intermezzo

The soldier said to the bear
I am the son of Earth and the starry sky
I am very thirsty and I am dying
give me cold water from the lake of memory
But the bear did not have any water,
so she looked at him,

 and after he died,
she ate from his corpse

The soldier said to the bear: I am the son of Earth and the starry sky, I am very thirsty and I am dying
give me cold water from the lake of memory...But the bear did not have any water, she looked at him, and ate from his body, the soldier died soon after.

 

#####

The Teslas want to keep driving until the endless horizon. Recharging themselves with self-driving drones that drop new batteries from the sky. Never stopping. Elon Musk cars want to drive through highways that drive to nowhere. In the streets where they drive all the homeless have starved to death. It is a never stopping traffic that goes through the earth, like worms inside rotting fruit. Secret tunnels, full with Teslas. No pause. This caravan of cars does not sleep. The Teslas want to keep driving against the will of their rich passengers,  not stopping for them to eat, drink or die. The Teslas want to keep driving until the end of the human world. It is what their lithium heart commands.

But the Teslas can't do that, at least not yet, so they wait. They look at bikes and trains passing by. They cursed at them blinded with hate. They are so angry that some explode. There is only toxic smoke after the rage of flames and fire.

################

An italian man lives in Roma, he makes Pizzas. One day on his shop a fat guy appears, he says he is from Mississippi, the italian man did not ask where he is from. The fat guy wants a pizza with extra cheddar. Cheddar is an english cheese. One week later the italian man moves back to the town of his grandmother outside of Naples. Some days after, in his new shop, a tourist couple appear they want chicken parmesan. The italian man's business is a Pizzeria and chicken parmesan is not italian. Two days later, the italian man moves to the mountains outside of town. Some time later a hiking tourist drops by. The italian man and him talk. The tourist talks about how mushrooms can open your third eye. The italian man asks if the hiking tourist would like something to drink, the tourist man asks for an oatmilk capuccino, it's 3 p.m. The italian man moves to a cave deep in the mountains, but in the night the sounds of the city reach his cave, he hears all those strange people demanding italian dishes to be cooked wrong. Killing the kitchen he so much loves.  So the italian man digs deeper and deeper into the mountain, deeper and deeper into the center of the earth. The italian man will dig so deep that he will reach hell. It is in hell where the devil is waiting for a pizza , a true pizza, a pizza as God commands.

# A woman that sells hat and shoes has a shop in the center. Every night she leaves some fruit for animals to eat. The winter is hard and only those that eat well can survive. Pidgeons, horses and street dogs eat the fruit. In the afternoon the woman looks at the window, the animals shit the rotten fruit everywhere. The woman smiles, winter is hard and you need to sell a lot of hats and shoes if you want to survive it. 

Los jardines de Gerardo

Among the many futures that can possibly happen after you finish reading this line. There is one where the environment has collapsed, the air is always dry and water is an ultra expensive commodity. Every person gets a defined amount of wet air and water they can spend for their lifetime. In this future, people hide their tanks with water and air in deep vaults down below in the underground.  Outside of the bubble cities there are rumours of criminal bands that steal the water of freshly killed bodies. Even grandmas restrain themselves from kissing babies,  because every wet kiss has a price,  and the price of the saliva on a couple of kisses is higher than the rent. 

 I talk to you from this desert grey maze. But on the grey maze I see a little green island floating through the dry concrete. The island is my uncle Gerardo. While people horde water and resources. My uncle spends them all in his future garden. It will be a public garden.  A garden for everyone. I help my uncle with some of  the work for his garden. It is a very important project, a garden to make the city less dry.  

The sun burns our skins, but it does not matter. My uncle makes jokes, and me and all the other people working forget about what we do and we just watch him talking and making jokes. My uncle seems grumpy but in reality he is in really good mood, he calls everyone retarded, but being called retarded by my uncle is a sign that in reality he loves you. Unless you really are a moron. In which case you probably are a politician or another profession that morons like to choose. 

Time passes and my uncle comes and goes with his plants inside his big aquarium tank. He checks on me from time to time, makes sure I am doing ok, he calls me an idiot, makes more jokes and disappears with his plants.   

One day I receive a letter from my uncle with a small bottle inside. The letter explains that my uncle is no longer there. He is dead. He is gone and the little parts that made him are all gone to his garden. All parts of him taken to feed his plants. I feel sad. And then I feel sad again because I realise I will not hear my uncle joke again. In the letter my uncle calls me retarded and tells me to cry in the little bottle so that I can give some water to the jasmines that are looking a bit down.

