The Writers Voice
The World's
Favourite Literary Website
Dog-Eat-Dog Universe
by
Ovidiu Bufnila
All summer
long, some raving rumors have been floating over
our big cities. Our informational layouts
chattered.
Rumour had it that Manhada was about to come. She
was coming to swallow us. She was coming to
throw us into a cold dark universe. She was getting
ready to destroy our encyclopedia. She was
going to slink in our big cities.
She was bringing anonymous characters with her. She
set her eye by the urban agglomerations from
the bottom of the constellations. She used to send
them a perverted message:
“Watch out, I’m gonna fall in love with you!”
She was gobbling them. All our efforts made for the
totality or for the furious values, are defaults of
an equal number of liberties. Wondering about
Manhada is like claiming for a release invoking
an
imaginary authority.
Manhada is an artifact or a fact of being. She is
sitting on the working desk of the obsolescent
philosophers to find her hilarious redemption. She
sits in the way of the brightness produced by an
addition process practiced within the body of the flexible communication, be it political or
academic.
It’s all but idle talk about the limit in the heart
of big cities as an absolute finite just as like
about the
revolution, seen as a ridiculous fact. It’s nothing
but talk about the authority as a sign constrainer
in
the heart of the outskirts.
The obsolescent scientists are guided by the false
argument that carries the human being beyond its
truth and beyond its final sense. They are lead by
the canonical and hilarious demonstration that
carries the human being beyond its meaning,
deriving it.
Thus, the empty words about Manhada, about the
possibility of turning it into creation or into
utopia
or not turning it at all, claim to belong to the
self boundlessness. They claim to belong to an
arrogant
concept. They claim to belong to an obsolescent
scientist, self-content, centered and endless.
The self-boundlessness succumbs into such empty
words consuming them but also being built on
them. Claiming the intimate relationship with the
authority, the academic self of the literary circle
builds
its own obsolescence. It aims for the observance of
the pragmatism servants or of the servants of the
actual philosophy that lies mockingly among
unilateral truths and illusory truths about tumultuous life of
big cities.
The tango of the furious elites from Takule Makune,
searching for their entropy and hazard and
enjoying the tired filigree of some utopist
historical missions, spins the arguments about the
capacity or
incapacity of creating a new thing. One cannot
perceive the creation of sense in the big cities.
The behavior eludes from the human being’s argument
building obsolescent structures and systems.
It’s on the verge of blossoming into the raving
imagination of the candidates to philosophical and
literary
elections. It’s on the verge of retorting to the
argument of the human being, putting it into
brackets in
order to find its deficiency of sense. But the
human being itself is the argument. In its absence,
or using
it as a finite in the history, the obsolescence is
built up perversely within the body of the
imagination that
produces the new thing to achieve a secret plan of
the dog-eat-dog universe.
To require an argument about Manhada is like
developing the human being on its directions to the
miraculous, missing the splendor of the miracle,
but invoking the authoritarian illusory. To require
an
argument about the creation of the new thing is
like denying its existence, constraining it into a
body
lacked of entropy and thermally dead; that’s what
the philosophers from Tamboree had said.
That’s how the endeavor to argue upon the Manhada’s
evidence to produce grotesque or burlesque
performances in which the obsolescent flexible
people take part, making pirouettes, and the
children
of the authority in its entire perversity.
Classifying the fields of human being,
understanding its forms in
terms of the nature of told things and matters seen
as acts or facilities, stand for a waste of sense.
The beings of big cities cross the Manhada’s
foundation in all directions, staying organized or,
on the
contrary, living in a pell-mell way and following
hazardous models.
Quantifying the individual or reorganizing the
masses according to an illusionary organization, by
means of tax and passing pleasures is quite
ridiculous, but it sounds good for the
implementation of
empty words about limit or about miracle.
The miracle announces the philosophers’ stray. It
announces its own lack of horizon over the history
and over the being. It organizes the horizon
according to land criteria or to the income tax or
to the
vanity of the instruction.
Watching Manhada from under the wavy sails of
capacity or of incapacity is pure madness or
self-denial, as long as the new city is not an
exteriorizing factor of the human being, an
exterior, the
human being is the argument of rewriting the narrative structures. It is a new city adequate for
its
hardships, just as the miracle, like a great event,
it belongs to fractional simultaneity; this is not
the limit
of the neighbor worlds governed by a constraining
Euclidian regime.
The miracle is neither a key of modernity, nor the
lack of properties of the beings embodied into the
new thing that might be the new situation. Nor can
it be a break of the reality, as long as the
development of the narrative structures are not
alike, there is no connection, not even by forcing
a
metaphor or parable.
Manhada is not in the least a classical origin
metamorphosis.
The modernity is not actually modernity, as it
doesn’t really exist.
The Inquisition for example, having the legal right
to claim itself a modern concept within its
history,
the morality has nothing to do with the
encyclopedic instructions which waste the history
in an
apocalyptical manner.
Manhada talks about the setting of the new thing by
a simultaneity exercise, by a sense of dissolution.
“Manhada calls the human being not to join it, but
to orchestrate the building of something else,” Bobolina shouted, flapping her tinfoil wings
to satisfy the pharaoh Ku Ra Ra’s thirst.
Such a thing is claimed to be the metamorphosis of
big cities, which is not like being a broken
continuum. And this is because the fraction is
neither between two solid bodies and nor does it
trace
an illusory barrier between the reality and the
imagination.
Manhada seemed to be the fraction, as we
understood, the magicians of mystery, those
fabulous
creatures of the big cities.
The trumpeters from Galeea have announced her
towards the evening with strong long deafening
sounds. The drummers from Cretona have broken their glass arms. The hussars from Goblena have
tunneled the virtual fields in the horses’ gallop,
wishing to find her in their imagination.
We have been seeking her for a thousand years
without even suspecting it. The happy
astrophysicists
from Ehren, Adamville and Takule Makune could have discovered her dangerous presence in the
ashes of the stars that they had been studying with
such vividness.
It was just like we’d been throwing ourselves
blindly into a virtual whirl without taking into
account
the dangers that were hunting us.
The reformed cachalots from Ehren were plotting to
break down the wall from Takule Makune,
whilst Obin Oba met vice-president Weinberger in
secret, on the board of the yellow submarine that
Abu Kadar had anchored not far from Puerto Rico,
near to the Devil’s Isles.
