White writing

   He was a quite energetic boy, going everywhere, going elsewhere, being in in the kitchen asking for some bread, being on the garden looking for some mysterious clues that would bring him close to solve that unsolvable quest. Deep eyes, soft hair. Or maybe jumping from the top of the chairs to see if he could catch the moment and begin flying forever. Then chaos, everything is chaos, why you don’t see, everything it’s so chaotic mom, what is these, what is this thing with four legs, what are these things coming out of my body, what is a body mom, what about these things you call fingers, what a weird thing to have, mom what is going here, why are everyone so comfortable with this madness. Large eyelashes. What about my friend Jupiter, he is the only one sane here, he is quiet, he is nice, he is funny, he does so many things without moving a cell, he is awesome mom, but no one sees him, what is your problem tall people, why are you so blind to everything, maybe that’s why you are so white. 

   His father, a very tall slip bold stone. Huge ears. Sometimes they would have a nice time together, some other not. High blood pressure. Some time he would play with his son and follow his adventures to the mountains, to the forest, to the gigantic spaces of the universe, to rescue some housefires, to become the most outrageous investigator, to play with the ball, to tell him some nice bed stories, told by mouth, because tales must been told by mouth, nothing of reading, that would bring down all the magic of the scene. Big smile.

        He hit him. Skin being damaged, skin being corrupted, skin losing its freshnes, skin letting the things that contains going out.

      It was immerged in his red cells, the anger, in his grey and white matter, in his liver, in his eyelash, his teeth, in his voice, the irrational anger; he forgot himself. The kid was paying that show with his childhood, no money left. The man started knocking his head when being mad, with the middle finger a little out of the fist, so the edge of it was use like a peak, he would apologize, but eventually repeated it. Joan was doing nothing but playing with his cloud friends, with his air friends, with his tinny microscopic Martians - and then anger came-  going round and round, screaming or being very quiet- and then the breathing would increase its rhythm, the blood into the eyes- very silent, looking everything carefully, observing with absolute attention - the knock in the forehead, the stone beating him, the get-out shout of his dreamland. Was difficult for the little spinning head, for the new no longer loving heart, for the receptive stomach, for that no longer deep eyes.

He heard often knife shaped comments.

           -    so you don’t know how much money you must receive back for the shopping , you must be outside the house until you tell if you got it right or not; everyone in this city its dangerous, another stab; never trust anybody; bleeding ; all this people are so sluggish, so lazy, so ease, they do not know what real work means; why are you taking me mercilessly; you must work to get what you want, you must work in order to survive, you must work very hard in this life because its very though out here; what I have done to you; when you enter in the real world you would see it. I’m just trying to help you; you will understand some day. 

-             How my world is not real and your it is dad? How you make such a distinction? It’s a line that I have not seen. What I am missing?

    Slowly a great distance began to relate the two of them, slowly a great cold sight was the only thing he could grasp from the tall man. No nose could smell what was happening. No trust, no home was there, no safety, no hugs, no laughs, no caring, no love, not even a sweet cake, not a single dot of compassion, or if it were, it would be override by the fear that was fluttering, that was already all around. The child wanted no more to be, no wanted to know anything about him, no would ask for anything, wont share a word, wont share a lip movement, wont waste a particle of his energy. The eyes were lost, no where to look, no-thing to stare at, no-thing to admire, the world was cloudy.

     The world was hostile, he said, and became true, but not truth. Who I would ask, he wandered. Jupiter went away to the nothingness with his brother. Mother is in deep sadness, so grey, so blue, so many colors, but no one that shines. No family, not a dog whom he could talk. All the imagination was gone, was forbidden in his mind, was painful to imagine, was painful to remember imagining, was painful seeing how every thought was catch and annihilated by the knock on the forehead. The heart was hidden in a hut, a very protected hut, no one could reach it. And this rock always bothering, restless always pointing mistakes, always trying to ground, trying to sink, trying to destroy, trying to keep the control, being the control, sustain his position, sustain that which he became . Controlling everything, looking at us from his couch, turning the volume up, the volume down, switching the channel, powering on, powering off, every moment, every step at his will.

