Read Online Don Quixote, Which Was a Dream by Kathy Acker - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathy Acker
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I'm alone on an island. I'm all by myself. Here, I'm waiting for what is to follow my collapsed dreams. I'll be more precise: I'm waiting for you cause I can't know anything and everything's whirling. His hand put itself on top of the clitoris and pressed. It didn't move. Her own hand was resting on her clitoris. His hand pressed down, through her hand, on the clitoris.
'I'm alone again ... on this island. I've my books around me. I don't know why I feel lonely. This is my life, if you put it that way. You know what I mean. My life has been hard. I'm not easy and I've been, probably irreparably, scarred. People say that someone who lives like me, in this much nothing, is sick. I'm at ease.
'You're owning me. You've touched me and I'm scared because I've decided to love you so now I'm trying to break this ownership: I phone you you're a malicious beast: I know in the past years and now you fuck lots of women and tell
----
them you love them madly. You can't love everybody madly, (I do). You're doing the same thing with me. I can't mean anything to you. I'm not special. You're shitting on my face. I hate you. I don't want to need you because I already, probably most, probably one-twentieth of me, is needing you. So after I yell at you for being as sexually romantic as I am, the next day I tell you "I love you" when you don't want emotion. I want to die and not have responsibility.
'"I'm only interested in abstract thought." But what do you and I do, not so much with our bodies, but with our needs? I remember waking up. First, I see your head. I see your eyes're open and you're looking at me. I have to smile because your obvious love for me makes me smile. My thumb and second finger my left hand hold between them your nipple, my bones. Your right hand's fingers're on my left nipple and my right hand's fingers're on your left nipple. My right hand's fingers're pulling back the extra skin of your cock tip and your lips're contorted from the scream that's coming out of your mouth, as your head turns right as I lift my body so that your cock finally hard is entering my cunt and you have to scream I remember waking.'
The women are shaving their heads.
TEXT 2: THE LEOPARD: MEMORY
It was a long hot summer. She lay moaning on the fields where the straw grew. The sun's blaze was so hot it had turned the grass into straw. One of her hands crept down to the pale printed old material as a slight breeze fluttered under it. Her hand was resting on her knee. She wasn't aware of what she was doing. A slight restlessness made her turn her knees, bent, just to the right. The sun was blazing her face. She felt that. Placing her hand on her cunt hairs, she cupped the slope; then, raising her hand, the third finger tip running lightly up the flesh turned to the inside. The flesh was as red as the burgundy of the country.
Behind her the hills were yellow. Not the color of gold but a
----
yellow that is greenless: dry shrubs tiny little animals who have nowhere to hide long dusty roads minute hills roll up and up so that before each hill there seems to be one long upward rise then roll; the real hill equals the roll, the rise of the earth's breast. Its nipple is dry yellow-as-dust holding-shrubbery-tossed-together-with-stones; but nothing's visible except the rise, for light almost blinds the eye. A carriage would be lost to human sight: a tiny black speck. Speck among specks. Another stone. A slingshot caught among rocks. It goes on and on. There're no decisions. Rising part way up one of the hills, in the middle, there's a carriage. Three brown wagons follow the closed carriage. They move around a curve, then aren't seen again by the non-existent human eye. The human eye sees again always new.
It was the year 1860. The Garibaldis had just landed in Palermo. Then the Prince and his huge family fled from the Garibaldis through these hills. All around them the yellow wasn't gold but white: parched, waterless. They weren't hopeless, but just
'I'm alone again ... on this island. I've my books around me. I don't know why I feel lonely. This is my life, if you put it that way. You know what I mean. My life has been hard. I'm not easy and I've been, probably irreparably, scarred. People say that someone who lives like me, in this much nothing, is sick. I'm at ease.
'You're owning me. You've touched me and I'm scared because I've decided to love you so now I'm trying to break this ownership: I phone you you're a malicious beast: I know in the past years and now you fuck lots of women and tell
----
them you love them madly. You can't love everybody madly, (I do). You're doing the same thing with me. I can't mean anything to you. I'm not special. You're shitting on my face. I hate you. I don't want to need you because I already, probably most, probably one-twentieth of me, is needing you. So after I yell at you for being as sexually romantic as I am, the next day I tell you "I love you" when you don't want emotion. I want to die and not have responsibility.
'"I'm only interested in abstract thought." But what do you and I do, not so much with our bodies, but with our needs? I remember waking up. First, I see your head. I see your eyes're open and you're looking at me. I have to smile because your obvious love for me makes me smile. My thumb and second finger my left hand hold between them your nipple, my bones. Your right hand's fingers're on my left nipple and my right hand's fingers're on your left nipple. My right hand's fingers're pulling back the extra skin of your cock tip and your lips're contorted from the scream that's coming out of your mouth, as your head turns right as I lift my body so that your cock finally hard is entering my cunt and you have to scream I remember waking.'
The women are shaving their heads.
TEXT 2: THE LEOPARD: MEMORY
It was a long hot summer. She lay moaning on the fields where the straw grew. The sun's blaze was so hot it had turned the grass into straw. One of her hands crept down to the pale printed old material as a slight breeze fluttered under it. Her hand was resting on her knee. She wasn't aware of what she was doing. A slight restlessness made her turn her knees, bent, just to the right. The sun was blazing her face. She felt that. Placing her hand on her cunt hairs, she cupped the slope; then, raising her hand, the third finger tip running lightly up the flesh turned to the inside. The flesh was as red as the burgundy of the country.
Behind her the hills were yellow. Not the color of gold but a
----
yellow that is greenless: dry shrubs tiny little animals who have nowhere to hide long dusty roads minute hills roll up and up so that before each hill there seems to be one long upward rise then roll; the real hill equals the roll, the rise of the earth's breast. Its nipple is dry yellow-as-dust holding-shrubbery-tossed-together-with-stones; but nothing's visible except the rise, for light almost blinds the eye. A carriage would be lost to human sight: a tiny black speck. Speck among specks. Another stone. A slingshot caught among rocks. It goes on and on. There're no decisions. Rising part way up one of the hills, in the middle, there's a carriage. Three brown wagons follow the closed carriage. They move around a curve, then aren't seen again by the non-existent human eye. The human eye sees again always new.
It was the year 1860. The Garibaldis had just landed in Palermo. Then the Prince and his huge family fled from the Garibaldis through these hills. All around them the yellow wasn't gold but white: parched, waterless. They weren't hopeless, but just
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