Colcothar from AKA - Short Story

Literary Review, Fall, 2003 by Jean Lamore

I live Boulevard Odo in Marseille. The air smells of near-by soap factory. I'm a frequenter of the Perroquet Bleu, (this is a long time before it becomes known as a fashionable address). Prostitutes, consumers and purveyors of drugs, alcoholics, dockers and lost sailors whose ships lie at anchor in the bay, tethered with glass chains, frequent this place. It's hot. The music is much too loud, thumping in my chest. A girl named Geraldine who says she never kisses on the mouth, is sweating. Another, Marcelline, is laughing. Her month's wide open, the tongue hugging the bottom. A carpet of wet pink velvet. I imagine her voice being the most marvelous soprano, but no sound comes. How much sperm has gone in? (this is pre-AIDS, when they used to swallow enormous quantities of it). They're having real fun, not the feigned divertissement that others will seek in their wake some thirty years hence. It'll be a fashionable discotheque, a place with no memory. Only the blue ceramic parrot on the facade will be preserved. To make himself heard, a little man with welts on his head, cups his hands and yells in my ear. Something about a bird. Then on Hamburg and how when there's a tempest, the Elbe stands on edge and leans over the city. Music and screams again. This is the third. She digs a hole in the ground ..., yells he, squatting on the floor and going through the motions. The floor around him is littered with broken glass, syringes and cigarette butts--and she gives birth there in the dirt! Scoops up the newborn, ties it to her back with vines and goes right on hunting ... His lips continue moving. With an exagerated sweeping movement of the arm, he pretends to throw a lance, seems to be in a trance.

Somewhere above, there's already that great arch of fire, thrusting outward before coming back in an immense loop. I find it more convenient to keep my research papers on scrolls that I unroll in hallways and down stair wells. Neighbors think me to be some sort of an archaic accountant. Specimens are kept in steel barrels or on makeshift shelves. My favorite: a little mesoskeleton from Magellanic expedition. How different it looks now with the amythist flesh gone.

I have no luck with house pets. Birds are too fragile, I lose my dogs and fish go belly-up.

Still have a hard time ridding myself of certain nervous tics apparently acquired from promiscuity with the President's person: the habit of thrusting chin forward when speaking, waiting until it's completely safe before visiting disaster sites, quite unlike Winston Churchill, who wouldn't have hesitated for a second to don helmet and plunge into flaming debris.

Other hotels and bars. More knowledge here than in the archives of great institutions. Bar de Templiers, rue de Rivoli (same bar used to be in lower Sevres, down by the river before being transfered here). Only women present are my two year-old daughter and many effigies of Joan of Arc, sculptures, medallions, paintings. Joan's image has been most unfortunately appropriated by FN, French neo-fascist party. They hold their annual rally at the foot of golden equestrian statue Place des Pyramides just down the street. Happily, there's another one on a street that still bears her name. She's afoot this one, perhaps nearer to the final blaze, but certainly free of any doubtful political appropriation.

In preparation for her Afro-Diasporic Institute project, Zanda and I work together in the office. She's perched on a ladder going through books from top shelf. I go under her dress, press her to my mouth (she's wearing no underwear, or yes, loose fitting Prada again; yellow with white lace this time, that I have no trouble pulling to the side permitting me to push my tongue deep) then she goes beneath desk while I try to write outline of future program. Watch her through the glass desktop. Let's do this a fond.

We're children again. Adolescents, mature adults, geriatrics one more time. Mix, there's no order. She's terribly old but still extremely beautiful. Her hair's white, contrasting strikingly with dark skin. Few good nurses are left. Most do this work against their will. Only for the salary. Weren't even born yet when we were already prowling the streets with other geriatrics, violently attacking techno-youths to rob their expensive gadgets. This nurse has no patience with you? Fling your bed pan in her face! Broke your rib last night did she? Bite her arm and hang on. Haven't any teeth left? Gums will do. Arms are covered with soft tissue. Infection will surely ensue. They'll throw us out into the streets. Aiblins we should abscond. Find better abri.

Would rather fend off feral dogs than suffer indignity. Even if they attack from behind when you're on all fours. Protect your vital parts with bed pan taped across the buttocks. Don't let them abscind your balls. Blow plenty smoke in their snouts; they'll leave you alone.

I'm in a disphoric mood. Neither depressive nor anxious; something altogether different. Absolutely no willpower. Abulia? But then, am I afflicted by ascolia just because my shit's gone white? Was convinced that I was the doctor, dentist, psycotherapist. Discovering now that we've been considered all along as being patients, at least the subjects of a study. Can't even whistle or hiss without being diagnosed as having acouasma!