you too are warm. The two in one place. The final aim for your pathetic crusades in the wild ice west. It’s her car. The M-mobile. Where only one rule prevails: Get cold first. Get heat after. You are both trembling on the seats. Like two prehistoric idiots who did invent the fire. And let it die. In her car you always get back to basics. You know your ticket with her time is, well, time limited. So you warm each other up. Starting from scratch. And faster. Then comes the rubbing. And faster. Then comes the hugging. And slower. You put her frozen hands on your oven belly. And scream in silence. She puts her frozen noise on your fevered neck. And smiles in comfort. Reviving the sparkle. Little by little. You love these moments. Because you hope each time the flame gets revived, your ticket might get extended. Because you hope each time prehistorical blizzard rages outside,
A breeze of history might slip inside her car. The end?
At ease. SY. is 5 minutes late. You are waiting in the restaurant. Valiant. The model knight. The guy who will not quit. Amongst the local assembly of tableware. Waiting. With honorary knife and fork subjects. Too proud to let her know you like punctuality. SY. is 10 minutes late. She must have been delayed. You have it in you. Itâ€™s in your blood. You feel something is not right. What if something did happen? What if she lost her car? Her phone? Herself? All of the above? SY. is 15 minutes late. What if she went in the wrong restaurant? With the wrong man? On the wrong date? What if she had an accident? What if she was kidnapped? Taken? Abducted by chicken patties who survived her last job? Or a sliced onion that seeks revenge? What if she was tortured? In a dark studio? By angry dishes? Screaming for help? Propless? SY. is 20 minutes late. What if it was you? Trapped in a parallel world? Unable to rescue? With this surreal waiter asking you endlessly what you want to order? With all those yummy pictures on the menu that could bear her signature? You have to panic. Too many possibilities. And the only option you want is not available right now. Fair enough. Most of the time in a restaurant you choose the best table: Behind a pillar, back on a wall, behind this annual basketball players gathering. You never tried the back shop though. Somewhere hard to find. Or hard to spot. Which is confusing. Even the waiter wears out and forgets about you. But tonight you made yourself visible. Sort of. Because you have to see her. Viscerally. Because she will come. Eventually. Because tonight you requested an audience with her Majesty. To level up. To the King throne. Or Anywhere closer. To her. The Queen. Ambition fuels. Fool function might just do. Or not. And here she comes. 25 minutes later. The Highness of broken clocks. The Empress of timeless zones. Leaving in her wake a court of subdued minutes and seconds twinkling in limbos. She sits down. Of gracious descent.
She kisses you. Consecration. And time stops. As a strange feeling now flutters within your head. A royal kiss always has such a divine effect. Amongst which that it crumples away all your lame scenarios. Trashes them all; like insipid pointers in a wind of reason. And triggers the waiter to come once again asking you if you are ready to order. You are. As your little kingdom is now at peace. Now that she is here. Now that she has arrived. Now that she is safe. And hungry. Now that you are happy. And possibly upgraded. To end?
“Au pifomètre”. Each time you hit the bed with M. you have to do it like it’s your last chance. Like there won’t be any other time. For the road. The end of the world. Whatever comes next. If something comes. Better be safe than sorry. Who knows? You certainly don’t. And you don’t intend to. Except that it becomes a problem: It contaminates your hygiene system. You sure didn’t see that one coming. Not that your toilet obeyed a complex ritual anyway. It’s just that you are now developing a curious pathology: After making love to her you do not shower. For a day. Or two. Hardly three. Water and foam stop flirting on your gentle skin. Lonely shampoos and orphan gels hail your sweet name in despair. Trapped in a cold, desolated shower cell. At the mercy of your selfishness. Not that you don’t miss them. Or bathing. You just couldn’t care less. And that’s the whole point. Because you know M. has left something invaluable on you. Something that only she can leave. Something made in M. Her smell. It’s not that you thrived in becoming dirty. Or toxic. Or even radioactive. It’s just that you discovered olfactive love making. A whole other way to do it. You can now do it with the noise: “au pifomètre”. You make it last as long as her odor stays on your body. As you now can extend the past in the present.
Just like when you are trapped inside her. In any possible scent of the word. Trapped in a past that remains in the present but that is limited in time. If it makes sense. You couldn’t care less, you just breathe it all in. The nasal plumbing of time. Aching to stay in these paranormal pipes. As long as they can last. Getting back to your dreary ablutions only when her smell has drained away. Unsure if she will call again. Unsure if the next shower will signal a cure. Or a relapse. To end?
The science of calls. MS. first called you by your real name. It’s the only one you got. Then she called you by your chinese name. You go by many. One time she called you ‘piou’. A few knows about it. Then she called you an idiot. The top of mind. And then she didn’t. The end?
