Fragments XXXIV

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By AIRTON PASCHOA*

eight short pieces

By the sign

End of year brake – tidying up brake? It is imperative for safety to reduce speed. No survivor will want to take the turn literally. It requires caution on the curve – especially if we come across a new tunnel.

However, it won't be us, just in case, who will tear up the traditional politeness protocol – Happy New Tunnel!

Turn

I always wondered why I liked the expression “entering in years” so much. I attributed the old bossa nova to the elegance that emanates from the happy euphemism, light, ethereal, strangely capable of eternalizing. Today, entering my years, I found the true answer. With each new year we ask ourselves, between earrings and toasts, hurray! if we are going to get out of it.

kryptonite

(framed story)

When Superman literally falls off his horse and is left a quadriplegic, years before he can kick the bucket, what can he say, who could no longer kick the bucket, literally, like any stable boy? That Destiny is a sadistic director, acidic, sarcastic, sardonic, biting, mocking? That we cannot, not even in comics, big pictures, small screens, big screens, not even a little bit, play with the superhuman condition, of wanting to surpass a condition whose Fragile, printed and covered on the outside and inside, carries every coffin? Kryptonite is a warning… as much as any flu, which can give you crepe.

[official journal]

I would like to inform anyone who may be interested that I have decided to return to “quotations”, a genre that I invented, with all due respect to my immodesty, touched by the new times – in a robe? With the summons, I stop annoying my friends, such as the postal attacks to which I have subjected them since their creation, thus safeguarding the few that I still have left, and I continue to comply with a stupid order, who knows whose judgment, if not the lack of it, which is to keep blowing myself up… Here are the pieces (and mannerisms).

[all-fucking-good]

I make it known, to whomever is interested, that the pigsty should proceed. For my part, I declare, lowly and unhealthily, our omnipotence.

[news?]

I would like to let anyone who may be interested know that I never fail to smile, inside, when asked the usual kind question by my friends – anything new? At my age, cancer is a new thing. And I can do without it. But I answer – fortunately, none. They smile, perhaps without understanding… which is also nothing new, fortunately, and it is the way to keep them.

[may uai]

I would like to let anyone who may be interested know that I have an undying admiration, fascination, knee-jerk veneration for those who, at the end of their lives, assert that, if they lived again, they would do everything exactly the same way, exactly the same, bit for bit. In decent Portuguese, I drool with envy, wow. Arrogance aside, it's either just a tantrum, the tantrum-throwers are either unusually intelligent, aware that one cannot escape what one is, or they suffer from a painful lack of imagination. I would do everything differently, every bit of everything. If I have another chance, why repeat the farce? For not having been Sinatra, certainly, but, to be honest, for knowing what it's like to be me, my God, something you wouldn't wish on your own enemy... even because I would still be me, huh? it was going to be another, but so other, so other that it ended up being a Martian – Márcio, at least, except for this disgust, or Ascânio, except for this donkey, Ânio whatever (better by the middle than all down the drain).

[fucking america]

I would like to inform anyone who may be interested that America has a problem. There, people climb on every train, plane, car, inside, outside, sink, counter, ladder, on top, underneath, table, ditto, wardrobe, ironing board, ironing board, on every support, bless God! The only thing they don't climb is trees, for environmental reasons, I believe, and beds either, because they are uncomfortable there, I presume, both for themselves and for their lovers, made as they are of the poor peeled ones, inhibiting the peeled ones from having sex. The fact is that the clinch never ends: the guy grabs the girl and throws her against the wall, the girl retaliates, throwing him against the door, the guy throws her face-first against the opposite wall, the guy with the crumpled face grabs and throws the guy on the table, who counterattacks and pins her to the floor, the girl in turn counterattacks, throwing the guy to the ceiling, and so on, from support to support until it becomes unbearable. One day, Icarus willing, they will go through the window and struggle on the asphalt, while the backward people here, like us, continue to fall into the temptation of the old bull.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer. Author, among other books, of paperweight (e-galaxy, 2022).


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