From the sweetness of my 6-8 years, I write this first letter to you.
I do not yet know you.
I have never seen you.
You do not even know that I exist. But me, I am watching out for us. I am thinking about us.
I am preparing myself to love you. To marry you.
And to give my perfect woman’s body to you. I adore you.
Let’s be clear.
I want a big white wedding dress.
Underneath, I will wear a white lace leotard that will cling to my perfect woman’s body. Yes, a sort of xtra second skin, a little like the one that I wear in gym class. But I hate the one from gym class. It bunches up in my bum, and my piggy legs are completely naked. Confronted with my legs in the air, I find it very difficult to do a cartwheel, the splits, somer- saults; always in my sight, they entangle my movements, my concentration in an anarchistic bodily mix-up, in a fluttering of white sausage wings. Why am I obliged to show the whole class the parts of my body that I am saving for you?…
As to the white lace leotard, the sensation will be com- pletely different. And then, by the time we get married, I won’t have these piggy legs any more; for the moment, I am still an ungrateful piece of plasticine, without head or tail, but wait and see, My Love, wait and see what is to come…
The only question I have is about the rice.
I carefully observed the rice at Aunt Poupy’s wedding… There was rice everywhere even in the brown hole, I’m sure. Can you imagine the wedding night she must have had with all those grains of rice stuck, incorporated into her make- up, under her ingrown nails, and who knows, yes, perhaps a tinynyny little grain that dared to infiltrate there where it shouldn’t have! Oh, vulgar little grain of Uncle Bent’s in its orange box… Which slips into the softest part of yourself on the most beautiful day of your life.
You see, I want to be clear with you.
I think a lot.
Chance will have no impact on the perfection of our love. Marilyn T.
Another letter: MY HOUSE
Do you know what a “Neapolitan ice cream” is?
Don’t confuse it with “Neapolitan Opera”, huh?
No. A Neapolitan ice cream is an ice cream cake from Italya which has three different tastes.
3 floors, 3 flavours, its top sprinkled with sugared hazelnut bits.
It’s really delicious. Sometimes, I eat it in restaurants for Italyans.
Well, my house is like a Neapolitan ice cream: 3 floors, 3 flavours and a flat roof where the nut-birds alight.
The basement, the garage and the laundry room.
As to the flavour, it stinks, everywhere. Because of the drain water in all the hose-pipes that pierce the belly of my house. They say that there are snakes that live in the pipes. They say that it happened in my neighbourhood that a snake came and licked the bum of someone who was sitting on the pot. Can you believe that… ? Well, when I’m lying cushy in my bath, I don’t know how what could happen to me. What unavoid- ably will happen to me. It WILL HAPPEN to me because I am NOT like everyone else and something important IS GOING to happen to me. I can feel it. I know it.
In the laundry room,
There is a freezer, a washing machine, an organ.
I know how to play the organ. Anyhow, to make music is super easy: you just have to put your fingers in the right places at the right times. For someone who is fairly punctual and precise like I, it is thus relatively easy. And so, I play the organ. Especially the Ave of Maria. I’m made for it. It’s true. When I play it, even the fish in the freezer are troubled. I would even say, impressed. A musical majesty comes out of this black and white organette – which also stinks, like a musty mouth – and explodes with fireworks of emotion playing with the body and soul of all that is alive. And the Ave of Maria, it’s power- ful, you know. Apparently, it’s a religious thing. So my father said, “You see, religion also has its good sides!” That confused me. It’s true. Because I’d turned against religion. And I DO NOT want to make my confirmation. Because of the priest. In church, he tells stories that make me want to cry, and when I cry, I become even weaker and then the priest, he can make me swallow anything he wants because I need so much to believe in something that reassures me. Oh, it’s an internal fight. And then you always have to be kind even to those who are mean to you… It’s hard! It pisses me off, frankly. I should give my favourite pen to my brother when he’s bugging me? No way. Punch him, yeah. My brother and the priest. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, I’ll keep my pen, and you go play with your cars! Hydrocephalus head!
Yes. “HYDROCEPHALUS HEAD”.
If the water makes the pipes on the first floor swell, the water also makes my brother’s head swell. Poor li’l guy, he’s so unlucky. It was the doctor who said to my mother that “the child has a big head.” I could see that my mother didn’t like that at all. Me, I have examined my brother along all his suture-seams, and I have not seen anything abnormal. Yes, his head is very big, but it doesn’t go swish-swosh, huh, like a buoy filled with water. And my brother pisses normal, cries normal, drools normal, sweats. But if the doctor said…
And me, in the bowels of the laundry room, I belch forth my Ave of Marias in the face of the 3 floors of my house. And the music soothes the savage breasts… My music soothes my savage sweats… My music floats in the head like an albatross…
“8. 9. 8. 6. 8. 9. 8. 6. 11. 9…”
When you will clasp me in your arms, it will be magnificent.
