Planet
To create. To write, to write something humorous and
interesting; I wonder if that means allowing a lesbian to say something or
giving a lesbian room to say nothing. In any case, a kind of accident.
I have always enjoyed my excellent appetite and my fancy for trying a bit
of everything good on the table. This time, I shall approach modestly.
-What would you like?
-I felt like trying analogies between whores, witches, academic feminist critics,
aliens, daring artists and dykes and for once, not continuing with the activity
of "transforming the material of debate" as part of the struggte.
And I wrote these short "hallucinations" while you were all a bit
too absent for my liking, in a burning-hot Madrid, waiting impatiently for
Sigourney Weaver to give explicit thanks for the existence of lesbianism.Hallucination
No. 1: ANOTHER SHIP APPROACHES
"...strange alien appears out of nowhere on queer ptanet and pc dissolves...
“ she read on a scrap of news paper fluttering around her.-I know it’s
supposed to be good for you to run healthily thorough the fields, get tanned,
to compare bodies down to the last millimetre, never to miss a chance to get
laid and to glance lazily at your reading, - she tried to remember something
of what she'd been told in More Stories class-, because it’s the summer,
right? But when I'm there at that time of year I like the bars, the hotels
with neon lights, writing in bursts, taking anti-aesthetic drugs,. the air-conditioning
making my skin bristle, the warmth of guffawing alcohol, calling two or three
very different people on the toshphone at the same time, to say exactly the
same thing to them, but I particularly like to be listened to when I'm fucking,
(a place of enunciation!). will they understand anything? she wondered as
she imagined an exaggeratedly loud voice in the middle of a street full of
Queertian chulos, although she would always say "culos", because
of the difficulty of pronouncing the phoneme "ch".Meanwhile, over
the eco-blast you could still hear... to be listened to when l’m fucking,
they grabbed her by the arm, -hey, babe, come on, tell us something much more
entertaining.
They didn't seem to have understood very well.At that moment, she dreamed
of running away through one of those internal holes through which she had
never looked out, and her hands sweated, her hands always sweated when the
moments of flight and dream got mixed up. She didn't go completely and when
she carne back to one of those shapes she found herself answering a group
of kulos or shulos who surrounded her, all speaking very quickly at the same
time.
-... I don't have a cat, or a Girlfriend, or hot meals every day, or a bedroom, nor do I explain my necessary instability by the fact that Saturn is returning. That was what she answered to a question which nobody had asked her.- lf you stay here you will some day, babe, they all do what they refuse to sooner or later.
One
of the tallest of the 20 she reckoned she could see, dressed in red leather,
answered frivolously. She felt in her circuits that she liked that young man,
with his conceited air. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two strong women
doing it to each other and she was surprised that there were this type of
people, so similar to her, on this planet. She wasn't surprised, however,
that they were panting with pleasure in front of everyone, although she knew
that was not a common practice. Now she also remembered that they often spoke
of fucking, of sucking, of butt-fucking, of
coming... although they could hardly ever be seen doing it, you couldn't even
hear them doing it, and that was much more surprising.-This isn't my place,
so I must seem really displaced here. I imagine how I got here unless it was
an accident. (I can't imagine)And she said the last sentence in a language
which none of those present could understand. Circumstances which escape from
the personal universe of the person who believes they have everything under
control.-Why are you surprised?, the tall leather-clad man said to her, drawing
near; he didn't look like a young man any more, and she couldn't tell very
well what he looked like.- At its unexpectedness and rotariness. You're all
so
full of images. (???)- My name is Khiz, he said, and added, - why do you
only think of yourself?- I have no name here, but it occurs to me that I
could catt myself Ga.A hierarchy of microscopic structures governed by electromagnetic
forces are advancing in the interior of stellar masses, caution is recommended
tonight, announced the stereologic monitors.- I am sick and tired of mathematicat
relations between mass and the luminosity of a star.- Round here you all seem
to shine too brightly. Are
you always like that, in such a relation?- No, not always. You know, it depends
on what orbit you rotate in. We can change orbit but we always have to stay
in one of the six we rotate in. Otherwise, we run the risk of descending to
the third level and turning into interminable consecutiva mirages. But something
strange is happening. For the last ten suns, the Queertian night and day have
been suffering inexplicable changes in their chromatic composition, the hues
are getting odder and odder in orbits five and six, whereas in orbits one,
two, three and four, part of the population is going mad, so mad that they
want to rute again, and they promise each other what belongs to them by law
and by right. A real catastrophe.-Fine, but where am I now? Because one thing
I'm sure of is that I'm not in hyperdykespace. Everything blew up on me in
a vast entropic shipwreck.- You were lucky. Your Dykemutor projected you to
the inland desert in Orbit six, the outer orbit and the most open and entertaining
one. You may even meet others like me. What's more, there may even be some
who recognise you and know about you. But a little further in and you'd be
completely invisiblein Or.1, Or.2, Or.3 and Or.4 they're all the same now
and “alterelements" are forbidden... you have to feel sorry for
them, really... really sorry... they're totally lost since they decided to
re-establish relations with Terra Zero and with their oldest leaders, the
VIPS.
Ga sighed deeply, pulled off a smalt bag attached to her helmet and said ironically,
-Orbits, how strange you are!. She thought, what should really make all of
them all feel sorry for each other was still to be living on a planet rotating
in orbit, around a centre, however picturesque it might be, but she simply
asked Khiz,
-What shall we do now?
-Walk
-Yes, walk, but in what direction?
-I know this will sound strange to you, but in the inland desert there are
no directions. You have to walk everywhere and you get everywhere. If you
walk with me all night we'll reach the Garden of Rocks. The temperature will
be low, but we'll see the horizon spreading out and fragmenting into thousands
of little pieces as our bodies twinkle beautifully. I warn you, however, that
we have to be careful. There is a rumour going around that some of those who’ve
been mimeticised in Orbit Six are trying to betray us. There'll be times when
things could be difficult for us. At times we'll run the risk of being suspected
of speaking of ourselves.Ga felt an inexplicable velocity between her atoms
and molecules before Khiz. Her sensors had captured numerous inter-dimensional
movements.
- If I keep going at this speed I'll disintegrate inside you before this story
advances, she thought almost by accident.
And she transmitted: the story advances, very ambiguously, very mysteriously.And
she transmitted: lives out of orbit are all complicated because they are in
the future, and so here I must seem displaced. And she added: the Garden of
Rocks, a place from which to speak, Khiz was a possibility of having something
to say, I was a "zone” of possible response, among many others.
There was an inscription carved on one of the rocks which made us all laugh.
It said: if gais seduce using everything they show, then lesbis do it using
everything they hide.
I am still not looking for a way out to find you. Reasonable degree of anxiety,
although there you would say "complacent paranoia".
Hallucination
No. 2: MY SEX WILL NEVER BE TRANSPARENT
Dear Barbara,
Sometimes chance gives us such a hard time that it really seems to be predeterminad
fate. That's why it's better that you play with chance because luck is an
invention for those who take risks. And I repeat these phrases, the same ones
you said to me years ago, when you'd just met me. The same ones which led
to the beautiful madness of knowing ourselves to be different. Noisy. Desperately
seeking the difference.I know you've always fought against the exploitation
which squeezes out authenticity, against the stamp form which derives the
must-be and the knowing-how-to-behave, against the sense which fixes identity,
paralysing and kidnapping the desire for the journey, that journey of yours
through your body which has always fascinated me and which on occasions I
have dared to imitate. You have irritated many women with your presence alone,
you have confused them with your forms and with your unexpected movements.
