art is the ether of meaning
we live for the others
those who trace life organically
people who live at random
that have and are what is anonymous
that are not the word but the verb
which is the opposite of desire
that what they love is also anonymous
they love all those who long to be loved
who linger for more, for the more they love
with our thick shell
surrounding some symptoms
we’re the carriers of words
the teachers of meanings
the eaters of tongs
6_men in suits and armours
the abductation was not painless. silly saw her hands and feet lighten up and vibrate spasmodically. the w_clan’s storage room filled with images, sounds, words, lifting her and every object in the room, and turning around something – a bulb? light everywhere, her seemly serpentine body with serpentine members lifting and circling up in’n’on the hot air.
she recognised the radio sounds from the clan’s com_day: the movie’s constant soundtrack were those same radio sounds. but she couldn’t understand the tong_song, the words were strange to her. silly was shaking with fear, as aways.
“uhpah! me’n done ok, promiss! mexcuse!..”
a screen appeared in midair. there was a man in it, looking at her intensely. the man had the same straw hair of her own low clan, probably a brou_sis of hers. the screen followed her floating movements. its colours were saturated, and that saturation spilled fast into the room. this static load had nonstop glitches, transforming the whole of the room and everything in it into an overcharged electric coloured storm.
“ya’v bin chusen, grl!”
“wha?! me notty gooddy, me..”
the man in the screen stretched his arm out, into the room, and grabbed silly’s left ankle, where her id_ad was propped under the skin. his eyes scanned it for confirm, the poison_green scan light hurting silly’s leg and eyes. she had no control of her body, and couldn’t bring her hands to protect her face. poison_green colour was feared almost as much as hot_orange, because of its painfully toxic effect on demi_humans.
“AY! da’s hurtin!”
the man let go of her ankle.
“da grl silly’s ready comin, mistah!”
the tong-song suddenly got a brilliance and purity of sound that was fast becoming unbearable for her.
“aargh stopit! PROMISS!!”
instead, the tong_song transmuted into liquified waves of sound, and entered her body through each of her pores, and for a second she could’t breath. the light and brilliance of the abductation were making her sick, but at the same time the energy’s warmth was so pleasant that she urinated with pleasure at once.
the abductation overcharge lasted for some minutes, too long for silly: she lost her consciousness during the rest of the procedure. she never saw the screen suck all the static and disappear into a white brilliant dot.
also she didn’t know for how long she had fainted, suddenly she opened her eyes and realised she was still floating around the room. inertia was a very important last step for the completion of saturated impregnations.
silly started to vomit her ration of the day, cheeps_coola.
the jet out of her mouth turned along within the serpentine energy, as every other object in the storage room. it looked like a yellow snake, slithering away from her.
“me gosh them all gonna kill me fi dis!”
the Profit Prophet’s spoken
words of vermouth:
‘come me boys ‘n loot!’
“well, where are your notes then?”
the great hangar was filled with fuzz, an energy that emerged from the people, the ground, the revo_info pasted all around, the gold&aquamarine paper flags, the loud-speakers playing terra_old pop_prods.
“boy i dunno! me ‘ads they, now’s gonerboner!..”
i looked hard at the baby_recruit.
“you cannot lose your notes, rabs! remember the dna day? gotta be careful!”
he was frail. they all have on them a slight tremor – more like a trilling, really – also in their voices. van zante lost_peasants turned wicked.
“de mister was wit 4 more, dat me knows ’n we all quiet scared doggies, star!”
he kept looking around, scanning faces as if in search for someone. could he be doubles? there were at least 1500 wicked, 500 nonfolks, and around 300 demi_humans in today’s meeting. like him. van zante lost_peasants started appearing more than a year ago in greater numbers. something was happening, we needed more info.
the longer we linger
in our longeval lounge
the longer we tonger
won’t tingelin at all
“who were those 4? where were you? what did they want?”
he seemed confused, his brow furred with movement. then suddenly the stare, so common among the lost_peasants – empty. my mistake: sometimes i forget how easily they fake_escape. it’s hard work to get them back.
“hey! snap_back! SNAP_BACK!”
i snapped my fingers in front of his left ear, where the power_pods were located, but his eyes had already completely lost their colour. he was gone.
i cursed his lost notes and took him by the elbow. we dived into the crowd, towards the west tables, where amadeu was. a lost_peasant was even easier to manipulate in fake_escape. they were very light to the touch and easily in_printable. demi_human computers – in fact we were starting to learn how their programs worked right at that time.
i couldn’t find any free space on the benches, everywhere there was a lost_peasant waiting for the wicked training, or in_printing, or self_whole operations. amadeu had 10 of them surrounding his table, all taking at the same time.
i parked rabs next to the first row and gave his hand to a very thin girl with straw hair and big freckles. she started to shake with fear.