General Baskaev argued with the august authority of
Burbansk and the knights from Guaribo sent a
letter to Sergeant Slatt informing him on the
tragic events that would occur.
The pneumatic people from Ghile Ga found out that
Petra Petronius had discovered an odd cell
having a huge virtual pair. They said it was the
very essence of the bizarre town, Manhada.
Bobolina from Tamboree had promised to the
electricians from Susa Mabusa that she would find
out
the whole truth, but the lieutenants of Emperor
Ogawa have always thrown sand in the wheels.
The werewolf from the arsenal in Galeea told
everyone that he had a nightmare and that the
magicians
of mystery might just wrap a dog-eat-dog universe
in a starry mantle. The werewolf dreamed himself
on Haman mountain and for the first time in his
life, he swore he had seen a diamond of old light
with
which we could illuminate the truth swallowed by Manhada.
The gravediggers from Kauna Kunao searched for the
werewolf wishing to rape him as they were
going to attack Tulule and to become immortal.
General Monteores met the nabob of Bagoda trying to
make an agreement on dividing the world and Colonel Sharun thought for the first time that
Pitoskin, one of his men, might be useful to him to
find
out as many things as possible about Manhada.
The totalitarian people from Cretona planned an
ambush in which they wanted to attract the
totalitarian people from Galeea and the order
forces from Betola tried to scatter the ten
thousand
scavengers who were going to stab the national
governess to death and to arrest Emperor Ogawa’s
officers.
The great shield from Qiatotocoatl became a dispute
subject between the ambassadors of the oriental
elections and those of occidental elections, and
we, the magicians of the past, were nestling within
an
imperial albatross, getting prepared for
reinterpreting the imperfection.
Flying above the Haman mountain, we saw Miss
Margareta from the small town of Beauburg bill and
coo with Pitoskin. They were frisking into a
hayrick. It didn’t even cross their minds that soon
we
would make the dog-eat-dog universe secret.
In the distance, beyond Azego Bazego, one could
admire the dance of clouds from Marsila Molé and
the seagoing forces of Vice-president Weinberger
produced the first virtual whirls.
The sky turned red and one could hear the roar of
cannons from Kumbra Kumbrali.
The peace of one thousand years is totally out of
question!
Biting Miss Margareta’s little ear, Pitoskin told
her about Davi curls, about the universal orgasm
and
about the diamonds of old light in which the
terrible truth about Manhada might be.
Miss Margareta passed her finger between her lips
and whispered to Pitoskin that the ignorance and
the foolishness of the national governess from
Bulbona would lead secret agents to destruction and
that the wonderful art of spying was coming to an
end.
Pitoskin tried to calm her down, but then he saw us
floating through the air. He ran after the imperial
albatross in order to bring it down with rocks. He
let it go, as beyond the rocks on the shore, he saw
the yellow submarine of Abu Kadar sailing lazily.
Near the cannons from the prow, vice-president
Weinberger was chatting with Obin Oba. They were
laughing heartily. They were smoking cigar. They
were tapping friendly on each other’s shoulder and,
now and then, they were hugging.
They planned the future of the peoples from Guaribo,
Kodaon and Tonga Tongao, the rape of
Agomanian Agomanianos who was fighting against the
Devil, they were planning the ecstasy of
crowds from Takule Makune, the morning of generals
from Quanqo Koqué, the tide of roses in
Adamville, and the theft of secrets in San Gastoban.
Colonel Sharun would have given anything to find
out about the whole secret.
Watching himself in a mirror brought by a pilgrim
from Burbansk, the colonel screwed up his lips and he
promised that one day he would rule the world.
Pitoskin pulled out his spyglass and followed
carefully the lip movements of the two, hoping
that he
would get an extra star.
A sailor climbed into the nacelle wanting to shoot
the albatross for Abu Kadar’s lunch.
The sailor was a fat and toothless person. He had
lots of scars on the cheek. He had fought in
Nulome, in Popocatepetlàn and in Guabano Lao.
He was Abu Kadar’s lover and he had been bought for
two bushels of gold from Metongo Bambo.
Abu Kadar was very fond of him and he had killed
many whale hunters and imperial soldiers who
had dared to take a glimpse at his lover.
Vice-president Weinberger hit the hand of the
sailor. The hot bullet whistled threateningly and
dived
into the wave's foam.
Abu Kadar came in a hurry.
He was all sweaty. He had his coat unbuttoned and
his huge moustaches got tousled.
His boots smelled like tar. The buckle of his belt
got rusty because of the salted air, and his
baldhead
was full of brownish spots. The steel sword of
Polga Polgani clanged impatiently and menacingly.
The
rifle offered by the artillerymen from Beauburg had
been swollen with heavy bullets ready to kill any
colt that would have dared to face Kadar. The
dagger stolen from Galeea was ready to stab meanly,
and the lasso given by the governor from Togai
laughed mockingly waiting to hang everyone around
it
lovingly.
The vice-president confessed that during his
childhood an imperial albatross appeared in his
dreams
and told him about the diamonds of old light, about
the dog-eat-dog universe and about the women
from Manhada. At first sight, everything seemed to
be a superb illusion, but Weinberger was
convinced that it was the very same albatross.
Abu Kadar threw a glance at Obin Oba.
Obin Oba had a mantle sewn with golden thread; his
eyes were as dark as pitch. One could hear the
gallop of wild horses in his breath. One could read
out the hundreds of bloody battles on his tattoos,
and the blood of the pneumatic people killed by the
cavalry charge at Quiatotocoatl hasn’t dried yet
on his boots.
Obin Oba nodded approval.
The spring was coming to an end and they said that
tragic events that were to change the course of all
worlds and of the dog-eat-dog universe might occur.
Abu Kadar pulled out his sword and cut off the head
of his lover.
Might this moment have been an act of strategic
discouragement initiated by the rival secret forces
from other worlds? Might it have been an intrigue
plotted by a rebel within our encyclopedia? Might
it
have been a conspiracy plotted by the stately
authority from Calabra, who was hand in hand with
the
spies who came from beyond the visible horizon?
But how could such spies act as long as we, the
magicians of mystery, were an informational
homogeneity and we ruled the mystery of
horizontality?