You laughed out loud and they looked at the scandal of your mouth, perplexed,
anxiously awaiting a silence which never came. Your words, neither exact nor
fair, seemed rather to stretch or shrink in search of new senses. They didn't
understand you, but you knew they couldn't help listening to you, that ridiculous
insistence on knowing who you were, what you were doing and at least where
you came from and who you were prepared to fuck. I like the colour of your
new hand mixer. Blue.You became a fiction, a dyke of plurihuman nature in
a world (will it survive?) which goes deeper into the hypertrophism of the
senses, which conscientiousty insists on giving a sex to a name, a nature
to a state, and one - just one - possibility of existing to an experience
which hands out heavenly trophies in the name of a certain Beatriz, who has
never drunk of queerdom, and despite all that, and more, which I can't think
of now, they say that they legitimase our life and thus they try to hide us.And
as order occurs in monorhythms of decadent heterosexuality, Barbara - you
- transforms herself into someone else even more unsuitable. You've put a
new motor in your mixer; shred, mix, dilute. There was nothing to legitimase,
not in anyone's name, nor .on anyone's behalf, nor for anyone.. your sex is
not transparent, your unconnected sex demands the hidden pleasures which like
fungi muttiply between your toes, still flesh and blood; your unconnected
sex understands foreign tongues, obscene, plausible and dangerous. I have
realised that the most enjoyable thing about you is your mixer which has spat
out all the theory around the kitchen. Will you let me try it? I want to try
it.
Your body in part the body, chaotic figures, and you explore right into your
insides skilfutty, the design of an obtuse geometry which falls masturbating
with pleasure. I can´t play with you because you're not real. I don't
care any longer what you really look like, your body in the process of formation,
symbiosis between the imaginable and the possible. You stimulate me with your
third hand, the perfection of your movements, those remote involuntary muscular
movements. You have more sense. All your senses are pampered. I think of something
you told me you'd read a long time ago. It went something like this: it is
no longer the freedom of ideas but the freedom of forms: the freedom to modify
and change the body. The question no longer speculates on whether society
will allow dykes the freedom of speech, but on whether ethics (they exist)
will authorise us to make alternative genetic codifications. You said they
would, and you were right. I love your hybrid life, biological, electronic
and artificial. Such beautiful complexity. Your sex will never be transparent.
You are what you eat. I have eaten you so many times. What do you eat?; your
stabbing desire to gradually get rid of the weight of the organic. I was frgihtened
by the idea of seeing our bodies disappear and then you let me feel comfortable
with your machine.
Your
net is vast and infinite. Deconstructing identity does not mean deconstructing
politics. I am partly struck dumb by the savage everyday reality in which
we women sometimes still live. Action is appropriate. I want to do with you.
You act, you raise your conscience and you rebel against exploitation. Hypertext
is a good place to run. We run quickty. New beings for some worlds and not
for others. You, her, us, you all, they and I copying you to fill these new
worlds.Now I touch your sex. Astonishing curiosity, the lying in wait... hyperpleasure,
I don't know why I'm writing like this, I should justify my existence historicalty,
logically, I can't do it. Is there a lesbian art? You are not equipped with
the technologv to meet the circumstances. I have got so angry whenever I heard
that last sentence. The work and the worker get confused: the red flesh cracked
by wires. Everything flows together in your sex - obscure machine- in that
immense projection screen.I can see you back to front and you tell me even
more, and now you are called Omeima .
Omeima, I must tell you now that you always make me nervous when we go to
the cinema on Sunday and my DNA chains get confused and I tose my chromosomes
in the Flea Market.
Omeima this is a very long distance call, there is hope; the hetero-celular
status is speedily committing suicide. Bodies in ruins. Mass suicide. The
viruses are vectors of information which unite us and inform us, and I have
made an alliance with a Central African gorilla who loves me and my life or
death opportunities enter the NETWORK as a real story of the new world order.
Dyke hyper-reality. I tell you so.
By Fefa Vila Núñez
