Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Oh, my heel, and now I’m cripple, maimed for life .

Hopping, hobbling, what do I see, a wading pool full of back-swimmers and tadpoles, leaves and twigs, a muddy stew of vegetables, onions, and carrots. My imagination was stewing.

— Soup, soup always makes me feel better.

Schwapt. I swished my foot around in nature’s brew, wiggled my toes into the mud for sting relief. By sunset, the arch of my foot was swollen, itchy, and bulging like a sand-packed balloon, infected by parasites in the rainwater. Sweating, I was thirsty. I saw a hose spurting crystal cold water.

— If I go in the house now —I thought— Mom will take me to the hospital. I’ll sneak in at bedtime. I’ll be fine in the morning.

I stuck the hose in my mouth — and gulp, gulp — down my throat — sploosh — came a glob, a frog — a tender tadpole which I swallowed whole. I dropped the hose, realizing it was scum water my father was siphoning from the pool. A queasiness overcame me. The bugger flip-flopped down the hatch, and away I hopped like a frog.

— What’s a frog like you doing with scorpions?

— Doubting everything about myself.

— You know what the scorpion said to the frog?

— Frog, can I hitch a ride across the river?

— Not with me, scorpion. You’d bite me, and I’d drown.

— Why would I do that? I’d drown with you.

— That’s true. Hop on my cape. Let’s cross the river.

Guess what happened? In the middle of the river, the scorpion bit the frog.

— Why did you bite me? Now we’ll both drown.

— Why did you let me? You know I’m a scorpion. It’s my nature.

That’s what scorpions always do to you, and you always fall for it.

— Last night I dreamed I was blowing air into your asshole, inflating your belly, and you were floating up from the bed, floating up, hitting your head against the ceiling and bouncing on the floor.

— Let me go please. Crack a window.

— You won’t fit through the window. How about the door?

— I can’t decide. I’m a balloon.

— If you let me tie a rope around your ankles, I’ll take you out the elevator. C’mon, atta girl.

— Let go, let go of my foot!

— I can’t let you go without my rope. If you fly away, a plane could hit you. A beak could poke you. And you’d burst. It’s inspiration, honey, inspiration.

Inspiration is like death. You don’t call death. Death calls you.

— I can tempt death and provoke it. It’s a false syllogism full of holes. And what do I do with the holes? I have to fill them up. Or make a bigger hole. To hang another hole inside to be the hole of inspiration. For the wind to blow through. I’m waiting.

— And I’m telling you. Together we rise. Divided we fall. But you’re not going to drop me on the ground after you’ve given me wings. After all, I was minding my own paws, stalking a mouse, ready to pounce, when whoosh — you descended to steal my meal, and I grabbed the mouse, and you grabbed my tail, and up we went in the mountains — there where you feel freeee. The moment you swooped me off my feet, we became one being, a new creature, half feathers, half fur.

— A grim plight for the eagle’s flight.

— She may not soar as high, but she’ll never go hungry with four more feet to help her catch rodents.

— But she can’t fly. Look at her. She’s losing her strength. They’re on their way down.

— Sorry, but I’ve got to drop you.

— I’ll claw your guts out, and we’ll go down together.

— It’s that I can’t fly so high.

— Get used to flying lower. Change your nature. You’re not an eagle anymore. You’re an augury. Unlike any other.

What are you doing at my desk? Wearing my white headband. Writing on my yellow pads. With my gold Mont Blanc. With gum in your mouth. After criticizing me for licking my whiskers like a cat, now you’re doing it too. Monkey see, monkey do. What’ll monkey do next? On the sneaktip. I show you my work so you can edit it, but you hide what you write from me. I can see traces of what you wrote on my paper. You’re so independent. If you’re not imitating my style, then why are you scrawling on the sly? I want you to write, but show it to me.

— I already learned my lesson. You say:

— C’mon, you can trust me. What’s bothering you? Speak your mind. Don’t be like Brascho. He kept everything inside and died of AIDS. You’re going to make yourself sick. Tell me.

Then I tell you, and you go running to your desk to write about my life.

— You’re the sneak. Your father is sick, and I ask you:

— What’s he got? AIDS? Cancer? C’mon, you can tell me.

— Asbestos in his lungs. He is undergoing examinations.

— The results must be in by now.

— They don’t know.

Of course they know. It’s AIDS or cancer. You just don’t want me to know. Privacy. Whispering on the phone. Writing behind my back. And good reasons to write. You’re father is dying. My brother is already kaput. I wish I were suffering. I can’t write without a catalyst. You see, when you threatened to throw yourself out the window — that was something. Or when we were jumping on the bed naked, making the most of it. Or when my brother died.

— Writing has nothing to do with that.

— It does have to do with that. Look what Cezanne said.

— No, don’t go hiding behind Cezanne’s power. Create your own. Like when Xana said you were writing exercises. She said, if I remember correctly:

— Take note, what Van Gogh said is much deeper than you suppose .

— She conveniently forgot to mention that I was the one who recommended that she read Letters to Theo :

— What did Van Gogh say ? — I asked Xana.

— Think about it, much deeper. When does a sketch end and when does the work begin?

— I don’t do sketches, Xana. I know what a sketch is. A sketch is less than reality. The work never. You know, there is a big difference. A sketch is a scribble .

— A bit of humility —you said to me. Let Xana talk.

Traitor, why did you let her win?

— All I said was:

— Let her talk .

— Let her talk. Sure, and if she had a gun, you’d say:

— Let her shoot.

My insecurity, my pride, my work — so much work for what?

— She said:

— The future is yours.

— And I should have answered:

— What future? What future? If there is no present, there is no future. Someday, you’ll establish your authority not by taking Van Gogh out of context, but by sending me into orbit.

— She messed with your mind.

— She killed my desire to keep writing.

— Evil eye.

— She watched me drown with Elena Caridad, Giuseppe Impastato, and Nancy Díaz. Three years into the Novel of Gemma Sender , and you never told me the truth. You let me show it to Paco Pepe, and it was he who pronounced it dead. Now Xana, knowing my grief, tries to convince me that this book is sinking like Atlantis and the famous ship, oh, I forgot the name of it, my memory is capsizing.

— Xana is right —said Paco Pepe. There are scribbles that are works of art. When does the work begin? When does the miracle occur?

— And what about Mona? — I asked. Are hers sketches too?

— Yes, they are —replied Paco Pepe.

— And what about my new project? — I asked Xana defenseless, dreading her answer with all my heart.