A WHATEVER RAMBLING MOMENT

by Alex Valente

Original Italian by Leyla Khalil (1991-), ‘Un attimo qualsiasi di sproloquio’

A whatever rambling moment

which, by the way, they decided to call free internal discourse or interior monologue or stream of consciousness.

There must be – I just wrote mustard instead of must be and noticed it right away – some sort of difference dammit, I mean I’m sure there is but the essence at the end of the day is the same: they’re all ramblings.

I mean, maybe even when Joyce or Woolf were writing they had some liquid courage in them I’m sure they did really, that’s just cheating anyone can do it and there’s nothing exciting in writing exactly everything that comes to your mind all in one go with no filter with the excuse of spontaneous writing and that kind of crap about automatic writing of the Surrealists that they force feed you and so yeah it’s kinda the written response to what the other guys were doing, the artists, that take a rosette paint it white and say this is art. Where is the art, where is it? These ramblings of mine I would never call art, I call it being drunk, duh ruh nk, there you go: humility. And even while duh ruh nk, I still use proper punctuation.

I mean, I only forgot to split the title from the rest but that’s more for clarity after all, you don’t need to pay that much attention, it makes sense like when they used to take the first line and stick it again at the beginning and made it into the title. So yes, the title of this piece is A whatever rambling moment, but really I’d prefer A moment of rambling whatevers, it depends on where you put the stress, so you know what, you choose. Who are you? I mean, I just said I’m an artist, I’m drunk and that’s it, and here I am addressing a Vast Audience Of Readers called into play as if they gave a flying fuck about this crap I’m typing.

Nonono, like, enough for real, enough. Ee nuff. Ever since Homer some of us humans get these five minutes every now and then when we actually believe this shit for fuck’s sake ohmygod I’m using bad language, we believe in it god there we go much better and we start writing as if we had a following or at least our ideas do which are part of us really, it’s a way to get the world to remember that such and such existed because their words are written here, look at the originality, but nope, it’s all crap, crap, random thoughts which have value one day and then another and then nothing.

Oh god, you think this is easy, this is easy to say but it’s deep stuff actually, like, heavy words, weighty words. You’re young you can’t feel the words, you can’t feel the weight of each letter, you see them there written down or you shout them out but to hold them inside that’s different, if you feel them inside even when you’re letting them out then that’s different, if you hold on to them and then let them go and when you speak them you lose twenty pounds, I’m telling you that the meaning of things gets mixed up and gets lost and you’re looking at me like you’re stoned, I mean, I wasn’t telling you what I’m planning for breakfast tomorrow…

I know I know you’re right, I’m drunk. Talking to an audience that’s not there. Dammit. Fuck. Enough. For real.

Gimme some… some of whatever you have, let me drink a little more until my pen falls, my horizon is blurring out to the point it all looks the same, like, it is, I mean there’s nothing defined any more, nothing stands out, nothing to keep in mind or consider because everything gets sucked in this is a joke like it’s a fucking joke when it was Woolf and Joyce and Schnitzler and I’ve had enoooouuuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhhhhh

Haunngdonrfl. Iubir. Tdigme.

Fnf.

Hhhhhgurhg.

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