"Homo sum: humani nihil a me alienum puto."
(Terence: "The Self-Tormentor")
Venice died.
She died of pain and emotional impotence. She never knew how to handle her life.
For some strange reason she alienated every person in her life, repelled them
forced them to stay away.
Until they got lost, estranged, evaporated.
Like hated ghosts.
She died regretting, a sad day of May, self-reproaching
a strange contrition filled her with sorrow and unsatisfaction. But she couldn't have done anything else than what she did... it was stronger than her.
The pathology could not be clearly determined by the psychiatrist.
The death was strange, like this narration... so strange that even I feel shock and tremor in my hand while I write it.
While in fact, what really overwhelms me with consternation and distress, is the mystery of her isolation, and another mystery.
The day of the decease was sunny, the cloth on which her body was settled on the coffin was white
like a tablecloth
her face was cerulean and Incaic, like cold wax, hardened the cheekbones, lipless the mouth
and the evening still entered through those atrocious crystals like a poniard of transparent manteca:
The people? Colony buzzing around dead human.
Like the bees pullulating in the hive around the queen.
Domian knew the funereal news by mouth of someone
it struck his brain like electric discharge
the impact of pain
his skin in horripilation heard it, erect the pores in dolor.
Apart, he was apart, distanced from...
... Venice
everybody was apart from Venice:
Venice didn't want anybody around... in the end.
Because the loss irreparable was, and Domian spent the long weeks desolate crying
maybe months
maybe lives.
And here comes that a long time later, infatuated in his obsession of anguish -a very particular and out-there obsession his obsession was-, Domian realized that the only thing that he could keep from Venice was her e-mail account:
the mailbox
her account he decided to hack it
to enter, somehow... her mailbox
enter, he had to enter, somehow or other
understand what I say?
It was necessary... indispensable, anyhow!
And some people may think that it was sick.
I don't know, I can't judge.
I'm just a mirror.
In his mind it was the last residue of a memory from Venice, the last souvenir he could keep! The last and only! Understand what I say!
Her e-mail account, he had to find the password and/or hack it or so
in whatever way or manner, whatever it would take
it was imperative... needed.
: Venice and Domian: one story, two cities
two persons, two truths. Two visceral minds
lives without vanity.
If an individual really wants to have access to the mailbox of someone... he or she will have it
there are people who know how to do this, and you know well that there are people working for governments who do this.
Domian Cou certainly found a way, some time later... for some money
he obtained access, the password to the mailbox
over-excited he entered: there were thousands and thousands of messages.
Domian Cou used to delete any message on his mailbox after reading it or replying it... but Venice, unlikely, seemed to keep everything... there was some of the messages he used to send her there?
Did she keep some message from him? Some. One?
Did she?
And the amount of e-mails in her mailbox was colossal.
Pages and pages that seemed to never end
lovers, ex-lovers, flirts, friends, ex-friends, cyber-lovers, family members, ex-schoolmates, e-mailed job applications, purchases online, internet forums, contacts on Facebook and 100 different social networks... and among the 1000 different contacts on social networks there were more ex-lovers, cyber-lovers, and flirts
and also harassers, and perfect strangers inviting her to other social networks.
And as Domian Cou jumped page to page on that surreal mailbox, more and more e-mails seemed to upsurge magically, filling new pages that were not there seconds before
and the more he searched for the last page, the farther the last page appeared:
new obscure acquaintances and contacts, new job applications, and automatic replies to the job applications
and yet more ambiguous and impersonal messages from -apparently unconnected- strangers, and yet more muddy relationships full of contradictory and twisted emotional, sexual and psychic liaisons downloaded into infinite lines that Domian Cou did read.
And the more he did read, the more turbid and un-reachable his comprehension became
because he wanted to apprehend and discern the real mind and life of Venice Walsh.
And the more readable information his retina transmitted to his brain, the deeper his confusion and ignorance about Venice Walsh was.
And here comes that during long nights and evenings, infatuated in his obsession of anguish, Domian spent the neverending hours reading those e-mails and motley electronic messages of any sort
messages that said everything, and said nothing at the same time
because he never could forget her, in spite of the years, and when he found out about her decease, that melancholic memory turned into desperate and compulsive idée fixe.
And some people may think that it is sick.
I don't know, I couldn't judge, even if I wanted to judge
I'm just a defective reflecting panel. An amoral transmissor.
I am what I am, maybe the only thing I could ever be.
Although nothing human is alien to me. And nothing means nothing.
: Venice and Domian: two stories, one city
two persons, 1000 truths. Two visceral lives
lives without honor, celebrity and glory.
And did I tell you that as the long months of the life went by Domian Cou got more submersed -and more yet- into the fellini-esque oceanic fossa of the mails of Venice?
His professional performance suffered a dramatic decline while his mind and energy, and still his nocturnal dreams were completely absorbed by that boundless and clandestine universe of Venice.
Because the more the vicious eye of Domian Cou could read, the more unnumerable e-mails surfaced
but no message from him appeared in the countless list.
And did I tell you that during those godless and eternal readings Domian Cou found out a whole brand new world of occult things about Venice?
Because unheard-of vices, perversions, incomprehensible fears, manias and sexual deviations appeared little by little in front of his eyes, randomly intermingled with odd phobias, unexpected confessions and embarrassing tendencies into the fellini-esque oceanic fossa of the mails of Venice.
And Cou started losing perspective through his morbose fascination as those long nights and evenings got longer, and the more he knew, the darker the labyrinth became. A maze whose walls were built in a contradictory combination of paraphilias, attractions, aversions, guilt, pain, rejections, anguished dependence and eremophobias
because absolutely everything was written and said on the abyss of Venice, and nothing at all.
And the fossa of the e-mails of Venice became the very life of Domian Cou, his real life, because gradually he felt he could -even- see Venice smiling, laughing, and sometimes crying through every message, as if she was in front of his very eyes. And he started feeling something abnormally similar to the cutaneous contact with her, through those e-mails, because his brain and days were totally vampirized and possessed by this
and his profession, and the street, and the very sun and the very air of the exterior became virtuality continuum, ficción.
Domian Cou died, a sad day of May. A May of another year
any year
maybe one year
maybe 30
maybe a whole life.
The day of the decease was sunny, the cloth on which his body was settled on the coffin was yellow
like a tablecloth
and the evening still entered through those merciless crystals, with the almond odor of the cyanogen.
The people? Fervent presence around human corpse.
Like ants burning around the ant-hill at the arrival of a piece of scarab.
He could not read that universe of Venice in its entirety.
Despite he did read for hours, every day, maybe during one year
or maybe during 30. Or maybe during a whole life.
I won't say if he finally could find some or, at least, one of his own messages in the fossa of Venice
-although I know it-.
: Venice and Domian: one story, two cities
two persons, two questions
or maybe 30
or maybe a whole life.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario