menumortu: martie 2015

smell is the oldest sense developed in the animal world. even a single cell organism can identify the chemical composition of the environment- it’s called chemodetection. those damned artists will tell you that sight or hearing or the sense of touch is the most important – you know, because of the art and all that shit. what a bunch of ignorant sissies.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that one can learn more about a person by the way they smell, not by the way they look, or what they say. because people lie, and they tell you they ate foie gras for dinner, they wear armani suits and louis vuitton purses, but you can smell through their lies. you can smell they ate fries and garlic bread and their rags stink of infantile, illegal, third world labor.
this man next to me – he’s Cuckoo. Wacko. call him as you wish. Moonstruck. the given circumstances fail to prove otherwise. Not in his right mind. Nut case. you couldn’t hide that if you put on a mask, like he has. Lunatic. a bag full of explosives at his feet, a Colt.45 painted green in his left hand and a pink lollipop in his right, and every doubt is removed. Nuts. Screwball. Loony.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that smell is crucial in the process of reproduction. because of the pheromones. they tell the women to masturbate using only their fingers, then apply the “female juice” on their neck and behind their ears. it drives the men insane. it takes their testosterone levels for a climb of the everest. their testicles go to university and get a job so they could afford taking that woman on a date.
this man next to me – he sometimes puts his gun on his lap, takes off his mask, puts the lollipop in his mouth, sucks on it for a while, then puts the mask back on. long enough for that chick in the corner to almost finish his portrait. long enough for that photographer to take about 20 shots of his face. this man next to me – he doesn’t seem to care. he says, it’s useless. any information regarding my looks will be of no use to the police, he says. no need for visual reminders of this groundbreaking event of your maggot lives.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that shutting one or more senses enhances the others. they tell you, there was a monk who pulled out the eyes from his sockets, boiled his tongue and sealed his ear holes with wax. they tell you, this monk experience tremendous pleasure on by smelling and touching. until he died from high intracranial pressure.
this man next to me, he says, might as well shut your eyes.
then, why the mask, we ask. the native americans used to paint their faces before going to battle, he says. war-paint. many african tribes wore painted masks when performing rituals. that, and I’m a huge joker fan. you know, the whole “ why so serious” scenes. then, why not face-paint, we ask. and he says, I’m allergic to face-paint. wouldn’t want to die all ugly, red and swollen. but you already are, I say. so he turns towards me, winks and whispers, I know. his lollipop breath smells of a diabetic-candy lover, bleeding gums and a recently-quit smoker.
why are you doing this, a fat girl asks, sobbing. they cancelled my favorite tv show, he laughs. that, and I have a point to make. that, and I want change. can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. and the fat chick start babbling something about how she’s gonna change, how she’s gonna start eating healthy and exercising more.
this man next to me, he puts the lollipop on his lap, takes off his cheap mask and puts his gun near his mouth. maybe the others think, this is it. soon, they get to escape. the police will give them warm blankets, some oxygen masks, the press will give them attention, maybe they’ll even be on television.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you each person has a distinct smell. our sweat has it’s own fingerprint. unique. the chemical components in the sweat, they are the result of our diet, interactions with other people, our emotions. you are what you eat. you are how you smell like.
they all think, this will be over soon. all with the cost of a little stress and a ruined pair of underwear. the obese girl, she stopped sobbing and is now smiling. no more exercise for her. getting back to those crappy, rich in carbs foods. getting back to being a couch potato, satisfied in her own misery, like a pig in the mud. a happy life obtained with the cost of extremely low expectations and the abortion of all aspirations. this man next to me, he touches the gun with his lips, looks at me and winks. kisses the gun and then shoots the fat girl in the stomach. 10 points for Gryffindor, he shouts. and I say, you could have gotten 20 had you aimed for the brain.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you, you can smell fear.
but I did hit the brain, he says, and giggles. it starts to smell an awful lot like fear in here. the others, they stare at the brown spot covering the girl’s ass, getting bigger. the spot, not the ass. it gains ground like an oil spill in the ocean. I know they all smell it. I can smell them smell it. they smell of disgust and fear.
they tell you about an experiment they conducted. they had some men watch horror movies, their reactions and emotional states recorded, and they collected their sweat individually. each sweat was sprayed in a different room with a woman inside, doing day-do-day activities. the chemicals in the men’s sweat caused the women to experience the same emotions as the men watching the movies – fear or disgust, mostly.
I can smell the fear and disgust, but I won’t give in to it. no, this is far too interesting to experience these kind of emotions. that, and I have been trained. the others, they smell the remains of the fat girl’s last meals. I don’t smell it because I choose not to.
at X classes, as we call the, they tell you, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet. or so they say.
this man next to me, he smells like peeled oranges, urine and toothpaste.
they tell you that you are most vulnerable when you sleep. because when you are asleep, your sense of smell shuts down. at X classes, they never answer questions. they never tell you how come ammonia wakes you up after you faint. how come your roommate wakes you after you fart that thai food into a balloon and release it right in his face. all they teach at X classes, it’s been scientifically proven. or so they say.
the man next to me smells like it’s all going according to plan. the blood of the dying girl smells like vitamin C, iodine and repressed self-loathing. this man, he turns toward me and whispers, you guys haven’t asked my name yet. his breath smells like he was the weird, home-schooled kid who wore glasses. his mask smells like rebellion. and we ask, what is your name. and he says, just call me G. and everybody smells like the don’t give a shit about why he wants to be called G. so I say, why G? and he says, because a lot of people are looking for me, and think they will pleased when they find me. and he winks again and he smells like self-confidence. I must smell like I’m finding this very entertaining. indeed, I do.
we call those classes “x”. X, short for Eccs. Eccs, short for Evening Classes for the Consolidation of Smell. short for, you are a loser with no job who finds a promising add in the paper. 1000 dollars just to attend some classes of “self-improvement”. short for, you know there is a great chance your organs will get harvested or you’ll end up sucking and taking dicks up your ass forcefully. short for, you have been eating nothing but cheese puffs for the last week and you don’t really give a fuck anymore and your survival instinct is pretty much as active as your sex life.
yeah, maybe G really aimed for the brain of that fat girl. when your gut starts growling, you forget you are an evolved being that lives in a complex society. you forget you have parents, if you can call them so. you forget there is such a thing as social aid. you forget there are shops to steal from and you forget that web-cam sex pays good.
at X classes, as we call them, they tell you that disobeying the instincts dictated by your nose is either a demonstration of true power or lack of dignity. they tell you, during the holocaust, the jews swallowed their jewelries when taken into ghettoes and concentration camp. the jews, they ate whole diamonds and golden necklaces and rubies and sapphires. and then they shat it all. they tell you, it’s not an easy task, shitting diamonds in a poorly improvised toilet in a jewish concentration camp. most of them didn’t have the time to retrieve all their riches from their shit. they tell you, a severe diarrhea was like betting on red or on black in a casino. if the diarrhea went in the shithole, you just lost a fortune. if you weren’t fully retarded and you didn’t shit in the hole, you saved your long life savings. and the nazi guards noticed how the jews collected the riches from their shit. they tell you, most of them jumped right into the pool of shit, ignoring all the stink, and dug in, looking for diamonds. the smell of shit, covered only by the smell of annihilated dignity. they tell you, the nose really knows what’s best for you.
you shit on the millions of years of evolution and the circumvolutions on the brain.
it’s your stomach who’s in charge, and there’s nothing you can do but go to those damned classes. the stranger-dangers ads don’t work. so you call. you go to the X classes and you get the 1000 dollars as soon as you enter that public bathroom.
and they tell you, from now on, you are free to stop coming here. they say, you are also free to keep coming to these classes and do something with your life. smells like cheap convincing skills coming from a loser salesman who works in a public toilet. still, you keep coming. it smells intriguing. you keep coming for such a long time, you are a veteran. and they notice you and they think, you come in a public toilet 3 times a week to hear interesting facts about smell. they think, you come here because you are loyal, because you have principles. and they promise you, someday, you will get to meet the Perfumist. they test you. start giving you a thousand bucks every time you come to those classes. maybe when you’re rich enough, you’ll stop coming. maybe you’re not so loyal after all. you can smell them trying to trick you. you get richer every week, you keep coming, and they tell you, the Perfumist is interested in your personality.
that’s what they all say, they are interested in your personality.
G, he leans toward me and whispers, do you know who I am. his breath smells like severe acne during teen years, self-help books and the villain everybody likes. he asks, do you like art, and I nod, no, and he says, I can smell you lying. he shouts, are there any artists in here? I can smell a monologue and an already prepared answer to his own question. the others smell danger. G smells like the weak crust of dried blood on the wound that you know you shouldn’t touch, because you’ll only make it worse, but you still tear it, because it’s interesting.
yes or no. any artists in here? 2 choices, 2 outcomes of the situation. live or die. and the chick with the pencil and the paper, in the corner, she lifts her hand shyly and says, yes, I’m an artist. wrong answer, shouts G. lollipop on his lap, gun to his lips, boom, boom, boom. her brains splashed all over the paper. and G says, the drawing needed more color anyway.
