RENÉ 3. JUNE 16.

I was alone seated on the rug. 

40 hours without sleeping but sleepless. 

Sometimes I feel like I’m not thinking. That I’m actually reading someone’s thoughts. Intracranial voices talking to myself. 

Who told me to do this? 

It was a normal day, like any other. My body hurts like it never hurt before. I fell to my knees and vomited blood. I looked down at my belly and realized that it had been pierced by a metal beam. 

Who wrote my throught? 

A memory floating in the air. Flapping and buzzing the memory entered my right ear. 

My dad didn't give me money to go to the arcade. I was starving to play Polybius. 

Polybius was a video game released in 1991 that had devastating effects on its players: there were many reports of insanity, stress, horrible nightmares, and at least eight suicides. Shortly after its release the game disappeared without a trace. 

I was addicted to video games. Spent hours in arcades. Just ten dollars was enough for me to play all week, with enough money left over for me to have lunch in the arcade canteen. 

Darkness. The sound of gunfire, of a violent and barbaric world. 

Les rideaux s'ouvrent: 

Huckle shares a slice of dessert with René Descartes in his bedroom. 

“Do you know, René, that it is scarcely more than eight or nine hundred years ago since the metaphysicians first consented to relieve the people of the singular fancy that there exist but two practicable roads to Truth? Believe it if you can! It appears, however, that long, long ago, in the night of Time, there lived a Turkish philosopher called Aries and surnamed Tottle .The fame of this great man depended mainly upon his demonstration that sneezing is a natural provision, by means of which over-profound thinkers are enabled to expel superfluous ideas through the nose; but he obtained a scarcely less valuable celebrity as the founder, or at all events as the principal propagator, of what was termed the deductive or à priori philosophy. He started with what he maintained to be axioms, or self-evident truths. 

René sniffs two white wings of angels:

“And the now well understood fact that no truths are self-evident, for sure! - really does not make in the slightest degree against his speculations!”, says René. “It was sufficient for his purpose that the truths in question were evident at all”. 

Huckle: “From axioms he proceeded, logically, to results. His most illustrious disciples were one Tuclid, a geometrician,” (he means Euclid) “and one Kant, a Dutchman, the originator of that species of Transcendentalism which, with the change merely of a C for a K, now bears his peculiar name”. 

René quickly sniffed another line. 

René was the first who conceived the possibility to rigorously delimit the principles necessary for the composition of an "ideal poem", which should be “an object supremeness, or perfection, at all points”, transforming what was once a function of "imagination and poetic intuition" into "pure and honest work of reason". His procédure: make not a perfect piece of thinking, a "philosophy": make an "argument plausible enough to be selled". 

René and Huckle opened a start-up named Sophistes to sell that "arguments" pour certains clients. 

René playing a piano, pressing keys like a autistic kid who doesn't know there is a proper way to play the piano, who doesn't know scales, chords, harmony, any kind of theory that goes beyond the relaxed and wild movement of the fingers. 

A guitar in the hands of Lacan, fingers wandering over the frets, looking for some melody that she remember hearing in a chocolate milk commercial. The room has no pictures, the walls are high and white. 

Hans M. with percussive instruments: xylophone, cymbals, nylon guitar, triangle, snare drum, bass drum, tambourine, maracas, gongs, chimes, celesta, and piano. 

Leila voice echoed by the stereo: “Este é o proêmio de meu poema, Canto Vesícula Biliar: Forma de pêra entre sete e dez centímetros escorre verde escuro excremento: espessura quinze mililitros, água e bicarbonato de sódio borbulhante, sais biliares, gorduras, tecidos, ácidos graxos, universo distante e imaginários de bioquímicas entidades que até poucos séculos não tinham nome: este poema entoa teu nome”. 

Hans goes out early. 

Marijuana smell in the air. 

René naked, lying on the rug and curled between a sheet. 

Leila in panties with a face that I couldn't tell if it was a face of innocence or cynicism.

Lacan is sleeping on my bed like a child. 

René sniffs the last line. 

Something even more unlikely happened that night, when it seemed that we had already exhausted all our probabilities. Huckle walks through the door, and all attention is turned to the sudden visitor. 

“Ink for weapons”, he says, smiling. 

“J'avais écrit un roman, lis le extrait: 