The whole length of your body will embrace my woman’s forms…
Your flesh will stick to mine
Like marshmallow taffy.
It will be good.
A swarm of red kisses will gallop around my neck;
In the inner recesses of your ears, my mysterious grammar will gambol
Of which you will understand nothing,
And I will say to you,
“Search, my boy, search for what I am saying to you.” Your delighted, tormented face
Will shake with divine little convulsions.
It will be good.
Floral elixirs will fill our glasses.
Your right paw will pour, drop by drop, the precious nectars Deep into my gullet…
If I put my hand? If I put my hand on… If I put it…
On the throbbing of your throat… I… I… I…
ON THE SECOND FLOOR,
(It is to this second floor, what my panties are to…)
High on the high kitchen cabinet, car magazines.
Photos of women in red cars.
Goldfish bowl on the counter top.
His brother, the one who is already dead, he committed suicide.
Out of the bowl, he jumped.
Squashed on the floor like a red yellow yolk.
The canary is also dead.
Escaped from its cage, we tried to catch it and broke its neck. Broken neck.
Like the fish-yolk.
I prepare myself some English tea.
With cow’s milk. I found THE “cup of tea” from my “How to Learn English” book at the back of a cupboard; forgotten cup, anachronistic ufo-cup in the middle of the common, common coffee cups. There, my “cup of tea” exhumed from its forgotten corner, I filled it with water flavoured with the herb and milk. Cow’s milk, yes. Gently brown, the liquid became bitter. Then I dreamed all the Anglesmen, all the “Yeswithpleasure”, all the Britains isles peopled with black crows they say, I dreamed the Christmas nights with stuffed turkeys, mint cakes and chocolates with orange…
“Is Mrs. Smith home?”
“No, she’s dead. In the little kitchen.”
“Colonel Mustard, where is Colonel Mustard? ? !”
When my mother arrives, I gun her down with the look she gives my tea and my Britain that she doesn’t understand at all. The milk, the lemon, the smell herbaceous and bitter… No, Mummy, I didn’t take coke, or hero, or ‘shrooms… Lemon is for tea. Lemon tea. Milk tea. Do iou understood. She can’t. She cooks. Pure cooking. Pure home.
The cat is also dead.
Hard, very hard, I touched it. I was the one who found it. Lying in its basket like the remains of a sardine in its tin.
So, there I am with my dead lying in the pit of my stomach. And what do you want to do with this body hardened like stale bread. You sit there, in front of it, all you want to do is to understand where does it come from? Where does it go? What was it in the beginning? Then you stick your finger in the pussy’s bumbum, just to do like a thermometer, see if it’s still warm inside the tunnel. Then you think, he died all alone, the cat. You check if he finished his food or not. You can smell that he doesn’t stink too much.
Then you cry.
Then you wonder what’s going to be done with him.
When your mother arrives, she puts the animal in the trash bin.
My brother and I, we rebel. We take the animal out of the plastic hole and we bring him back into the light of day.
We bury him.
Like the queens. Like the heads of state. Like the King of the Belgians.
We do it. With great ceremony.
My brother holds his cloth rabbit and looks at the dead cat. We feel, both of us, that we are living a decisive moment. And life goes on.
Life goes on and silences the pussycats and the limp rabbits.
The burial done, I take my bike by storm onto the road.
Oh My Love,
My bike, I like it best of all when we go on a piknik, Coraly and me.
We pedal pedal till the other end of existence, we stop for a little while, we put our victuals on the ground, we eat and fly.
Coraly is my funny friend. With her, you can dream. She draws super well and her father is an architect. She has a big sister, a big brother. Both of them do everything to protect their Coraly. Mmmmmmmmmh I want a big sister too. The brother, he has a red convertible sports car. It is as mini as an enema, but it speeds lightening into deep night. He is not very nice, her brother, and my mother doesn’t want me to go in his car. Sometimes he screams that he had to look for Coraly everywhere and that surely he would prefer to be left in peace and go with girls. Me, he doesn’t even see me. He’s an adult.
Coraly also has a little blond bimbo’s dog, a doggy with a bow on its head I hate it. I hate it that she kisses him with her tongue and not me and when he is sleeping between her and me when I sleep over I pinch his tasticulettes hard so that he knows that he stinks between me and her so that he will go away…
No, My Love,
You are not in this dog. Where are you My Love?