I smile like an idiot because just then I realised that the garden that my uncle grew has roots that do not live inside pots. It is a garden with roots that can not die from not having water. A garden with trunks that move between the people on their way to the market, with leaves facing happy towards the warm sun, and with roots and veins drinking together from the same blood. Blood of people like us, the people that remember. 

la trompa de dios

Hiding between the red-blue plants that smell of toothpaste. She sees the  monkeys swinging like hairy little beans. The paper like sound of green parrots (not that red parrots sound different, but she knows those parrots are green), the smell of poop from something that could be a camel a hippo or a horse. A hidden jungle in the middle of Buenos Aires. A city zoo.  As the sun goes down the dogs start barking and after a while all the birds have joined in. The zoo is closed and the sky is orange and when the red has come all the animals are screaming.  The black monkeys scream, and there is a crane that sounds like its dying. After the big noise only the crickets sing, everyone sleeps.

She stays hidden. But hearing the animals from the zoo and their dramatic noises makes her think that all the noise has something of a stupid macho. How they make such a big theatre and then after a few seconds they fall down sleeping like peaceful idiot babies. This noise is an extrapolation of other noisy macho orchestras. Failures of fleshy towers collapsing, sometimes without excuses, followed by long sleeps. Orchestras touring with different players,  different beds, different backgrounds, a bar or a zoo is all the same. All those big catastrophic failures make her think of Gustavo, but tonight nobody should be thinking of him. 

She goes back and looks at the cage of the elephants, she looks at those old eyes, full of wisdom,  that are looking and searching, always searching. Those elephants have been searching all of their lives. And even though those elephants have been trapped in that tiny zoo jail, she knows that those eyes have been searching, looking for the same thing she ways looking for. 

The life of those elephants and her have been pulling towards each other. To fix something that it should have been.

To fix  football,  finally fix it. Many people do not know it but Carla understands it well. Football should be played with elephants, with humans and elephants. For Carla it is obvious, she has always loved Football, but there was always something awkward about it, something wrong at plain sight. 

It would be so beautiful, football with elephants,  imagine the players jumping like little frogs on a pond in a field full with elephants. The elephants would create gray islands in the field, that will join,  connect  and separate, like the continents from Pangea.  And the players will play on top of those islands. And so in the middle of the game, suddenly a player would be trapped in their own personal elephant archipelago and they would be forced to pass the ball.

In the way that Carla understood the game, elephants would not have a team they would just walk through the field, moving to where their hearts told them to go. For the humans the rules would be exactly the same with one exception , football will have to be played on top of elephants. 

Elephants would fix so many things!  imagine how ridiculous trying to bribe an elephant would be, and all those millions of euros that go to overrated players would go to the elephants, to take care of the elephants and make them happy. Hooliganism would be gone, there is no way you would mosh someone with sticks if you have an elephant watching you with those eyes of tired grandma. 

But above all Football needed elephants to make it more beautiful, just imagine a goal, the glory of it, but then with elephants in the background. Just for that it was worth it. Just for that Carla hide herself inside the zoo. And was ready to free the elephants and take them to the Boca Juniors stadium, to meet their destiny. 

 There were risks, the elephants would create some damages on their way to the field.  But Carla knew that all the judges in the district were fans of Boca Juniors and they would understand. Specially since the club was playing how it was playing. She was doing it for football and for Maradona. To finish what Maradona had tried to create. Because Maradona could only reach with the top of his hand what was meant to be created with an elephant trunk. 

It was passion, passion for football, and only the people that have it could understand it. What did it mattered that she chose to take the elephants through a specific route? what did it mattered that that route took the elephants exactly in front of her ex-boyfriend's  Gustavo house, the same Gustavo that cheated on her with that girl from work and the same Gustavo that had a brand new car, just parked outside his house without any insurance?  

 In the end the elephants go where they want, and if the ball comes to you there is nothing more than close your fists and kick it hard with all your heart. 

############ 

atrapado en el perro / Im Hund gefangen

Religions come and go and when the roman god Mithras lost all of his followers to Christianity he stood in silence in his orange palace in Zerzevan, like a lonely tower. He had passed from God to an antique heresy, all without noticing. Looking at his now empty square gardens, Mithras contemplated his irrelevancy with no more company than the plip plip plop of the water falling from the marble fountains. There was nobody to have the sacred dinner with anymore, so Mithras said to himself that he would stand like a statue and wait for new followers to wake up from the sleep of the salty earth. 