“A man chasing me down the street. Under his coat he has a gun. Who are they? What do they want? A red scarf. I got distracted and lost track of my motorcycle. Flies through the window of a department store, my body against mannequins, bookshelves and women's shoe boxes... Helmet broken, brow bleeding, a huge pain. Tried the first step, dizziness almost knock me over... After a few moments to regain the lucidity of my senses, I saw the motorcycle passing through a metal shelf, the books scattered on the floor, the front wheel spinning in the air. Alone in the library, myself. Silence, the book opened, and sang the anguish chaotic character of the universe. Infinity of thought, I thought, but impossibility of action. Nevertheless, the irrefutable passion of thinking. The list of books: Siller Dawn Sailors, by Leopoldo Luganes, translation by Emerson Shakespeare: "On that night a hundred galleys with five thousand sailors on board, sailed up to a island near Rio de Janeiro. Having dropped anchor at daybreak, they effected a disembarkation with secrecy and despatch; then they formed in the order customary in their country, and advanced in their several companies against the Tapuas lines. These last were overwhelmed with astonishment by the unexpected disaster: May Tapuia teach all the world not to calculate on the future as though it were the actually existent, and not to reckon securely on what may still turn out quite otherwise, but to allow a certain margin to be unexpected. And as this is true everywhere and to every human, so is it especially true in war". The Banquet, by Plato, translation by Donald Schüler: "Socrates unveils what is the correct opinion: how it differs from the false", writes Luzia Colina Verde in the preface. The key to alchemy, by Paracelsus: "It is convenient for you to know in advance that all diseases universally have five different and fundamental types of treatments. The treatments will easily lead us to discover the origin of diseases (ex-juvantibus). Five arts or five faculties of understanding. One knowledge branches into another, and the divisions of the being can be easily reassigned, even if the truth is not known". The ---- of Reality, by Allan B. Hunter, translation by Mariah Duchamp: "The philosophy is frankly evolutionist in believing that there is superiority in European cultural practices, including European intellectual habits, which they simply are made to think about a better world than us. Not to forget that not only artists and intellectuals, but any scribe in general, dedicate themselves to the creative leisure of writing and writing. To write is to create, without the need for any truth in its production, because truth is not a form of text. In writing, truth does not participate: even if it did, it would be the truth as stated in a given space-time. At the limit: the truth will be ideology. So what to do with the truth? The philosopher, who read the great names of truth, who so carefully write the finest weave of the real, redistributing the words and reconstructing their games of difference. There is an experience of profound mystique among those who manipulate and play with the word. Love, yes, it is true, but their costly activity indicates a dangerous lack: Either they write, or they work. Do not forget that such genres of development are the result of a series of violence exerted not only on the language, but on the subject's body. Consciousness is not angelic like Descartes' one; consciousness has a demonic quality. If there is power in the language, power also is paralinguistic: organizes not only discursive practices that take place in historical time, but bodies and places that exist in the space of the world". Communist Manifesto, by Marx & Engels, translation by Sue Tomazini: "Communists work everywhere for the union and understanding of democratic parties in all countries. Communism also offers the consensus and dialogue of liberals. Communists, however, refuse to conceal their views and purposes. they openly proclaim that their goals can only be achieved by the violent overthrow of every past social order. Let the ruling classes tremble at the idea of ​​a communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose, except their shackles". A Fragment to Another, loving dialogue between the characters Fragment and Another, by Alexandrinos Heraclitorius, translation by Urbano Grosso: "It seems to me that photography is closer to the pure image than cinema. In fact, and this is not necessarily a defect, movement, sound, perfume, meaning are removed from the object, in photographic form. The image lies at the term of this indefinite subtraction. The image is only possible through this deep meditation on nothingness". The romantic sect of concessions, psychological novel by Sérgio Buarque de H (no description). If time were an oyster, by Johanis Gabrielis: "Loved his poems so much and fell madly in love. He willingly surrendered his masculine portion to the lover; felt like he was committing a kind of dishonor against his wife, against his family, against good morals, against god, against humanity. And the degenerate was so delicious or more delicious than the most beautiful and perfect angel body. The reserved and radiant meteor, the scandals, the adultery trips, the shooting that the pederast gave his lover, the things they did in the dead of night, drunk between sleep and alcohol, they pretended not to remember anything... I looked down at my belly and realized that it had been pierced by a metal beam. Who wrote my fate?”

“Swap ink for weapons”, Huckle says, smiling, through his long beard, calmly like the leader of a terrorist sect. They wake up Lacan and explain what they are going to mettre une bombe dans la boîte aux lettres d'un entrepreneur d'art. René-Emerson goes to the hand mirror where we were snorting cocaine and licks its surface in search of any trace of that sacred powder. 

“Isn't there another more practical and cheaper way to get money from them?” says René. 

“There 's no way”, Huckle replies. “Are you in?”

“Yes”, he says.

They go around whispering things to each other. Silence when they finally go out. 

Later. René starving to play Polybius. 

“I could take the money from his wallet while he is sleeping”, René thought. 

He slowly opens the door to his parents' room. A muffled voice enter the hallway and reach the ears: 

“The sailors playing!, all birds fly and I say stoooop!” 

Mr. Descartes puts his hand in front of his lips and subtly stops talking, making an angry face to the mirror. 

“Ssshhhh”, the hands cutting the red lips: “And washing up dishes... they called it on the pier!” 

In front of the mirror wearing a feathered dress, sheer enough that René could see her nipples through the red fabric, talking to himself, his painted lips reflected in the mirror, his opera singer's melodramatic gaze, like a maniac about to kill a president or a child arguing with an imaginary friend, like a cheap cabaret actress wearing his mom lingeries. 

“The sentry in front of the governor's house…”, he goes on…

René closes the door before being noticed.