ALTERNATIVE MEMORY

Ozana Budau January 31, 2007

TEXT 9

Mnezicus, mnezica, mnezicum.

Three violins, three rooms.

I gave birth at 30 years old standing on my feet. The father is a Train Station worker.

I did him in the train toilet.

29 degrees Celsius. 14:27. 2 min 36s.

I moaned.

Have you come?

xxx

I always find better solutions when I look inside your hole. Changing diapers gives me hypoxemia. Your presence only is booing me.

xxx

This is where I will move in when I am finished with you. After I have sung to you and fought against your disgusting limberness. Now I am the thieves’ attraction.

TEXT 8

He is totally crazy, look, he is calling me again, hi, yes, I am in a shop, at the end of a street, he wants to come by a car, yes, it rains like shit, speak louder, I can't hear you, I can't hear you, come as you want, just come at once, ok, bye, byeee! He's got some problems with his car... he' s ringing again, I've told you he is crazy, yes, yes, I'm not coming out in this weather, I'll ruin my sandals, my hair, I'll catch a cold, damn it, you know I always catch a cold in summer...He is calling again...he is nuts, totally nuts... he is coming, he's parked two blocks down. I hope he is bringing an umbrella; I'll go wait outside, bye, byeee!

xxx

I hope he is not serious, cause if he is, everything was for nothing and we'll have to wait for another one.

xxx

We never talk nonsense. Our lips are destined to announce the essence of things. We don’t waste our time with ordinary thoughts. Ordinary is unacceptable. We are hooked up on essential things.

xxx

Shut up, God I am sick, my head is dizzy, I’m having vertigo. My god, I think I’m going to puke.

When we puke, we do it silently. We hide in darkness and shove our fists down our throats. We puke our insides out perfectly. That’s why we never socialize with those who have a stinking breath. We are the perfect spitters.

TEXT 7

Why do you say that? Because this is what I think and what I feel. It has my name written all over it. Who do you think you are, really?

xxx

It’s too late for this kind of discussions. It’s like you are talking through a dysfunctional mouth. Generous words for a complex larynx.

xxx

Hello, I received a call from this number. Come over here! I am a good person, good day!

xxx

Sometimes I believe I owe something to a younger me and I feel an impulsive desire to make it right for her. I fulfill the fantasies of my unforgotten past. Honey! This one is for you: a frozen road, a happy-end, and a perfect dot. Next!

xxx

Two moths are making love on a white wall. Someone is singing American hymns. The moth has transgressed into a sewage cockroach. As long and thin as a neurotic symptom.

xxx

I think I will write something really good - according to your criteria - when I will not feel the need to show my brain secretions to every stranger. The nonexpression is an essential condition of great anonymity.

Come on, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep…

TEXT 6

Can you boil some eggs too? This is when it all started (I could also be telling you about a cosmogony staring one egg only, just say the magic word); I was getting up to make myself some coffee. It was six in the morning; at seven I had to go out. I have my coffee large. She drinks coffee too. I don’t know what for…every single time after she shoves 2 cups down her throat, she falls back to sleep. So, bang! I heard her. Can you boil some eggs too? The voice from hell. I thought I’d explode.

xxx

For the last three nights I’ve been aware of the moment of falling asleep. I am on the edge of having a panic attack. Run, go away. Can’t you see it’s stuck? My anxiety lacks the luxury of time. It has already taken me 4 minutes to set myself on stand-by. Why are you so excited? Pass me the mirror, please. I have got one hour and 54 minutes left of inconsequence.

xxx

Writing has become my favorite way to relax, actually, not writing but the act of rereading the outcome of my inspiration outbursts. What I put down on paper is the only proof of my existence. Re-reading it is like signing my Identity Card.

TEXT 5

What is it? Tell me. Come on throw me the ball. And stop being such a pervert!.

I am suffering from a personality disorder. I must be institutionalized. And don’t give me that sad face, please! What is it? Are you sick? Do share. If you keep it to yourself, how can we tell for sure that you are damaged? Do you want us to dream about it?

xxx

Can you or can you not dream?

xxx

How are you, mate?

I am not so well, thanks for asking. But I only have myself to blame for. I guess I’ll just listen to some cool music (for the healing of the soul) so I could transcend and write something about one grande amica, if this is Italian, it’s not me writing it. Listen, I’ve just read what it was written ante me and I think that…it woud be better if I started with something about me…or something in between, you, great one!