Have the narrative and the descriptive techniques
of the encyclopedia been deeply virused? Did the
sociologic analysis show us the tendencies?
Did the Bobolins, the fabulous jelly fish, the
scavengers form Guaribo, the housekeepers from Takule
Makune, the octopuses and reformed cachalots from
Ehren and many other fabulous characters
stand for the ideal base for the informational
viruses used by the rival secret forces from beyond
our
visible horizon?
Could it have been a state of rebellion of the free
imaginary structures that we have discovered during
our apparent movement towards the ultimate sense of
the dog-eat-dog universe?
Why haven’t we avoided Manhada after all? What kind
of city was it?
Why did we let ourselves be attracted by the spinning
of the big molecules, without paying attention to
the crowd of molecules springing out of the virtual
whirls, looking for a mate, or for a balance point
in
which to start their great adventure through the
dog-eat-dog universe?
Why would we have preferred the abyss of
imagination to a state of informational serenity?
Reinterpreting the narrative and descriptive
techniques we are obliged to reorganize the instructions
mentioned in our encyclopedic inventory.
The worlds from the cities in our encyclopedia,
Molina Mar, Burbansk, Puerto Rico and Qiatotocoatl
appear to us imperfect, the economical, religious,
military, cultural and any other kind of acts,
often
acts voided of substance.
Imperfection is not our final aim just as the spies
from beyond the visible horizon are not our true
enemies.
The acts of disinformation plotted by the rival
secret forces helped us discover the miraculous
properties of horizontality.
Thus, we managed to infer the strategies of
magnetic fields and we understood that the
arrangement
of the boundless cities is claimed to belong to the
codes constituted for the pleasure of
interpretation.
We found out that malice and arrogance of the one
who interprets are certain proofs of vulnerability.
The obsolescent scientists from Patola, from
Beauburg and from Gugumbe have extolled tradition
and
they have attacked the foundations of the
increasing forces working for their destruction and
for the
welfare of the conservatory spirit. The literary
masters from Pantrasiva, Kalombra and Baha gave
lectures and speeches about the great nothing,
bewildering the masses and announcing the
apocalypse to please the august governess.
All these experiences convinced us to start looking
for the miracle and they organized what someone
would call the tendency of the big city.
Experience goes together with the hidden meaning of
our mission and we are right to believe that,
most of the time, ignorance and foolishness are
consciously institutionalized in the big cities of
our encyclopedia.
They are supported either by the propaganda against
the public welfare, or by the monopoly upon
immortality. They have a devastating effect,
starting virtual whirls and generating revolutions
that the
obsolescent scientists from Doga Noga and Marsila
Molé take for an exemplary crossroads, craving
for a devastating action.
Such being the case, imperfection doesn’t talk
about the end of history. In the heart of big
cities, the
fight between the outskirts and the center hides
other meanings than the official ones and throws
doubt upon history. Cynicism kills the critical
enthusiasm and criticism turns to be useless in a
world
where the body kills the sight.
We started looking for the ultimate sense believing
that, though it seems finite, the existence is a
boundless creation. We’re prisoners of some
fundamental informational matrix, but we struggle
to
build the impossible.
During our apparent movement through the
dog-eat-dog universe, we discover that meanings
stuck
into the stereotypes are more fatal than the
missiles or the earthly forces or even the waves of
the
agitated digital ocean.
That is why the tenacious plotters from Quanqo
Koqué and Togai are searching in the depth of the
encyclopedia for the magic formula with the help of
which they could master the tectonic movements
and they speak in code words about the unveiling of
the secret, about the mystery and the miracle. They
wish to govern the great cities in terror.
The imminent disclosure of the secret burns the
forms and gives birth to sequent events putting the
prophecies from Guamba and Tefalo into big trouble
and minimizing the actions of the secretive men
from Guaribo, Metembo and Wole Wa.
Yet, the disclosure does not mean the secret decays.
The informational wars show us that, in the heart
of big cities, it is the limit that evolves, and
the
superior organization by catastrophes belongs to
the neighborhood.
The forms oriented towards the ultimate sense of
things lose their genetic slimness and their sense
of
interpretation most of the time. That’s why we’re fighting strongly during informational wars looking
for the unexpected changes of the urban
agglomerations.
The appearance of the strange Manhada in our
proximity made us start our procedures of making
the
dog-eat-dog universe secret and made us take into account the nations ending, the empires ending
and the vulgarization of history.
The threat of the empire might be the crossroads.
And the terrorism might hide the depth of forms
brought from beyond the visible horizon by the
parts
of the encyclopedias that we haven’t interpreted.
The terrorism was perversely built up, in the heart
of urban agglomerations and it stands for the
other’s refusal. Apparently, terrorism insures the
governing presence.
It is the enemy’s presence. It’s the malefic
presence. It doesn’t announce the new wars, but the
imperial epoch.
Which will be the empire?
The important thing to know is not which empire
there will be, but how the empire will function.
Being
in the prediction or prophecy area, we cannot be
misled about the terms. But don’t the inspirations
from Galeea do it while carrying the ugly women to
the scaffold?
But imperfection is the very splendor of thinking.
The lack of big armies in bloody, tragic and grand
battles announces an imperial creation.
The difference is prepared.
The soldiers of the empires dip their lances into
the barbarians’ blood. But aren’t the barbarians
from
the outskirts of the cities Gotumba, Askayo and
Guantile such charming creatures in the volumes of
the
world's hidden plan?
The arts of complexity are developed in perversity.
The empire extends forever, swallowing the great
urban agglomerations, craving for its imaginary
state.
The empire seems to be the ultimate sense, the last
instruction of our encyclopedia.
The empire stands for the end of democracy.
It succumbs; it stifles under the mass's enthusiasm
whose metabolism must function permanently,
swallowing greedily the false heroes. The false
heroes are skillfully built or built by mistake in
Mastrokas, Azego Bazego and Tulule. Their exercise
lies under the sign of conspiracy, of rebellion;
the insurgence is not invoked.
We live in the splendor of incertitude.
The governor of Togai doesn’t trust the emperor of
Ogawa, and vice-president Weinberger suspects
them all. Obin Oba turns a deaf ear to the
flattery, and Pitoskin, the colonel Sharun’s man,
often
wonders if he really exists and if the world of big
cities is real.