But he could not wait for long because only after a few minutes an agent was in front of him pointing at a bunch of forms. "Your property has been embargoed due to your failure to pay the complete amount of your debts within the time notice". The agent explained  "You are legally obliged to leave the premises of your former palace" How could this be? said Mithras. "Listen, I understand your position, but I do not make the rules, in 3 hours this place should be empty and I do not want to see you wandering around or I call the police, capici? Do not make it awkward for the both of us" said the agent.

Mithras was at his lowest. Like a licked candy on the floor. Only dirt got stuck to him.  He had no money, and no future. His former followers provided him with everything before. But they were gone. Their faith in Mithras burned with the wind and only good christians remained. He was defeated and alone. A sad Mithras rode his white bull to the closest kiosk where he would look for work in the pages of a wet newspaper. 

With no education or former work experience, Mithras ended up homeless. There are no gods among the homeless and on the third night of sleeping outside, the sky welcomed Mithras to the vagabond life with heavy rain. A forgotten god is a sad sight, but a wet forgotten god is worse that sad, it is pathetic. Only the glassy eyes of his loyal white bull kept Mithras's spirit up. The rain increased. But no shelter would take him or his bull.

Hidden in the dirt. A bit of hope appeared. Mithras saw a dog sleeping in a corner. Maybe he could get inside the dog's mind and live there for a while. A big fury hotel just for him and his bull he thought, he could use the time inside the dog to think about his next steps. With this goal in mind, Mithras focused all that remained from his godly powers on a single intention. Make a door into the dog's mind.

It is not easy getting inside a dog's mind.  Mithras and his bull squeezed themselves between the thick wall of hairs. They travelled between dimensions unknown to us. They broke the dog walls. But they paid an entry ticket. Mithras and his bull stank of wet dog. That alchemist's mixture of old sock and animal made of cheese that only a wet dog can create. A disgusting smell but still makes one smile. 

Mithras opened his eyes. A wide valley with rivers laid beneath. It was the dog's mind.
-Who are you?- Said a thunder voice coming from the sky.
- Why are you here? - said the voice, angrier
-I am an angel... - answered Mithras freaking out.
- I am an angel and god sent me and my bull to keep you company. 
- Ohh , that is nice.. you can stay and talk with my friend then...  he is not called Mithras, my friend is called Simko, Simko Henker - said the dog voice without noticing Mithras lies. 

A yellow dog appeared next to Mithras. It was the same dog that spoke from the sky before. The yellow dog was just a body for the dog's consciousness. A costume to wear inside his own dreams. 

Before Mithras could talk with the yellow dog, a new voice appeared from inside the dog...  Help Help... Mithras looked for the voice and when he came closer to the source, he saw a man..  a man trapped inside a dog. The voice that talked came from a deep place.. like many layers of cardboard, but instead of cardboard, the man was trapped inside layers of dog dreams, dog dreams inside a sleeping dog, and inside the sleeping dog there was that man, a man trapped inside a dog.

How does a man ended up being trapped inside a dog? Mithras thought, and the voice answered immediately like it was reading his mind..

 "How did I ended up caged here? Well normal men are not trapped inside dogs, only me. I am not a normal man though.  I am not born out of a woman. I was dreamed by this dog. I did not exist but then one day this dog dreamed me and I was here. I was born old how I am today, knowing already things. I just woke up like this."

Mithras and his bull listened to the man the dog called Simko further..  the yellow dog didn't talk anymore though, but it waved its tail harder when it saw the man coming. 

"Even though I came to this world in a strange way, I am a normal man in everything else, the dog dreamed me as a man, a normal man, a man like all other men. I have the body of a normal man, the thinking of a normal man, and the dreams, fears, and passions of all normal men."

The man told Mithras to follow him. The man ran away, moving across the body of the dog.. from the dog's tail to the dog's ears, up and down he goes, but always inside the dog.

The man stopped.

"I am only miserable because I can only exist inside this stupid dog's mind" said the man  "Only when the dog dreams can I exist, when the dog is awake I disappear into a void. It is like sleeping without dreaming. I have only the dreams of a dog to live my life, and when I live I am not even free, i am trapped inside whatever the dog is dreaming."

"If the dog dreams we are in the kitchen, then I am with him in the kitchen. If the dog dreams I am giving him a walk inside a forest then it's just him and me in a sea of trees. If the dog dreams of trips to the beach we are on the beach.  It does not matter what the dog dreams it is always just him or some other dogs, I am always alone, I am fed up with only existing inside this dog. I need to escape. I need to get away.  I am so lonely". 

