Upresident, memories of a fascism patient – ​​II

Dóra Maurer, Locks 6, A+B, 1980-1
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By PEDRO PAULO ROCHA*

Fictional letter about audios of a supposed president who pretends to go crazy during the elections of a real country called Brazil

Card 2

Muffled echo!

I begin right now the now of this second letter…

Nothing returns the memory of something that will never exist again.

Out of memory, with no future, this one now wounds the canvas of my burnt skin in the basements of hell in that room where our character – U(STRA) President – ​​dwells and will die!

In these subterranean halls of the cities of the world, people are turning blue, blue from so much beating, dry from such hunger, bony with the bones in their belly acutely! See it from afar! Up close the eye can pierce!

I open my eyes, sigh quickly in a silent scream by the bitter cloth stuffed in my mouth. I wake up I don't know at what time. I bite the Dirty Cloth Chewed by my broken teeth.

Dream! I feel in my skin the metamorphoses of our time, I feel from the surface of the skin to the flesh below, I feel the nerves and deep down, even lower, I feel even the bones, the bones that tremble mute and forgotten in the lagoon of history's tortures !

With half-closed eyes I lay down until I was submerged again. I was ceasing to be a thing to become a thing of the thing – another thing more monstrous than the insect I already was.

From the First Mutation – from human to insect – I was now transforming from insect to human, all too human, terribly human. The human comes after the thing. The man is a thing thing. For insects, we've always been the giant killer freak. And it wasn't just something in me that happened! In all of them, something was going on, inside the flesh of sense.

It's a waking dream, it was late at night, more than midnight, all the awakened roots, secret underground, grew from me, through the veins of the Earth's body, I opened my eyes into that hour of water, when ghosts descended until they were born through a hole in the middle of a mud image that sees me.

I fled through a crevice high in the buried ground. I remember that the cities were submerged in the forests, and the forests in the bodies burned. The present eats the past, the verb and images transform into the acute belly of misery. Until many dead animals are reborn from the constructions of these cities. I heard they spoke human languages ​​now. It was too fast, infinitely imperceptible to allow time to translate – impossible, because there is no translation! We are those animals!

The contact between two surfaces was lost until skins were born in the city that touched my pores. That burned my agoras.

Will I be able to forget everything I heard in this letter? There will be no escape, I need to get this memory out of me, spit it out, vomit it… I think those censored parts of the first letter will be revealed little by little. I'll do it without you noticing. Everything that is censored, if not exposed, becomes bones floating in the lakes of the past that overflow in the present.

This morning I received new audios from #upresidente. I haven't even finished writing about the first audios and I'm already hit in the body by these messages.

#upresident said: “ it's time to run away … my throat is alive inhabited by worms. Listen to this new language born of language. It's time to multiply the ghosts! I am the prophet of the worms in my throat. The New Language of God and Capital. Each for himself, all for me…Toasting makes me cum”

I listened to the #upresident's lines until halfway through because something interrupted me - cuts me off - until that exact second when I go back to the beginning again.

This second letter is going to be weirder. I'm more afraid. Which doesn't stop me from using fear against the imposed limit. Defense and escape. Defense and reaction. Before that, I would like to break the idea in half and go for a walk down the street: run somewhere else far from the center of the gray city. Is there any city under the ground? My body can cut time. The continuation of these seconds is naturally artificial.

It's been a day since I interrupted the previous sentence. Matter is timeless in its continual interruption. You never go back to the same place. A repetition needs to come out of itself, to transform itself into kaoz. Today I'm going to start this directly – screen by screen, skin by skin – because there is a world that disappears and while we live we have to go beyond it.

And it happened again… something came back into place that I didn't know about. Where were you waiting for the next message? … There is no time within the count. Connected disconnected in the labyrinth… I wouldn't want to continue these letters. The intensities are stronger than I am, when I start to write I never know what I'm going to phrase, in each sentence an instant of imagery metamorphoses opens up whose words escape themselves. Phrases distort into wordless images.

I don't want to have to repeat any of those words.

Damn audios. The number of “PATRIA ARMADA” rang on my cell phone at 4 am. I hadn't even been able to sleep yet, I don't think so, I don't know, the clock on my device was erased. I smothered historical deafness sleepily with reality. This time I swallowed the spit and answered shakily. I didn't say anything, silence for 3 seconds...

