Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— Now you want to kill me off. That’s what pisses me off, always changing the plot.

— Well, one of us has to go.

— Not me. Why not you? You’re the one who is fucking my head.

— Blowing your mind.

— No, my murderer, you’re killing me.

— What did the marble say to the sculptor?

— Beats me.

— You’re destroying me!

— But I’m making a masterpiece.

— My foundation is trembling. I’m dropping pieces. Help me!

— But I’m finding your form, giving you a body, liberating your soul — that’s why I’m chipping away, here and there.

— And what if you slip and cut my finger off?

— Chance as collaborator.

— Thank God marble doesn’t think. To let someone mangle you without fighting back or knowing when the experiment is going to end. Suppose it ends in a pile of dust instead of a sculpture.

— Don’t be so negative. It will be a masterpiece.

— Swear?

— Swear. That’s what Leni Riefenstahl thought when Fraus chopped her first film into 100 pieces. She threw a hissy fit because he ruined it. But when she calmed down, she analyzed his editing. Leni had five doors, one door closing after another until they were all closed. It lacked simultaneity and surprise. What Fraus did was this. The first door starts closing to a certain point, then the next door takes over the action, closing a lil’ more, and the 3rd takes over where the 2nd left off, and the 4th where the 3rd left off, and the 5th completes the action, the shot, and the scene. Five doors become one big slam, continuity without repetition. Even though Fraus had the wrong pace, he had the right idea. He knew just what she needed to do. Look at this plot:

Woman beats dog

Dog nips woman

Woman plays dead

Dog barks help

Neighbor kills dog

— You mean Pinola.

— I don’t mean, no, I don’t mean. Whomever. Many neighbors, many masters. Who cares if it’s Costi with a rifle or Pinola with a pistol? The neighbors see the woman dead and kill the dog.

— What does she do next?

— Jumps up and down shrieking:

— Murderer! You killed my poor little dog!

Who’s the ultimate victim?

— The neighbor.

— The dog, the dog died a martyr to save his mistress even though she beat him.

— The woman, now she misses her dog even though he bit her. And when the neighbors see her, she is bleeding on the floor. And what do you see?

— I see, I see, a beaten woman lost and found, yelling because her dog is dead. She is beaten by the dog and the neighbor. Who do you think should play her role?

— Me, of course, she is me. You, of course, the beaten dog.

— I haven’t even started to nip at you.

— Can you imagine when the neighbors come?

— Were you the ones arguing last night?

— No, why?

— It must have been the other neighbors. With these cardboard walls, I can’t tell if the hullabaloo comes from your flat or the west side. He is very violent, isn’t he?

— Who?

— Who else?

— Well.

— It must be trying on your nerves.

— I can’t wait to see you hit the floor. Make it real. Drop. Drop. Dead.

— And then you, poor fool, believing, barking: Auuuu! Auuuu!

— Who is it?

— Pinola’s at the door.

— Watch out. It might be Costi with a rifle. Shut up and you won’t get shot. This is a wonderful plot. I love it.

— And then you’ll scream:

— You killed my poor little dog!

— And what if I kill him out of revenge?

— Then you’re not a victim. You’ll go to jail.

— I’ll bring charges against him for breaking and entering, let alone the use of a deadly weapon on a helpless pet.

— It was an act of defense.

— He defended me by killing the only thing I love.

— You love me.

— Yes, I do. But kill him before he starts barking again at me: Auuuu! Auuuu! So much time wasted on your tongue. You think I hear what that mouth is sputtering. Not a voice, not a sound. Static. The lips flapping with spit bubbles popping on the tip of the tongue, repeating:

— Pipa, you are doing fine. I’m convinced, this is the road.

King of the road, you say you’ll rent a mobile home to cross the desert. Why the hell don’t you do it? Leave me alone. Your tongue’s vibration in your mouth, in my ears. A month goes by. A lot of cock-a-doodle-doos, a lot of movies but no move-outs. Nope. Movies, cock-a-doodle doos, cartoons.

— Don’t worry —you say— the time will come. You’re too excited, too impatient.

You talk so much. You talk so, so much:

— Did you read about Pee Wee Herman in the Post? Arrested during a porn flick with his pants down. Had his pee wee in his hands. Nabokov was probably the same. They say Joyce raped his daughter, that’s why she was schizophrenic. Ah, Pee Wee, who would pick a name like that anyway, like pee-pee, I want to pee, and to think his show was canceled just because his little pee wee went weee-weee in his pants.

Van Gogh would have cut off both ears if he lived with you. I hate it when you flap it and flap it so much so fast that I can’t understand what you are saying. But don’t think that I don’t notice what you’re up to. Oh yeah, pleased, delighted, so much enlightenment when you find one fragment, one lonely ranger without a horse, and then you patronize me, swearing:

— You’re doing fine.

And I’m on my deathbed telling you:

— I know I’m dying.

But you insist:

— You’re looking better than ever!

Says who? You? I wouldn’t believe you if your tongue were notarized. All your yelling drives me up the wall.

— All your mumbling makes my skin crawl.

— It’s like a dead end — yelling — it goes nowhere. If only I had a little peace. If only I could tell you: don’t yell at me. And you’d hear me begging you not to yell at me. If only you’d admit this book doesn’t work. Just come out and say it.

— Keep nagging. Don’t get me started.

— Before you got here, nobody, I swear, nobody ever tried to push my buttons like that.

— Buttons, schmuttons.

— Tomorrow morning you’re out of here.

— Nag, always picking a fight.

— Mortifying me in front of the neighbors.

— Grumbling under your breath. Rubbing my nose in everything.

— It’s your fault. Moby Dick was queen of the sea until you got here, Ahab.

— I’m going to throw myself out the window.

— Go ahead, damn it. Take a flying leap. Your histrionics are distracting me. And then I get depressed. I put my head down. I try to read and I can’t. I want to think. And you know what’s echoing inside me — all that yelling. Scandalizing the neighbors, waking them up, disturbing the people downstairs, throwing keys, scissors, dishes on the floor. I wouldn’t be surprised if they complained to management. How embarrassing to receive a note under the door. You think you’re still on the farm, or what? You bring out the worst in me. Why don’t you respect me?

— Respect is a two-way street.

— It’s a one-way street. All you have to do is shut up when I say shut up. And how many times have I told you? I don’t want to see you naked. Get dressed, I say, or get out.

— Kika, kika, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it. How does it feel?

— How do you think it feels?

— Kika, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.

— Call a doctor. I won’t forgive you.

— Don’t forgive me, but I didn’t do it on purpose.