his bitten-to-the-blood, moving lips smell like they are about to give birth to a manifesto. And he explodes - see, we’re taught that artists are these sensitive, gifted, misunderstood beings. heroes born in the wrong time. goddamned unicorns. beautiful souls. fucking pandas. they sure as fuck are not. drawing pretty curves with a crayon and writing rhymes don’t make you no goddamn artist. whether all of us are artists, or none of us are. we’re all born in the gutter. staring with melancholy at the pretty sky don’t make you special. it makes you an ignorant, narcissist moron. bonnie and clyde were more of an artist than shakespeare. the 50 y.o. mexican immigrant joggling 5 kids and 3 part-time jobs is more of a fucking artist than lord-fucking-byron. a wonder kid getting a guitar at his 4^th birthday is not a fucking artist. now, are there any fucking artists in here?
G, he shouts angrily at me: DO YOU FUCKING KNOW WHO AM I?
forget what they taught you in X classes.
you can shit yourself and you can smell it. it smells beyond bad, beyond physical. It doesn’t smell like teen spirit. it smells like fear and a bad surprise. and I thought he liked me.
I am the terrorist and the antichrist of modern art, He shouts. I am the atheist of the process of creation, of inspiration and of art galleries. The hit-and-run of the commercialization of underground art. The bully and the unorthodox priest and the disobedient child. Me and My rebellion – We are the spiritual leaders of My creative impulses. Destroying art is My understanding of making art.
His gun on his lap, His mask off, His lollipop in His mouth. Looney. Madman. the smell of gasoline evaporated long ago from His hands and the ashes of the galleries burnt by Him.
and He keeps shouting. I am the one who devours and the one who synthesizes lesser art.
and you get to meet the Perfumist. you figured, you’ll shed light on this whole mystery. you thought, no more secrets. you thought, once the mystery is revealed, it will stop being entertaining.
G, He smells like rage built up inside.
and He says, I am the urine on the snow of the decrepit artistic standards.
I don’t even give a shit about the others anymore. my nose is entirely focused on G, and He smells like the fucking madeleine of proust, and He reminds me of the most intense event of my life. me first meeting the Perfumist.
the Perfumist – he didn’t smell. not in the sense that he didn’t smell bad or that wasn’t a very intense distinct smell. no. he had no scent at all. It’s like he wasn’t there. at all. no body odor. no sweat. no bad or pleasant breath. judging by his name, you’d expect the specialized sensory cells of your nasal cavity to have an orgy. you’d expect, first time meeting the Perfumist, your nostril becoming a portal into nirvana. you’d expect the ultimate orgasm. the delight of the sense of smell inflicted on all the other senses. you’d expect… you had hoped. you were starting to believe in all that crap that they told you at X classes and that you didn’t understand. you found none of what you expected and got more than you could have expected. and he says, you are gifted. and you keep thinking, how come he doesn’t have a smell. maybe it’s some kind of amazing power that keeps the others from smelling him. or maybe his scent is so advanced that normal people can’t smell it. like fucking ultrasounds.
the Perfumist is here in the open, the mystery seems revealed, but his no-smell-mask makes him fucking fantômas. you enter the theatre to see a play and the curtain falls. and that’s the Perfumist.
and he says he’s interested in my personality.
and he says I’m gifted and I am more special than I could ever imagine.
and my sweat fucking stinks.
G says, you kill a person, especially someone who stands out, and there’s public sufferance. pity. condolences. then they all forget. they all seem to care because they feel like it’s their moral, human duty to feel bad. they don’t, but they act like it for so long, they even fool themselves. and He looks at me and says, but just try and burn a painting. shatter a sculpture.
I am the heretic.
and G smells like petrichor after a summer rain.
I am the fermentation of the sugary and of the sweet artistic beliefs.
I am the wine and the moonshine.
still looking at me, He goes on – just try and napalm an art gallery. sabotage the instruments of a quartet before a classical concert. publicly disdain a piece of modern “art”. and the public opinion goes woo-whoo. public outrage. and, unlike the homicide, they remember this kind of destruction forever.
you become public enemy number one.
the most hunted serial killer of art.
I am the apostate.
and G shouts, have any of you motherfucker heard of ying-yang?
and He shouts, how come none of you motherfuckers give credit to satan? why don’t you worship the bully who shat on your self-esteem in school and made you feel hated and made you feel like you’re worth nothing.
I am the destroyer of “art”.
the arch nemesis of Hollywood standards.
how come didn’t any of you motherfuckers cut the throats that awed and praised your crappy childhood painting and the disreputable rhymes and the plasticine sculptures? how come you didn’t spit in their faces for making you feel good about your “art”?
I am the IKEA chair in the XVth century furniture exposition.
and why, why didn’t they slap the fuck out of you when you glued some spaghetti on paper that poorly resembled some birds and some flowers?
why didn’t they beat the shit out of you. and why, why didn’t they force you to eat those glued spaghetti.
I am the death sentence that is one’s true birth.
