Prologue to the Book "Human Inhuman Vol.2" by Luca Motolese
After Human Inhuman vol.I, I became persuaded that a prologue like this was necessary, in the omniscient universal first person singular. Yes, it is urgent! I have convinced myself of it. I write it with my left hand because my right still hurts. It took a nasty blow. A trauma struck it when, there in the goatish vineyard, celebrating, I slipped into a hidden ravine. With the global warming I have reached in this ill-fated inferno, amid tortured, fiery lips and dancing, asexual creatures in heat, it is absolutely indispensable that I depart to reach unexplored peaks of glaciers, by now thawed and all but non-existent; to press my boot onto the muddy ground among millions of fossils of millions of years and boiling waters finally flowing again in a descending motion, granting new depths to the abyss. I write with my left hand because the right is busy accelerating along the tortuous paths of religious monks who emerge and thus surface around the naked mountain. And between one peak and another, stretched high, the tightrope-walker's rope hangs, suspended, so that, should the need arise, one may find oneself up there on the mountain to celebrate existence, united only by the solitude of being alone. Virtuous me, who writes with the left hand to alter my handwriting and confuse the stream of consciousness, so that, rereading myself later, it will seem to me that everything was written by someone else — even though in the end it will all have been typed and there will be nothing left to read. Toward the left I also circle the sense of guilt that does not allow me to laugh at myself and to make fun of that retarded man I am, have always been. Indeed, I have understood only now that the Japanese have no sense of humour and that, to play, one must be at least two. Topologically, one must think that a mountain with a peak also has a valley; or that there is at least one other, a woman; and that the woman has at least two peaks besides the valley! And so on and so forth… To overcome this tragic fall into the mire of fossils and mud, one must learn to laugh about it. I meant to write 'laugh' (riderci), but 'rubble' (ruderci) might do just as well. One must get oneself — rather, make — children, and let them play together, letting them inhabit the thawed peaks and have them piss down onto the heads of the so-praised retarded. With disenchantment and lightness, the children will inhabit those places where everything is sacred and where the most sacred text preserved is a practical manual titled 'farting without shitting yourself.' Let us meet, then, up there on the child-mountain, to mock loftily those retarded ones who push their motorbike in a straight horizontal line, making the wheels turn round in reverse. Those left behind are frenzied progressives, overcome by inertia, who race at photonic speeds in a straight line as the rocket-missiles do, never changing trajectory except when they bend, crushed by the weight of the atmosphere, completing seven and a half laps of the globe per second only to return, ever and always, to the same moment in which they had accelerated to move from there. And then I am sure the retarded man will sooner or later wonder whether pushing the motorbike causes the delay, or whether it is because I am retarded that I push the motorbike. Who knows. Luckily there is always something to learn and to take as an example. The legendary Motolese motorbike, for example, is different from the others if you look closely. Highly evolved futuristic bio-mechanical technology, forbidden to those over 6 years old, with a tiny windscreen sized for a Lilliputian and little atomic buttons like those of the StarTAC, the mobile phone with which it is impossible to decide which number to dial. I am dead certain it is a technology produced in that place some call 'Japan,' where the irony of fate decreed that they used it to learn how to make prank phone calls; and I am also sure it dates back to the post-imperialist era, at least three decades after General Nogi's famous hara-kiri, at the time of the economic boom sprung from the destruction of Phoenix. In short, this technology paradoxically starts up by pressing a single button. Pul. Zak Zak Tumb Tumb. And off it goes. Started at the first try, it turns into a rocket-missile that shoots up among the peaks, and then descends a little, until it strikes Montecitorio. It is told that the lower mountains are sacrificed to the savage ferocity of the maddened technology, while human intelligence will know how to take