Some years ago I wanted to buy myself a tractor and build my little cozy cottage in the country so everybody would leave me in peace. Then, in high school, while I was reading all those extraordinary books, I was thinking that I would be really stupid to deny all that knowledge, but now I realize – again - that I am not cut out for the big city.

My image of celestial happiness represents the first sounds of a Gregorian song. I can see it clearly: a curved, imperfect road made of stone and I, seen from the back, from a flat angle, completely hidden under large clothes, looking as if I’ve already listened to all the music in the world.

And you, cara mia, amore mio, just like these worlds, you fill me with the same feeling of flooding out, of jumping in, of feeding the soul. And to get back to my long period of revelatory dreams, I remember I once have dreamt about you, sitting on an old chair, looking blonde and kind, waiting to give to me my healing potion, while I was an embryo, watching the world from the heart of your hearts…

Am I rambling, or what?

I guess, I just wanna say it’s been real, at least for me. Unfortunately, this book is an open ground and stupid people are already bored.

Besides, I am not the epic type, so I’ll end it for you here.(AH)

TEXT 4

You always waste your time on trivial things and forget to go to the doctor. Just go and have an early check up! The moment you feel something is wrong or you believe you are experiencing the first symptom, call the surgery and make an appointment. Then you have a wash and go!

xxx

I have no idea what you make of my story. The truth is I don’t understand much about it either. Should someone ask me to explain something, I’d be stuck with relative muteness. I write so I can forget. Go and see who is barking outside. Amnesiac!

xxx

I’ve been planning to write a few lines everyday so that I would not lose my touch. It’s wise to be disciplined and to train yourself in writing, mostly, when on the ring finger of your left hand, there is an amber sphere attached to a silver, round bar, straightly connected to my yellowish eye. Close the door! It smells bad! You have such yellow eyes; I used to tell me, just like the ones of a serial killer. So, you really do watch the Science Channel! Actually, I loved my hepatitis cat-like eyes. My eyes and my hands were my only anatomic parts that let out my great sensibility… but not a superficial sensibility, like J’s…not at all… one a bit more pathological.

TEXT 3

Let’s live to the fullest! Let’s all be kings!

We breath accordingly to old principles. We’ll better sacrifice ourselves, drown in wells by our own hands, walk around hungrily and nakedly, beg for thick ropes to hang us from the city walls, than get contaminated with mediocrity.

xxx

My relationship with you is purely physical, from amino acidic chain to olfaction, from genetic urge to cortex. Our skin has turned into a specific smell, oh, nostalgia! I can hardly remember you, your brown eyes and your right buttock. (your real part) your black skin and pseudorock bowels. My 4 seconds orgasm.

xxx

Everything is transparency; everything is deflourishment, from the first lung diving in nicotine mist to the last spasm. Prologue and perfect determinism. Two Siamese elephants stuck in a petal flower.

TEXT 2

I could be writing a novel about a hat! Every age with its own hat. Three lines on the back of my palm: this is our charisma. When we give up, we refuse to console someone. We keep ourselves effective and yellow.

xxx

I see myself married for centuries, walking hand in hand around the churchyards. Everywhere just death signs.

xxx

I want to tell you about madness. Someone is reading a book. Someone can’t find her stockings. She is getting more and more nervous. Haven’t you seen them? Is it possible you might still be wearing them? Underneath your skin?

xxx

I write so I won’t ever forget. I also enjoy taking mental snapshots of my friends while philosophizing and drinking in clubs. I lean against my chair and I’m out of the system. My cortex is a photo album.

TEXT 1

I listen selectively. I laugh in the same way.

Actually, the issue about laughing is more complicated. What do you find so amusing, you idiot? When you don’t have any answers just start creating problems. Ask questions. Why is a gay person similar to an ant?

xxx

I spread around a smell of blood and jazz.

xxx

Gross.

xxx

The most sterile days are those when emotion linearity unintentionally contaminates me. I become mood less. I sleep for days. I want nothing, I believe in nothing. I assume the coachman position: sitting down, my forehead on my flexed knee, smelling the musk between my legs. The climax of this stillness is always an accelerated anxiety.

The first writing action is the direct result of being mad.