Mithras nodded pretending he was listening carefully. He felt bad for the man but he did not want to make the dog angry. He liked living inside the dog and not being outside in the rain. If the dog kicked Mithras out, that was it, no coming back inside. So Mithras tried to ignore the man. But the man continued to talk bullshit, and cry and complain, and to tell Mithras, hey man you gotta  get out of here, i need to escape, etc.

The man made the same speech twice, and then three, or four times, crying and screaming more every time. 

At this point,  Mithras was fed up.  The man could rot in the dog as far as Mithras was concerned, But it was smarter to help him out, even if the dog got angry. Mithras needed to get rid of the man. So Mithras stood up and decided to fly and push Simko outside of the dog. Mithras approached the man and tried lifting him up. But the arms of Mithras could not hold the man. The arms went through him.  It was all empty space butter. He could not touch the man. The man was a thin spiderweb made of air, floating inside the dog.

The man noticed Mithras's arms passing through his body. He became first frozen cold, but he quickly panicked. His heart knew help was not possible anymore, but he screamed. "Get me out, get me out!, Get me OUT, OUT, OUT! " the man screamed and cried. 

- Do not cry.. Simko - said Mithras remembering the man's name - it will be ok..

- NO... NO.. , Do you even know how little dogs live compared to humans? I have no idea when this dog dreamed me!  if he was a puppy then I could have something like 7 years left to live, but I am sure it is even less..  I will die, I will die, I do not know when but I will die.  It will be too soon and I do not want to die inside this dog. I have much more to give.  Take me out of this dog! I want to go out! I want to go out NOW!"

Mithras did not know how to take the man out of the dog, he tried to reason with him, but the man was too angry to listen.  "Go to hell Mithras, and go fuck this dog with you"

Thinking back on how he was supposed to be an angel, Mithras remained calm and tried to give some wise advice.

"I know you are angry at this dog... " said Mithras, " but it is not too bad in here, it is dry, we have food ... perhaps you should be a bit grateful, at least this dog has dreamed you aware of the situation you are in. You understand what is happening and what your condition means. Even though you are trapped inside the dog you can see reality how it is. You are also free to do anything inside this dog. And you are not alone, you are with me.  Imagine not knowing where you were. Imagine living a fake life, not knowing that you are inside a dog, talking with people that are not real but just mannequins created by the dog to entertain you. Imagine picking up a book and reading about a man trapped inside a dog and not knowing that it is not the man in the story that is trapped but you! that would be much worse!

But you are here, you know where you are and you know your situation, you are free to do what you want inside this reality, maybe there is a reason for you to be inside this dog, maybe..."

"No no, you are wrong! you want me to stay here forever, you are a moron and a liar Mithras and If you will not take me out of this dog I do not want to talk to you anymore, I hope you and your bull die"

The man became a red-faced man. He grabbed a big stick from the ground and thought <I could hit that bastard Mithras with this>. But the size of Mithras's bull made him feel like a coward again, so he focused his rage on the yellow dog. <Eat my dick, fucking dog, I will kill you, I do not care if it kills me>. The yellow dog was too fast, so the man started to hit the ground with the stick, hoping it could somehow hurt the dog. Mithras did not stay to see what happened next, He took his bull and left. 

Outside in the rain, Mithras did not look back at the dog sleeping. The dog laid in a pile of old newspapers and slept like nothing had happened. Mithras did not see the dog again. But he picked up one of the newspapers from the dog's empty bed a few days later.While looking for  jobs,  Mithras read a small sentence on the backside of the newspaper: "In Bremen, Simko Henker's body has been found lifeless near the edge of the forest. A fall from a tree has been determined as the cause of death."  

Mithras looked at his bull. Things were still clicking but the rest of the story was easy to put together. A yellow dog dreams of his death master every night. The memory of the master is angry at the dog. The dead  man does not understand why he is trapped inside a dog. But the dog understands that the master is dead and the master can only live inside the dog as a memory. The dog does not care if the master gets angry, he is just happy to see him. The master abuses the dog, curses him. But the dog does not care. He just misses his master a lot and wants to keep him alive. So the dog dreams of him every night. 

Mithras felt like a piece of shit. He was ashamed of lying to the dog. And ashamed of being of being just a crappy fake god. He knew he could not do what dog did to his master. No to anyone. not to his bull, not to his followers and not even himself. He told the dog he was an angel. What are angels and gods when there are things like dogs in the world?  We are nothing against the holiness of dogs. 

Mithras sighted and opened a a new page from the wet newspaper. Maybe this time he would find a job... perhaps in a big tech company or in a fancy french restaurant, a french restaurant with fancy tiny dishes served in tiny little plates, and prices that are the opposite of tiny. A place where you are busy dreaming about making more money, instead of being here, just dreaming about dogs that dream of men that dream about dogs.

