Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Who cares what she thinks.

— But tell me, count on your fingers, how many philosophers or artists can make a herd of black cows swish their tails as if they were directing what they heard?

— Was somebody with you?

— Why?

— We need proof.

— The cows were there. The trees. The dawn. Music and me.

— It’s not enough. We need a witness who can testify; otherwise, they’ll say the cows were just swatting flies.

— Do you think the cows will do it again if they see you?

— Why don’t we try?

— Do you think I’ll sing with the same voice twice? My voice not only brought the hills to life, but the cows to music, to music. It’s not simple, you know, and yet it’s so simple. So true and pure. Do you think I could sing the same way in front of a stranger like you?

— You could write with me as a chair.

— Do you believe me?

— Mona would have said it’s fantasy, but I’m sure it could happen.

— Pathetic? You wish you were that pathetic. You don’t understand. Listen to the holiness. He’s great souled, and you dare to laugh.

— Mona, I’m not laughing at him.

— You wish.

— He’s got no balls.

— You wish you could write like he sings. Hear, hear when his voice dies softly. It’s a gentle woman. The effort, the effort of dying softly.

— I know. I think he’s funny, or rather, she’s funny.

— Why do you care about that? Insensitive, arrogant.

— I prefer Placido.

— Oh, please, why even compare?

— He’s got balls.

— He’s got balls? You wish you had the Castrato’s balls. I love him most when his voice dissolves. You have no ear for music. You don’t even know what you’re listening to.

— You know, I’m really angry. Now, tell me, did she or didn’t she dare to say that the Castrato was on a higher level than me?

— Is that what you heard?

— She said it, didn’t she?

— Maybe she meant in voice. You do have a deep voice.

— I heard what she said, but she didn’t hear that I said I loved the Castrato. His aahaaaa it’s like, it’s as if he’s drowning or swallowing his tongue.

— Sounds to me like he’s taking it up the ass.

— Yes, yes that’s it. That’s it. I adored his voice. It’s a swollen bird. A bird dying and crying frail, not Niagara Falls, no, no, no. Then, out of the blue, she says:

— You have Picasso’s eyes, intense.

I figure, so I don’t have the Castrato’s soul, but I do have Picasso’s eyes. Not bad. Not bad. And then she says:

— You’re very powerful. That’s probably why Makiko compared your expression to Hannibal the Cannibal in Silence of the Lambs.

Don’t you see a contradiction in all her arguments? I can’t hate her. She loves me. I always thought I was like Picasso. Cow eyes. Mooo. No wonder, the cows loved me. I swear, they were trying to tell me — looking deep into my eyes:

— What a beautiful voice you have.

— What are you doing here?

— How come you understand us so well?

Their big black eyes gazed into mine as I sang:

— with the sound of music

I extended the sound, until the vowels vibrated inside their eardrums, inside their bellies. They were melting, swaying, dripping, almost milking while swinging their tails in harmony.

— with the sound of music

with songs they have sung

for a thousand years

It was magical. The word years started their tails again. They crowded closer, penetrating my eyes, and letting me know that they listened, understood, and most of all, respected with silence and devotion.

— I know I will hear what I’ve heard before.

I was invoking the spirits to come and get me. I knew I would hear music, poetry like I heard before, with the same love mounting over a fountain of passion — water, water — I was thirsty, and the mountains so full of grass, trees, hills so steep, shaggy-hair, knee-deep, and so many rocks and roots and daisies and ripples and nipples, and so many swaying branches and stems and twigs, so little and so brittle — is brittle the word — I mean fragile — and others so strong — and I’m walking through the mud, muddying my sneakers and watching the clouds go down and down until they’re out of sight, cotton balls hanging by threads of light, a bird singing, its perch swinging, cows mooing, and one of them in perfect harmony with the whole universe moos:

— Yes, yes, yes, yes .

Nodding its head up and down, affirming yes because — yes, siree, I like the way yooou sing.

— Yes, we’ll hear it again. Don’t yooou agree?

— I doooo.

— We dooo tooo.

And then they tuned the music out and started grazing again.

— See, they weren’t paying attention after all.

— I thought you believed me.

— Yeah, but they immediately forgot you and went for the grass.

— I made my impression. They paid attention until the sound of music wet their appetite. What better than that? When I left, they were happy, content to eat their grass as if nothing had happened, and I continued singing on my road, and they continued on theirs. I did it my way, and they did it theirs.

— I have the most beautiful dream on the tip of my tongue. Woody Allen appeared in flesh and blood in the middle of a crowd. Everyone was dressed in black tights, and we formed a midnight train.

— Was I there?

— You were the 2nd car and I was the 3rd. The train was circling slowly behind Woody. I was getting impatient. This won’t get us anywhere. I squeezed your waist and shoved you ahead, so instead of chug-chugging in circles, we bolted straight through the crowd, and all of a sudden, it was only Woody, you and me. We were schmoozing. Actually, he was doing all the talking.

— I couldn’t do what I wanted in Husbands and Wives. The director repressed me.

— Lame excuse. He was the director.

— What he meant is that he didn’t think it’s his best work. I agreed.

— I have writer’s block and you’re making it worse. You’re dreaming my fears. You know this isn’t my best work.

— It wasn’t you, it was Woody, and he was relating to me, in confidence, about his work.

— Cut —Woody said.

— Just like the one Paco Pepe had with Fellini.

— You always want to one-up me.

— No, really, he dreamed Mastroianni and Fellini were strolling down La Strada and Fellini was saying:

— Marcellino, pannevino, what’s next? We’ve done it all, but I’m not finished yet.

You should have seen his face — drained, pained. He was wearing Guido’s hat from 8½ . The roles were swapped. Paco says Guido had the face of Fellini, Fellini the face of Guido, except that Guido wasn’t suffering like Fellini. Then guess who came hopping out of the blue as a grillo verde ?

— What’s a grillo verde ?

— Una esperanza .

— Hope?

— A green grillo —that insect that brings good luck.

— A lady bug?

— Is it long and green?

— Oh, you mean a grasshopper.

— And you know what?

— What — what?

— When they examined the grasshopper, it had my face. It was me. Paco Pepe told me I was Fellini’s hope. I was so happy when he told me that dream.

— I didn’t tell mine right. It was epic.

— Go ahead.

— You took all the fun out of it.

— Tell it again. Scenes repeat themselves.

— Why?

— Because you told the story wrong.