7 of Cups

I must, but I don’t have to write prose in the style of Witold Gombrowicz at the creative writing course. I say: - Why not? It was decided that we’d come. Then he asks: - Huh? And will it be? I respond: - Yes, it will be! At the pastry shop, or Cofetterey, as we call it. He says: - Where?! I don’t change overnight. And he grumbles: - I don’t change like the wind blows. And he gets angry: - Who do you take me for? I am who I am. And continues: - The envoy, the inspiration, the guide, the daddy, little shit! I am the Representative of Prose, of Literature, of the Artistic Space. I, timidly: - Please speak a bit slower! He: - Literature, Poetry, Masters, Baudelaire, Mallarmé, University, Creativity, Focus. We create in the damn mother, for from it everything comes. We are the chosen ones of the deep, dark, soft, and creative abyss, and we must carry the creative species forward. Don’t despair! And he whispers: - Implants are made with prose, poetry, essays, whatever you want. We have prostheses, oxymorons… Follow me, please.

And he shouts, and I am afraid seeing that I am not afraid. Or am I afraid because I don’t know why I am afraid? I stand there, unsure whether to remain or flee. And yet, there’s something about the way he speaks, the authority in his words, that keeps me rooted in place. I learned so much from him; sometimes he seems to be good man. Or is he a narcissist? I feel the earth beneath my feet, solid, yet shaking, as though the very ground itself were trying to tell me something. But no, I’m too afraid to listen. And I don't see him anymore. Where is he? How much time he kept talking while I didn’t hear him at all during this time?

Rather than think about all this, I said I’d better eat something sweet, anyway, I’ll get to the Cofetterey… And I go, I go. But why am I going? Just so I don’t stay and I go just to go. There is no real destination in my steps, no real purpose. Just the idea of moving forward, as though moving itself could be an answer. Each step is an affirmation of my existence, yet I feel strangely detached from it, as if my body is simply going through the motions while my mind lingers somewhere else—somewhere between fear and a peculiar curiosity.

When I arrive at the pastry shop, I see above that the name has received an “n”: Confetterey. It seems someone is making fun, yes, yes, making fun. Who in the world, with their head on their shoulders, would add an “n” between the “o” and “f”?! The absurdity of it strikes me. It’s as though I’ve entered a different world, a world where the rules of language no longer apply. Where things can be twisted, distorted, to the point of nonsensical beauty.

Seeing that I was standing there, I decided to take a few steps and entered. And what do I see? Something flickering at the end of the room. Why don’t they turn on the light?! It’s too dim in here, and yet it feels like it’s all part of some grand design, some absurd joke I can’t quite grasp. I light a match, but it goes out quickly, and I step on something soft. Is it a nose or a savarin? A brownie or an ear? The boundaries of what’s real, what’s edible, begin to blur. I light the second match. It goes out. Still, I think I see some eyes with open eyelids or a fruit tart? Is it the tart that’s watching me, or am I the one who’s being watched by it? The very idea of it makes my head spin. The tarts and pastries seem to be alive, almost sentient, as though they are waiting for me to choose one, to engage with it, to taste it, to understand its purpose.

When I light the third match, what do I see? The Master, the Master eating something from his sleeve. Something like a pastry chef’s lung or a heart. I blink, trying to process the absurdity of it all. The match burns badly, the flame reaching my fingers. That’s enough! I scream, and the Master sees me, and I try to run. And I run, I run, but why do I run? I run like this because I have to do something. The need to move, to act, overtakes me. It’s as though my very survival depends on it. I’m not running because I know where I’m going, but because stopping feels like an option I cannot afford.

Looking behind me, I make sure I’ve left a trail, and how good it is because I see an explosion of confetti. It’s as if the very act of running has caused the world to burst open, to spill its secrets. The confetti rains down, shimmering in the dim light of the pastry shop. With each step I take, the world becomes stranger, more disorienting. The confetti sticks to my skin, to my clothes, to my hair, as if trying to keep me tethered to this bizarre, otherworldly place.

The closer I get, the more I begin to feel the slimy little bits of something melting on my forehead. I wipe it away, but it continues to stick, like a persistent memory I can’t shake off. I arrive and see the Master naked in a tub full of jelly worms. I felt something like whipped cream on my lips, maybe marshmallows. The Master, in his wisdom, seems to have gone beyond the ordinary, beyond the limits of what is possible. He has transcended the boundaries of pastry and has become one with it, immersed in the very thing that he has created.

The Master bit into the forbidden pastries, and look now! I must go back. Poor thing! He wanted to teach me something, surely. And at his mouth, there were savarins, brownies, raffaello, pralines, and he spoke in turn in savarin-ese, praline-ese, brownie-ese, raffaello-ese. The language of the Master is foreign to me, but I must learn it, for it is the key to understanding this world. He has created a new language, one that is beyond words, beyond meaning. It is the language of taste, of sensation, of pure, unfiltered experience.

The Master taught me a new poetic language that I was supposed to use sometime as an exercise. I took my pen out and began to take notes, but they got tangled in jelly worms. It was as if the very act of writing had become impossible, as if the words themselves were dissolving in the gooey, sticky mess that surrounded me. I resigned myself to be the only witness to the apparent contradiction of the Master in the Confetterey. I could not fully comprehend his teachings, but I knew that they were important, that they held the key to something greater.

I gathered a few candies, quickly stuffed them in my pocket because who knows what I’ll be left with in the end. Then I joined the Master in his action of putting into the darkness, as he likes to say often, all those shiny, slippery goodies. We agreed to write a cake-poetry together that is not a cake-poetry. But in the winding of the delicious worms, it seems to have disappeared, for neither of us ever found it in the pastry shop while we lived. Maybe someone swallowed it by mistake. No, no, it was a real lesson.

He says: - All of it ends up there, and then the large intestine... I didn’t let him finish. I say: - No, no, no, not the sweets, Poetry, Poetry! I’m talking about it! He: - So am I. And he started shouting: - You must understand, this is the way. Stomach, intestines. And I hear: - Digestion, enzymes, filtration, absorption. And again, it’s a cycle, see? The darkness. Women concentrate better on the dark, and we know that a glass of red wine does wonders. I gently rose from the sticky heap, already from the Master’s labor, but I slipped. So I dug a tunnel to the exit of the pastry shop. There’s never enough just inspiration, I understand, it’s a cycle. I’m dizzy. He says: - And ugly women love more. I slip again. - And the old women. And ugly women have better chances to write well. I fall to the ground. Oh, I’m not some kind of beauty... I can’t speak anymore, my mouth is full of biased jelly mixed with confetti, which keeps coming out. I put my hand to my mouth to stop it, but it still comes out, I stop again. It comes out again.