      Joan wanted to stay happy, not a great job, not a great house, not anything great, not anything expensive, not anything marvelous, not anything comfortable, but happy, and that doesn’t need any effort, any work, any suffering, any sweating, that’s his own nature, everybody nature, deep eyes look deep things, and all that its in between that and the surface. He took happiness from his kid, but also from himself. 

    He tasted like a lemon, and then everything its lemon, but there the mistake. Being lemon doesn’t mean that all fruits are lemons. Joan tasted apples, tasted sweet mangoes, tasted acid berries, tasted some many juicy foods, tasted rice, tasted noodles, tasted bread, tasted yogurt, tasted lettuce, tasted beef, tasted honey, tasted turmeric, so many things in this existence, so many flavors, so many forms, so many constitutions, so many textures, so many heights, so many. But he is stick with the lemons, everything must be like that. Fixed with it, like a stone, like a solid stone.  Joan wasn’t denying the work, wasn’t denying the efforts, wasn’t denying the facts of the tongue, but the taste with which he said it.

   The kid became a little taller, a little whiter. Colors doesn’t mean anything, he thought . The world was wrong, profoundly wrong. It’s the easiest way to deal with things in the brain, heart and all the body-complaints-sensible organs. He went blaming everyone for being unconscious, being dumb, being asleep, being untruth, being a fake candle in a fake birthday, being a fake society in a fake life. His heart was screaming from the hut, but the walls didn’t let anything pass through. Hate was emerging in every pore of the skin, every little hair of the body was screaming , every nail was ready to take anyone in to the sorrow of being. Family no longer existed, they were there, but dead, no electricity between their currents, no reception between their eyes, no compatibility between their names. Maybe by negating his relationship with them he will overcome what he believed was wrong. Maybe he just need to start fresh new, click on the close tab option in his memories and then be born again. Much luggage he was carrying, but nobody has put it on himself, he was carrying without knowing why, without noticing it. Friends became a nice balloon in the sky, a nice way to go out to galaxies, to get into the realms of vibrations, vibrations composed in such a way that produced something we call music. Words, words together, words together and blank spaces in between, then books, how many books, how many authors, how many words, how many letters, how many combinations, how many languages, how many expressions, how many things where happening, a new ally was appearing in the battle of being, an ally that would be there always, any moment, any time, always receptive, always listening, always saying, always expressing, an ally that would encourage him to sword the sword, beat the beating, punch the punching, hate the hating, find the finder, know the knower, battle the battle.  How much a revolution in his stomach, what a spinning child was awakening to go out again. What a heart was coming out.

-             Why are you so distant with us dear? Why you don’t talk to us? Why you don’t want to communicate with us? Why you use these old clothes when we bought these new ones, are you a poor child indeed? Why so much resistance to us?

   They became a team, the good team, he was the bad now. He was the indifferent, he was the hard one, he was the cold one, he was the steel face.

 He writes. Poems, letters, novels, stories, graffities, essays. He writes, non-sense with sense. He writes all. He writes nothing. He constantly writes, not in a paper but in his living. He breath in and a write comes, breath out, a writes goes. Everything could be written, but no written could ever be his written. His written was unwrittenable.

   The two pikes poking each other, no side wanting to be poked, and both wanting to poke.

        Time passed, but nothing else.

He emptied himself of writing. No words left.

                 He and she were on a soap opera, they didn’t want to be bad or to be god, they were slaves of their own fathers, their own memories, their own baggage, their own childhood. They wanted the best for their deep eyes beloved. The heart was beating.

          Joan took a nice picture, printed it on white paper. Was completely blank. He came home, he gave a big hug to his mother. He looked at his rock-father-eyes and pass him the photo. He smiled.