the Perfumist, and we call him, He tells you, they spray a specific perfume inside a car about to be sold, and the smell lasts for about 6 weeks. He tells you, that’s what give it “the new car smell”. the sound of the engine, the smooth leather seats, the resistance posed by the gas pedal when pushed – that’s not what actually attracts the buyer. it’s the new car fragrance, sprayed inside.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
the kilometers on the board adding up. someone scratching the hood. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important. and I smell like apprentice and like the disciple taking notes before embarking on a quest. it smells like a sense of purpose.
and G’s monologue goes on - I am the locust of god.
I am the plagues intended to wake up the masses.
I am the ephemeral butterfly and I am the creator of the butterfly effect.
I am becoming something more than myself.
and G smells like the chrysalis.
the Perfumist tells me, my curse is, I don’t have body odor. my body is the instrument of the torture inflicted on me. he tells me, my childhood was part boredom, part rage. boredom constantly enraged me and rage slowly bored me. he tells me, my parents thought I was talented, so they gave an acoustic guitar at my 4^th birthday. they sent me to a special kindergarten. he tells me, instead of playing with fire trucks and eating our own snot and making puzzles, we analyzed the 3D structure of the fire truck model and we crated our own kinds of eco-paint and we analyzed every line and shade of famous paintings. he tells me, they taught us that inspiration can be faked. they told us that the mechanization of the process of creation can, with time, be considered inspiration.
fake it till you make it.
fake it till you become it.
he says, that’s my motto.
G, he says, how come these maggots dare to criticize my actions and beliefs?
He faces me and shouts, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? and, WILL YOU EVER REMEMBER THE MAN I AM RIGHT NOW?
I smell metamorphosis. the smell of the phoenix burning.
I am the water that breaks. I am V. V for Vendetta. and G puts on his mask. I am the garlic and the silver and the holy water and the crucifix. and these fucking so-called artists are the vampires.
and he says, I am the proselytizer.
I am the face I draw in the mirror.
I am the breast reduction operation that makes women more beautiful.
I am the two-leaved shamrock.
I am the gum stuck under the table.
and the Perfumist says, I went to art school after. and then I became, of course, a small worker in a huge company. and there was no art.
and then I made and impressive career. I made my way to the top. I came to own the company, and then many others.
and I became fed up with everything. and the only thing resembling art in my work was the perfume my company made. and I was disgusted by it. the commercialization of it. I criticized everything about it, I became the fiercest critic of my own “creation”. I wanted to be hated. and the board of directors, they loved me more, said, I was striving for perfection, said, I was the engine of the company growth.
and I was raging.
and I got bored.
G finishes his lollipop, takes out his pink tongue and licks the gun painted green. and he smells like the pupa ready to hatch.
I am the mud stain on the perfect wedding dress.
and the Perfumist tells me, I feel I can be more than myself. says, my first girlfriend, she dumped me, said it was because there was madness inside of me that I was unable to express. she said, what a terrible loss. what a waste of potential.
and the Perfumist says, she was such a beautiful soul, and her “art” was so ugly that I could not hate it. and she told me, my paintings were too pretty.
she told me, I was too nice and she left and she burned all my paintings.
she wanted to make the greatest painting, that she wanted to get pregnant and she wanted to start loving the unborn fetus and desire to keep it and she wanted to abort it and she wanted to apply it on the canvas. said, that would be real art, and she never told me if she had the abortion.
I am the doodle drawn on the back of a Picasso.
I am Van Gogh’s ear transplant.
and the Perfumist looks at me with awe and says, I do not know why I don’t have body odor. and, she was the only one who could smell me. he says, the doctors can’t explain this medical mystery of the lack of scent. and he goes on, I saw her cry once, and her tears smelled like the deep-blue sea.
and the Perfumist started smelling kinda pathetic.
and he says, your eyes are the exact same color as hers.
I am the worm in the eco, non-biodegradable apple.
I am the zit on the passport photo of Mona Lisa.
I am the banana peel on the street.
he asks, do you know why I created the X classes?
and he says, I am bored of my rage and enraged with my boredom. I want to change. and, do you know why I need you? I’m looking for someone. I am looking for a guy, let’s call him G. and he says, I am also searching for myself.
G, he smells like thunder and storm and freshly baked ozone.
and He says, I am the new car smell.
I am the peremptory breaking news.
the Perfumist smells like the sinner in a church confessional, and I’m the priest.
and he says, I want to be able to burn a painting, like she has. I want to destroy the instruments used in a classical concert. I want to blow up an art gallery.
and he says, I want metamorphosis, and, I want to change, and, I want to be somebody else.
I want to be public enemy number one.
I want to be remembered.
and, I want to smell.
the Perfumist shouts, I want to be the new car smell.
me, I look at the Perfumist and I see a desperate man. and I say, I smell potential. and the Perfumist smiles and says, you smell just like your mother.