We, magicians of mystery, take forms and enter the
core of events, being their very essence. We
don’t know for sure if we exist or if we are
functioning according to a secret plan with
instructions that
we don’t have.
We float within an ambiguous ocean.
But one thing we know: our wonderful spying art
revealed that if the walls of big cities were an
absolute limit then nothing would exist.
The urban forms of the encyclopedia bustled.
Under the pressure of magnetic fields, we entered a
miraculous simultaneity restricting the imaginary
field. The present, the past and the future were
found on the same level, and for a millionth part
of a
second we watched ourselves.
We weren’t interested in rebels, in
revolutionaries, in conspirators, in predictors, in
intriguers or in
innocents. We built an appearance. Making the
dog-eat-dog universe secret, we covered the entire
space and temporal concept of the encyclopedia.
The entropy became a symbolical construction and
the time of the big cities ran out.
The lack of history and time by deconstructing the
norm and the attitudinal reevaluation in an
illusory
continuum seem to be the tendency to the ultimate
sense.
The fragmentation and the simultaneity
center-outskirts in the urban agglomerations arrest
the
enthusiasm of the scientist who lapses his natural
right in Matola, Rabodaran and Metula.
The social reading spaces will not belong to the
ultimate sense any longer, and the sociologist will
not
be the ideal reader of the unchained limitless
urbanism any more. We don’t see here the death of
sociology but a metamorphosis, a change of rhythm
in the encyclopedic worlds. The cardinals from
Gutumbe, the nice monks from Guaribo and Tulule,
the bishop from Takule Makune and many other
church characters have met in secret several times
to find a common language in a world of diversity.
The unity of diversity and the discovery of
languages in the big cities are illusory; the unity
doesn’t
exist as the authority is deconstructed, rebuilding
itself during the erosion process.
This is the dynamics of chaos. Was Manhada ready to
wolf us down, sniffing the chaos of our
encyclopedia?
General Monteores sent his divers to find out what
was going on and Obin Oba started a war to the
death with vice-president Weinberger.
Miss Margareta sent the nabob of Bagoda a secret
message in which she warned him of a possible
attempt; Emperor Ogawa asked his hunters for the skin
of the blue whale and Abu Kadar took his yellow
submarine close by Bulbona for a night shelling.
General Baskaev wanted to make a secret alliance
with the stately august governess in Guaribo. The
women from Manhada appeared for the first time on the mountain Haman and the electric people
from Susa Mabusa prepared to invade Tulule.
Bobolina met an alchemist from Marsila Molé in a
café on the roses boulevard from Cutumbe. The
alchemist tried to produce a strange attractor and
he was keen on watching arts. He wished to find
the philosopher’s stone from the heart of Manhada.
Argobai Gogobenos, the all-happy Kodaon, decreed
the season of butterflies and the governor of
Togai tried to transform into a dragonfly with the
help of some scholars from Gozeha in order to go
up unhindered in Manhada.
The scholars knew all about the birth of the
dog-eat-dog universe and they managed to make the
blue
whale from Puerto Rico talk, and they unraveled the meanings of certain messages found in the sands
of Galobra.
The messages were addressed to a magician from Susa
Mabusa who had occult connections with the
inspired men from Kalabrar and who seemed to know
the truth about Manhada.
The reformed cachalots gathered in Kauna Kunaó.
They prepared the April conferences and they
sent invitations in the entire encyclopedia.
Agobembe Kabila informed them that he would give a
memorable lecture on the end of the wonderful art
of spying and colonel Sharun advised them to take
safety measures.
The informational knots from Azego Bazego,
Adamville and Bankusai vanished in the dark night
and
the pneumatic people from Ghile Ga were ready to
confront Manhada in battle to death on the Bogga
valley.
Vice-president Weinberger asked his admiral to send
an aircraft carrier in the area and general Guan
Ho and general Guan Hoa hurried to enter the
mountain pass Qe to push the start of some
negotiations.
The dancers from Beauburg told that the magicians
of mystery animated the huge blue whale and that
secret forces were planning the change of the
world, the arrogance, the lack of schedule, the
illusory
glory, the immortality by an insular or literary
circle act, the false rhetoric about the death of
the genre,
the soubrettes or the literary masters who are
taken as stiff critics are only few elements of a
carnival
of imagination.
The rival secret forces initiated the entropies of
second rank. Yet, we had knowledge of the
turbulences. We knew very well that the outskirts
from Omaha, from Cardena and from Burbansk
included their centers as the democracies in our
descriptive structures, Adamville, Beauburg and
Molina Mar included their dictatorship.
The domination of the center over the outskirts in
the great urban agglomerations is not a matter of
geometry in the imaginary field. It’s rather a
question of relativity.
Once, Emperor Ogawa wrote to Petra Petronius
inviting him to the court to give a lecture on the
center and the outskirts. The astrophysicist
refused him but he used an informational knot to
keep in
touch with the emperor. Ogawa thought that
Petronius is self-conscious of the center.
What about us, the magicians of mystery?
We are not self-conscious of the center, thus
rendering the idea that our freedom has nothing to
do
with Euclidian geometry.
We don’t organize the networks of the great urban
agglomerations in concentric circles, although
sometimes we let the spies who came from beyond the
visible horizon to interpret our subtle
movement as if they were.
Such characters stand for a limited model of the
big cities. The concentric circles, drawn in the
middle
of wars and rebellions started for the center
supremacy surround the urban center like some
undefeatable walls. They limit it. They define it
as simultaneity. It’s false! The concentric circles
produce either the insolence and the arrogance or
the stultifying and the unfaithfulness of the
inhabitants.
In a perverse way, some of them launch signals of
love to the outskirts.
They boast with them wickedly. They anesthetize
their senses. They show themselves ready to plan
grand projects. They even fight for their illusory release. They call the national governess to help
the
outskirts, to issue laws, decrees and inspired
orders.
The politicians, the business men and the
obsolescent visionaries court the outskirts of the
big cities,
they waltz with them, they send them perfumed
letters or motorized divisions or food and pills
and a
brotherly greeting, all of them being respectable
people.
In our symbolical constructions, the descriptive
structures are merging indistinctively, thus
fighting for
supremacy; they build respectable people creating an imaginary standard that functions both on the
outskirts and center.
