Under the shower at five in the morning to ease my worries and soothe my nerves. Running water is the solution to all our problems, and soap will be declared “the new tears”. Tears have a chemical compound that can be fatal in high doses. Merely releasing this poison is a means of survival.
I want to talk to Tristan Tzara, so I can make sense out of all of this. Pablo Neruda… the evil bastard, he makes me cry, at the same time he saves me because the poison is released in doses. Under the shower at five in the morning. Rimbaud is soaping himself with tears. Clean, aren’t we? I tell him. Terribly so, he replies. I need to talk to the manager. I am a reasonable girl. The water is cold.
Stars, fuck the poetry it holds, I can only stand under this shower… at five in the morning… there are no stars this morning, they left at about 3.48 while I was smoking lying dreaming philosophizing. Then, rain. The skies cry and shower their poison on earth. the earth greens with rain. Therefore: poison gives life. Just as it’s raining here in the shower. My papers are all wet: I was stupid to read under the shower. It’s Callas in the background. Singing her throat off. No, her power comes from the stomach. She’s crying too to get rid of the poison. Boolean algebra and baroque churches and Pascal and Mozart can all disappear. Go on, scat. Leave Beethoven. I feel like Alex (“Right, right, right… well well well”) drinking milk in a room filled with Moloko-whatevers in 70′s font. Crazy fonts.
I’m tempted to use fancy words like “in lieu of” and “heart-shaped candies”. Kant is not my hero. Today, he makes me sick. I will stay here under the shower uttering a croak of dissent.
I’m learning to breathe underwater. Hey, what do you know? I high-fived a huge statue of a hand yesterday night in an attempt to understand Breton’s juggled-up literary alphabet soup. Well, now, I am like everyone, still confused. Under the shower at five in the morning! So, what is the answer? What is the answer, tell me! I’m waiting. Just here. Just waiting. I’m waiting.
We all are.
***
A Samuel Beckett quote for all…
just think all this
one day all this
one fine day
just think
if one day
one fine day all this
stopped
just think
And yet another:
sleep till death/ healeth/ come ease/ this life disease
***
I will lace my heart with Christmas lights.
