I don’t know how to go on. I must abort the mision. At once. Life is this other thing I am not doing. I am avoiding the final clash. I am not there. This is not happening. You are not reading.
To read or not to read.
That is the real matter. Not the silly sililoquos of a prince. Or even a king. If there is something to tell, it’s all about them. The real fat juicy characters. The game developers. The new angels. The new concept that will take your mind and point it to the QÜILANTRISMO MOVEMENT.
I did tell my friends I was a poet.
They just didn’t mind.
I so did I.
So things flew by.
And nothing happen.
And you know what I did?
Nothing.
That’s it.
That’s my qüeu, boy/girl.
GIRL/boy
99 size.
That’s me: nine.
9.
Nou.
Hello.
I’ve told you my secret. We have shared the ultimate secret of life. You know. That day. Today.
I wrote my literature all at once. And I meant to do it on my own. I did not want to be part of the game. You see; i quit.
i never again was written in capital letters.
Law uno.
Do you motherfuck understand what uno is?
No first.
It’s not a coincidence. It’s meant to be. Trust me: I am an actuary.
I was not this before.
I was just like you.
I swear.
Only I’ve always been me. i lie.
In that last sentence: how may inconsistencies can you determine?
That’s a whole class. It has to do with how and where do you go when you connect with the others: the whole. At once.
We can all go to that place. The final laughter. Of being together. As if this generation has been blessed with a certain capacity to join the congretation into this once fictional human state of collective mind infinite and uno: ALLS.
Do you motherfucker understand what ALLS means in Ticatalán?
Answer will determine what game you and I play from now on. It’s that critical. Your bitches ready?
Fuck, i fucking made a mistake. My English side of my own holy new language is the crapiest language of all nine founding languages of the freeing language of a common sensical world where the laughter defeated the fearloving capitalist taking over the ways are going to be. It is a game, and you are either on my team, or you are still in your old team.
Which team will it be?
I am looking for you.
I am looking for a revolution that wants to take place. Ever on top of the current estate of maters. In our own jail. The happiest, wealthiest country, and all of us corderos in it: just trusting the guy next us. To be shaven every now and then. And then you go. You write. I read. Or be it the contrary. I can make things happen. Only, my way.
You comming?
So you feel something once you see that color. It means something else to you. As we speak, I feel something special that belongs to a specific group of us. And not the rest. Not you if you are not in on it. Are you?
So you are rebel too.
Huh. It was that venezuelan telenovela.
I fancy goodlooking boy from the good families of this country. What are going to do this time?
The rich boy kids squad.
What are they thinking?
What’s their game plan?
Why should they concede a moment to think in the commons?
Why would read and become an ancient greek hero?
Or even God.
Or having sex with God.
The greates sex story.
Why should HE?
Think of it.
You fucking old believer: belive this.
And there’s a link in this. And you missed it. You are only in a book. But right here, where the literature of a story unfolds into a given understanding of the current revolution. How are going to shape the new democratica game in our land. What are we going to back up with Donald Trump? How much can we fly together in one of his scams. Up there. The money game. You know how many are them?
It’s a question I raise just because I am an actuary.
I was taught to think more than just mathmatically. They called it Actuarial Science. And we became part of a society. Not hidden. There is a clear doorway to pass through. A set of exams. A group of learners that could come into the New América and take it back with an insolent tale from a rememberance of local mexican heros: 99 true stories.
You feed that to a group of New Américan readers and they will lick their fingers and penetrate a vagina, own, woman, or you guidance takes the silly soul of a newbe to the esence of that higher connection with a soulmate other: be her: woman. And she says here. Now. Like a gay couple saying: yay. Only performed in the New House of Commons.
I can take on Great Britain nine holiest insolent wankers and have them done for what the share of guilt on our fucking charade of JimboJambo you great masculine first borns of the great 99 families of New London.
I can be the first last name on that list. I made up the list. It’s like having your own show. I cheat yourself to be the greatest benificiery. Or whatever, man. Hahaha. I hate to laugh like that. So silly. So you, selling out to humour. Like a bitch.
Negro.
White.
Purple.
Green.
Red.
Yellow.
Orange.
Blue.
Pink.
Why not take pride of being Mr. Pink.
Wanker.
Tarantino is a wanker.
You have to pick your rocks. You know. I couldn’t throw them against the weak and martirized suffering souls and bodies. Them. Poor. Lost souls. Way to go… to oblivion. Gone. Like a wisper into the ears of a New Spanish Marqués de Comillas.
Take into account what we were when we were to New Spain.
La Nueva España. Ahí estamos.
Esta es mi literatura. Unos 99 insolentes latinoaméricanos insolentes han venido a vivir a Europa a escribir sus libros y dejarse ver por la vida social de los eventos del sector editorial en sus nueve grandes capitales, pero más chingón chingón, de verdad, ver-ga, su renovada capital: New Barcino.
Mae yo soy de aquí. Voy a decirlo 99 veces hasta que se convierta en una realidad. Esta es mi ciudad. Esta es mi historia. Y la suya. La de todos. Vamos a enderezar esta mierda de una puta vez.
Vamos.
Pensar como diseñador de la nueva capital: new barcino.
Yo soy su Cerdà.
Por eso traje a Luis.
Porque vamos a tomar el momento. Somos los portadores de una buena nueva. Un buen plan. El plan. Laplan.
EL PLAN LAPLAN.
La feminización en la cúspide.
Ellas.
Solo ellas.
Déjese llevar.
Tienen su punto.
Pinches primogénitos.
Vayan y chingen a su puta madre.
Y uno se queda tan ancho piramidalmente.
Uno puede construir promociones con estas dimensiones.
Nueve pisos en los que en la planta baja lo voy a estar esperando yo.
Ese es un diseño de una máquina de hacer un mundo completo en otra dimensión. Sin que nadie quede fuera.
Usted está contaminado con el juego en el que sólo usted gana. Usted, admítalo, mi estimado, es un capitalista de libro de Economía III en el ITAM. La clase más sublime de todas. Quizás salvo Economía de la Incertidumbre. Y lo que explicara ese día Juan Manuel Pérez Porrua. El genio más sublime de los que me dio clases en el ITAM. Como si fuera una mamada hacer ese tránsito. Acabar actuaría en el ITAM. Es como ver la chilena y estar volando.
Ese soy yo.
El futbolartista.
Ahora, espere un momento, vamos a pensar todos juntos. ¿Si nuestro equipo es más que un club no vamos a poder decir nosotros qué coño queremos ser por encima de lo que somos ahora mismo en nuestra sede, en nuestro estadio, en nuestro pabellón de basketball, en nuestro pabellón de hockey sobre hielo. La grabación de ese espacio del club que desconocía existía. Esa ciudad es la que voy a visitar el próximo martes. Ese club fue mío. Es el club familiar. O era. A uno le sobran ganas de transformar según qué pollardadas en los sitios que pensábamos que eran nuestros: nuestro club de futbol, nuestro bar, nuestra casa, nuestra ciudad, nuestro autogobierno, nuestro discurso en el debate público de lo común. En el más extremo escenario. Como si los escenarios y sus diseñadores existieran y fueran algo más que simples actuarios viejos americanos que nunca cambiaron a la nueva onda que trajeron los nueve insolentes actuarios con los que tomamos las nueve capitales financieras del renovado continente en emergencia: New América.
El concepto es cambiarnos todos los nombres. Volvernos literatura. Una gran historia. Contada en unas 99 noches. O en esta. Ya.
¿Qué más tiene que pasar?
No se.
Ni yo.
Qué bien.
Qué bien.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
Respire.
ALLS