Hippie Experiment

I’m in the subway. I open the door to my apartment and I enter into the bathroom. From the classroom I can hear a cry of suffering. I close the door and the windows tremble on an unknown music. A blue portative is swinging on a green tree; the notes are flying from it with red and grey feathers. A phantom appears next to me telling me to sit down. The show must start in three minutes. I look at the watch and it smiles with a child’s mouth. The clock’s tongues are whispering to me of the last three minutes from Garcia Marquez’s life and why the symbolism is a fucked up literary theory… I don’t want to listen to what the clock has to say to me at this hour. I want to run from shows and children’s smiles, from clowns and monkeys, from giant portative that swing on green trees. I hate maidens of honor’s dresses, the pink of the flowers in the chest, braid’s lipstick, groom’s moustache and the uncle’s looks from the first row. I jumped from the window on my first and last wedding, from the eleventh floor with a huge parachute hold by a thousand balloons graved with anarchistic symbols. Someone from the ground yells at me: Jesus, what nonsense! To wear anarchistic symbols when you’re parachuting on such a blue sky! How sadistic! I closed my VCR that was tuning about suicides and terrorist attacks, loves between a rebel girl, with hair of I-don’t-know-what-color and the bass player or even the singer of the band, how many tears and nights and alcoholic drinks he had and his band too, including the fans that never stopped crying and drinking. Oh, wood rock, Norwegian bands, Finnish, lipstick on the back, on the neck, on the legs, on the back of the feet, on Channel windows, Pacco Rabane, Gucci, Gaultier and thousands of fashion labels which I love so madly! From the soundtrack of the band Nirvana I retained some notes that got stuck in my brain, including the videos with the cross and the pistol. Maybe that’s why he committed suicide, when he was in his room and the drug was making its effect in the artist’s veins… or the loser’s veins, it depends on how you look at things. I loved Cobain’s hair because he looked like mine and his teeth and maybe his mouth too… On the Hippie Experiment’s Day a lot of albums were thrown at the garbage. O thousand news about me, my hair, my masks, my mouth’s lines and my eyes, those are very blue. Why don’t you model? Where? What country are you coming from with those eyes? Give them to me because they are gorgeous. The story with kissing and fucking on the music and other kinky stuff with that repeats itself. You broke my heart, you little princess, you made me suffer… blablabla. I was thinking of putting all these stories in a rock album. Great lyrics and full abandonment on a country bed while making love. The only thing remaining from Hippie Experiment was an angry and excited crowd and thousands of condoms on the ground just like at a David Bowie’s concert. An unshaved monk woman condemned me to eternal beauty. I always don’t have money whenever I pass near homeless people or monks that are building monasteries I don’t know where. And immediately I have the thought that I have so many things in common with them. My birthday corresponds with the death day of Rasputin, the day when the empress Elisabeth of Russia, in 1709, with the 14.000 saints as children killed by Irod, another motherfucker, another blasphemy and a lot of ultra-important and holly events. Anyway this thing with the faith and the Bible really is too much for me because I get the feeling that sometimes the ones who go to church grab you with their teeth to stay there and they smell you in every hole. Give me a break! On the other hand, in the Hippie Experiment there is no Bible because the people in the Bible don’t have much fun. One, because there were bisexuals and homosexuals before Christ in huge quantities and it’s the same thing now. So where is the change? Nobody believes in the Bible in our days, there are the same elements that repeat themselves like in the Bible but without Jesus. The same motherfuckers, the same criminals, the same hores, the same good people. But without crucifixion, without repention, without God. Where are you, God? One Lennon reads Reader’s Digest, with a huge pipe full of cannabis, smoking pale and gesticulating the notes from the huge portative hanged on the door to the apartment. You can hear psychedelic music, jazz, swing, rock, the world spins crazy like the disk on the pick-up, like the CD in the computer, confusing the words in a devilish order. Rasputin plays like a madman in the cemetery, happy because he led to communism the whole Russian nation, and because he finally has a vodka label. We are happy for his achievement and we wish him to have a great time at the Hippie Experiment. By the way, don’t believe you’re getting away uninvited… Nein, nein! Next to all the famous dead people, criminals and movie stars you’re on this huge list, colored in red and blue, it depends on what politics you want to adopt on that night. And the drinks are for free, the aliens will compose the music to the party and we also have porno movies downloaded especially for this occasion. Yes! And for the literature to be the one, we invite all the cursing to join the literature pages written or unwritten, after today’s fashion, and everybody that is writing like shit or curse one another like stupid people on sites to join us, maybe a mumbo-jumbo literature will come out of this, super-cool, that not even father Shakespeare will know what the fuck is a verb or a grammatical structure. Shake it! In case you love this part, email me because I’m thinking at a sequel. Cool! We will call this piece experiment literature after 2000, but is not a part of 2000-ism or shittism, and it doesn’t refer to the lick-asses that buy their novels from publishing houses. Nein, nicht! This piece is pure Hippie Experiment, the heaviest literary drug ever conceived! Watch out, it comes in lethal doses! Long live Bossa Nova and Obama! Kiss you, darlings… see ya!