Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— She’s dead. She’s dead.

— Is she really dead? She’s still moving, idiot. After all this training, how can I trust you? Shit.

— Will you please shut up, kika.

— I know, I know exactly what you are saying. I can’t bear it myself. It accumulates in my soul so much anger. Anger is not the word — so much anguish. I know what you mean; it’s as if I myself want to scream:

— Shut up, kiko!

But then it happens, it always happens that way. It comes straight from my lungs, opens my breath, and gives me the strength to scream. I’m writing it while I’m screaming it. It’s implicit in the tone, in the way it smells the page. It gives my tongue an orgasm. I swear, I feel as if I am getting hold of a pear, as if I am climbing a tree to get hold of an orange. And right there you are, losing your grip, holding out your arms, falling. I hold out my arms, I don’t stop, I reach and stretch higher and higher, trembling, and with strength and sadness, I take you in my arms, trembling. I hold you tight as if you were a baby. I let you cry a little bit in my arms:

— Don’t cry —I say. Please don’t cry. It’s over. I saved you. You’re holding tight to my arms. It’s over. Don’t cry.

And then it’s over, it’s all over. It passes away. And I feel like I had it, I feel good. Really good. I don’t care if you got it. Who cares if you understand it? I got it, pipo! I got it, pipo! I got it, pipo!

— Let’s go, concentrate, c’mon, concentrate.

— Puto, what now, puto? Trying to blind me, or what?

— C’mon, turn around.

— To make me dizzy, or what?

— Do what I say.

— Help me concentrate, I said. Don’t make me dizzy.

— I’m inspiring you, can’t you tell? Now step up on the bed. It’s a small step. Careful, atta girl, that’s it.

— Hypnotize me, I said. That’s what Jabalí used to do. He used to put his hands on my forehead and press my temples.

— Chase your tail like Dulcinea, atta girl.

— No, I’ll fall and break a leg.

— Up you go, down around, merengue to the left and back again. Now upsy-wupsy for a piggyback ride.

— Now how can I write if I’m dizzy?

— C’mon, once more trot, atta girl.

— Shut up. I’m the one giving the orders now. Take me to my desk. Sit, right there.

— That’s not your chair.

— Sit.

— It’s over there.

— Take me there, sit down, and don’t move.

— Get ready.

— Shut up and don’t laugh.

— Now try and say I’m not a muse. I bet no writer has done it yet. Not even Henry Miller, who bragged about whoring the whores with pen in hand, with both instruments moving along. Who could be simultaneously writing and fucking? It was a lie. He wrote alone seated with his legs crossed under a typewriter. This is unique. I inspired you, not with dope, just with a sweatband over your eyes. I set you up, hypnotized you, and then, to prove that I’m totally potent, I became the chair of the woman writer. Virginia Woolf would have a fit — a chair of one’s own. Didn’t I tell you that I had an artist inside me? And a thinker, Paco Pepe told me so.

— I had a dream that I was pregnant.

— Don’t worry, it means new ideas are coming. Do you realize what we are doing? Never in the history of literature. James Joyce didn’t write Ulysses seated in Molly’s lap.

— Nora’s.

— Hurry up. My leg is falling asleep. I’m not made of wood. I’ll call my autobiography: My Life as a Chair .

— I always knew that what you want is to write: your biography, your life, your chair. How can I write with my chair bumping and grinding? And the worst. Oh, the dog is coming out of my mouth. I’m gagging. Open my jaw. Oh, save me.

— What’s wrong? Want some water? Let me slap you on the back.

— I’m gagging. The dog is coming out of my mouth. Save me.

— What are you saying?

— A gobber of illusion is gagging me. Faster and faster it galloped like a wild horse that turned into a puppyzuelo in my mouth, and I was thrilled to have given birth to that little puppy.

— What are you saying, loca?

— Didn’t I tell you I had a dream I was pregnant?

— Good news. It means new ideas are dawning.

— But I had a little black Dulcinea who came out of my mouth, wet and curly, and slid down my tongue.

— Which is certainly big enough.

— Her little tail spun around in my mouth like a propeller, prickling and tickling my palette and gums. Almost a feast. I clapped and clapped when I saw her leap from my lips and start giving me kisses of affection, my mother, she thought I was her mother, kisses of affection on my neck, my cheeks, my eyes. Howling and showing her fangs, wagging her little tail, patting my nose with her paw, pawing and gnawing me. I, mother at last, of a Scottish terrier. You know what this means?

— Of course, it means I’m a father. You’re giving birth through your mouth, through your tongue to another fragment. Tell me, did it scream or did it bark?

— What do you mean?

— Well, you’re a barking bitch biting my tongue and my tail.

— It’s obvious you’re missing the shot again. I went to the Met and saw A Lion Chasing a Dog and Children Playing with Fire . Then I saw Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream . Siqueiros’s boy gives birth to a scream that has a body. You don’t hear the scream with your ears. You hear it because another boy comes out of his throat. Voices of silence. Anyway, I gave birth thinking of these paintings, and I was not in agony thinking of you. What a relief to find a healthy pup, wagging her tail. She immediately started poking for my tits. Look for your mother someplace else. I was astounded. I woke up with my eyebrows suspended in surprise, and I repeated to myself in disbelief:

I had a puppy, can you believe it,

I gave birth to Dulcinea,

so small, so, so, beautiful, all moving,

all turning, and stretching, all tender.

I had a dog, can you believe it.

I gave birth to a puppy.

And I was happy, happy, happy that I woke up from my dream, thinking with great relief:

— Thank God it was a puppy. What the hell would I have done with a baby? At least I know what to do with a dog, but with a baby? And weird enough it was through the mouth.

Turn on the faucet. Listen to it run. Doesn’t it make you wanna…

— No, not yet.

— Ssh-ssssh, pee-pee. Let it go. Pssss-pssss. Pull it out. Pssss-pssss. Wait a second. Let me take it off. At the same time. Got it, the same time. My legs will be the bridge over the glass. Stand in front of me. Now, the trick is to piss through my piss, and you lose, you lose if you miss. Both waters must come to an end, I mean, to an understanding. They must run together, rest a while, establish a conversation and run along again. This way, I’ll know if you can keep up with me. Ready?

— Easy, too easy.

— Come, come along the river of my desires.

— I drank a whole bottle of Perrier for this?

— Don’t splash me. C’mon. A lil’ piss here. A lil’ piss there. Here a lil’. There a lil’. I lift my leg and leave a trail so I’ll know I was here when I pass by again — I’ll follow the scent of my piss. I love to piss around the world — on lawns, on walls — like a hose, I lift my leg and relieve myself — I relieve my soul — so I’m not stressed, trying to hold it in because I can’t do it in the house, on a piece of newspaper — I don’t like to piss on the news. I like to piss on the ground, on the roots of a tree, suddenly stop and say: here, I’ll piss right here. Right in this spot. On a sapling. On a tomato seedling. In the dung of a tree. Under the shade of a cypress. When it’s raining. Where nobody wants me to. On buses. On lawns. In unusual spots. Where I feel fine. When I can’t hold it any longer. When I don’t want to. I do it. When I don’t have to. When I’m laughing. When the sun comes out. When I don’t feel like it. When I’m alone. When I feel bad. When it’s raining. And it stops. When I can’t anymore. Whenever I want.