refuge on far higher peaks. After all, this motorbike is an entity deficient in initiative, a means like any other, and its attributes depend on the use one makes of it. In any case, meanwhile I lean out a little, at least to see whether the rocket-missile worked. It worked. Montecitorio now looks more like a pantheon. Recession advances among woods of outstretched arms, tubes, levers, brakes and clutches; but also thanks to bananas and rocket-missiles on the palaces and churches. The world has finally reopened to the feminist vision — so much so that I think I speak on behalf of everyone when I say that I too am a bit Giorgia. Yes, it's so! But what a lovely castle, Marcon Diron Dirondello! That's why I rack my brains, said the lady with the trinket. But the principle is always the same: if you know there's a thing you cannot do, act while avoiding speaking. And so I have convinced myself that I am convinced I want to found a feminist and evolutionary party of action which we shall call, in chorus, 'phallus' (fallo, also 'do it'). I must always remember to carry a banana with me; or rather, not behind — I'll put it in my clutch bag, which is more convenient and pretty, since you never know: should they mistake me for a Japanese road-pirate, I could always show them this or that evolution, and I'd be sure they'd recognise me that way. When I speak of evolution and giraffes my nerves rise to the skin. I immediately become a Darwinist; or rather a Darwinian, because I prefer to reason with my backside. If I think that giraffes evolved over time, I lose my temper. It seems that in the beginning they were a kind of bastard, chance cross between a hinny and a tortoise that — without going into too much detail — mated, giving rise to a rare species, since almost always sterile, of short-necked Somali giraffe. Near-mythological creatures, slow, of little use for anything, not even for making broth. They were cruelly mistreated by the colonists who found them before them after the great horizontal Atlantic crossing toward the left. Such animals were good only as beasts of burden, and so the colonists stretched their necks, making them haul great loads of gold, diamonds, incense, myrrh, corn cobs and sugar cane up to the great ships at berth, then leaving them ashore exhausted, since with that neck lengthened by toil they did not fit in the ship's hold — which is, indeed, a technology surely conceived in the East. And so here, on the summit of this mountain, as I piss I contemplate, enraptured, the wonder of the twilight hour, when all creatures seem busy and there is great movement in the air, and the mosquitoes fly among the last lines of sun which, withdrawing, deepen the half-light where the bats trace circles in low circular motion and the woodpecker hurries to deliver its last hammer-blows, quickening the drumming rhythm, and the war cries of green parrots stirring among the rocket-missiles, while it is already time to migrate again toward new horizons. Now, if you are still smiling without knowing why, this is the right spirit with which to approach this wonderful read. You are ready to turn the page.
Dopo Umano Disumano vol.I mi sono persuaso che fosse necessario un prologo come questo, in prima persona singolare onnisciente universale. Si, è urgente! Me ne sono convinto. Lo scrivo con la mano sinistra perchè la destra ancora mi fa male. Ha preso un brutto colpo. Un trauma l’ha percossa quando lì nel vitigno caprigno festeggiando sono scivolato in uno occulto burrone. Con il riscaldamento globale a cui sono arrivato in questo infausto inferno, fra torturate labbra infuocate e danzanti asessuati in calore, è assolutamente indispensabile che io diparta per raggiungere inesplorate vette di ghiacciai oramai scongelati pressoché inesistenti; incalzare lo stivale sul terreno fangoso fra milioni di fossili di milioni di anni e di acque bollenti finalmente tornate a fluire in moto discensionale donando nuove profonditàall’abisso. Scrivo con la mano sinistra perchè la destra è impegnata ad accelerare sui percorsi tortuosi di monaci religiosi che emergono e vengono così a galla intorno al monte nudo. E fra una cima e l’altra in alto tesa la corda del funambolo sta, sospesa, così che all’occorrenza ci si possa ritrovare li sul monte a celebrare l’esistenza, accomunati solo dalla solitudine dell’essere solo. Virtuoso me che scrivo con la mano sinistra per alterare la mia calligrafia e confondere il flusso della coscienza, in modo che rileggendomi poi mi sembri che tutto sia stato scritto da qualcun altro, anche se alla fine saràstato tutto