23. feb. 2011

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin















The In Other Wor(l)ds workshop took place at the f.a.q. Laden in Neukölln on February 19th on the occasion of Lad.i.y.fest Berlin. We played several Surrealist writing games in Sci-Fi settings with feminist-queer aspirations: Definitions (Question and Answer), Conditionals and two versions of Exquisite Corpse. In the first version, we collectively (de)constructed sentences like “The sexy robot slapped a strong community”, in the second we wrote short stories, based on our favourite Exquisite Corpse sentences.

The following mistress-pieces were written by Nina, Laura, Tanja, Dare, Sybille, Katha, Raoul, Cy, Tina, Audrey, Sabine, Skyler, Tea and another (for now) anonymous participant. The list of stories will expand as soon as we manage to decode our exquisite handwritings. Until then – enjoy the ones below …

Many thanks to Lad.i.y.fest organisers for hosting the workshop and the Slovenian Embassy in Berlin for donating the wine! (The Surrealists were right: “The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine!”)


Definitions (Question and Answer)

What is your idea of queer science fiction?
Biting the dog again and again.

What does a star look like?
Like the cow that went up the mountain.

Why is it cold?
Because the night belongs to the creatures.

Is there such a thing as luminous wonder?
Depends on the light.

Must there be light at the end of the tunnel?
Look, the teddy bear is acting like a cat!

What is the best place for a secret?
That would be just too complicated to answer.

Which pizza do you like? Peperoni?
No, the one with the book from last year.

When is it the time to fall in love?
I don’t care. Let’s just do it now.

Why are sad people so complicated?
Because blue robot ponies don’t have a sex.

Why did the Snowqueer slip on the pavement?
Because the stars are pink and there is a huge teddy bear jumping on the top of the mountain.

What’s your favourite way of making sure you’re really awake for class in the morning?
I look for a fly that flew millions of years ago in a tropic forest and got trapped in amber.

Where did you find this book?
That’s misleading the truth written in the book.

Why did you sell that pink car?
Because the nuns told me so.

How can you travel from London to Siberia?
Look for a white rabbit with your answer in her mouth.

What would you do if you noticed you peed in your pants after laughing too hard?
It’s quite simple: you would want to try to cover it with a large carpet.


Conditional

If you walk into a queer party and you can’t find anyone who looks like you, then you can fit two green jellies inside your trifle spacesuit.


Exquisite Corpse
Follow the links to reach the stories based on the first three sentences.

An ambitious thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg.

A beautiful facility manager is insisting on a heart-breaking glass window.

A wild teddy bear cried over a deconstructed baby.

The yelling princess hurt an apple-shaped glitz business.

A stupid bicycle basket fell onto a terrible caterpillar.

The beautiful bowling ball is spitting a slow cigarette.

A blue ant sculpted the queeriest crocodiles!

An amazing power is playing with spicy gloves.

A rather curious box will devour an exhausted mirror.

The wonderful Amazons danced with a very used box.

The phenomenal train met a furious birthday cake.

The sexy robot slapped a strong community.

A precious cupboard secretly fell on Cinderella.

Part 1: An Ambitious Thought ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 1: 
An Ambitious Thought Is Swimming With the Multiple Cyborg


I. No Escape
The ambitious thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The flowers are falling from the trees, the birds are singing out loud and there's a terrible noise that seems like thunder: it is the nostalgic voice of another cyborg coming from the distance and it sounds like the saddest song on Earth ... Our multiple cyborg decides there and then ...

… to go to Earth and look for the other cyborg and maybe save it from its sadness. But the 1st cyborg had forgotten how people live on Earth. It was seen by the anti-terrorist forces and put in jail. There, it heard so many sad songs that it couldn't recognize the one it heard on its planet. As the 1st cyborg had no gender, the guardians put it in a cell in the women's quarter, alone, because in their world, if you are not a man you are not something else but assimilated to women. So the 1st cyborg descended deeper and deeper into sadness and soon its mission was forgotten. It thought only of the sad songs and its inability to fit into one gender box or the other. Teardrop after teardrop fell onto the concrete floor until one day one of those salty teardrops tore a hole in the floor, opening a trapdoor and sending the 1st cyborg down down down until it landed at the feet of the cyborg it had intended to save from sadness when it came to Earth.