G says, they spray a specific perfume inside a car about to be sold, and the smell lasts for about 6 weeks. that’s what gives it “the new car smell”. the smooth leather seats, the sound of the engine, the resistance posed by the gas pedal when pushed – that’s not what actually attracts the buyer. it’s the new car fragrance, sprayed inside.
even if it fades away after a while, the attraction caused by this new car fragrance is so intense, that it is forever stamped in your emotional memory.
someone scratching the hood. the kilometers on the board adding up. the leather chairs giving in some of their color to the ass that sits on them. but you still love the car because of how it smelled at first. and He says, remember this, this is very, very important.
and G smells like a huge, XVth century, hand-written book containing only the words: “Fuck y’all, bitches!”.
G’s mask, it’s a cheap darth vader mask. He smiles, puts it on, turns towards me and says, luke, I am your father.
smells like the shittiest family reunion I ever had.
and I look at Him and I don’t see the Perfumist anymore.
and He says, I have become something more than myself.

I smell metamorphosis, the smell of phoenix risen.

and G asks, are there any artists in here?
and I raise my hand. and he takes off his mask and smiles. and three others raise their hands.
and G shouts, wrong answer.
boom.
boom.
boom.

and G and me smile, and it smells like three more empty seats at some families’ dinner. and G smells like an achieved self-set challenge. he smells like a finished quest.

and I say, G, don’t think this is over.
and his gun falls on the ground and he smells like the pathetic Perfumist.
and I say, G, the metamorphosis is not the end of the circle of life. and I say, G, do you want to be remembered? and I say, G, who are you?

so he picks up his gun and I can hear him swallow. and I can hear him shit his pants. he turns toward me and shouts, DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

and I say, Gee, you smell. Gee, you really fucking smell.
and I say, G, you are an artist.
and nothing happens, and I say, G, you are a fucking artist.
and he takes off his mark and it falls on the ground, and he tries to kiss the gun but he can’t, because he’s shaking like a dildo.
boom.
and I look at G, his brains mixes with blood erupting like lava from his head, and I can’t but feel sorry for a bit. for me, not for him. all of this was so much fun, and now it ended.

and I wonder, why did this ugly, red and swollen man think he was my father, and that the artist who dumped him was my mother?

and I smell a fortune inherited from the Perfumist. I smell like the plan has worked. I smell the will made in my name. the perfumist’s inheritor.

at X classes, as me and the Perfumist and the guy in charge call them, there are no people coming. just me and this guy, the loser salesman and the only teacher. the guy in charge, he tells you, we can make real money. just keep coming. just meet the Perfumist and do whatever he wants. and we’ll strike it rich, you and I. and I ask, this doesn’t involve, by any chance, an immoral behavior and breaking the law, does it? and the guy in charge says, that’s exactly what it requires. and I say, oh, I’m definitely in.
and the guy in charge says, can you smell that? it smells like money.
and I say, it also smells like human feces. and he says, there is crap everywhere. you cannot avoid it. what you can avoid is, at least, the smell of human feces. this is why these classes are held in a public toilet.

menumortu

duminică, 29 martie 2015

marți, 24 martie 2015

autop(oe)sie

joi, 19 martie 2015

vorbe de la colțuri de stradă

miercuri, 11 martie 2015

breathe slowly

luni, 9 martie 2015

F(art)

luni, 2 martie 2015