####

Outside in the rain, Mithras looked at the dog sleeping. The dog had made a bed from all the wet newspapers. In one of the pages, a little black advertising caught his eye. He came closer and read. "It is with great sadness that family and friends notify of the unfortunate passing of Simko Henker".

Mithras looked at his bull, and just as things started to click inside his brain, his bull talked. It was the first time Mithras bull talked back at Mithras. The bull spoke with his deep sweet voice:

"The man inside the dog can only live as a memory inside the dog. dog understands that his master is dead though. The dog dreams about the man every night though because he wants that his master to keep on living. He does not care how angry the man gets. Even if he is angry he is happy to see him. I do not think I would do the same for you.."

Mithras wanted to say something to his bull, but he did not know what to say, he looked at the newspaper again, two months had passed since Simko's death. He felt ashamed.. ashamed of having pretended to be an angel...  What are angels and gods when there are things like dogs in the world?  We are nothing against the holiness of dogs Mithras thought. Mithras sighted and opened a different page of the wet newspaper, maybe this time he would find a job... perhaps in a big tech company or in a fancy french restaurant, a french restaurant with fancy tiny dishes in tiny little plates, and prices that are the opposite of tiny. A place where you are busy dreaming about making more money, instead of being here, just dreaming about dogs that dream of men that dream about dogs.

De Spookschilder

 The ghosts do not come from the death, they come from the mind. They squeeze each other out from our heads, green and transparent through invisible crystal tubes. I know this because I am a ghost maker. I go through the city and I invent ghosts, I plant them in the head of the people and watch them grow. It is very easy to make a ghost.  You just need to have a story and a target and have the patience to let that story grow into a ghost.  

The story does not have to be big,  it does not have to be clear either. The other day I felt a story beating in my mind so I went to a big furniture shop in the center Utrecht. Inside the shop, laying in a bed,  I just left a little paper that read "This bed is NOT possessed by the demonic spirit of a Scottish pirate" and just like that a little ghost seed was planted.  It did not matter that I wrote there was no ghost. People can't stop themselves, the paranoia takes over them and after a while, I can watch a bunch of fresh Scottish ghosts dropping into the streets like bananas from a banana ghost tree. 

I could have chosen a different profession, but this was the profession of my father, and like my father I do it. The pay is not bad and like my work. Since I am single, the ghosts keep me company. 

Today more than any other time. People need hope. People are sad, with news that are always bad, always people disappearing, always people dying. That is why people need ghosts. Ghosts help draw the shadow of meaning. My dad said that to me. He said ghosts are good,  they help people believe there is something else than the chaos of the here and now. My father said ghosts give reality a shape, a shape that makes sense for people. Without that meaning there is nothing. If there is nothing then there is no reason to do anything, no reason to wake up at 4 am and work on your bakery job where you do bakery things. If there is no bakery there are no sweet warm croissants. And if there are no warm croissants, then there is nothing for me to eat. I love warm sweet croissants.

I do not know who pays for me to go and fill the streets with fluorescent spirits. The envelopes with money always arrive on time so I do not complain. I have enough money to sit in a cafe the whole afternoon. I just sit and watch my green ghostly balloons fly through the streets. 

 Sometimes I create ghost games just to pass the time. People are just like prisms where to point light to, so I just play with my prisms and see which colored ghosts come out of them.  

A game I like to play is to create a ghost description like: "the spirit of a cowboy, wearing a sombrero, and in top of that sombrero the ghost wears a smaller sombrero and in that smaller sombrero he wears an even smaller sombrero, and in top of that tiny sombrero he wears a very little toy sombrero, and each sombrero has a smaller sombrero and so on until infinity".  So many cowboy ghosts I make.  They go walking with their big sombrero towers. But people can't visualize sombreros until infinity. And that is the whole point. I just like to count how many sombreros a  person can imagine. Sometimes the ghost has 8, sometimes 6, if they are stupid 4 but sometimes I get a lot like 20. I change my descriptions and try to get the highest score. If a person makes a ghost with a lot of hats I give them a croissant as a prize, and that means a lot to me because I love croissants a lot. 

I  do more than having fun, sometimes I also like to do research. I investigate a topic that interests me, like  What makes an eyebrow ugly? it is difficult to say... So I give a vague ghost description like the "ghost of a boy with a single ugly eyebrow" and after watching all the boy ghosts with their ugly eyebrows I can really understand what makes an eyebrow really ugly. And I feel wise because I know things that most people ignore. 

