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I can't breathe, the sky is falling, my tongue is on fire...
...
So, Amy and Penny have something to hide and thus, to avoid being understood by others, they use the butterfly alphabet, a kind of thing where you take words, break them into syllables, and put lots of "f"s in the middle: the result is a tirade impossible to understand. At first, I thought it was one of the many inventions of my favorite TV show, but no, talking to a friend, I discover that the butterfly alphabet really exists, she and her sisters used it when they didn't want to be understood by those stupid boys. Happy to reminisce about a lovely childhood memory, she then provides me with an immediate example, and damn, she inserts all those "f"s so quickly that I, idiot among idiots, really don’t understand “a thing.”
Additionally, not long ago, I met a howler monkey, and during a rather dark period, its screams helped me feel better. This monkey, or little monkey, is actually a girl, a singer named Julie Christmas whom I propose canonize because you try cheering someone like me up. To Miss Julie and her band Made Out of Babies, I later added hefty doses of Bryter Later, which among Nick’s records is the one that best soothes wounds, in short ten drops of chaos and ten of harmony and then off to bed. But now the time has come for the true protagonist of this story to make her entrance, namely Miss Frog Fart, and after all, everyone in the meeting room is eagerly awaiting her. Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one zero...
…
Come to us to lighten the darkness, Miss Frog Fart flashes her wicked milk-and-honey smile, an old trick, but it always works. In this case, it's the perfect prelude to the tightly knit reprimand in social-media speak, a language which, even though I handle it perfectly, I'd really rather not know.
So there it is, after the pleasantries and a not less than perfect pause, the first sentences fit together in a gentle scaffold of fog, the most elegant way to blow smoke right in front of our eyes. But you know, dear Miss Frog Fart, it doesn't work on me, do you think I don’t see you savoring the sound of your words, do you think I don’t notice how you roll them around in your mouth before spitting them out? Damn you're in some state of pre-orgasmic pleasure made of power and reason, with the first sketching gestures and posture and the second shaping to perfection every damn significant.
Ah, you are too intelligent not to know that it is all just fluff, yet somehow you believe it, after all rhetorical art is something you have in your blood, a piece of biochemistry running through you. So, in the end, what comes out is a speech gracefully concealing a wicked shiver, rather than a fisher of souls, you're a fisher of fools, when the hook goes unnoticed, the worm always tastes good.
But now here is a snippet of her speech just for you, “We must overcome the epidermal phase, subjectivity is a pale egotism that distances from the goal. It is necessary to cleanse our gaze of its routine bottom and, without any judging intent, bring forth dormant criticalities. The precious sensitivity of each of you must be hooked to a virtuous method and enlivened by a spontaneous ongoing discussion. Anyone who does not have the taste for challenge is just someone afraid of the future, we are professionals and as such we set goals for ourselves. Those who do are a bridge between identified needs and every fragment of possibility.” Damn little frog fart, you are outdoing yourself and pulling out something not even Elly Schlein on acid, you could even be the secretary and I, in the secrecy of the ballot, might even vote for you.
Then, at a certain point, here's the unexpected, at least for me who have always considered you an iceberg. Because, in spite of the grandiloquence of which you are a mistress, a veil of fatigue appears on your face, but, fortunately for you, it lasts only an instant. Moreover, I am the only one who notices it, perhaps because I know you like the back of my hand, perhaps because these people wouldn't see a priest in the snow.
At first, I am taken aback, as if I had seen a hint of Francis Bacon on your face, who knows maybe it was some sort of hallucination or the result of the postprandial hour. Or who knows, maybe you're genuinely tired, after all, you’ve been carrying this crap for years, and even if you’ve learned to do it better, it may be that a part of you has realized that the game isn't worth the candle. Anyway, I’m not quite ready to consider you human yet, also because the male attendant you brought along does nothing but smile and nod “yes, yes” with his head, hell, you two make quite the laughable pair, I affectionately call you Adolf and Eva, with you naturally being Adolf.
In any case, even if as a good wild horse I could afford not to give importance to your words, the call of the wild obliges me to hate you at least a bit. So, focusing on your pale and wild neck, I try to imagine a vaguely horror fantasy, two nervous hands attacking your candor and squeezing, squeezing, oh how they squeeze. But come on, it might be a bit too much, I have no desire to throttle you, not even in play or in a dream. So I switch to Arturo mode, much more ironic and less gruesome.
You should know that Arturo occasionally appeared at the Parnassian evenings, events where a whole series of insignificant little poets read verses at least crappy. And so, if it’s gonna be crap, then let it be crap, must have thought our guy, so one evening, as he was getting quite bored, he began to add that sacred little word to every verse intoned by those louts. So, even if only in my mind, I decide to do the same and what comes out is, approximately, this: “We must overcome the epidermal phase, crap, subjectivity is a pale egotism that distances from the goal, crap. It is necessary to cleanse our gaze of its routine bottom, crap and, without any judging intent, crap, bring forth dormant criticalities, crap.” Then, even if it amuses me and a half-silly and half-nasty grin is plastered on my face, I decide that this too is too much and I switch to the butterfly alphabet, still a mockery, of course, but more surreal and sweet. Meanwhile, she, right at the moment when the idea pops into my head, is saying this little thing here: “the intrinsic veracity of the method is supported not only by facts but by all specific literature.” There is only one problem, the sentence is too long and I am not yet accustomed to fluttering, so I only take the word “veracity” and repeat it inside myself like a mantra.
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà...
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà...
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà…
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà…
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà...
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà...
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà…
(fe)ve(fi)ri(fi)di(fi)ci(fa)tà…
Ah, little frog fart, inside me I have a smile that I would love to give you, but now the meeting is over and getting the break takes me to the office where I retreat into my own business. Suddenly I hear your voice in the corridor, you’re on the phone and I don't know who you're talking to and I, I am astounded because now your fatigue isn’t just a matter of a moment, moreover you’re no longer Miss Frog Fart, but just a random agglomerate of atoms at the mercy of all the crap in the world. And so in my head, a kingdom of chaos as well, my tribute to you is no longer the butterfly alphabet, but this record of Made Out of Babies, the fact is we’re in the same boat and we both need our dear howler monkey. Ah, you’ve ended up inside the chronicles of a virtual place called debaser, a small group of music fanatics, so I must add at least one zot (and I’ll explain to you another time what a zot is)…
Zot: To the right the butterfly alphabet, to the left the cry of the butterfly, in between no man's land. Crap crap crap says the poet and fire fire fire says the little monkey, maybe it’s really the word fire that the girl screams better or maybe it is really Frog Fart sing even if she doesn't know...
…
I can't breathe, the sky is falling, my tongue is on fire…
Trallala...
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