Supermarketing. It’s been told supermarkets fear her advance. Its peaceful habitants all tremble upon her visits. You decided to cruise Alimentation City with GG. See her rampaging through the shelves. Like she rampaged through your heart. Which was for free anyway. With an outdated barcode. The unnecessary missing link in her food chain. The insidious product that wanted to be chosen. At all costs. You wanted to see her words put into action. In the store. It’s been told she could spend hours in each sections. Like a marshal on duty her eyes would wonder upon terrified merchandise. Meticulously aligned on the shelves, waiting for their turn. To be checked. Probed. Weighted. Measured. Inspected. Reviewed. Challenged. Moved in and out of her shopping cart. You wanted to see the beast unleashed. For yourself.
Howling in joy at all these infinite labels. Submitting them to the test. To be read. Scrutinized. Questioned. Studied. Analyzed. Examined. Memorized. And soporifically translated by you. Upon origins. Upon request. Upon good deeds. You wanted to see GG. in her element. Wheeling her mighty trolley. Through endless alleys. Alert. Legless. Like a ferocious astronaut about to conquer a gastronomic planet. Floating in weightlessness through alien landscapes of food items. You wanted to see a world of possibilities flourishing upon her choosing. The promotion of your life unveiling upon your very eyes. While another world would crumble. Upon your very back. The display you could not notice. Because you knew there was nothing else you could do to. To avoid the mere fact. That you had fallen in love. That it would be kind of elementary. Only you could think of taking her to the supermarket. You suggested this outing. She said why not. And it never happened. Yet you wanted to see. So you went there. And you imagined. And there you are. Alone. Or not exactly. You did befriend a sugar box. Displaced by unkind hands in the wrong section. So you confess. Tell your secrets. Why not. Not why. Murmuring an aborted story unto its packaging. That curiously happened to be rather pain receptive. And you put it back where it belongs. Behind all the others ones. Far back in the line. An abandoned secret. Tucked behind the greater shelves of consumerism. The end?
A place for those who had to let it go. A counter in a club is the best spot for a guy like you. You have not seen M.. For twenty five days. Twenty five decades in your time zone. Twenty five seconds in hers. You believe you know the reasons. What it means. And whatever the reasons are, it doesn’t matter. You have better things to do: You think of her all the time. Witnessing from this counter the biggest party you have ever seen. The dance floor swirls in a maze of flickering lights.
Like an immense fantasia drunk yard. A giant orchestra spinning on itself. Glasses are cheering. People are hugging. Boys and girls are dancing. Sweat is in the air. Sex out of the pants. Party on. Like there will be no tomorrow. Fantastical silhouettes. Outer space at dawn. Lots of bling bling. And boozing. The Big-Bang re-enacted. How it all started. Or how it all collapsed. A tremendous impression of grandness. A delightful sense of regret. A prime spot to watch the unfolding of your life. Without her. The end.
Cathedrals. At last. You have paid the entrance fee. And left your polaroids behind. Certain to have too many women in your life. What is there to conclude? You wonder. May be not enough men? Perhaps. But you know it’s not what’s at stake. It’s dark, humid and heavy. Imposing as a religious spaceship. Strolling into the Women Temple. You walk about admiring the glass-stained frescos. Of all those you have met. Of all those you have chosen to omit. Of all those who are here by accident. They are all here.Women. Females. Shemales. Travesties. In the fetal church of your becoming. Chanting your errors. Incanting your misdeeds. Chorusing your pretense. For you. The heretic. The different. The special. The moron. The asshole. The fucker. The loser. The egomaniac. You embrace all the names and travel deeper into the nave.
Blazing gloriously your chronicles of mischievous acts. Onto everlasting domes. Upsetting the chemistry. Redecorating the place. You never thought to be such an interior designer. Until you tried. Tada! Disturbing the quiet order that reigns amongst these perennial walls. Until you find a dusty engraving. In a secular corner. A left over. Hidden behind complicated webs of denials. Sprinkle magic pschit from a passing by aseptic fairy. Tada! Horror! Damnation! Screw me! Itâ€™s you! Itâ€™s us! A crackled fresco of you. With everything you have ever given into. Your places of interest. Your subterfuges. Your roles. Your shame. Your uncertainties. And the fear. The fear. The colossal grime that devours the holes of your cheesy mind. The dirt of conduct on your palpitating wings. What a waste. What lies behind. You break into the fiasco. With a hammer of light. Handed to you by mysterious bunnies. Migrating around the premises. And you wake up. From this rather wicked dream. Your erected penis is winking at you. An old friend. Now you know. You need to live. Urgently. Better. For good. At last. Away from the comforting refuge. Once found. In vertiginous cathedrals. To be continued...