I hung up and threw the phone at the wall with an uncontrollable scream. The reflex was immediate. I quickly ran over to the device to see if it had broken completely. Right next to him with my hands, I suddenly got a shock!

The cell phone exploded. I was thrown out. My Body broke the windows and glass that cut me instantly. It bled in the air. It was a paramilitary explosive implanted in my cell phone through that call.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a hole on the street from my house. Still trying to replicate the moment of the cell phone explosion, I saw that both my hands had been blown off. I remembered that Pus was oozing from the screen from the cracked glass when the device turned into a bomb… it was impossible for me to remember that… the pain was very great… how could I remember a dream without even knowing that I was awake now?

I swallowed the spit this time, and shakily answered in silence. I didn't say anything, three seconds... and everything was repeated differently from what it was. On the other side, someone spoke, before I opened my eyes, the cell phone was in my hands: “Upresident speaks as if he were crazy – know that it is pure pretense, but in a completely imperceptible way – he suffers from compulsive normalcy of domination. He's creating voices, changing keys, giving each new voice a different name. There are more than a thousand people! It keeps counting – 01 02 03 04 05 06 07… There are already more than 1000 characters ////////////.”

Did he hang up or the call dropped? Automatically on whats the new audios arrived. My ears are clogged with Earth. I am before, after and for a long time at different times happening non-stop.

A man on the path holding a gun suddenly looked at me, I made a sign with a rock in my hand. The reflection pinned his body against mine. He pulled me against him, throwing me to the ground; thinking he was going to step on my neck, I apologized by shouting. His weapon was military green and yellow gold stolen from Earth. He had blue eyes. He licked the barrel of his gun and dragged me into the middle of the street. He slipped his eye into mine. He shouted: my president, now another traitor to the country is going to die!

It was just another scene! I heard the shot, I opened my eyes, the ceiling of the room was so dark in the night that it was not ending yet that yesterday was very real. I saw without moving, it was day, the sun was out. The dream sucked me in with no choice. Will I get up or not?

Was it just another scene?

What a real dream, must have been the videos I saw yesterday. The images that do not fit into his line are melting with the sound of the cut of a disconnected interval. I feel it now, it happens on my skin. I can no longer hear what I haven't seen, only my skin on myself is reacting; vibrations on the surfaces of the skins do not just transmit what is happening inside the body, they go further, they are transformed by direct contact with the outside.

The world is sensitive to skin on skin. Have you ever seen your skin bubble from the air in sound? Micro eruptions that disappear the instant the skin dissolves. It forms a living edge out of its limits…hot, boiling! We are all sensitive to everything that is happening, we can no longer see or hear – what we are left with is the torn, scarred skin. Is there a flesh of contact left, of heat and cold, of pain and pleasure? ? Cut! Cut a piece of me?

It's already another day within the day the sun skins the skin And warms the world's epidermis. We lost the place. Every sense creates a nest, a place. The sentences I write that I am going to write were not born of me, they are born in the middle, between an interval and a gesture, they are already coming, being born from you.

I'm going to highlight some disconnected phrases from this audio, putting everything out of a linear order. What would make us perceive things more real than the expressed message of the phrases. There is no possible illusion, no way out of the labyrinth, there is no reason to return to the illusion, if everything was triggered, too irrational from the beginning.

Now the street is bare! Run, run away !!!

In this second letter, I feel that I will have to twist my own language, break the syntax, let a vertigo censored by the order of speech pass. Exit order. Break the Order! The fact that I believe that some things need to be said in a way where language is no longer the limit of its law. In each letter I would have to turn the words of my thought into a chaotic metamorphosis.

It's pleasurable, I don't believe this is just voluntary, although I like the idea of ​​metamorphosing my thoughts into something uncontrollable; even before my consciousness came to describe it, it is another wordless matter That has already been produced in a plastic force.

Language, even though it serves censorship and communication for a rational function, is freed from its shadow. The Living Pause explodes out of time from the shrapnel of orders.