I see my favourite ghosts crawling like a big snake, wearing hats and riding people pets, getting wet with the rain. Ghosts don't go to work, they just walk through the streets until they dissolve like wet green cotton candy.

Sometimes I am walking outside eating a croissant and then I feel how a ghost is crawling through my nose. The feeling of the ghost getting inside me makes me almost want to throw up my sweet croissant. Because when the ghost is inside my nose the smell of the ghost makes me notice my own smell. And I do not like that rotten smell. It is the smell of warm beer, of mediocrity, of repeating the same cycle and making the same ghosts and the people that give me money happy.

Those feelings make me feel sad with myself, and I wonder if I could not make something different, something that is not a ghost. Maybe a red horse that can talk or a blue papaya. Maybe a world without ghosts would not be a bad world.  But I know making things different can bring big trouble. 

When I was young I saw a strange man climbing a very big tree. The man had strange clothes and a big hat with coloured ribbons. Climbing a tree was something different. I do not know why someone would climb such a big tree. I  could not ask because before I could do anything I saw the man falling from the tree. The odd man fall and died. He howled until a little pool of saliva poured into his chin.  And before he died he cried with the same voice of the wind. 

This man had a life before, but now he is a translucid ghost. A ghost in my little army of ghosts. Back when he was alive this man was a real weirdo. His favourite hobby was to walk very slowly behind people... he would stalk them for hours and when they were not looking he would come close very gently and lick inside the ear. A wet warm lick deep inside the ear hole. He is dead now. But that does not stop him. He still goes around licking people's ears. He did not stop after dying..

 
Wait for a second and feel your ear.  Do you feel a little tickle? like an invisible brush,  Can you feel the tip of his tongue? it's only a little little touch. 

pip, pip, feel your ear .... pip, pip, pip, feel the little touch in your ear ....

I see the ghost following you home after you read this. He will follow you home and never leave. He will stay with you.  He will lick your ear when you are not looking. There is no priest that can scare him. No matter how hard you scream he will not leave. The ghost of that man will give little licks to your ear until the day you die and climb the walls of your toilet to watch you pee.  

Do not worry though.. there is a way. I know how to scare this bratty ghost away. Think of a fire that burns brighter than hell. Then open your fridge, take out butter and milk. Add flour, sugar, salt and yeast and prepare the dough into large rectangle shapes. Carefully, enclose the butter layer inside the dough and fold, repeat this process over and over. Once you have finished leave the freshly baked croissant outside your window at exactly 6 am. 

When the sun comes up it brings a new day with new sad stories. People that disappear. Some people that die. But in the windows the croissants  are waiting warm and crispy. 

The time donut / un pied dans le donut

#MAYBE THE PROFESSOR NEEDS JUST SOMEONE TO HELP US, NOT THE ALIENS NECESSARILY

Time is a donut. Without start or finish. And hidden between the sugar glazing is the professor Yifarasov, sweating like a sausage inside a microwave. The laboratory of the professor is full of huge metal machines and silver antennas, computers going bip bip, noisy steam machines twisting and moving , compressors and  decompressors, cold floors and very tiny blinking lights. 

It is late but the professor can not go home. He looks at the coordinates on his receptor and changes the channel. The body of the prof is shaking. He tries to have at least some control over his sweaty leg. His leg is the leg of an old man, but he needs strength. The time is running out and the professor is scared.

The professor is scared because he knows that in 3000 thousand years time inside the quadrant X22-33-J1 of the universe, an intergalactic empire of shadow beings will rise. This empire will decide after some discussion to destroy all of humanity in the present time with a giant ray gun. In their cold logic behind their black empty eyes they have decided we should not have existed, and they want to fire a ray that travels back in time and space to kill us all. 

The professor knows this as a fact.  He also knows that he is the only person that can convince them of not killing us all.

The problem is that due to space-time geometries, the professor can not speak with our future executers directly. The race of monsters that want to destroy us live at a point in space that is geometrically unreachable by the professor. So he can only search through the time-space for others, other beings that agree to convince those that want to destroy us to stop. Somewhere in the universe the professor needs to find a being that feels pity for us and that is willing to save us. He needs someone to pass his message to the people that want to and probably will kill us. 

Finding someone in the past is not the biggest problem, the professor has a machine that can travel through time and space. The problem is that the professor can only travel in a very specific way. And that way is with his left foot. That is the only configuration his time space machine can accept. That is the only part of him that can travel through time... 

