This is a
letter to the world that will never be read, since at the moment I am without
Internet access. And why is it that it puts me into a total funk?
Consider, I
have lost my mind, my mother, my job. I should know something about
perspective, about what’s important and what matters.
I also feel
that I’m spinning my wheels, not doing anything important, not doing what I
need to do. I’m stuck, and I don’t believe in stuck. But even though I am
writing every day, I’m in writer’s block—which at the moment I can’t define for
you, being Internetless. Or unInterneted. Or sans Internet.
And I’m
hungry—why won’t they feed me? Previously the old system worked—I gave them
money and they gave me food. Today, I gave them money and now? No food.
Well, it’s
clear that the world went off somewhere and decided not to take me along. But
shouldn’t it have left a note on the refrigerator door? Something like, “Sorry,
but you’re fucked today. Don’t try and do anything. You’ll be tired and not
able to sleep. You’ll be hungry and they won’t give you food. Expect to fall
and break your leg for no reason. Fire may break out. There will be
insurrection in the streets. Prepare to be struck by a meteorite…. Get the
picture, sucker?”
And this
guy at the café which is not a café since that would imply food and
that, it appears, is reserved for other people, all of whom are sitting in
front of plates and slowly munching away…. Now then, why is it that my least
favorite person in the café has decided to fuck around with the staff,
distracting them when they should be exerting themselves at full speed with the
obviously imperative, critically important task of feeding me? No but there he
is, and worse, he has an Argentinian accent, which totally drives me insane.
It’s Spanish with a heavy Italian inflection. And now, guess what? He has
chosen to stand between a seriously beautiful guy—a man who doesn’t know,
though I could tell him, that his identical twin is named Adonis—and me.
And why do
I have to go to Boquerón? It was supposed to be a hotel, Copamarina, which was
nice, but now it’s a timeshare in Boquerón and people will be sleeping in the
living rooms, which is crazy. And where will I go when I wake up, as I always
do, at three in the morning and there are sleeping and probably snoring bodies
in the living room?
Outside,
said Mr. Fernández, or the hotel lobby. So the whole world will be sleeping and
I’ll be up and bug eyed and pacing around the lobby, accompanied with the sound
of profoundly unjustly earned snores.
Well,
well—I shouldn’t complain. Because my mother-in-law has decreed that she wants
vegetarian lasagna, and guess what? That falls on Mr. Fernández, who has almost never
made lasagna in his life and who cannot even eat lasagna, since it has pasta,
and that has become the fatalist-no-computer-I-meant-fatalest (and you know
where that red squiggle can go, don’t you?) of poisons. So Mr. Fernández has
washed the pan that was collecting the water draining from the third floor, and
he is now probably elbow-deep in that infernal pasta, which will kill us all.
Well, I for
one refuse to eat it, on general principle, and to spite my mother-in-law, whom
in fact I like except on days when there is no Internet and no food. No, I
intend to sit at the table but with my back turned to it, in silent but very
much obvious protest. Nor am I going to talk to anyone at all—not a word will
be wrenched from my lips—for the entire week we’re there, since it should be
Copamarina but it’s not so guess what! No words from Marc!
Hey, maybe
I’ll make a sign! “I AM NOT TALKING BECAUSE THIS IS WHERE I SHOULDN’T BE AND I
PROTEST AND UNTIL THE PLACE IS RIGHT AND THE FOOD COMES WHEN IT SHOULD AND THE
INTERNET AGREES TO BE AVAILABLE INSTEAD OF OFF SOMEWHERE ELSE, DAMMIT, I AM NOT
TALKING AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”
That’s what
I’ll do. I’m tired of being adult and reasonable and nice and not making a fuss
and going with the flow. I’m gonna get good and mad, and tell the whole world
about it. In fact, you know that lasagna? I’m gonna spit on it, on the whole
pan of it, so that no one can eat it. That’s what I’m gonna do, and just wait
and see! Then we’ll have to go to Copamarina which is where we should be and
not in Boquerón where I can’t go anywhere when I can’t sleep! Hah!
Now let’s
see—what else can I do?
And now it’s
several hours later and Jaime has come in and made me drink three beers, so now
I can’t think!
Grrr….