Certain outskirts of the big urban agglomerations
have a calling for the center. Others aspire to
universality. They plot against each other. They
revolt. They start a revolution. They send their
irregular armies and their brigands to rob the fortresses and the floating cities or the
informational
knots. The gunpowder filled the atmosphere. The
virtual networks flicker ghost-like, they are
about
to die, stuffed with informational worms.
If the dog-eat-dog universe were homogenous, the
rebellion in its narrative structures would be a
paradox. Or perhaps it would be the certain sign of
the activity of the rival secret forces. The lack
of
homogeneity of the dog-eat-dog universe would bring
to question some of the instructions of the
encyclopedias. This would turn us into a particular
case of informational organization. We might
become singular. We might become a finite. We
couldn’t possibly become a gerund: being, which
should be an open, charming structure. The point is
what meaning we give to homogeneity.
Homogeneity could be the whirl of the dancers from
Marsila Molé, the pollen drops on the plains
from Guaribo, the days’ foam from Qiatotocoatl.
The confusion stirs the spirits. We give ourselves
in to incertitude. One would say we are masochists,
that we are telluric and limited. The states of
incertitude, succeeding like in a waterfall, give
birth to
moments of genius in the outskirts and to academic
moments in the center. They produce vulgarity in
the outskirts and arrogant and superior attitudes
in the center, in the heart of the big cities threatened
by ravenous Manhada.
Heated minds make an appointment at the April
conferences. These conferences take place at the
astronomic observatory from Takule Makune, yearly.
The august governess is also invited to give a
speech: she allocates the funds; she is responsible
for the budget and for the medals.
We don’t describe the outskirts comparing to the
center by means of compass points. We work with
incertitude. We work with entropies and utopias.
Now and then, the people inspired by the
totalitarians from Guaribo, from Doga Noga or
Cretona or by the writing of the conservationists
from
Nulome, use the small events to build a model.
Incertitude is the essence.
Vulgarizing the issue, Galeea or Bulbona or
Adamville are but poor small towns with an
international
power center and this is, in its turn, a tiny bead
in the foam of the dog-eat-dog universe.
Certainly, the great art of spying would be
ridiculous if things were so simple. And we, the
magicians
of mystery, would fall into obsolescence.
We are vain. We are different from the obsolescent
scientists and writers from Molina Mar, from
Guaribo and Popocatepetlán. Their poor vanities
succumb to vulgarization. They aspire to belong to
the center or even more to be the center of the big
urban agglomerations. They would become the
authority. Bulbona, Mastrokas, Omah and Gozeha
would be their expression. They are the container,
and the descriptive structures are their content.
They reject reality.
For instance the blood stained head of Abu Kadar’s
lover is not a head. It’s a construction that ought
to be interpreted. Sinking it into formol, watching
it closely with a magnifying glass, shaping it into
a
primary informational knot, the obsolescent
scientists put forward sentences upon totality.
To mislead the rival secret forces we are ready to
reinterpret the report between center and outskirts
and we generate some sequent events, planning the rebellion of scavengers from Bankusai, the
morning of the generals from Nulome, the revolt
from Alundao, the attack from Pitonga Batonga, the
evening migrations from Pasola and the clouds dance
from Togai. But we know that outskirts devour
their own genius and ideal and they end up in
vulgarity, concluding a shameful armistice.
The perverse center of the big urban agglomerations
waits patiently for the death of the outskirts. But
it won’t let them end up in ridiculous or tragic manifestations. In the last moment, it will rescue
them
allowing the welcome and the celebration of the
hero, with much ado, temporarily. It will embellish
with flower wreaths and it will throw fire works in
the air reddened by bullets and bombards and it
will prepare the ordeal of anonymity for the most
beloved one of the outskirts, in secret.
Then the center and the outskirts gather to plot
against the dog-eat-dog universe. The upper classes
leave the masses and abandon themselves to the imaginary, throwing themselves blindly into the
first
whirl in their way. That’s why we make the
dog-eat-dog universe secret, inventing catastrophes
and
epoch-making events. That’s why we build the
incertitude, which troubles the forms. That’s
exactly
why we let ravenous Manhada approach us so
dangerously close.
The crowds from Omah, from Vale Note, from Ehren,
from Metongo Bambo, from Polga Polgani
and from Guabano Lao don’t ignore our actions. They
devour their own heroes, putting them at the
buttonhole, and they look for a suitable rival.
We are ready to build it.
The crowds will worship it or they will kill it,
thus signaling the terrible truth of all worlds.
We still don’t have an overview of the rival secret
forces but we guess that they will decide upon
certain shapes and states according to their
encyclopedic instructions. We register sporadic
magnetic
fluctuations. They are either manifestations of the
fields, or proofs of some likely military
activities of
our enemies.
They start affluence procedures to our depths and
they search for a space and temporal slit in which
they trickle their agents. We’re already talking
about the actions that prepare a local war, an
extension of a matrix war. General Baskaev would
like us to attack on a large front. General
Monteores agrees and vice-president Weinberger
calls his fleet to order.
But we are the battlefield!
We make the enemy devilish. We plot the matrix
wars. We could become our own enemy. We build
the difference. We release the masses out of the
imaginary pressure; we announce the apocalypse.
General Baskaev accuses vice-president Weinberger
and general Monteores points to emperor
Ogawa. Lieutenant Slatt suspects colonel Sharun and
the women from Manhada say that Bobolina
was the one who called the spies from beyond the
visible horizon, by means of astrological
practices.
The oil sets every one against each other and it
stirs them to void the imaginary, peopling the big
cities
with phantasmagorias and threatening tales about
spies and matrix wars.
Breached or top secret policies and treaties
fragment the image field. It claims to be the great
text,
which escapes from the interpretation of the mob.
Domination over the oil field escaped from the
vulgarizer, which started to claim his fiction
against the ingenuous spirits.
Could it be a secret plan?
It’s a carnival world. The speakers from Gutola and
Denna compete with each other to assassinate
the poor critical spirit or they move hell to prove
that it was Petra Petronius who has discovered the
theory of ambiguous relativity and not Elal Belal
from Qanta.
The literary masters and the politicians mould the
pedestal for their statues, and the hooligans,
disguised in founders of the worlds, rape their
immortality giving names to their surroundings, as
they
are still alive. The upper class toils promptly, keeping an eye on Marsila Molé, Gugumbe, Takule
Makune, Wole Wa and Vale Note.
