Works of Nappula

This is a copy of a piece I wrote elsewhere, just in case the Russians decide to spam that site into oblivion.

P Is for Peace, A for My Ass

I know. You’ve been having impure thoughts about NATO. You might as well confess now, save us all a load of misery - water torture is no picnic for anybody, believe you me.

MOSCOW - A rare display of loyalty and passion by a candidate in the presidential elections of Finland took place here on Sunday, 20th November 2011.

As Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin entered the ring at a martial arts event to introduce a local athlete - a real hero, a Russian hero, he kept saying, waiting for the word to become flesh - and was cut short by a storm of fierce and highly unexpected booing, Paavo Arhinmäki, 34, from Finland, stood up.

He raised his head high above the hoodlums and addressed the mob. Just like Mayakovsky in his prime; before shooting himself, of course.

“When talking about the Taliban,” Arhinmäki thundered, “cutting people’s heads off, we should look into the crimes of Bernie Madoff… With an AK-47, shirtless and shooting…

[swallowing saliva, then shrieking]

“everyone against us and our lord Putin!”

Arhinmäki fell silent, the audience fell to their seats, ashamed and defeated, afraid of another gas attack, perhaps, and then everybody watched some kung fu. Everyone was young again. Everyone was happy. And the happiest of all, thousands of miles away, were the Taliban.

They had refined their heroin so it could be spread as words, and Paavo Arhinmäki was the head pusher of the product in Auresia.

She raised her head, checked herself, a hellhound having a scent. What was she thinking? Pulling her elbows from the table, arching her back. Wait a moment, calm down. Breathe. She would never have allowed herself such an outburst, she explained, ever, had she not been absolutely certain there was no one else in the Gossip Room. No one used the proper name for the combined kitchen and gathering place of employees and customers alike, a haven for everybody who felt like fleeing the real world. Well, the Little Cleopatra did try to call it anything but the Gossip Room, but she was paid to do that, make up euphemisms for everything in sight, and since the pompous Conference Room didn’t stick, she tried to tap into her creativity. Heaven knows how many sleepless nights she spent before coming up with the Pit Stop or the Lighthouse, without thinking it through, of course, since the combined effect of the elements in her visions would blow up in her face. Which wasn’t far from reality, as a matter of fact, you had to give her that. Or her id or her husband or her dog. If she had any of those things. Maybe she did, all rolled into one.

The space had a separate entrance. It was a world of its own, a former janitor’s apartment that, since janitors vanished from the face of the earth, was converted into a melting pot of all things unrelated to work. Hence the nicknames, the Gossip, the Babble, and all the variations, the most dangerous being the Headquarters. You had to have a real death wish to use that name withing the hearing distance of Little Empress. It bore an implication that someone beside the boss wore the pants in this house. Since that was true, you couldn’t talk about it. To call a locker room the HQ was a symptom of some discomfort among the workers. That was unacceptable and ungrateful, of course. It had to be rooted out. Their place of employment was, after all, as close to a democracy as you could get. Which it wasn’t and wasn’t even supposed to be, but sometimes things can get confusing.

In the beginning… 

Even the Iron Lady wanted to be wanted. As insane as that may sound. At a party, she struck faster than a copperhead. Moby Dick kissed me. Right after pointing out everybody with a lower mileage than hers, the ones who weren’t lesbians or prospects were simply crybabies, good riddance even before they got out. I had a crush on the starlet of our house, her protégé, right? That love child should have been at least a teeny weeny bit grateful for those who came before. The old school, us. Didn’t I agree? Then, boom. The poison in my veins, I was paralyzed. Blinking the only thing I could muster.

She must have been horrified, seeing a conspiracy of dykes, perverts and dopeheads taking over her house, and even they didn’t bother with her. I was the only one left that night. Later on, she’d have my number, as well, but for now…

Go Tell It on the Mountain

[Here her secretary - the author's, not Maggie May's - raises his voice, which would be highly inappropriate, unless it were imperative to announce that the employer described here is by no means the present one. Thank you. Proceed.]

The thought burst the calm the same way the first bubble does, as the sinister humming underneath or inside the kettle subsides. She had no idea where it came from or what it meant. Lepers have more fun.

The statement could have been stretched across the chest of some pocket-sized pop star swaying down the street in New York. They thought about sex constantly, their soul a hole where their womb should have been, but they weren’t nymphomaniacs, oh no! They were acrobats, they were amazing, in and out of bed, and people just stood and stared, that’s who they stole their power from, spreading apathy, spreading envy, the other slogan pushing your face in it. Lepers, whoever… do it better.

Oh, disgusting! How did that infectious herd wander to her head? From the Bible? Impossible… she didn’t read the Bible, she had left the Church. That bunch of whiners, begging for your sympathy, divine intervention their only option.

Make no mistake, we’re at war while picking up our underwear. And at the end of the day, between the silk sheets, we’re at war. War is kind. She lowered her head, leaned on the round table and let out a shadow of a sigh. Try and forget. The day had just begun, and she was exhausted.

She checked herself, raised her head, a hellhound having a scent. What on earth was she thinking?

[...]

What’s next? Finnish-speaking mongrels, abandon all hope and write to me…

pattimaa@hotmail.fi

The rest, enter here.

September 4th, 2011 - 8.33 p.m.

Patti Smith has come out in the open about the thing that some, Mr Rotten included, have been suspicious of. Smith admits skipping numerous scenes in Roberto Bolaño’s 2666, especially in section four, “The Part About the Crimes”. Now that is a felony, but the sky being the limit, the baroness of punk takes the trouble of forcing her company on the late master’s family in Blanes, Catalunya. Why, in the name of Christ, would she do that? She hasn’t even read Bolaño’s greatest work… Oh, sorry, she read it through in the end, so she could feel good about making the trip. And left the book on the aeroplane, so she could tell she missed it, just like she would miss a friend.

Horses, horses… horseshit.

Syyskuun 4. 2011 klo 20:33

Patti Smith myöntää julkisesti sen, mitä jotkut, Johnny Rotten esimerkiksi, ovat epäilleet. Hän kertoo *hyppineensä yli* lukuisia kohtia Roberto Bola4on 2666:n osassa neljä, “Rikoksista”. Se on jo rikos, mutta kun mikään ei riitä, punkin prontosaurus menee vielä tapaamaan kirjailijan perhettä. Miksi ihmeessä? Ei hän ole lukenut edes Bola%#@on pääteosta… Hevosia, hevosia, hevonkukkua.

Ostin viikonloppuna kaksi kaksi kirjaa.
Ensimmäinen on nimeltään iViva Zapata!,
toinen Black Hawk Down.
Lush Life on vielä kesken, samoin
Guerrilla Warfare. Hyvää yötä!

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