Act 1: Pinya!
“The Woman with the Tattooed Hands”
Set in in the work camps and settlement towns outside of Boston, 2015ce May
Sebastian Adon, famous Zionist spy
Adelina Blazhennaya, a Russian linguist
Oleg the Bear, fashion photographer and shtarker
Ilya Lubov Trubadoroff, lesser Oligarch of Charlestown
Dmitry Khulushin Koch, prince of Easter territories
Irfan Khan, Pakistani military officer
Saif Khan, Bangladeshi accountant
Saadiya Usmani, a mystic
Ricardo Veshanti, a Rastafarian
Jefferson McIntyre, Guyanese philosopher
Ken King, Cuban Actor
David Kudzai Chikwamba Dorset; Zimbabwean biochemist/ Shona Warrior
0: Fast Fading Lights, Waltham
1: The Ravishing Little Mosquito, Waltham
2: Allow me to introduce Myself, Charlestown
3: Sacred and Crying, Waltham
4: The Flag of Zimbabwe, Waltham
5: Underestimate the Americans, Highway I95
6: The Choice Couriers, Isle of Man, New York
7: Flash Back to 2013, Cambridge
8: She Sometimes Amazed Me How Much, Brighton
9: A Mighty, Mighty Firefight! Waltham
10: Hideous Rage, Quincy
In fast fading lights of sunshine she appears to be my goddess, taking temporary refuge amongst the surely ranks of man. I am meager sinning hapless flesh, and why has she taken my feckless company, why do my trespasses make no rendered judgment?
She fails to tell.
She found me dying toothless lying on a third hand spring mattress long too used by rootless fuck, hungry, penniless and still sinful inhabiting a refugee ghetto, in bombed out special engineering camp in Eastern Massachusetts. Three years after I supposedly died in a Great Revolt.
I had no mind, I had no front teeth; my face was born mutt like. My mind had been recently lost. I filled my lungs with black smoke and poured poisonous behavior into my gullet; vodka, beer and wine.
She said I was not allowed to kill anyone, myself included and that I upheld. And she said we were to paint and write and adventure and also to heal, and that we did.
She said we might dream every night of beautiful places and things, which we could shut out the vile cold winter by making life between us warm.
She I said wasn’t to hurt her.
And I failed. I so completely failed.
Miserable me. Malicious, feckless damned. Curse me I failed; I reduced her and me to a ball of tears. When she wasn’t looking I again bashed my fists into a brick wall, I threw myself down stairs, I even struck at my own face!
“You are a fucking man without honor or integrity in words!” she wailed and clutched me and I begged and cried and reduced myself to sobs entreating her not to leave.
Well now where is all this going?
Every night before we briefly moved out of that camp and into a small clean flat in the hills above town, as I lay in my squalorous dwellings, a place on avenue Prospect 38 packed and sub-divided into dwellings for thirteen Botswanans, Ugandans and Rwandans, Spartan and periodically food friendly; we would use our mobilblats to message back and forth, radio the details of our next dream.
Adelina and I, not the Africans. With them I dreamed in solidarity, not particularly longing for I knew with Adelina I would live forever, but in Africa I would violently die.
The drudgery of my assigned work in Shrakasa Waltham involved a manual of removing of mostly perished corpses from satellite camps and a mental of cataloging various atrocities, in the name of “co-existence studies” happening at that time in the Middle East and Africa.
She was tutoring the illegitimate sons of newly arrived Chinese and Saudi oligarchs how to speak in English. Until I acquired a vehicle she would drive to Shrakasa Waltham from Shrakasa Brighton-Allston which was always a matter of small bribes at several checkpoints.
In the beginning I saw here once a week, then twice a week, then as often as either of us could escape from our respective wage slavery.
Every single night since they dumped me in that wretched Eastern New England camp, since they dumped me raving mad and moon howling, toothless, as I previously said; ever sense our “third date”, really our third meeting; well soon after anyhow each night, right before midnight we’d use the mobilblats to pick a dream location, often in the Caribbean; or in out space; or Belize, or Fiji, or Trinidad and also Togo, once or twice Madeira, Prague and Paris too.
A small beep or vibration, a red light and I’d see a small message on the mobilblat:
Adelina: Hey babe, where are we dreaming tonight?
I’d pause from the Castaneda book she gave me which I never understood. Or perhaps the Incredible Lightness of Being I was reading on her recommendation, or from my human rights agitation propaganda work online, or if I wasn’t reading, maybe I was drawing her something colorful albeit unremarkable. Or, hidden away in that 13 way sub-divided slum on 38 Prospect perhaps I was beating myself to smut; if I was self-fornicating, normally to some big breasted sex slave bent over taking two or three men in all the holes of her body, and I’d turn that off without finishing myself off if she messaged me, because I couldn’t be in both spaces, I could also realize how much she felt the world’s energy.
You don’t text message sweet talk of dreams; razgo vorchiki to a goddess while you beat yourself, mentally satiating, participating in a vaguely closed case version of voyeuristic gang raping.
In this recollection I was just reading a book, trying to grok Castaneda, and failing to.
Adon: I was reading more Castaneda. I’m a little lost. They’re taking a lot of magical plants and smoking them.
Shortly after, beep; red flash.
Adelina: : ) Keep at it.
One weekend in late November we escaped the camps for a weekend to a small, desolate island off the coast and she gave me a bag of roughly used paper back and hard cover magic books by Castaneda and Pavel. I’d been trying to follow a path of healing she was intent to keep me on. Putting healthy things in my mind, not the violence, hate and smut.
Adon: I will. How are you?
And the two minutes of pause meant she was either getting ready for bed, or thinking about what to respond. Or whatever else I was darkly projecting happened over in Camp Brighton-Allston.
Adelina: Tired. The message comes in.
And I always want to tell her I miss her, but she lectures me all the time about it not being manly to be overly emotional, proclaim all kinds of things you don’t mean, can’t back up or validate. But I wrote it anyway.
Adon: I miss you.
Adelina: I miss you too. I’ll see you in dreams in ten minutes babe.
Adon: Burma then in the Bagan temple complex.
Adelina: A picture of rows of gold temples pops up on the mobilblat. She has imaged me several pictures of Burma to focus my mind on.
Sludkeh Snov. See you soon. She messages.
That means sweet dreams in Russian.
I want to just type, I love you. But I don’t for she had earlier threatened to break things off if I said it. I had not hurt her yet, that was much later, but I had kissed her several times, and we’d also made love and she put me inside her and I had and wrested her from another lesser lover, I had intentions shall we say of being her man, but then she broke things off over the “I love you.” No, it was not only that, it was that she also hadn’t wanted anything serious after Alexei had lead her on and crushed her, last summer. A month before we reconnected in the camp.
Adon: see you Burma lady.
Adelina: Don’t keep me waiting ; )
And for the evil I think I did, and would later probably do, for all my brazen broken promises, my dashed high minded beliefs hiding a wretched core; I never kept her waiting for anything. And I almost always brought a gift; and I suppose that could count for something.