“Yes, yes,” the wise spirits whisper, “Everything
is rotten.” These are the signs of the secret plan.
There’s no doubt about it.
Those crazy people who want a regionalization in
order to solve out the Gross Domestic Product and
the new rebels lift up the scaffolds for the
previous generations, getting ready to feed with
their
corpses. The obsolescent critical character is put
on a job before it dies, and the dead metaphysical
question is used by the occults to soften the ego
of a Foreign Minister from beyond the visible
horizon.
The spies are watching us. They are training. “To
the left! To the right!” There’s no place to turn
back.
They impress us by their discipline and permanent
training. I’m preparing Manhada. She forces its
fictional engines at highest level.
She fakes patriotism.
Even the patriotism is healthy and it is genuinely
painted. One would say that the police from Kumbra
Kumbrali, from Gozeha, from Mauna Lao and
Qiatotocoatl are on the verge of killing the peace
of
the mob.
The water towers calm down the enthusiasm and they
make good to the mystical, philosophical or
anarchist outbreaks. The august governess has no reasons to worry about. She puts
on some make-up in
front of the mirror and she pleasures herself
frantically, crying with joy.
On television, they debate difficult problems:
about dead and wounded and about material damages.
They all are good to everything and the great
scholars announce the verdict.
This defines the hidden plan. It is a cryptic plan.
Petronius is dressed up. Elal Belal is wrapped in
tinsel. We warm up with adages and a compulsory
abundant bibliography. We live in a myth. We are
the content of a metaphor.
The Cardinals from Rigonna, Beauburg and Vale Note
are gathered in the angels’ circular hall from
Quiatotocoatl for a three-day debate on the
religious nature, to fight against the idea of a
hidden plan.
Some cardinals demand that the local churches
receive new liberties for the management of the
church on a universal level, criticizing the
authoritarianism of the center.
The church, subdued to the whirl of change that
sucks the whole world, wishes, deep inside, a new
position, the church wishes to get out of the
conservatism and the confinement, the church wants
a
new life.
The complexity is a difficult challenge for an
institution that still has the advantage of a
well-guarded
secret and of an impressive number of disciples in
all worlds. Strongly connected by the great
geographical discoveries, by crusades, by revolutions and spectacular changes in the modern
policy,
the religious nature in the angels’ circular hall
faces a scientific matter.
Bobolina’s imagination created a fantastic sentence
and we abstained with great difficulty not to
betray ourselves. Bobolina told us that Manhada had
brought the present, the past and the future on
the same level, under the pressure of magnetic
fields.
Was it a subtle attempt of the rival secret forces
to virus our encyclopedia by magnifying the
informational surface of its narrative structures?
The nabob of Begoda started to follow her, the
emperor Ogawa is keen on getting her, general
Monteores wants to make peace with general Baskaev because of Manhada, the beardless artist
from Guaribo is ready to write a poem for the women
in Manhada, Obin Oba wants to blow
Adamville up so that Manhada couldn’t be attracted
by its gravitational field. “The werewolf from the
arsenal in Takule Makune brags that he knows
something about Manhada,” Bobolina whispered to
us, striking an agent sent by colonel Sharun to
find her, with her little umbrella. Time is a
bugbear for
the young ladies from the academy from Galeea, for
the literary Masters from Molina Mar and for the
national governess from Cretona, Guaribo and
Catombo.
The nabob of Begoda knew it well. He had built the
floating cities out of virtual whirls captured by
his
stargazer, by means of incantations. He attacked Gonfleda, Bulbona and Cretona. He would have
been capable of anything to knock general Baskaev
to pieces, to rape Farigot, to harass the life out
of emperor Ogawa and to blow up the great shield
from Takule Makune, just to moon about.
Gonfleda had swelling streets and three electric
suns, Bulbona was sleeping idly under the Alal
Ocean, and Cretona was hiding its chalk gardens
under singing sands and mirrors brought from Quzo
and Elal Belal.
What about Bobolina?
She is a big and fat one. She’s the elephant-woman
from Tamboree. You cannot make a fool of her.
She had ventured through all the narrative
structures, which, apparently, were developing
under the
pressure of magnetic fields, and she had fought
during all informational wars from the beginning of
millennium. She was on good terms with the glaziers
from Quzo. She made business with the
reformed cachalots from Halombra. She turned the
governor of Togai round her little finger.
She was famous for her intuition in Kamol Pator.
She was firm and clever and she lied in her
teeth.
She had an entire network of informers in Puerto Rico, Doga Noga, Burbansk and Molina Mar. She knew the names of all agents working for Obin Oba, emperor Ogawa and colonel Sharun by heart.
Sometimes, she mocked at them by taking their own looks and sneaking into their networks.
She told us some ill-famed stories about colonel
Sharun, about Petra Petronius from Gambela and
about Elal Belal from Takule Makune. She crushed a
hoha nooha bug, which was recording our
conversation for emperor Ogawa’s information, she
kissed us in a hurry, she opened her wings and flew beyond the clouds towards Togai to plan an
ambush for the devil who had just been preparing to
give a stroke in the abandoned circus in Adamville.
Reinterpreting our narrative structures and
experimenting with new instructions that have Bobolina
as a
research subject, we are planning rebellions, stirs
and ecstasy states in the squares from Candorra,
Puerto Rico and Popocatepetlàn.
The nabob of Begoda, virused by rival secret
forces, financed the rebellions of the scavengers
from
Guaribo, and he sent guns and ammunition to the
boxers in Takule Makune to be able to overthrow
the dictatorial regime imposed by Gozbanian
Guzbaian.
The scavengers from Guaribo demand a wage raise and
new overalls for the rest of the orgies in
Manhada would suffocate the outskirts, making them
work harder, for nothing.
But wouldn’t misery make the difference? Isn’t it
the secret of the secrecies? Isn’t she the very
difference between character and lack of character,
between discipline and chaos, between order
and disorder, between imagination and encyclopedia,
between body and mind, between real and
virtual, between whole and totality?
The garbage is the symbol of liveliness. It’s the
trace of life printed on the skin of the
dog-eat-dog
universe, in the middle of the virtual whirls.
