boundary 2 29.1 (2002) 51-55

to Catullus
from portarnas bilder, 1999

Jörgen Gassilewski

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 posture. Indifference.     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 that ass-finger.     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)