NOWHERE - hitchhiking to the moon

 Last days  I have been picking a lot of rides, all of them, more or less in tune with the forces and wills of the universe and as I usually accept what the universe has to offer me, where my drivers wanted to take me, I accepted it,  and, because of that, I have no idea where I’m now, but, who cares? In the beginning, when I started hitchhiking, I was caught by some silent people, people that didn't want to know who I’m or where am/was I going, and for a while that was ok for me. But then, I was picked by people interested in my destiny, drivers interested in this personage of mine, so, in order to mislead, in order to fulfill their curiosity, I had to create some biographical data, some scattered things, etc. I didn't always tell the same story, and because I speak several languages, plus some other invented ones, I could pass as Caucasian, as Beltran, Sicran or whatsoever. Therefore sometimes I said to be the fruit of an incest between the moon and the sun, or that I had come from the Caribbean in a ship made of tin, or that was just arriving from the World War III, or that was I escaping from the evil yet looking for work in the fields, willing to work with the red fruits, or climbing lampposts. Or perhaps was I/ I’m, a mere lawless tourist making his way through the new world. And I remember, one of the first rides I took was with a mature lady, hairspray overflowing, the car’s interior totally 3 decorated with various types of teddies, dogs without eyes, colorful monkeys with bells around the neck, pink cats, etc... and then I was picked up by some young man in a sporty car. He said to be a pharmacist and so, instantly, I asked him which was the best selling drug in his pharmacy, he said “It is the Aspirin, for sure, and the balm for insect bites, also”, which was funny to acknowledge. And he took me to some village with almost no people, some sleepwalkers, and a lot of empty buildings. Then I was taken in a van full of chips, chips being distributed from caffe house to caffe house, and the driver an effeminate man  who claimed to be the incarnation of kali, regarded himself as the ultimate manifestation of Shakti, the primordial cosmic energy, and the mother of all living beings. Then I was taken by a young woman, who was a student of economics. She told me that her father worked unloading pits. And I also got a ride with a couple highway workers, they took me to their office and showed me their treasures, all the little things they had been finding in the road ditches over the years. We shared alms. Then I got a ride with a couple on their honeymoon, they took me to the beach, and they used me as their photographer. And I got a ride with a small group of drug dealers, they made me try new things. And I also got a ride with a crazy truck driver that placed a bible in my lap while pressing the barrel of a gun against my temple, he forced me to read certain parts from the big book at his command, but, it turned out that the gun was fake, just a prop gun, that thing they use in the movies. This just to say some, some of the rides I had taken until now, the ones that stood out the most. Thus, now I’m a-board a posh vehicle accompanied some kind of philosophy teacher, at least that’s how he presents himself, and then, while looking at me, getting comfortable on this nappa upholstery seat, there goes the driver commenting something like this “by looking at you attire”, (and I’m actually wearing a dirty t-shirt, long shorts made from broken jeans and some ripped tennis), “...I sorta can read your lifespan, this is, it’s easy to see that, you weren’t properly loved as a child,  and so, probably, you got the habit of closing yourself in your own world… this is, for sure you passed too much time alone, and then, when you did grow up, this is, when you got through this teenage time, you became some sort of stranger, you start to hate the ones around you, you didn't like how they rebuked you, their seriousness, their morality, and so, you left… and here you are, looking for something…” and as he says that, I nod, making as agreeing and then, there are some silence between us, and, here we are, just facing the road, that is no more a road, just a 4  white line in the middle of all this blackness. And so, after a while, when I’m starting to close my eyes, there he goes again "when the future is threatening and uncertain... and there is the only retraction... a retraction of the present that is constantly being protected, arranged and recycled in an endless youth... and while putting the future in parentheses, the system proceeds... the devaluation of the past... impatient for cutting off the chains of territorialities and archaic traditions... impatience for instituting a society without a base of anchorage and opacity... this together with an indifference to the historical time, this leads to the collective narcissism of our time,  and so, a clear symptom of the generalized crisis of the bourgeois societies of today…” and, this is, as our interlocutor says those things I’m already sleeping, but still listening an enlarged echo of the last comment “an generalized crisis of the bourgeois societies of today…” and so, here I’m, already inside this recurrent dream of mine, with the sky falling over the desert, and my queen of none, one hand holding the lining of her wedding dress, running along the white corridors of the psychiatric hospital, that I also recognize, going up and down a staircase with flashing lights, and then going through some white corridors with white doors on both side… and so, now she tries to open some of these doors, sticks the head inside some of this white rooms, screams some interjections, and then, slamming door after door, there she goes, dragging her ragged and rumpled wedding dress along these corridors... and so, now she opens one of this door, and gently walks inside on her toes. And so, I see the insides, and there the light is dim and flickers, and, there is a soft candle-lamp installed in the middle of two unmade beds, and so, while she turns around, we can see a body in a corner, a shrunken body in fetal position, shaking and making a humming sound... but she don't turn to it, she rather approaches the unmade beds, smells the sheets and then, while looking under the bed, she whispers some words like "I've arrived, my love, I've come to pick you up… our vessel is ready, let's go now"; and "Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiu!” says a mouth under the bed. And so, there she goes again running through another corridor, turning right, turning left, climbing another flight of stairs, getting into another corridor and