vietnam.war

Mekong USW.

È tutto ok.
Grazie al fatto che Amu abbia lasciato il suo attuale ex (bella l’espressione: il suo attuale ex) non tornandoci assieme e optando invece per Nico, ho vinto una scommessa fatta con Nico. Tale scommessa prevedeva, nel caso avessi vinto, il mio diritto d’uso del suo vergine fondoschiena (sapete che colleziono fondoschiena di efebi per principio).
Solo che – dato che all’opzione è seguito il fatto che ora quei due sono assieme – due contratti di uso del Nico-corpo vanno a sovrapporsi.
Nico non potrà onorare il contratto senza scatenare putiferii con Amu, e ciò farà sì ch’egli non l’onorerà adducendo l’attuale rapporto (indubbiamente più importante di una scommessa fatta cazzeggiando) come motivazione, quando una scommessa è sacra perché è una scommessa (come è il sacro il Jack, ad esempio), e ciò farà di lui un uomo non di parola.

Visto Fog of War, documentario-intervista a un individuo di cui invidio il cognome (McNamara – ebbene sì, amo questo cognome).
Ricominciato a vedere Utena, in quanto ero così fuori da non poter vedere qualcosa di sensato e seguirne il senso – Utena è delirante, quindi potevo non preoccuparmene.
Across the Universe sembra invece essere una gran bella promessa. Anche Noes deve vederlo, e deve in quanto l’ho tentata. La tentazione è iniziata così: “Ci vedo a scrivere del Vietnam, sìsì. Tu a fare il pacifista pavido che…”

C’è la morte di Martin Luther King a cui si assiste dalla sala comune dell’università di Washington; c’è un irlandese trapiantato in America che va a casa dalla madre per dirle della brutta notizia, e la trova a stringersi al petto la bandiera americana: l’irlandese è diventato figlio unico, il fratello è morto in Vietnam.
C’è un reduce del Vietnam dal ginocchio scricchiolante, che quell’eroe di guerra l’ha visto crepare; era il suo migliore amico; ha visto il suo cadavere a terra, pantaloni calati, proiettile nella tempia, e la vietnamita che stava violentando scappare via. La rabbia e la foga sono riusciti a scavalcare il ridicolo e si è buttato alla caccia dei vietcong responsabili, che gli hanno maciullato una gamba e sono scappati.
C’è la rivoluzione sociale e la musica e il fatto che sono un’unica cosa per questi due derelitti, c’è Woodstock e la pioggia che batte sui vetri che fa svegliare di soprassalto cercando il fucile; ci sono tante canne, amore e un gran casino.

Idee.
Tante. Belle. Idee.
A volte mi sento una gallina dal culo saldato.

Voglio galleggiare qui (occhi rivolti verso il cielo, però).

Continuare a guardare questo ridendo mi etichetta quale “testa di cazzo”.

Annunci

Jedermann.

Another book suggested by Hyoga. Jedermann, by Ernst Wiechert.
Last edition: 1945.
I said to Hyoga:
“Don’t suggest me books that maybe I won’t find. It could be frustrating.”
But I found a copy of it. I don’t know a thing about the plot – apart from the fact it has something to do with “Germany” – but it doesn’t matter. Hyoga is reliable. I just asked: “How many pages?”

Chapter one:

Sie sitzen auf der Steintreppe vor dem Seitenflügel der Kaserme.

Three students, barracks, Germany. Same old story.


I want to write fiction about Vietnam, but in the first scene there’s Lanh (the cute Vietcong, Hyoga’s character), therefore I must wait until he’ll have more free time.

I’m aware that I said I wasn’t going to write here…

At last I’m writing. Several writings.
There’s an Understurmführer and a Hauptscharführer (and I’ll end up writing “Unterscharführer” or “Hauptsturmführer”), 1944, somewhere in Germany, before the attempt on Hitler’s life, in collaboration with cauchemar_73. I asked her a Russian Jew who’s been converted into a pangermanist, but she didn’t understand my irony. We ended up writing a plot in which the Zar isn’t dead, my Understurmführer (Gestapo) is searching for him in order to replace Stalin and defeat Russia. There’s a camp and lot of soap. Different kind of irony.
In collaboration with Hyoga I’m going to write something about Vietnam, 196-. There is a tattooist, American, and a Vietcong. It’s not going to be a love story, but it will be enjoyable. Blood, powder and vaseline (tattoos, you know).
I also have written something more about Horton, who’s my favorite one: he doesn’t do anything but I always may write about his boring daily life pretending it’s interesting. As long as people believe he has something to convey, I’ll write of him.

There are Donato Torchia and Zacharie Richard Vidal de Noger, A.D. 1630, Venice and Paris.
Yeah, I started writing.
Yeah, I’ve gone back to the Thirty Years War again. I resumed the old files, opened them, and then cut and copied, cut and copied, cut and copied, giving that summary a sort of sense. Venice, France, England, the Empire, how-to-give-birth-to-puritan-America, and so on.
Vietnam War, WWII, Siege of Sarajevo, Thirty Years War… What else? I see cute young Vietcongs running along the Black Forest, Waldstein on the top of a hill giving orders against Serbian people while Peiper rides a Tiger in Magdeburg. (To ride a Panzer? I hope.) Venetian nobles who speak with Milosevic about the future of the House of Habsburg, general Wastemoreland argues with Richelieu (“Eat frogs, monsieur”), B52 over Berlin. I’m just a bit confused.

On Monday I’m walking in Boves, keeping Mr Zucconi company. We’ll stare at a hill, wondering how were that same hill about 70 years ago. I’ll leaf through books and sheets watching Peiper’s smile, Peiper who laughs, Peiper who asks information, Peiper who meets Hitler, Peiper at the swimming pool, Peiper on the East front, on the West front, Peiper during the trial, while Mr Pumpkin tells me that Peiper has been on the West front, on the East front, what he’s done, what he’s said, deserved, won, lost, wanted, searched, thought. And it won’t be boring.

I thought I had to study history as a continuum. I knew something about Varangians, something about the XIII century, something about Reformation and Counter-reformation. I said to myself those were just the notions I would have needed when I finally were to study contemporary history. I thought of them as pieces I should have laid into a wardrobe. I was wrong.
I thought of history as a matter of time. Something that slips along eras. But human actions seem to be always the same few ones, and history becomes a sheet, 2D. The difference I’m searching is not between today and yesterday, but amongst the several kinds of future every “today” may fancy.
I wonder how people feel history. How they feel time, as I can’t help struggling because of this lack of time.

(Among or amongst?
Some people make a distinction between these, using amongst with verbs that imply movement: we stood among the trees but: we walked amongst the trees; the money was shared out amongst the members.

Among —> Dativ
Amongst —> Akkusativ
More or less.
Thanks, German.)


Just a memo. Too many books but little memory.

Books I’ve read:
“Profession: Peacekeeper”
“Night of the Long Knives”
“History of the Vietnam War”
“No Logo”
“Stella del mattino” by Wu Ming 4

Books I’m reading:
“The Man without qualities” (it’ll never come to an end)
“German History” by Poidevin (uni)
“The Outlaws” by Ernst von Salomon

Books I’ve ordered:
“Hope and Glory” (uni)
“International Law” (uni)

Books I’d like to order:
“Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison”
… And something about Peiper.