“stay, it’s ok.”
it’s the vain ring
an idea’s more real
when you kill real
it becomes ideal
as it really is
this here and now
4_adding to the losses
musicians turn the corner, six of them, towards us. the clarinet boy’s like a long skinny bird, turning his body, arms and ears flexibly this way or that. he’s a shiny pierrot costume with aquamarine and gold diamonds, one of azza_jono’s primeval pop_pr characters, completely out of fashion since years but still famous with the kids. who can control a kid? they’re playing an ultra_new pop_prod melody.
the peasant that had my eye turns his head a second and i move aside silently, let the flow take me. i know those street musicians from wicked_meetings, their music helps us disappear all the time. aquamarine and gold are the secret colours of the wicked_R.
i need to be back to 1754_f_f. first i go left into a small alley then move to the right side of the flow – and there i see, low corner, end of the alley, yellow light.
i turn right and work hard fringe_sliding on the flow, slower now. very much like in a dream, the flesh_flow let us fly on the ground, azza’s epidermis lifting everyone with it’s energy, again we turn into the liquid we in fact are.
soon we’re over the aorta into a large boulevard with 3 long lines of red, blue, and white flamboyants, the crowd scatters and the yellow light turns left, up the hill.
i know the place on top of the long hill, with the view over azza. it’s van zante’s confound_compound.
3_that our default?
all it took was eye_contact.
it happened just after the group’s furniture broken_dance in the building. i was going to celebrate my pain with an appointment for coffee and cake with her sister bibi, who was in my class at the ars_kademy. we were meeting at the cafè of azza’s movie_museï, in the middle of the north park.
momo, delightfully elegant, her voice quiet and low – a contralt – had the posture of complete comfort within her body, and her movements were praecise, economic, fluid. i got lost in love.
momo looked at me, her eyes turning into a sea where i then undulated, all tones of blue and grey, crystal foam, her scent, mermaid,
i took her hand and didn’t feel my legs anymore. azza’z skin_ground got hold of my feet, and i felt the sap hushing up towards my brain_core, through my lymphs – the brilliance of my inner_built was so intense that i had to close my eyes for a second. i felt the fierce storm passing from from her eyes into my body, i tasted the vivid salt of it.
“hi, i’m ninôn..”
but i can’t be sure i said_sense anything. the instant was saturated with so many other sensations – azza’s through mine – that i didn’t have time_space to compute any comm_memo. later on, and for many years to come, i’d have to hear momo repeat a dialogue that she herself didn’t remember quite well, because she wasn’t at that moment, as i was – as i was, i, i was – experiencing the sublime of azza’s life_love.
i mumbled some this and that, fluctuating on and in the expectation of her voice to intertwist with me, and i turned my head around just a tiny little bit, smiling.
bibi had already gone into the museï cafè, immerse in deep talk with her friend from doc_inc_college. but momo waited for me, for i was of course out of course, unconditionally lost in the vast ocean of uni_love. azza trilled under my soles, with laughter.
“what do you want to drink?”
i’m guessing there was such a dialogue at the old movie_museï, during a warm late afternoon of our rest_day, some ground tone enveloping us, waves to move and lay and rest, and the motion of this circulatory stream had a logarithmic rhythm, it was breathing.
i can still see momo and myself standing at the corner of the counter, this counter’s many hues of burnt sienna greatly contrasting with the light green turquoise of momo’s eyes. my point of view is high, i can see far into the building and its art work walls, further into the garden and the early night of my fresh love, deep in the fragrance of dozens of lilac flowers and balm trees, and i can still feel the breeze, a kiss.
i can also watch myself and momo and the counter in the movie playing at the musei right at that moment, a duplicate scene multiplying sensations in geometric progression. the complete whole of everything being one, and only, and all. not lonely but one.
the little crowd in the niche_shop, costumers going about their leisure, all fluids sucking fluids – the idleness of a true, massive change of guards – these people were in a constant vibrato, they were the tiny moving hairs of our colourful, colossal, pulsing azza.
my powerful love_glitch started with our eye_contact. it opened a whole_hole in the blister_matter, where through i could henceforth become azza, at all times, along with many other wicked_resistance civilians.
life_love of azza was the headquarters of the underground rebellion.
i suddenly remember a girl at my young_school. she had long, beautiful blond hair, her eyebrows also blond – that fascinated me, so unusual. who has blond eyebrows? she was not nice, but maybe she was just shy. i know i’m not nice, and shy.
the lights on the ground keep going further – i’m distracted, the van zante’s paws at the gate got me in a bad mood, they always do. paws. some of them have sharp nails, we all met them some time or other. all paws and no brain.
