New York has plasticine buildings pierced by powerful coal stakes. The humans of high finance move around stabbing their teeth in the walls, jumping from corner to corner, legs an explosion of locusts. In the streets, writers walk holding sharp scalpels. Nobody wears glasses.
They use telescopic, radiographic, ultraviolet, infrared, kaleidoscopic sights covered in the tip with black adhesive tape and only a small hole lets light pass. The rest of the world is thus attenuated. Writers sometimes tear these tapes just for the joke. Sometimes you miss the scalpel and rip a cornea. And then we have the dogs in the parks.
The high-class dogs that wander around dogs class son of a bitch. I told you that, but nobody's calling. Nobody speaks English. All babies are called Capote. Or Auster. Or AOL. Or Jie. Or there are no babies anywhere and I just can not remember.
An effort, please!
Any passerby plays clarinet in a basement in Greenwich Village. There is not, anywhere, a single cake that has pralines. On the other hand, on a dirty street wall someone wrote ARTISTS SPACE. Across the street, a small grocery store sells sushi. It was the first time I had sushi. I wrote that down.
There are donuts and hotdogs, of course. There's Houston and the passage from Manhattan to Brooklyn, of course. There is, of course, Ahhss and Uhhss in the fire of the 4th of July. There are helicopters that follow you everywhere because they know you are you and you can not be you anywhere. Not in Western Sahara. Not in Coimbra. Not in Istanbul. Much less in New York.
Leandro Ribeiro, 2005