So please think of me as a cold robot while I write these cold lines on the cold paper, an indifferent machine or humanoid devoid of opinions, own notions or morals [which, to a great extent, I am in real life].
As any writer, Juan Gelman's mind was sick [alarming although unavoidable fact, like the increasing machismo in the new generations of adolescents], sickness that, same as these furianist paragraphs, and beyond his own comprehension, took him to create his own microplanetoid or rêve de fou in the fever of his existential agitation, like a demon in the Judaeochristian Hell who tortures and is tortured at the same time [and note, dilecto reader, how the "Hell" is after all a creation of piety of the man, because without the fair justice satiated in the punishment, could we have the due prize for the virtue?]
But, why did Gelman idealize the butt of his young fiancee like a Garden of Eden of mayonnaise?
No one could know.
Or explain
not even a Calderón de la Barca and his dialectical acrobatics which -at times- provoked the impossible-possible dominion of the mind over the matter, fact that was deemed witchcraft and fire in his times:
one of the few cases of a poet whose oeuvre wasn't censored because he was feared.
What do I owe Calderón, Victor Hugo and both Dumas? Certainly one thing: hate, I owe them hate.
Because I hate everything that has been written before this second, every thing, it's all decrepit, we shall hate everything and shall be absolutely modern, or be nothing:
if in 5 years I don't hate myself, please kill me, burn my head, shatter me in 10.000 pieces with a bomb, slash me, pulverize me, mince me, put me in a gas chamber, make soap with my body, be a nazi please! Be a nazi!
In the mirages of love Juan Gelman lost his mind, properly said:
some people like to receive pleasure, and others like to give pleasure, Juan Gelman belonged to the latter category, so he spent long whiles scrutinizing vulva, anus and buttocks of her fiancee Raquel with his mouth to the extent of losing sentience about what is irreality... and keeping in mind that she was a Capricorn, in his feverish divagations Gelman called her Capricorn Connectrix, and explored more and more into her most humid and intimate craters in search of that mysterious, glorious and esoteric Terra Capricornis Ignota, which -for the ruinous Gelman's mind- existed somewhere into her asstwat, and the more he seeked for that prodigious planet, the farther it seemed to be, and when the cerebral equilibrium of Juan Gelman was beyond deterioration, he started tasting a savour of mayonnaise in his smooth lover's butt, a maddening gustatory perception in his tongue, like sweet-sweet mayonnaise, with the exact sugariness, the correct salinity, and the perfect uniformness in the palpable consistence.
The story, tearjerker or parable indicates that Juan Gelman woke up one yellow morning, an indistinct yellow day, like any other yellow day, and observing through the window he noted that yellow was the sky, too, and of course: the yellow sun, which shone with yellow yellowness over a yellow land.
And how beautiful, and how British is the word yellow, punctilious reader
and how mayonnaised is the yellow, and how yellow was the mayonnaised land of mayonnaise where -at last in his furious dementia!- Juan Gelman woke up one yellow morning:
unimpressed, like someone who is in his own world, Gelman picked a cigarette from the pocket of his unbuttoned shirt and lit it sans jactitation:
"43/70 100's".
A yellow and thin column of smoke danced in front of the window in this winter, while yellow flakes of mayonnaise started snowing
Juan Gelman looked through the window pane of the mayonnaise world of Juan Gelman, and I looked at him through the boring land of the living ones.
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