There’s nothing out there without garbage. It’s
just a thought. It’s a virtual whirl captured by
the Alal
Ocean with the help of electric storms. It’s a
dream.
The garbage emphasizes the fervor of the being, the
neglect, the superabundance of aspiration, the
concern, the laziness and the ignorance. It announces the terrible truth of all worlds.
The scavengers are sublunary beings. They don’t
have an altar like the ones from Gozeha. They don’t
have national holidays like beings from Guabano
Lao. They don’t belong near the august governess in
the tribune, like in Metongo Bambo. And they aren’t
invited to dinner like the craftsmen from Trina Ta.
Yet, they all act according to the rules and subtle
standards, be they pneumatic, electric or organic
beings.
To thwart the plans of the rival secret forces, we
change the instructions of the encyclopedia,
inventing new urban structures and stirring the old
ones.
Our narrative structures shaking, the fabulous
characters stopped acting, conform to the
instructions.
Colonel Sharun sends the dolt to fish secrets out
of the werewolf from the Arsenal in Galeea. Galeaa
is full of Kutambo spies and rebel totalitarians
that want to destroy the whole world.
Bobolina belongs to the Kutambo tribe, too. She has
three eyes and she carries after her a literary
circle of beardless man, wearing sunglasses. Bobolina
pretends he is her hostage.
Sharun’s man, Pitoskin, looks for the bragging
werewolf. A bird catcher with a trunk turns
somersaults
and swears he saw the loquacious fellow in a bar on
the promenade, two days ago.
Pitoskin bought some second-hand boots for the
werewolf to fish secrets out of him. The windbag
has seven hairy and fast legs. They are of
different sizes and they made him famous on the
play yards
from Gugombe, Kalabrar and Areba Komburo and
Guaribo and Kamol Pator. The werewolf
bragged to everybody he saw Manhada walking down
from the Moon, swinging lustfully.
Pitoskin was diddled. He doesn’t even care about
colonel Sahrun’s orders anymore. He has some plans
of his own. He will play his life card.
He goes down to the warehouses to find a topman
about whom the werewolf told him that the former
would have been fooling around with women from Manhada.
We spy on Pitoskin behind the walls. Our starry
mantles produce small dust whirls on the alleys
burnt
by the sun. Bobolina keeps an eye on us and sells
us for nothing to emperor Ogawa’s lieutenants.
Ogawa is the nephew of
the governor of Togai and he
dreams of extending his power up to beyond the
Alal Ocean.
There are certain signs that our encyclopedia
supports some consequent changes, Bobolina
multiplies
and the air is filled with elephant-women who buzz like some bumblebees on the point of devouring
us.
Pitoskin cannot hear or see. He yearns to bill and
coo. He’ll find Manhada and will make a harem;
he’ll snuff tobacco and play billiards with the
electric people from Susa Mabusa and with the
pneumatic people from Ghile Ga.
Pitoskin buys a secret map from the topman. The
places on that map are completely unknown to us.
You cannot even find them in the encyclopedic
inventory. Is it a stellar map or instructions
transmitted
by the rival secret forces?
Pitoskin stops in the middle of the road. He steps
back. He turns to the left. He looks like a
disjointed
puppet. A bunch of virtual whirls spring out of his
chest. His body is overheated.
The swarm of bobolinas meets other swarms. These
are flying jellyfish, ghosts, Godzilla and
wandering spirits. They are quarrelling with each
other. A second sun comes out from behind the
mountains and emperor Ogawa gets down from a cloud
wanting to proclaim himself the world’s
emperor.
It’s a whole mess. Colonel Sharun jumps out of a
helicopter accompanied by a commando troop
armed to the teeth. Obin Oba gets out of the sand
accompanied by a group of hudango riders. Manhada
comes out of a loud “slap!” and she floats majestically above all. The encyclopedia loses its
energy.
More and more virtual whirls spring out of the
fabulous forms and of our narrative structures,
making
a lot of smoke.
A huge blue whale swallows Galeea, taking it to the
bottom of the ocean.
Bobolina got above the water together with her
swarm. Emperor Ogawa gets out of the waves
accompanied by his soldiers, and governor of Togai
arrives accompanied by some undecided
totalitarians that wanted to give a memorable lecture on the stellar mechanics, sacrifice and
sacrilege.
They got some ideas about the totality, which
they will present during a pantomime show when over
five thousand people are expected to participate.
General Monteores arrives in a cruiser.
Abu Kadar arrives in his yellow submarine followed
by general Baskaev’s fast stars.
Some secret treaties are decided, and Bobolina
sells them in detail to some reformed hermits from
Ehren, who, in their turn, will resell to the rival
secret forces represented by the reformed nabob of
Begoda.
The pirates from Gualimbo are passing in a big hurry,
following some scull hunters. General Baskaev
wants to buy the big shield from Qiatotocoatl, and
Monteores asks if anyone has old light diamonds
for sale, while general Guan Ha and general Guan Hoa got out the mountain pass Qe, on the point of
striking the cruiser with which vice-president
Weinberger is going to and fro in the Alal Ocean.
Petra Petronius, who got up on a cask, said he
would tell the terrible truth of all worlds
immediately.
Some soldiers shot him in the forehead. We
reactivate him in another narrative structure. We
try to
protect some of the virused areas of the big
cities. We don’t know for sure if they were virused
or
just erased from our memory all of a sudden.
The rival secret forces are keen on multipliers. We
find ourselves face to face with one hundred
pitoskins, all of them being decided to destroy the
imaginary of our encyclopedia that we discover in
a description of the famous Marsila Molé.
We localize the city and reposition it on the map
of imaginary. We move pretty slowly. An entire
chain of homogeneities is breaking and our first
outskirts appear.
We fight in great battles. Though, we don’t
register significant magnetic fluctuations.
Mastrokas has vanished from our encyclopedic
inventory. The intuitive totalitarians from Bagoda
might have succeeded to blow him up. We detect some odd secretions around us and we miss the
capture of a rival informational division.
On the digital ocean surface one can see long
traces and a mysterious shipwake. An invisible war
ship
directs to Nulome.
The rival secret forces make desperate efforts to
produce a shockwave that make us lose
horizontality.
We are frantically looking for the secret codes of
huge Manhada, on the point of virusing and
destroying her.
