Seasons That Made Me

How do you draw the sound of the drums brush? I don’t. But, you did. No, that’s the story I told. That’swhadamtalkinabout. Oh, well…gotcha. So, how do you? What? Draw the sound of the drums brush? H(I) Kartina, yo! highness nificomag, to accommodate to your caprice, I will make an exception and, this time, say something about the process I normally explicate not. Yo my guy! But, you’ll be surprised right from the beginning…Oh, yeah? Why’s that? Because you know the answer. How so? You just told me. I didn’t. Yes, you did. What did I tell you?

The factory told you, sukka!

From my Indian ancestors on my mother’s side, I inherited a condition known to few-or-perhaps-none. My father’s side Iberian lineage graciously gifted me with another, equally quirky syndrome. I wouldn’t know a thing about that, were it not for my background, dating back in adolescent years. Those days (and nights!) I used to spend with a gang of Icelandic poetryheads, worshippers of de science of absurd, and logic of early feudalism defined in freudian terms. We believed in the power of the beach. We’d spend time in Club Café. We’d recite from (molest me not!) memory from A Panapocalyptic Manifesto. We’d endure attacks of noise pollution, wholeheartedly, unreservedly, and undividedly immersing ourgoodselves in the counterrites on the cliff. Those events are now speaking from the factory wall archives to whoever is listening. Alternatively, part of the materials is archived in the Café Club Museum, wherefrom they are speaking now, too.

Once, we were standing on the cliff, facing an ecodisaster coming from Abrëville’s downtown hotel Shar(e)-asfiks-tom. Though many who bear witness to that monstrous ecomassacre gathering are not here to support my report, my memory, despite my attempts to sabotage it, vividly reenacts the historic events of the 34^th  annual summit We Suck. Let’s Reconstruct thePower from Scratch! held on December 2^nd 5050. During the counteracts, I encountered a magnified resurrection of my own past, up to that point unknown to me.  I learned about the hereditary conditions that made my life extraordinarily odd. And vice versa.

Form my mother’s side predecessors ,the First-of-September syndrome was passed on to me. It manifests itself in a strange anxiety that conquers my heart every year on September 01^st.  Regardless  of how sunny the day may be, my mind is colored with an incorrigibly grey shadow. It doesn’t recede until late at night, when darkness proper replaces it, yet not announcing deterioration, but rather marking the end of a day-long torture. During that day, every year the feeling I get can probably be compared with the anticipation of the accumulation of all melancholic moments, culminating  in an amplified form in an inverted version of its own smile. It is constant, determined to stay, and…it takes over  my whole being. It becomes my being. For that reason, apart from the day of my natural birth, I celebrate 2^nd September as my second birthday. I am reborn every year on that day, having endured the invasion of that merciless,  spirit-crushing monster. Some people say that it has to do with my memories of the uneasiness related to the beginning of the school year. To that I say, Are you retarded or what!?! According to that logic, I would be paralyzed with tenseness from September to June, which I am not. I suspect that it is rather related to my antecedents’  chromosomatic structure. Specifically, without an exception, they all had one molecule consisting of three atoms of hydrogen on the ninth chromosome. I know no other example of such quirky genetics. Some people say it cannot possibly be the reason for my annual, day-long anxiety  pangs. To them I say, I know my genetics! Its axiom is:

XXhale Sylvan Souls!

And then my glass and then my blindfold and then my dream and then my eyelashes and then my sunlit room and then my foot on the floor and then my toilet beloved and then my coffee and then my ciggy/ciggy/faggy/fagZZ and then my clothes and then my RADIO! And then my shoes and then my  skirt and then my hat and then my elevator and then my street and then my subway and then my journey and then my theoretical stories of poetry and then my laptop and then my park and then my walk and then my water and then my suitcase and then my internet and then my song and then my…smile.