Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— It lacks rhythm.

— Rhythm —I said, stunned.

— Ay, bendito, it’s an aperture to a new world. And I see it as a beginning.

Then she gave me a kiss. Ay, bendito. A sketch? I know what a sketch is. A repentance. It would mean another flop in my life with you. But I don’t think it is. What do you think?

— What does Mishy think?

— That it’s academic.

— You see, and she didn’t mention Van Gogh.

— She didn’t have to. She is French. She has the authority of the revolution or je ne sais pas quoi .

— Truly, with friends like that.

— Who needs enemies. I can’t trust my friends, and my apprentice less. I just went to see the psychic, and she has confirmed my suspicions. What was I dreaming — believing in you.

— What’s his sign?

— Gemini.

— He loves you more than you love him.

— He adores me.

— You’re going to leave him. You’ve left them all.

— Aha, there you go. And you believe that witch.

— Now you’re fuller. But last March or April I saw you drained by doubt and unemployment. You’d like to have a job. Not to depend on anyone.

— I don’t want a job.

— What do you think about Damian?

— What do you think about my new book?

— I prefer the last one. You’ve got a way to go on this one. The structure is faulty.

— Damian can go to hell.

— To heaven, heaven, never to hell. Yours is 60 years old, right? And he’s either a doctor or a lawyer.

— A lawyer.

— Since when am I a lawyer?

— You could have been. Psychics reveal signs — you can’t intimidate them. I have to agree so she can keep giving me more clues. She said I’m empty. Lack of inspiration. Lack of love. Depending on your mush and gruel. And that’s why Empire of Dreams was better. I was an island unto myself.

— Has she read any of your books?

— She doesn’t need to read them. Sharpened sense of smell like bloodhounds. She knew Geminis cannot be trusted. And she was right. I begged you not to tell Rey and Leen that Makiko was trying to break them up. Don’t you know how superstitious they are?

— I don’t want you so close anymore.

— Why?

— All my friends are very serious people. You are not.

— Why? What have I done?

— Insidious gossip.

— What gossip?

— What’s this about Makiko pickling Leen’s picture under the sink?

My eyes blinked. I was accused of your gossip. I couldn’t defend myself.

— Why not?

— I can’t treason you. I should have said:

— Come on, Rey, I don’t know anything about pickled peppers.

But the fact was that I knew about her black magic. I thought it was rotten of Makiko, but I was never going to tell Leen.

— I wanted her to know. So did you. You even said:

— If Leen only knew. I wouldn’t want to be buried in salt.

— Where is your face when you talk to Makiko?

— What are you worried about? Makiko has no power.

— I was watching you whispering to Leen. What is he doing? I was a little jealous. Now, I lost three friends.

— You lost them, I’m sorry.

— With that smile.

— I’m sorry.

— You wouldn’t have to be sorry if you would curb your tongue. You’re going to die through your mouth like a fish.

— So what’s mine here?

— Nothing. Nothing here is yours.

— I wonder. Nothing here is mine.

— Nothing here is yours. It’s not your house.

— Nothing here is mine.

— Keep repeating.

— Ask Grita.

— Screw Grita.

— When we moved, you know what she said:

— How many rooms?

— Two.

— Two for her, I bet. You’ll have the walk-in closet.

— Shall I quote my mother?

— Go ahead, she loves me.

— I’m tired of third parties who have bones to pick.

— She said, she said:

— Aren’t you glad she isn’t here?

— Who?

— You know who.

She was relieved you stood us up. She said you would have called us sheep heads.

— Frivolous bitch. I can’t get her squealy giggle out of my ears.

— She thinks your laugh is too deep.

— And you dare to tell me what she thinks. If your mouth weren’t so big you’d choke on that long, forked tongue of yours. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve written it just fine.

— I was lying quietly in bed.

— I told you:

— Get the fuck out!

You know what it does to my mind. In the middle of a sentence. I heard the bathroom door. Mumbling. Splashing. I was curious. I had to know what you were doing. Of all times to wash your socks. I couldn’t concentrate.

— Get the fuck out!

— I got the fuck out.

— I was flustered by Xana, Paco Pepe, Leen, Rey, you, and Mona.

— You forgot Jabalí.

— Never. I have you to blame now, and I shouldn’t have to feel guilty because you left. So what, I felt good, I could write, and bad, too silent. It was coming out wrong, and I was feeling lousy. Not guilty. Pissed. No explanation. Okay. I hate excuses. It’s a trap. There’s no way out.

— I walk into the bathroom and find you there.

— No, I can’t, I can’t — not with the scab or the toys or the whims. Three years wasted on the imposter nun, the messenger of God, and the bag lady and now this. I’m a failure, but you can’t say my intentions weren’t noble — to fly to the sun — with my cardboard wings — flapping in the air — and the dream against the ground.

You lying there on your back with your kika sprawled open, curly and black. I’d never seen you wallow in the depths of such despair, rocking back and forth — your navel a well of tears — your sunken, defeated eyes smeared with mascara, blank, but fixed — staring at the leaking faucet.

— Don’t you realize. What it means. To go the distance and find nothing. No, it’s still not it, no, no.

— Start over.

— Why keep pushing? Why delude myself?

And suddenly I look at the toilet — there are three balls of pooh bobbing in a chain. I look at them. I look at you.

— Look, kika, look at this lil’ pooh.

— No, no.

— Rub-ba-dub-dub,

three poohs in a tub.

— No, no I can’t.

— Thrilled, I double over laughing, my belly aches and grumbles inside as my pooh becomes a nursery rhyme. It must be love — it doesn’t gross him out. I sit up and watch you drop it back into the bowl, splash. I wrap my arms around you.

— You think it’ll be okay?

— It’s fine. Let it simmer. Don’t be impatient. Look what happened to Orpheus. He couldn’t help himself and lost her forever.

— I toss my green coat over your body, cold and naked.

— The tiles left a grid on your butt.

— Not on my butt, in my head.

— And later I felt focused, deeply centered in the same depths since I found myself with you — so hot and cold — so estranged from myself — sitting naked on the wooden chair with my breasts against the edge of the desk, distracted, scratching a dry white scab and rolling it between my fingers:

I think

one

write

two

this fragment

three

one

two

and three.

And as my chin drops, my arm starts moving, writing these lines — my stomach growls — a bubble of gas stops to hesitate — it doesn’t know which way to go — it’s got a mind of its own — as anyone out of control knows — there is always a moment of hesitation in the belly walls: