With pumice dry just polish'd fine
To whom present this book of mine?
I fall through. And I'm gone. The sincere that we say. The foundation is
coldness. Such a proximity requires a low temperature. To you I say what I
[End Page 51]
think since I don't respect you. I know that you can't pass it on,
follow it up, draw consequences from it. You are unable. Like a rock
in a water. An Egyptian sepulchral chamber. Nothing is ever going to
happen. There are no limits for what I can say to you. This lack of
limitation would have driven me insane, if I'd had the ability to become
insane. . . . I regret this inability. That's why I love to talk about
money. It's as if we cared about each other. We do. When they don't
arrive. When we have said the sixteenth and the money isn't in the
account by then. I feel that I get angry with you! Then! I feel that
I hate you! Hate! It's great! I feel that I have a relation
to you. I here. You there. You with money. I
without. You with my money. It sounds unsympathetic. What do
they know, who would call it that, about life? . . . The other is without
resistance. Like water. The hand in the water. The invisible hairs of
the hand curved. Nothing more. Why call these effusions anything? Like
relieving oneself. Splash against water, porcelain. I can say "You are a
crocophant"; "I think of you when I masturbate, never daddy, nono,
only you," or "today I stuck a toothbrush in the putty, it
was new and eccentric," or "I love you, Ola." I can say this to you. . . .
I forget everything. Forget. You have said something. I forget it. Why?
I must respect you. You shall be a receiver. Think for
yourself. React. Unexpected. Provoke. If I only was sure that what I'm
saying and feeling became something else when it entered you. I'm not. You
are just like another I. As a Roman master confessing to his slave —
without reflecting upon this person being present in the room.
And I know you feel the same about me. I know it.
Let's talk about something else. Not shadow-boxing. Something
pleasant. Something that is pleasant.
Whatever. Everything that happens here. Go. Go. Less lonely without
you. Without the remainder of who I am. In you. Mouth-diarrhea. Lack of
Today I got poo-poo on my fingers when I wiped myself. It has never
happened before. Usually I stick my finger up my ass. After having
wiped myself. And smelling it. The deeper I insert it the more it smells
of blood. When I was a kid I thought I got into the blood itself with
Love. That's what it's about. And even if we don't always agree. No, we
don't. That's what's important. If one is thinking of good things. Are
you thinking of good things? I'm thinking of good things. Then we're
together. I'm thinking of swimming. What are you thinking of? No, don't
[End Page 52]
tell. You're thinking of . . . bal. No, sorry, what am I saying. Balls
that kittens play with. Why? Now we're together in it: swimming and
. . . balls . . . No, don't step out of it now! Why are you stepping
out? Now we're in!
I can tell you about my vision. First it was black. With some hills. One
couldn't see a thing. Only feel. It was lumpy. It was hot. It was in the
rectum. I was sucked upwards. It was so beautiful. I was cooled off. By
waves. Currents all around me. Everywhere. Passing through me. Shivers. By
summons. It was as if someone said it to me. "By summons." To move
upwards. Where? I didn't know. I really didn't know. Then I came to
a more peaceful part. Like a sheltered bay. It was spelled j-o-y. The
part. It was spelled j-o-y. Strange. But so it was. It was in the large
intestine. And then . . . the singing started in me again. It was like
from the head. From the head and backwards. It was immense. Immense
. . . insignificant. And . . . EVERYTHING! I was inside the small
intestine. What I SAW!! Sparkling . . . no . . . pillar . . . no . . . It
was like DEATH METAL!!! MORE than Death Metal!!! DEADER!!! And then
I saw you. You were ill. Very ill. One had pitied you. You knew what was
coming. You were thinking about it. That it was . . . would be . . . And
you yourself . . . ? But you were STRONG! TERRIBLY strong. That you WERE
what you WERE!! But you were free. Dead while you were alive. You
were resting in it. As it was.
Thought of suicide. Not me. More like someone else thinking while
I was asleep, or rather was resting. I walked away with me and was on my
way of doing things. In any case it was always a picture. And there you
were. Waving me closer with the finger then with the whole hand. And
I was on my way. Your head cracked open and there was a child. Also
waving. Was on my way. It was always something practical that got in the
way. Sometimes I feel like I'm about to lose language. In the best appears
an edge of bad, of the most terrifying. And when I see. In the ripples of
the sea millions of razors are prepared. And make themselves invisible. In
one single crest of a wave. Then it cracks in the words. Then anything can
be anything. Good no longer good. Bad no longer bad. And in the explosion
that isn't anything else than a pitiful peep, it sounds: "scchvuuuuiiip"
or "krrscchhvuiiip." And in a way it is good maybe. Or what do you think?