“Hi, there you are! I was waiting here for you, really sad and terribly alone,” the other cyborg said.

“Yes, I heard your sad voice and so I decided to look for you and free you from your sadness,” the 1st cyborg explained, “but now I see this idea was too romantic. Since I've been caught and trapped here, I've become just as sad as you are.”

“Yes, but at least we're not alone now, and maybe we can escape from here.”

The other cyborg already looked a bit happier.

“But we are in a prison, there is no way to escape!”


II. The Supersonic Message
An ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The cyborg carried this thought for a really long time. Thoughts were falling from its head like a fish bowl kicked so strong that all the fish fly far away ... Anyway, a head full of thoughts and some strange memories: memories from the wild sex party they threw last night.

What was that? Nostalgic thoughts? They represented what the cyborg has been longing for: cyborgs from all kinds of places, dancing to slow motion songs in ballerina suits. Oh, for sure it felt like swimming. Swimming in a sea of metallic kisses and passionate oil. That was when the multiple cyborg remembered that special robot that looked like a piece of machine from the future in 1920. All kinds of thoughts started to return to its head: “I’m gonna organize a play party this evening!”

The cyborg thought of sending a supersonic message to the whole galaxy, one that can be translated as: “Welcome to the strangest place in the universe! Everything is possible here: fucking cyborgs, aliens, robots and maybe lost humans … for one night in our timespace but in your timespace, it could represent more or less, it depends!”

The cyborg sat back, satisfied with its message. Smiling to itself, it pressed its scrawny grey thumb on the ‘send’ button.


III. Revenge of the Lonely Cyborg
The ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The thought swims backwards, against the current, passing through channels and bouncing off rocks and fallen tree stumps, further and further into the past. The cyborgs swims alongside the thought, guiding it around islands and through marshy areas. While floating under a bridge, one lazy summer afternoon, the thought questioned itself.

“Why am I going backwards?” it said loudly to itself. One of the older cyborgs raised his wide head out of the water and answered: “Because you must revisit the past before you can move into the future.”

Slowly floating, the thought wondered what he would find in his past. At this point he couldn’t remember where he was coming from nor which way he had gone so far. Only when he bounced against a rock or a tree stump, he had a short flashlight of memories, astonished and confused about the way he had made so far. Where was the beginning, his origin? Or was there no origin at all? Would he just lose himself on the journey, fragmented and untraceable? And then, even if he could follow the way back to one origin, what would it tell him about the future?

Probably that he should take care of the dog more often, or write some letters to his family – the kind of precious advice that life is teaching you all through. Or: don’t step on the line, try to walk the sidewalks without stepping on the lines because that brings bad luck.

Anyway, the cyborg was lonely. A forty year old cyborg with no hopes for a future (technology doesn't last that much), thinking and meditating all day long: why nobody told me that technology doesn’t last forever, that we must be trashed too, necessarily, at a certain point? Why nobody teaches us this in school and we have to learn it the hard way ... when our metal is only good for ironing?

Even the complaining and meditating took too long, so our cyborg took a life-changing decision: “I am going to crash to the Earth, in a techno-pole, to show them where technology leads: to death ... Ah, ah, ah, I am becoming diabolic because no hope is left, no future for me, no future for others! I am going to destroy all 'scientific centers' and put bombs everywhere! Maybe the survivors will find parts of my body, maybe they'll wonder how a cyborg could be so lonely?! They might understand that all planets are perfect and loneliness exists everywhere …”


IV. In the Here and Now
The ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with a multiple cyborg called Az. It lives in another world, far from us. Whoever built it had in mind an ideal world. Az should be clever, free-minded, not straight, but it met another cyborg called By, lost in this ideal world.

By: It’s boring, we don't have to fight anyone!

Az: I don’t agree! This world is so wonderful, no more discrimination! Everyone can live freely!