dattiloscritto e non si avràpiù niente da leggere. Circonduco verso sinistra anche il senso di colpa che non mi consente di ridere di me stesso e di prendermi gioco di quel ritardato che sono, sempre stato. Infatti, ho capito solo ora che i giapponesi non hanno il senso dell’umorismo e che per giocare è necessario essere almeno in due. Topologicamente occorre pensare che un monte che abbia una vetta abbia pure una valle; o che ci sia almeno un’altro, donna; e che la donna abbia almeno due vette oltre alla valle ! E così via discorrendo… Per superare questa tragica caduta nel pantano di fossili e fango bisogna imparare a ruderci sopra. Volevo scrivere riderci, ma ruderci potrebbe andare bene lo stesso. Bisogna farsi, anzi, fare bambini e lasciarli giocare insieme, lasciandoli abitare le vette scongelate e farli pisciare giù in testa ai ritardati tanto elogiati. Con disincanto e leggerezza, i bambini abiteranno quei luoghi dove tutto è sacro e dove il testo più sacro che è stato conservato è un manuale pratico intitolato "scoreggiare senza cagarsi addosso”. Ci vediamo dunque li in cima al monte bambino per prenderci aulicamente gioco di quei ritardati che spingono la moto in linea retta orizzontale facendo girare le ruote in tondo al contrario. Quelli rimasti indietro sono progressisti forsennati vinti dall’inerzia che corrono a velocitàfotoniche in linea retta come fanno i razzomissili, senza mai cambiare traiettoria se non quando si piegano schiacciati dal peso dell’atmosfera, compiendo sette giri e mezzo del globo al secondo per ritornare sempre e per sempre allo stesso momento in cui avevano accelerato per muoversi da li. Che poi sono sicuro che il ritardato prima o poi se lo domanderàse spingere la moto causa il ritardo o se è poiché sono ritardato che spingo la moto. Chissà. Per fortuna c’è sempre da imparare e da prendere esempio. La mitica moto di Motolese per esempio è diversa dalle altre a ben guardare. Evolutissima tecnologia futuristica bio-meccanica vietata ai maggiori di 6 anni, con un cupolino minuscolo a misura di lillipuziano e dei pulsantini atomici come quelli dello startac, il telefono cellulare con cui è impossibile decidere che numero comporre. Sono arcisicuro che sia una tecnologia prodotta in quel luogo che alcuni chiamano “Giappone”, dove l’ironia della sorte ha voluto che lo usassero per imparare a fare gli scherzi telefonici; e sono anche sicuro che risalga all’epoca post imperialista, almeno un trentennio dopo il celebre harakiri del generale Nogi, al tempo del boom economico scaturito dalla distruzione di Phoenix. Insomma questa tecnologia si mette paradossalmente in moto premendo un solo pulsante. Pul. Zak Zak Tumb Tumb. E via. Partita al primo colpo, si trasforma in un razzomissile che sfreccia fra le vette verso l’alto, e poi un poco discende, finché colpisce Montecitorio. Si narra che i monti più bassi vengano sacrificati dalla ferocia selvaggia della tecnologia impazzita, mentre l’intelligenza umana sapràrifugiarsi su vette ben più alte. D’altronde ‘sta moto è una entitàdeficiente di spirito di iniziativa, un mezzo come un altro e i suoi attributi dipendono dall’uso che se ne fa. In ogni caso intanto mi affaccio un pò, almeno per vedere se il razzomissile ha funzionato. Ha funzionato. Montecitorio assomiglia ora più a un pantheon. La recessione avanza fra boschi di braccia tese, tubi, leve, freni e frizioni; ma anche grazie a banane e ai razzomissili sui palazzi e sulle chiese. Il mondo finalmente si è riaperto alla visione femminista, si che io penso di parlare a nome di tutti quando dico di essere anche io un pò Giorgia. Si è così! Ma che bel castello Marcon Diron Dirondello! È perciò che m’arrovello diceva la dama con l’orpello. Ma il principio è sempre quello: se una cosa sai che non puoi fare, agisci evitando di parlare. Sicchè mi sono convinto di essere convinta di volerlo creare un partito d’azione femminista ed evoluzionario che chiameremo in coro “fallo”. Devo sempre ricordarmi di portarmi dietro una banana; anzi, non dietro, magari me la metto nella pochette che è più comoda e graziosa, che non si sa mai se dovessero scambiarmi per un pirata della strada giapponese potrei sempre fargliela vedere questa o quella evoluzione, e starei sicuro che così mi riconoscerebbero. Quando parlo di evoluzione e di giraffe i nervi m’affiorano alla pelle. Divento subito Darwinista; anzi Darwiniano, perché preferisco ragionare col culo. Se penso che le giraffe si siano evolute nel tempo perdo le staffe. Pare che in principio fossero una specie di bastardo incrocio fortuito fra un bardotto e una