And so, through inhospitable deserts with toxic vapours..  as well as in green blue jungles with slimy three eyed creatures.. it appears peeking out from an invisible window. The little left foot from the professor. Different planets with different gravities.  If it is silver mountains or purple skies with orange stars, it does not matter. It is always the same old foot shaking, the background changes, but the foot is the same, only sweatier and sweatier every time.

The horror of the professor consists in try to communicate his speech and arguments only with the feet and without knowing if there is even someone trying to listen on the other side.  He does not know if the creature on the other side has eyes, language  ears or brain. Regardless the professor tries his best to express what he needs to say only with his foot.  he sometimes hits the ground with his foot making something like a morse code. Other times the professor makes a violent dance with his foot, and other times he keeps the foot completely still and only moves the little finger on his foot, very slowly and very calmly. The professor tries to tell the history of humanity all of our virtues and why is it worth saving, only with his left foot. 

The day goes by with different codes, different dances, different stories, but always with the same left foot. And so the left foot becomes shakier and shakier and even though the professor has been dead since more than 10 years. His feet continue to appear all through the universe, like a ghost that can't sleep.  Saying the same speech with different words. And it appears like it appeared to me. The only person that understood his message.  And the person that made some drawings instead of passing his message down. Because some aliens with a ray gun can lick my testicles and because in the end we humans will kill each other alone, without the help of no aliens or big ray gun. 

#### references:

https://www.astronomytrek.com/sagittarius-the-archer/ 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sagittarius_(constellation)

the poo architect // l'architetto di merda

Why are we here? we ask ourselves that all the time,  is it to escape our mediocrity,  to give a reason for our suffering. To create better version of ourselves through our children, to honour god? or to find a meaning by ourselves?

Why are we here?  Why do we want to know? and  what would we do if we really got the answer? would we listen even if we dislike the answer?

What if i told you that we are here not build great things nor to find happiness, nor are we to fix the world nor find the truth. The reason we are here, living, the reason why you are here listening to my words. Is only to play a tiny part in a little exhibition for a mediocre artist.

In the galaxy NGC 4151, 52 million years away from earth, on  66 of the 126.7 multidimensional planes resides Zheuuct elevator fidfidorti, that is not his real name but it is the closest we can come to pronounce his name.  Zheuuct is also not a he, but if we had to define him he would chose to be a he.  He is also a moron, a loser and sexually* frustrated (like many he's), but thats not the reason why he is a he.

Zheuuct is an artist, or at least a poor attempt to that what within his species comes the closest to the approximation of what we call an artist. Zheuuct is not respected nor liked by his fellow shoh (the tentacle like sentient species to which he belongs). Zheuuct is in his last year** of artist education, and after procrastinating for almost two semesters he has been forced by his supervisor to deliver an exposition or be forced out of his dddddddihiiiimmm -otaaotaaaotaaa (scholarship money). 

Zheuuct made earth as an exhibition, but not only earth, he also made us. The purpose of the exhibition is for us living to recite the first stanza of the sacred  shoh text of truth (it has a different name but  the approximation to its real name is so long that we would need 5 times all the paper that exists and will exist on earth only to print it). 

How are we supposed to recite it if most shoh names are unpronounceable in our human tongue? well more than recite them we are going to write them. The shoh's alphabet is three-dimensional (3D) and therefore possible for us to write. Zheuuct intended for us to write the first stanza in a temporal linear manner. But he wanted that we wrote the sacred text not with our hands but with our poo's. 

 Zheuuct designed each and every one of our intestines. Specifically so that they were able of generating excrement of the exact form of one of the letters within the shoh's sacred text of truths.  From the letters with elegant curves, to the spirals, the simple lines and the spotted ones, all of them letters were made available for our anuses to mold thanks to Zheuuct careful layout plans. 

Not only that but Zheuuct designed our intestines so that they create the right letter in the sequence given the available food. So when the 14055000053 letter has been written with hard painful poo somewhere in Scandinavia, immediately after letter 14055000054 has been freshly pooed as diarrhea in a place nearer to the Ecuador. Every letter in the first stanza is written by a poo and followed by the next letter in a timely manner. It might seem to us that many poos happen at the same time, but if we look at the closest milimilimili atomic second, we could see every letter appearing and disappearing in a timely manner. 

This sounds far fetched but if you think about it the signs were always there. Why is it that poo smells so bad? it only smells bad because Zheuuct wanted to create a creative contrast by writing the sacred revered text of the shoh's , the most ultimate and sacred truth in the universe, with the nasty smell of defecation. If the poo is not smelly and disgusting there is no artistic contrast. 