i lose the yellow lights at the jon_chico corner – too many people, and i digress. my sidelight_sidetracks – as always, under stress. i never learn, maybe i’m just plain dumb. no, it’s not that – i refuse to learn. some wicked_resistance here.
i stop and look around, first at the faces that flow relentlessly, all this people passing by without ever touching me. their blank faces mirror mine. micro_expressions are dangerous and easily picked by :eye: and eye_contact isn’t fashionable for many seasons – tolerated, more like. it depends on whom you got mirroring, that is.
i check the ground for the yellow lights but can only see as far as half meter ahead, then it disappears under the crowd. i’d need to go step by step, difficult in the flesh_flow. if the current_current catches you, you have to go. one has a purpose in this river: be a drop, go smoothly along. no wicked_resistance possible here. if you do, the flow will hurt you. the new_news are filled with death by flow_resistance. wicked
i try to check all the 3 possible directions at a distance – maybe if i wait a bit the lights will go far enough for me to see them – there or there, up or down the hill – i’m sweating now.
the other option would be jumping in, and back, if necessary. none misses the jon_chico corner anyway. i should move, :eye: is watching me, and i had eye_contact 3 times already, not pretty. i’m sure i was scanned by the guy with the hot_orange hair, red tie – what an ugly piece. all with all is bad enough, but eye_spies are the worse kind – hollow_stuffed_men.
i step into the flow and let go. the lights go with me – well, ok – through the first 4 blocks, straight ahead, then i lose them again. i stop in front of a pop_shop, and regret it instantly. i’m taken into an overcrowded great hall, people’s arms moving above their heads as if they were a wheat field in the wind. goods, all want goods. the wicked_resistance calls it bads_not_goods.
the only way out is on the other side of the pop_shop. there goes the flow – but not the yellow lights. outside again, wrong street, and yet. sometimes life’s too much to bare. i need to concentrate: find xenia, she’ll know, she always does. i’m still angry, and my anger is wearing me.
“..but i rather wear my anger..”
“oh, i’m sorry, ehm, i was thinking out loud.”
“u says da wrong_word.”
“what – no! amber, i rather wear amber – ehm, i love amber!”
we have eye_contact.
1_van zante’s peasants
i stand at the wall and look through the hole, down the slow, sunny hill. the city is blue and glass green today. at the top of the wall, 7 meters up, creep plants and a crowd of loud birds.
i walk to the right for some 700 meters, where the wall was broken, at the moment_monument – anachronism as ever poppy – and step down, to the hot_orange gate. the red_blue_white strips of both flags keep changing positions, as they did at the station screens.
one and a half km under a sun – not pretty – the damn cap didn’t cover my nose completely. at the gate, the control is not as dry as the weather, their eye_chips checking my last operation_survive, and all my stuff.
“wha’s dat in ur tooth?”
“hum, eh – yes, the tong chip, i’m a writer.”
he grabs my left arm, pushes it around like a tango master, and lifts the hair of my neck as if we were lovers dancing. i think of momo, her eyes shine on me, the sun.
two of the border_bosses laugh while he scans my neck_implant with his left eye, his right eye down my body. the price of a downtown trek. it used to be worse, something’s been happening.
i need to find xenia.
the main street is a flesh river flowing, running into many alleys, every time the shock of the massive human presence in the cities.
“excuse me, please, do you know where the chip bib is?”
“su’, bae! see da’ round fountain o’er dere, the c’ntrol mon’ment? ‘hen to da left a bit, you see da big chips.”
the siena quarry tiles around the fountain in turquoise green always remind me of our deep forest, our moss the same colour, growing at the bottom of dark tree trunks, with petroleum_vert thick leaves. i survive mostly of those mosses and leaves. the wood is good for disinfecting teeth.
when i turn the corner down at the turquoise fountain, i immediately see the giant monkeys on both sides of the outer gate. they turn their rock_head at me down bellow, and show me their teeth in a huge, threatening smile.
the chips between their brows turn red, scanning my brain for troubled thoughts.
a voice comes from their stone mouths:
“how u know xenia?”
“wha’ u wan’ wit ‘er?”
“i sing for my secrets and love, nahnahnah..”
the hot_orange gate slides to the side just enough for me to pass, and closes at my back with a woosh. yellow lights start to glow on the ground, going to the right. i follow them.
life is a deadly accident
where we rush through
joy after joy
with such a regret
also we mourn what we lose
because of our regrets
this is wisdom, my dear
it’s also a confused speech
about this or that
language and tongs
kisses and misunderstandings
a group posing on the beach
kids running from a palace
the dog barking off some thieves
and here also more wisdom:
we’re all guinea pigs in a big rehearsal
for something like a puzzle piece
my dear – see?
an idea is freer than its description
living doesn’t give any meaning
we hope to give to the life we live