testuggine, che, senza entrare troppo nei dettagli, si accoppiavano, dando origine a una specie rara, poiché quasi sempre sterile, di giraffa somala a collo corto. Creature pressoché mitologiche, lente, poco utili ad alcunché, nemmeno per fare il brodo. Venivano crudelmente maltrattate dai coloni che le se le trovavano innanzi dopo la grande traversata atlantica orizzontale verso sinistra. Tali animali erano buoni solo alla soma, e perciò i coloni gli tiravano il collo facendoli trainare grandi carichi di oro, diamanti incensi, mirra, pannocchie e canne da zucchero fino innanzi alle grosse navi in approdo, lasciandoli poi a terra stremati, poiché con quel collo allungato dalla fatica non stavano nella stiva della nave, che infatti è una tecnologia sicuramente concepita in oriente. E così qui sulla vetta di questa montagna mentre piscio contemplo estasiato la meraviglia dell’ora del crepuscolo, quando tutte le creature sembrano affaccendate e c’è un gran movimento nell’aria e le zanzare volano fra le ultime righe di sole che ritirandosi accrescono la penombra dove i pipistrelli disegnano cerchi in moto circolare a bassa quota e il picchio s’affretta a dare le ultime martellate incalzando il ritmo tamburale e l’urla di guerra di pappagalli verdi che s’agitano fra i razzomissili mentre è giàora di emigrare di nuovo verso nuovi orizzonti. Ora, se stai ancora sorridendo senza sapere perché, questo è lo spirito giusto con cui approcciare questa meravigliosa lettura. Sei pronto per voltare pagina.
After Human Inhuman vol.I, I became persuaded that a prologue like this was necessary, in the omniscient universal first person singular. Yes, it is urgent! I have convinced myself of it. I write it with my left hand because my right still hurts. It took a nasty blow. A trauma struck it when, there in the goatish vineyard, celebrating, I slipped into a hidden ravine. With the global warming I have reached in this ill-fated inferno, amid tortured, fiery lips and dancing, asexual creatures in heat, it is absolutely indispensable that I depart to reach unexplored peaks of glaciers, by now thawed and all but non-existent; to press my boot onto the muddy ground among millions of fossils of millions of years and boiling waters finally flowing again in a descending motion, granting new depths to the abyss. I write with my left hand because the right is busy accelerating along the tortuous paths of religious monks who emerge and thus surface around the naked mountain. And between one peak and another, stretched high, the tightrope-walker's rope hangs, suspended, so that, should the need arise, one may find oneself up there on the mountain to celebrate existence, united only by the solitude of being alone. Virtuous me, who writes with the left hand to alter my handwriting and confuse the stream of consciousness, so that, rereading myself later, it will seem to me that everything was written by someone else — even though in the end it will all have been typed and there will be nothing left to read. Toward the left I also circle the sense of guilt that does not allow me to laugh at myself and to make fun of that retarded man I am, have always been. Indeed, I have understood only now that the Japanese have no sense of humour and that, to play, one must be at least two. Topologically, one must think that a mountain with a peak also has a valley; or that there is at least one other, a woman; and that the woman has at least two peaks besides the valley! And so on and so forth… To overcome this tragic fall into the mire of fossils and mud, one must learn to laugh about it. I meant to write 'laugh' (riderci), but 'rubble' (ruderci) might do just as well. One must get oneself — rather, make — children, and let them play together, letting them inhabit the thawed peaks and have them piss down onto the heads of the so-praised retarded. With disenchantment and lightness, the children will inhabit those places where everything is sacred and where the most sacred text preserved is a practical manual titled 'farting without shitting yourself.' Let us meet, then, up there on the child-mountain, to mock loftily those retarded ones who push their motorbike in a straight horizontal line, making the wheels turn round in reverse. Those left behind are frenzied progressives, overcome by inertia, who race at photonic speeds in a straight line as the rocket-missiles do, never changing trajectory except when they bend, crushed by the weight of the atmosphere, completing seven and a half laps of the globe per second only to return, ever and always, to the same moment in