I have been fooled by the Big Money Boys and the Racists in Rosaries and I see now the inalienable truths; one, if one wishes to mutiny against the status-quo, bloodiest Love is the surest way to do it, the only way today; two, America is pornographic, Europe, erotic, and America lulls you to sleep with sex and mouths on my clit and mouths on your lips licking and giggling as I twitch and you feel nothing
but also everything because we’re all sinners here and even in the nothingness, in the purposeful emptiness, there’s what’s real abated by sin and that’s the funny part, of course, because sin isn’t real.
Sex is dirty in America, sex in Europe is nature. Everything in Europe is nature, even the manner in which people speak to each other. The languid Italian sun gets hot during the summer and somewhere there’s the faint sense of the Mediterranean, the sea, the Italian coastline and everywhere amongst the lush green nature and the women lounging in the nude there are those characteristic articulate buildings and roads of artisan cobblestones to lead you to them.
In America the roads are as the buildings are as the people are and that is, efficient. And in that efficiency Americans can see nothing desirable about the landscape and, seeing nothing in the landscape they see nothing in themselves and, a life of general monotony of efficiency is to be condoned only under the illusion of freedom, freedom which is believed by our ability to see much but do little, I am talking about drugs, of course, and sex, and much of modern American youth life. And you must understand that I am not talking about Drugs and Sex and Free Love definitively but rather in the context of the American landscape, which makes it a natural form of rebellion and perhaps the only type of rebellion. The issue comes from the fervor of the abandonment that all Americans must make to live in America and not feel constant revolt at the self; abandonment of self for paper that is representative of gold that is representative of nothing, when you think about it; and you my friend have been doing a lifetime dance of post hoc ergo propter hoc.
Beggars can’t be choosers and I am still undoing the seams of this fine mechanized hierarchy of self-worth based on social status we’ve created, I’ll get back to you on that.
The Europe that I remember fondly is not the Europe that exists, I’m sure, in all of Europe’s entirety nowadays. It’s been awhile and the stink of America has spread outward and everywhere culture is falling to human hubris.
And we are destroying the old to build the new to make us better and either we don’t realize that by destroying the old we’re destroying ourselves or we realize and we are a continent of pitiful self-loathing depressive pricks who cannot eroticize their life on the whole and so instead they do it all in the absurd realm of the extreme or the absurd realm of the not at all.
The charm about Europe, it is Sex. Sex not sex, Sex. You can especially see it in Parisian women. Not elsewhere, but in Paris. Every woman becomes a Parisian woman once she sets foot in Paris and her gait changes. The woman in Paris is ovulating twenty-four-seven to the nth degree and as such she is constantly in the most productive mindset. A woman in Paris, perhaps not living permanently there but for a while, she learns to exist in perpetual ecstasy for otherwise she would go mad attempting to count the sheer multitude of orgasms triggered by nothing and everything.
In Spain, in Barcelona, there is this one wonderful street that runs through the city and on the pavement the street lamps are artistically rendered as the gnawed trunks and roots of trees.
I remember the summit I hiked up to in Germany. It was March, we were frozen, there were mountains and great, tall pine trees huddled over with masses of snow weighing their branches down like the shape of a feminine hand gently arching the cock.
I remember the coast of pebbles and colorful sailboats in Nice and the dancing waiters and waitresses at that little authentic delicious sublime restaurant in Athens where it smelled like fish and there was always a plethora of stray dogs, I remember visiting Delphi and feeling the stones that had been touched by the Ancient Greeks, the Spartan king, commoners, slaves seeking the enlightened Pythia’s prophetic word. I remember looking down the rubble and seeing, faintly, an outline of a road. It led upwards on the hill to a preserved chamber in which those visiting the Pythia paid tribute to her in golden statues that grew to be in such multitude, they lined the road like sentries standing guard to El Dorado.
They were there. Now there is stone and rubble and whispers that are too far away for me to ever hear clearly. But I ache for those whispers, those whispers are the realest thing in the world to me.
I remember standing on the cliff with Poseidon’s temple. The strange sense I felt staring out at the sea, the indescribable sensation that ignores the fundamental laws of physics, the notion that I felt the reverence that those coming to pay tribute to the god of the seas felt as they stared over his dominion, and for a second, if I squinted my eyes hard enough, from the periphery the pillars recovered their broken bits and stood with all their grandeur and within, the temple was teeming with togas.
I remember Barcelona again and throwing tangerines off the balcony.
I remember Venice. Oh, god, do I remember Venice. You have not gotten lost in the world until you have gotten lost in Venice. Venice is a breathing labyrinth. It is an intricate dance of small cobblestone alleyways twisting around corners, revealing brightly lit trinket stores, mask stores, creperies. I remember watching the man make my crepe through the window, my breath hot against my face.
Venice is dying, too. The water is rising. Who knows when this, too, will be gone?
But above all, I will take you to Lugano. I will take you to Switzerland. To where the green and yellow mountains meet the forest trails that Herman Hesse walked, the benches where he sat and wrote Siddhartha, I will take you to where the forest trails meet the azure lake. I will take you to my groove in the mountain where the forest is naked and outwards you see the mountain meet the lake, the lake wrap around the city of pastel exterior and orange shingle rising in levels, cohabiting with both the forest and the mountain surrounding it, the city laid out like the stairs and the mountain the staircase, surrounding me, surrounding you.
One day, I will take you there.
And you will feel what true hunger is. And you will touch the stone of lost saints and lost geniuses and then, then you will feel what I feel and you will understand the most entombed splinters of my sight and the unbearable awareness that drove me to my suicide.