entering another room, and once inside, it’s the same picture as before, just this time the beds are occupied and their occupants are having a small talk about feelings that goes more and less like this "hate… well, hate is some kind of bug that some of us have in the stomach"; "Incorrect, it's not in the stomach that hate is lodged, it is in the exocrine gland"; "no, I already had it removed, and the doctors said that it was taken from my stomach"; "that's what they told you but…"; "but I also have seen it…"; "you have seen it… oh, so, which was its color?"; “I guess it was some kind of dark magenta…", "Magenta! That is not a color dear… that is a fruit… a rotten kind of fruit it is…” and here our queen of none intervenes "I bring you the good news, my friends…"; and one of that guys says right away "we already know that you are going to marry today, and at this point, you are actually looking for your broom, but, we told you already, we haven't seen him for a long time… we know nothing about him, so please, leave us alone!” And so, there she goes, our queen of none, ballerina shoes sliding along the corridors of this sort of hospital, going up another flight of stairs, turning right, turning left, already getting in another room, where the two beds are empty, perfectly arranged, and everything in the right place. And so, our queen of none searches inside the wardrobe, opens the dresser, even looks under the bed,  this before leaving and entering another room on the side, and here, someone seated on the bed, smoking, and  "What happened to those who were in the room next door? Were they discharged?", she demands, "Perhaps they have turned into flies and fled through the window", answered a dry kind of voice, from a man with no face. "And didn't they take you with them?”; "Why should they do that to me?" And again, there goes our queen of none, running towards the stairs, through the corridors, and then, she gets in another room. And here, there are fishing lights by the head of one of the beds, and so, we can see, two individuals rolled up in wrapping paper, jumping on the bed, this, while making some animist cries. And so, "What's going on here?"; she demands, "Today is St. John's night", "St. Anthony's night" corrects the other. "St. John," insists the first. And slowly, in slow motion,  our queen of nothing makes her way out, running through the corridors again, coming back to the stairs, and then, she approaches another room, she tries to open the door, but it doesn't opens straight away, it looks blocked by some object inside, and so, our queen of force it a bit more, and then, when finally she can open a breach of it, there are a sort of robotic voice, saying "you're too late, my queen, your fiancé is dead, he was very nervous because of the marriage, and so, we had to kill him in order to…”. And here I’m opening my eyes again, watching the road passing by, and hearing my driver again, I mean hearing the speech of this sort of philosophy teacher, “so, disruptions are becoming increasingly rare, and the truth is that, nowadays, the impression of déjà vu prevails over novelty, so, the new changes in society are getting monotonous, this is, we no longer have the impression of living in a revolutionary period... and there is a trend fall of the creativity rate on the vanguards, which coincides with the very difficulty affirmation of anyone being truly vanguardist... this is, the fashion of “isms” have passed, and so, 6 the noisy manifestations of other times are no more appreciated nowadays.. and thus, as in all great dichotomies, this one about the body and spirit is also getting greatly blurred, and so, the body is no more relegated to a status of material positiveness… opposing itself to an ana-cosmic consciousness of undecidable space... an object-subject, a floating mélange of  sense and sensor… this is, if the body and the conscience of it are exchanged, if the body, in the mat of the unconscious, speaks, we must love and listen to it, it must express and expand our conscience, and our conscience should become physical…” and then, as he says this things, I’m coming back to this dream passed inside the psychiatric hospital, where before my queen of none was going from door to door, looking for his broom, and so, at this point we are down, on the gardens annexed to the hospital, and actually, what is happening here is the funeral cortege of our broom, the one that was killed by some of of the patients, his roommates,  and so, here they go, under a heavy sun, dressed in pajamas, holding the coffin, and our queen of none, with a black wreath on her head, but still wearing her wedding dress, walking on the side of this procession. And the guys carrying the cardboard coffin on their shoulders are actually smoking big cigarettes, and also, showing a certain expression of tragicomic disdain. And so, now, there they go, arrhythmiccally moving towards the bottom of the gardens, where there is an olive grove, and so, around the coffin, around a dozen inmates are following the so said cortege,  and now, on the back of the coffin, we can see a very tall and thin man,  actually whistling a kinda happy-melancholic melody, while making two pan lids bump into each other, as if they were cymbals. And there is also a sort of a priest, following on the front of the cortege, making strang signs with his hands, pointing to heaven, and then, at some point the cortege stops, they put the cardboard coffin afloor, some move away, while others open the coffin lid, and now the widow approaches, touching the body, and through her face, runs only one tear… this while the tall man in the back is still whistling this sort of happy-melancholic melody, more softly now, and then, the widow gets off, and two guys, also dressed in pajamas, after throwing their cigarette butts on the floor, push the body up the olive tree, wedging it between two fat branches, and then, the priest opens the big black bock, supposedly  a specimen of the bible, says, stuttering “S’mael, the la-la-la, the la-maman, the lamama-nita, said to his people: Behold, I give you a sign, five more years will pass, and behold, the son of go-go-go-od will co-comeeee, to-to-to reeee-deem…redeem, and all who believe in his name - and be-hold, behol-de, I will give you a sign…” and so, as he says this words, the other inmates dispersal, and there stays our queen of none, laughing and laughing alone, and then she runs to the priest, still babling and stuttering, she grabs his neck, squeezing him tighter and tighter until he shuts up, and both end up on the ground, right next to that olive tree, where the dead man's body is hanging, now shivering a bit.