which they had accelerated to move from there. And then I am sure the retarded man will sooner or later wonder whether pushing the motorbike causes the delay, or whether it is because I am retarded that I push the motorbike. Who knows. Luckily there is always something to learn and to take as an example. The legendary Motolese motorbike, for example, is different from the others if you look closely. Highly evolved futuristic bio-mechanical technology, forbidden to those over 6 years old, with a tiny windscreen sized for a Lilliputian and little atomic buttons like those of the StarTAC, the mobile phone with which it is impossible to decide which number to dial. I am dead certain it is a technology produced in that place some call 'Japan,' where the irony of fate decreed that they used it to learn how to make prank phone calls; and I am also sure it dates back to the post-imperialist era, at least three decades after General Nogi's famous hara-kiri, at the time of the economic boom sprung from the destruction of Phoenix. In short, this technology paradoxically starts up by pressing a single button. Pul. Zak Zak Tumb Tumb. And off it goes. Started at the first try, it turns into a rocket-missile that shoots up among the peaks, and then descends a little, until it strikes Montecitorio. It is told that the lower mountains are sacrificed to the savage ferocity of the maddened technology, while human intelligence will know how to take refuge on far higher peaks. After all, this motorbike is an entity deficient in initiative, a means like any other, and its attributes depend on the use one makes of it. In any case, meanwhile I lean out a little, at least to see whether the rocket-missile worked. It worked. Montecitorio now looks more like a pantheon. Recession advances among woods of outstretched arms, tubes, levers, brakes and clutches; but also thanks to bananas and rocket-missiles on the palaces and churches. The world has finally reopened to the feminist vision — so much so that I think I speak on behalf of everyone when I say that I too am a bit Giorgia. Yes, it's so! But what a lovely castle, Marcon Diron Dirondello! That's why I rack my brains, said the lady with the trinket. But the principle is always the same: if you know there's a thing you cannot do, act while avoiding speaking. And so I have convinced myself that I am convinced I want to found a feminist and evolutionary party of action which we shall call, in chorus, 'phallus' (fallo, also 'do it'). I must always remember to carry a banana with me; or rather, not behind — I'll put it in my clutch bag, which is more convenient and pretty, since you never know: should they mistake me for a Japanese road-pirate, I could always show them this or that evolution, and I'd be sure they'd recognise me that way. When I speak of evolution and giraffes my nerves rise to the skin. I immediately become a Darwinist; or rather a Darwinian, because I prefer to reason with my backside. If I think that giraffes evolved over time, I lose my temper. It seems that in the beginning they were a kind of bastard, chance cross between a hinny and a tortoise that — without going into too much detail — mated, giving rise to a rare species, since almost always sterile, of short-necked Somali giraffe. Near-mythological creatures, slow, of little use for anything, not even for making broth. They were cruelly mistreated by the colonists who found them before them after the great horizontal Atlantic crossing toward the left. Such animals were good only as beasts of burden, and so the colonists stretched their necks, making them haul great loads of gold, diamonds, incense, myrrh, corn cobs and sugar cane up to the great ships at berth, then leaving them ashore exhausted, since with that neck lengthened by toil they did not fit in the ship's hold — which is, indeed, a technology surely conceived in the East. And so here, on the summit of this mountain, as I piss I contemplate, enraptured, the wonder of the twilight hour, when all creatures seem busy and there is great movement in the air, and the mosquitoes fly among the last lines of sun which, withdrawing, deepen the half-light where the bats trace circles in low circular motion and the woodpecker hurries to deliver its last hammer-blows, quickening the drumming rhythm, and the war cries of green parrots stirring among the rocket-missiles, while it is already time to migrate again toward new horizons. Now, if you are still smiling without knowing why, this is the right spirit with which to approach this wonderful read. You are ready to turn the page.