We are crazy. We are crazy and sad. Our sadness is an axiomatic and a self-evident road, it is a tangible and explicit road, although it is not yet featured on Google Maps. We are all on the same boat, far from the sea, well away from the sea, from any sea. We love the sea, the sea at night, we love the oceans, we love the furious waves, we are the waves — the house we live in is short of air, of rays of light, constellations monsoons — the house we live in is short of water. We are locked up in this room and we are in wait. We are waiting for our fingers to grow back, and we wait for someone to split t.i.m.e. into three equal parts:
- before
- after
- and — during.
We need a meantime/meanwhile we need a during, we need suspension, interval, interval, interval, intervals, latency, we need an interruption. We are the interruption.
We can not make history: we have no skilled hands, we have no steady legs to walk the Hall of Past, we can not sit down in the Old Good Times™ Pantheon for all the seats are taken and we are tired, we’re very tired, far too tired, burnt up, pale and tottering, worn out, we are exhausted.
And — and in the Future, the Future, we can not travel to the Future for on the Agritourism Guides, Pop-Culture Tourism Guides, Sex-tourism and Safaris guides, and on the Pilgrimage Travel-books, and on the Rough Lonely Planet In Your Pocket Guides the requirements are clearly indicated — the sads the mads the olds aren’t admitted, on all the guides the contagious ones are unauthorized.
And in the Future are vetoed those who have lost years and years and years and eons asking, where is the nearest station?, what is love, what is lust, what is loneliness about?, who?, who is the man casting the parts in the play early in the morning, who is the man distributing orders and rules every morning, every single morning?
We have been postponing needlessly, we are the procrastinators, we are late, we awake late, we awake posthumous, we have been drinking fluorescent sangria and tribasic infusions, we’ve been repeatedly vomiting bitter and greenish bile, we’ve touched the wings of withering angels, we have deleted files, memories, festivities, we’ve been breaking souvenirs and brainstems, we erased emergency addresses and maps and the odd chapters of(f) the bestselling books. We are condemned to repeating ourselves in the perpetual present, here now, now here, we are during, meanwhile meantime, this is this and it is here, it’s now, here is now and here we are, condemned, we just can crawl, slowly lucidly crawl about the room in the meanwhile which doesn’t end, here and now we can say: we are all on the same boat, we can say: here and now, madly sad, asking who has stolen the sea, shouting — who?, whispering: w/h/o, we only can scribble an indolent question on the walls of the suburban areas in Germany, maybe, maybe in Argentina — who has stolen it?
We have words of stone, words of velvet, verbs in the shape of butterflies, luna moths flinging against the windows, our words can be found in jars of honey, in bonded warehouses, only in the first appearance of light in the morning: we communicate, coherently sad and mad as we are here and now, we are all in touch, we transmit. We use marbles and paper dolls to pass through, we use golden needles, blood drops, chicken bones. We communicate with fingertips and with the help of ladybirds, we leave dispatches inside the crevices of rocks, under manholes, we glue communiques on the back of cenotaphs and dolmens.
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You will come to take us away, and we know that. You will come with guns and dogs. You are going to be merciless, we know, with dangerous dogs, diplomatic passports. You will impeach us for crimes against the state, you are going to shout we are the only ones who jeopardize democracies, you will declare we are the only serious danger threatening peace and economy and religion for we have ridiculed the poets’ behavior. We know it. We are ready.
When you will come, you will find dust. Dust and frozen eyelashes. You will find pages — stained with mineral oil, stained with purple enamel paint. Millions of pages.