The angels from Qiatotocoatl foresee the
apocalypse. Petra Petronius gives a lecture on the
imminent
revelation of the secret in Takule Makune. One moonless night, General Baskaev kidnaps Melisa Hari
and brings her to the unknown.
The star hunters fight with the whale hunters; the
werewolf from Arsenal is killed by the mad crowds.
General Monteores hangs colonel Sharun. Miss
Margareta tears the starry mantle of a magician;
the
scavengers butcher the night men.
Elal Belal fights against an army of housecleaning
women; the waiters from Takule Makune fill the
dumping carts with informative notes about a so
called fall behind the shadow of the Moon; the
women from Manhada dance with their hair loose, on
the shore of Alal Ocean.
The agonies come into the mobs’ souls arrived in
pilgrimage to San Gastoban to see the risen tide;
the hoha noha bugs swallow the cockroaches. The
ship owners from Puerto Rico hide within a blue
whale fearing Edgar Iklovel, the head spy from
Burbansk, who promised them a terrible beating
because they hid the wheat bushels to rule over the
outskirts of the big cities, by starvation.
Pelias Paso takes all kinds of compromising
pictures on the battlefield and Obin Oba’s men
behead
him. Major Pluckart shoots himself in the head,
leaving a letter, in which he announces the
terrible truth
about all worlds. Admiral Von Kripke falls madly in
love with the multiplier of colonel Sharun.
Gamzai Gaiaz starts the revolution in Bankusai.
Pericleu Peclatis plans a series of horrible crimes
in
the heart of the big cities. Miss Frasela is shot
because she deserted to the enemy from beyond the
visible horizon. Prince Boris burns himself in the
circular hall of the angels from Qiatotocoatl,
because
Bobolina doesn’t love him.
Bobolina kills the poor governor from Togai with a
hairpin. Miss Galsemla kills Agaturian with a
vibration. Baldara marries the head of the secret
service from Nulome.
Manhada plans all these dazzling events. She
creates mysterious characters!
And everybody speaks about death frantically and
dangerously.
They’re dying to throw themselves into her arms,
like butterflies on the lamp.
They don’t care.
The terrible truth of all worlds? A bugbear, of
course.
Totality? It’s just a blow in the wind. The
universal orgasm is nothing but a whopping lie!
Everybody bustles through time laughing in the
august governess’s face; she wants badly to order
and
rule them.
But the crowds choose the cosmic death fervently
and offhandedly.
The philosophers hardly dare say a word; there are
also some scientists and a few astrophysicists.
Who would listen to them?
Starting to fight against Manhada, we answered the
questions that the philosophers of the big urban
agglomerations asked. The decline behind the shadow
of the moon is not the way to mystery, but is the
look that rejects the final truth.
Yet, we’re confident in our mission and we don’t
want to give us up to death, be it a symbolical
construction. In our apparent movement towards the
final sense, we managed somehow to discover a
part of the amazing properties of our horizontality.
It’s a reality!
The structure of the boundless worlds claims to be
the structure of the codes created for the sake of
interpretation.
Interpreting, you indulge into confusion, creating
an appearance. You can plan a coordinates system,
a references system that protects you and motivates
you.
We know that interpretation belongs to free states
of consciousness and not to the vulgarity or to the
mighty ignorance.
It’s obvious that the interpreter’s wickedness or
arrogance is the certain proof of vulnerability.
We built the convention and the coherence. We
reinterpreted imperfection. But have we invented
the
rival secret forces whose actions gave charm to our experience, unleashing our pleasure for the
experiment?
Have we invented Manhada?
Have we called her out of our imagination?
As our interrogations created the false feeling of
potential vulnerability, many of our statements can
confuse the enemy and trap him.
We build the impossible. We say it’s quite the
inexistent. We could imagine that we’re the
invention
of the rival secret forces and then, they could
match us being close to death.
The idea that the text attached to the dog-eat-dog
universe is full of ambiguities that belong to such
texts gives us big hopes.
We’ve decided to let us fall within magnetic fields
that seem to be the very look of the unknown
reader. The latter is nothing but a space and time
concept, which we are to interpret.
The trifle cell, Manhada, doesn’t affect the
reader, as his metabolism is the mirror effect and
the
membrane is his entire visible horizon.
We seem to be in a closed circle. In our
encyclopedic inventory there aren’t any specifications for
such events.
We’re trapped without hope within this simultaneity
excerpted from our homogeneity. Simultaneity is
a temporal reverse of the last three seconds separating us from the convergence point.
Didn’t I build it cleverly?
We could choose death by attacking Manhada. We
could swallow her, turning into a data and
information circle, which will spread through the
dog-eat-dog universe. We could vanish together with
our match under the pressure of magnetic fields.
The unknown reader, whose presence we still
foresee, didn’t access our aspiration. Could the
old
lights bathing our homogeneity call our attention?
Could we then transform it into a strange
attracter, which modifies our narrative and
descriptive
structure of our dog-eat-dog universe?
But what if our experience is just an appearance
come from the noise of the big cities? What if we
could get the copy of the reader putting us in the
impossibility of initiating the procedures of
visualization and interpretation?
We enter again the realm of incertitude while the
rival secret forces approache the convergence
point.
This could be the starting point of our
informational wars from the heart of the big
cities. It could be
the imminent revelation of the secret about which the
spies talked
really frantically during all the summer.
All these make us think of the fact that the
insignificant cell, strange Manhada, was certain of
our
existence in her informational proximity from the
beginning of this fascinating experience.
While we were haunted by incertitude, Manhada had
her own truth, a powerful truth.
That’s why we minutely wove a fine tissue in
which we bustled like the blue whales trapped in
the
steel nets of the hunters.
We suddenly enter the cone of old light of the
dog-eat-dog universe.
We understand that our only salvation would be an
informational reverse. We understand that our
chance would be an illusory narrative structure
that spread out the certainty of this insignificant
cell.
We had to fool Manhada!
We broke the terrible truth of all worlds. We
turned imperfection to horizontality. We turned
into an
endless wall. The wall echoed like our homogeneity
had never existed. Our sound hit Manhada.
Our music secret washed Manhada from head to toe,
maddening her:
“Watch out, I’m gonna fall in love with you!”
© Translated by Ioana Bostan
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