You think you’re free? If being on the bus makes you want to pee, do you zip your jeans and pee right there? If a girl asks you, “What is you like the most?” you say, “Suck my dick”? If in the middle of a Christian mass, bored out of your mind, you just want to leave, you just walk out of there, leaving your wife and kids hanging on to the homily of the old man who shits on gay rights. And if you don’t want to vote, you don’t go and that’s it?
Bullshit. The truth is that you live under social, civil, military, ecclesiastical, scientific, natural and magical, if not insane, conditions. Every day, every fucking day, you do and don’t do whatever you have to do or don’t have to do to eat or fuck. Your boss conditions you, your girl conditions you, your children, your lovers, your friends from the neighbourhood with whom you go to the stadium on Sundays. Gregarious or not, solitary or not, the point is that you live conditioned to a structure designed to be one more cunt among the other smelly cunts.
At the point, even if you defend ideals, political positions – if appropriate, to save seals – everything to eat or to fuck or, at least, not to be the last of the last. Because, as the manual says, we have a better chance of survival among many of us. The other manual, the one you didn’t read, doesn’t talk about surviving, but about enjoying your own limitations without limits. At the point, you know, we know, you wouldn’t stand for anyone being too different from you. Any unlikeness would become an offense, a danger to your inherited bases.
But, in spite of all the fucking conditioning – poor you – we are the naive ones. And you can denounce me, accuse me, judge me, and throw up my name on the last toilet in Scotland, “no problem”. In the last centimetre left to me, and to those like me, of personal space, there is an echo that goes beyond notes and semitones, and is called freedom of the whole. A freedom for which we would let ourselves be killed and for which we are ready to destroy – in the last and primordial sense of the word-. The lost do not live on the claim.
Don’t think . . . . A sincere affection, an affection of the tall ones – incomprehensible to the resentful ones who don’t know that they are -, makes me get out of my cage from time to time and show myself in the little iron door of another cage that deprives me of who I want next to me, to see if it can get out of it as I can of mine. None of them could, and that means I’m wrong. But then England: Eat horse dung, a thousand flies can’t go wrong’. Then my eyes remembering the useless pain and the perfectly deserved smile.