Turns red . . . behind the eyelids. Can't reach . . . never . . . the
tap. It was a water tap there. Now just now. Just before I, yes
. . . caught my breath. Now, when we were talking. It pulled. Ax
. . . Axblow! Red behind the eyelids. Always this time of the day. You
asked me something. That
[End Page 53]
made me sad. And at the same time glad. And now. I can breathe out. It's
so wonderful! To breathe out! Just OUT!! . . . And then I calmed down
. . . so it was . . . it was so. You reach a point. You have
to decide yourself: Tear yourself away from what you know. Or to let
the emotions choke you like the plastic bag over a child. Sounds sick
. . . But after that point, when you head-butt! . . . meet yourself
as drowned in tears: I THERE! You HERE! When you have
changed place with yourself and have seen how much you weep . . . When
you have been sitting on the spot — on a ringside seat — and
seen how much you weep. Weep and weep. But where does it lead? You
ask yourself this: Where does this LEAD? And nobody can answer . . .
It has to do with posture. Posture. Something that one already must
have met. Somewhere else. Something that one already must have
tackled the right way without knowing.
If I have this posture? I don't know . . . If this has happened
to me? I don't know . . .
When I see that red behind the eyelids. I know it's coming. It's not
really from me that the red comes. The sun in the eyes. White in the
eyes. And flutter in the eyes. And as on a screen behind the white:
red. White in the air. If one can call it air, what I see. If it
is the after-image of pain that creates a visual perception. But
here it's a question of a premonition. A heralding, maybe an
annunciation. Maybe you can call it: An annunciation! In any
case the white is nothing. One shouldn't talk about it. One can't
talk about it. But the red. That's to be inside something. That most of
all. Inside something else. Something else that is not oneself. But that
might be. Death. Blindness. Or joy. You never know. In there
you never know anything . . . Floating . . . irresponsibly . . .
It's red. Maybe it's triggered by sun. Maybe we don't always pick each
other up there. But know that we exist. The white is mine. I don't want
to talk about that.
How could we help each other? You there. Me here. Two deformed bodies. I
elbowed my way to new places for nourishment. That's what we are,
sucklings. If you were in the way, well . . .
All these FANTASIES! All these IMAGINATIONS! Stop pretending! Compassion
disgusts me. All these Friday afternoon things that are brought
fourth. There are only Friday afternoon things. If you have one column
for "reality" and one for "illusions" then the accounts always balance.
For a lot of people brutality is an awakening. Things or people. Things
or people. "What!? Am I HERE now!? Close to death. But still . . .
[End Page 54]
ALIVE! LIFE! . . . and there's one more, one more . . . and one more
. . . other . . . PEOPLE! . . . I have never . . . never . . . before
. . ." The exact measure of one's loneliness, the exact measure of one's
mortality — is a joy, a pure unadulterated joy, a crystalline
joy. Know. This. Like this. It is . . . Suddenly you
feel that you're a node, a plummet, a center. Self. Then everybody else
thinks that you're a monster. A repulsive formlessness. Soon dead. Just
as good. A ball of pain. But inside: a small clock.
What do you think I can offer you? Why not eat the words. Before they
have appeared. Just stupid punches at shadows. Shadows of shadows. What
has been. Brutality. Joy. Far far back. Here's just the now. Granite. Why
punch at granite with wounded bandaged hands? Eat "you." Eat "we." Eat
"Love." Yes, eat "Love." Above all "Love." Then what remains? A fine
silence. A very very fine silence: Listen! Maybe a body-temperature. A
body odor. Maybe a weather. Yes maybe a weather. White, like now. Sun,
like now. White sun, like now. I . . .
Why do you come here? If you don't want to meet my body? My
body extended in space. As it is now. That's what I can offer
you. Odor. Sound. Breathing. Decomposing tissue. We. We. Today when I
was walking . . . Today when I was crawling towards the window
. . . to slant the blinds . . . bumped into . . . bruised . . . part of
the elbow . . . the arm in such a strange angle . . . I looked at it
. . . laughed . . . looked up toward the blind's lever . . . a large
airspace . . . a gigantic airspace . . . laughed . . . laughed
again . . . could have been a great laugh. Felt inside me: GREAT
LAUGH. Yes, so it was . . .
(Translated from Swedish by Anders Lundberg and Jesper Olsson)