The nightmare starts when we wake up. I am a thing unrecognizable the thing. During the day I shied away from the news, until when I disappeared, the rhythm of the monstrous machine began again widening its human eyes against the animal that I am – chewed in the mouth of the craters face, it devours me with its abundant hunger for more energy.

This reality was transforming me into something… something… something without humanity, without a name, so human… I saw someone looking at me closely from behind the image, exhausted and at the same time contrary to what any word could create, I felt the wounds of the world, as if they were mine, so that I could get out of the thing that had made me… I didn't go, if I accepted it, it's because they made me believe that I was the thing I wanted… real hallucination, strange sensation that was a revelation divine punishment, miracle of guilt against oneself, gratification that does not delay, more than voluntary servitude, desperate agony controlled by the fear of fleeing … those wounds were the sins of my guilt … if I write, it is because I know that it cannot be anything like I said… quite the contrary… I knew it couldn't be my fault… the closer that holy face got the more the wounds opened… in my mind came the faces of the people who were tortured by the coup… it wasn't my fault… It was their fault…the torturers…it was the commanders’ fault…

Living in the open reality of vertigo, I imagined it was a dream I was having. Was not. It is not! It's impossible that it is. It is neither reality nor was it a dream now, the Flow that oozes is stronger than the fact of what was experienced, myself a blood flow from a burst vein in the electronic brain of capitalism. I turned death against the organism I occupy, life against the eternal genesis of the organism.

How to end this once and for all? ? I am inside, inside the brain of capitalism, and I conspire against it, it's a matter of life and death, and that's why I conspire with all my strength for its disappearance, at least what's left of it. If it were possible from the future, he would launch an arrow against his past. It would kill capitalism before it crowned itself Earth's new emperor.

My body is rigid, paralyzed in front of the screen. Porosity of artificial layers tickles our nerves. We look at the screen – we're looking from the inside out – eyes looking at the screen. Virtual prison of ghosts that have more body than the real body – because after all it was the ghosts of the self that left the virtual to occupy the real, and to appropriate our Bodies, to depose us. We are inside the virtual observing a hollow body in the illusion of a shattered mirror.

I can't return to the audios I heard. The feel of the world is most impressively magnetic. Everything affects me. We are living waters without the sea. The ultimate real is the skin. But it seems that our skin has been ripped off because the body lives in the flower without skin its flesh and nerves whose world has disappeared and is still disappearing.

Eruption, I look at the cracks in the buildings. Birds buried in the concrete walls. I stick my hand in... The permanent movement of violence comes out through all the open cracks in the buildings. Within the underground halls of the city, wounds are touched and squeezed with immense pleasure from the torturer. The ghosts leave history, they abandon it, the virtual ones leave the virtual world, they burst the screens.

A crevice sucked me in. The Real is as real as the pain caused by the murderous logic of commands. Violence exists, a ghost that is incorporated, repetition that does not stop returning to the universal forged impulse of the bodies that exercise it with passion and hunger.

The echoes of words from those audios kept multiplying, every sentence of mine here is crossed by a shredding machine; my organism transfigured by all that happened in Brazil shows the organs.

Outside, there is a lot of noise. To listen to the messages I had to stick the machine cell phone in the animal's ear. Sometimes when I listen more slowly to Dupresidente's voice I have the feeling that he is turning into an animal. A human animal. An animal human. A monster. Yes, a human monster. The voice sounds like two at once. Low and high, in less than a second varies. Chew what you say. Cut the words in half. Swallows syllables, saying others instead. It makes sounds I've never heard in my life.

When I saw his mouth I was chewing inside a waking nightmare. No air in Manaus. I run through the fire in the forest. 80 shots of hot iron burn my flesh In a black ditch in the white sewer without memory.

One more scene … Until next time, if I survive, I'll send you another message …

I just saw the #upresident audios keep coming! I'm going to throw my cell phone out the window of this European Castle where I took refuge in Brazil to at least write, write and not die... write with my reds the kaoz that I see coming from afar... from up here it's easier to observe... I feel that I am fallen towards the deepest earth of the living body...

Signed X

*Pedro Paulo Rocha is a poet, philosopher, filmmaker, transmedia artist and schizo-analyst.

To access Letter 1 click on https://aterraeredonda.com.br/upresidente-memorias-de-um-doente-de-sascismo/

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