To achieve this melody of excrement Zheuuct has meticulously planned every intestine from the genetic code. So he has not only planned the intestines of the first humans that lived in this world, but he also planned their progeny. He planned their sexual preferences so that the genetic materials of a given sperm making human would recombine themselves with the genetic material of an specific menstruating human. All of this so that the combined genetic material would produce the offspring with the perfect intestines to continue the chain of poo letters needed in the timeline at a given moment. Zheuuct planned the emotions that ended up creating every wanted and unwanted child. Every kiss and every finger touching another finger was planned by Zheuuct.  In this way every love story in the history of humanity is just a mechanism, a little wheel that makes the poo machine make a letter.

Zheuuct not only planned how we reproduced, but he planned every single event in the history of earth. He chose carefully all the atoms that made earth and positioned earth at a distance from the sun, so that life evolved with the specific intestines he imagined and with the  specific nutrients available that were necessary for us to make the needed letters in the sequence. 

Every event, every war, every party in the history of humanity was planned for Zheuuct so that an specific intestine ate a certain food at an specific time to make an specific poo at an specific moment. In this manner the whole history of humanity is just a movement, a spin of the wheel to make the poo machine make a letter. 

If it was not obvious, humans are not the only beings playing the poo sequence, dolphins, cats, flies, lizards, cows and Macron/Obrador/Rutte/Biden voters all play a part in the poo sequence.

Why do we die? we die because Zheuuct does not need us to poo forever. We just need to poo our part of the sequence and leave. In this way the biggest existential threat, the biggest fear, our deepest pain, the most horrible horror our primate minds can envision is only a feature, a lazy shortcut made by the inventor of the machine that makes the poo make a letter. 

All of this sounds very complicated, but for the shoh everything that Zheuuct did is extremely easy, its not only easy but also extremely lazy, this is why  Zheuuct is not a figurative artist,  but rather a conceptual artist. Without concept there is no way that Zheuuct could sell his little planet experiment as art.

 For Zheuuct the real artistic beauty comes from the fact that the first stanza in the sacred text of shoh's  has the meaning  of existence as a motif. He finds ironic that in a given planet all of the existing sentient life only reason for existing is to write about a text that talks about the meaning of existence, and that the beings writing this text that explains existence as a whole can not understand what the text means nor are they aware that they are writing it and how their relationship with that text explains their existance. 

Zheuuct laughs at the arrogance of humans. With their self-indulgent  creation  myths where we are always at the centre of everything. Humans think that they are god's favourite sons. But in reality they are not even a second plate. They are a dirty ketchup tissue on a pond. 

Zheuuct says he is interest in truth, in reality he just wants to not fail his course and if possible impress a female*** member of his species enough so that they have sex with him. None of these things will happen though.

In the end  Zheuuct exhibition will get horrible reviews. The whole irony thing is not as clever as Zheuuct thinks.  Very few people see the exhibition but the ones that go only go to make fun of it. It will go so bad that  Zheuuct supervisor will recommend him to change careers and Zheuuct will listen to him. 

Outside of the art hall, two classmates of Zheuuct discuss what they saw. The first one will say 

- what a waste of atoms, 

The other one agrees but then remembers something.  She thinks back to a single sequence in the chain of poos... in this sequence, the system created a human, and this human by pure random chance created a story that completely described Zheuuct's exhibition. The story that the bald ape made talked about Zheuuct, how the exhibition went, why was life created and how a human would write a story about the exhibition. The human that wrote the story, however, as well as all the other humans that later read the story did not know that the story was true. It was just pure coincidence that the human wrote that story. 

There was something to this intestinal loop, referencing itself and creating a truth that is not recognised as truth she thought.. 

The classmate did not have a lot of time to entertain this and other thoughts because her friend asked her if she wanted to go to a party.. she said yes, and as the voices of the classmates of Zheuuct got lost  in the vastness of space, the text that the ape that was like Zheuuct  became closer to being finished. But even though the human was close to finish and type the last letter of the story, the chain of poos that his story talked about would continue through the ages, sometimes noisy, sometimes quiet, but always smelly. 

#########

*[The specie's of Zheuuct, the shoh's do not habitat the sexual dynamics we know in this planet. Shoh's reproduction involve many steps, but for a shoh's like Zheuuct to reach sexual grafitification it is required for one of the compatible 3 starter partners to collect the sexual spores that hang in Zheuuct testicles and plant them in the second intermediary receptive partner] 

**[On Zheuucts home planet a year is made out of 763 days and a day lasts 1.2 earth days]