By shook its head sadly: “What good is freedom if it wasn't fought for? Furthermore, what do we learn by relaxing in this peaceful paradise? Is there no challenge here, can't we use our minds for a single moment?”

Az didn’t know what to say. It arrived to this ideal world just a few days ago: “How long have you been here?” it asked.

“3 years, 99 days, 4 hours and 36 minutes,” By replied.

Az: “And what did you do all this time? You just seem to be bored with this perfect place and you’ve forgotten what it means to fight. Now the fighting for freedom looks like a great heroic adventure to you but don’t forget about the all pain and suffering it causes!” Az looked a bit furious because his beautiful thought was questioned that way.

Oh, stop telling me what to think,” By replied angrily, “you came here with your fantastic thoughts about perfect life, telling me your wisdom – but you didn’t live this life! What do you know about it?”

“The point is that when you arrive to the ideal world, nothing is like you imagine it would be. When you live 'this' life, the ideal world is far away, unreachable. And it seems to be perfect because our reality is 'here'. Our reality doesn’t taste good, the ideal world does. But the ideal world is not here.”

When By stepped into the ideal world he couldn’t believe it because it had became part of the 'here' and the 'here' is where we experiment, what we live. And if we live something we don’t like, then we have to fight to change it. This desire for change, even in the paradise of the ideal, was too shocking for By, who realized that he was never living in such an ideal place, that this static picture was an illusion of reality. When By met Az, he realized there were many things that needed to be done. And that’s when he joined Az in the fight. He also realized that Az was not a 'he' but a 'she' and that by calling 'him' 'he' was trying to see the world as a place made only for him.

When he saw that there were others, different ones, and saw a part of the fight as well, he started to call Az for what she was, a complete cyborg, independent of pronouns. And both kept on fighting together. Ideal world or reality, call it as you want. The fact is that they are fighting HERE.


Part 2: A Beautiful Facility Manager ...

Part 2: A Beautiful Facility Manager ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 2: 
A Beautiful Facility Manager Is Insisting on a Heart-Breaking Glass Window
 


I. Clashing Histories
A beautiful facility manager insisted on a heart-breaking glass window.

“Give in, give in to my beauty!” shouted the manager. By now she was in despair. Normally, her charms always worked, no matter how pressing the window’s heart-ache was. This window didn’t make a screech. One if its panes moved slightly, from left to right, as if to say: “No.”

“What do I have to do to heal your shattered window-heart? I tried duct tape, chewing gums, even the new subparticle glue … Please, talk to me!”

Was this a dream? A bad one, it seemed. A kind of nightmare. Since when did he notice that this special window was talking to him? And why did he think it was female? Nobody knew he liked women. It was forbidden, the machines didn’t want it. Why was he so sad about the broken glass? He couldn’t remember. This shouldn’t be happening. The machines. Was evolution really this bad?

He was male. That was the only thing he knew.

“Go to hell,” he shouted, “go to hell, all of you!”

Stretching Robin woke up. He looked over to the corner where he kept the window. She was still there. Shattered. And his dream slipped away from him.

“Time for another appointment with the high Wita. Stay there,” he said, “and don’t move.”

Talking to a mirror again, oh dear. He crawled up the ladder and into the air vent that protruded insignificantly into the room. He had to make his way to the bowels of the ship. It was magik time. He had to witness the Ritual.

“Psst.”

He heard a sound as he tried to wriggle him ample hips through the small hole. He paused, sweating. No other life forms apart from the Facility workers were allowed in the ship. That’s unless you count the witches. And of course, no one knew about them.

“Psst.”

He heard it again. He lowered his feet down onto his screen shelf where all the Universe’s oracles were kept. He pushed his shoulders through, and bruising the right one, he landed with a bump on the second layer of his cabin.

The only thing with even a vague Life-Energy was the mirror. But that was impossible. Surely the forces had died long ago with the genocide that had rid the planets of all humans. Womyn. Was that how it was spelled? He wasn’t sure. The histories seemed to clash.

Moving over to the mirror, he observed his long lashes repeated in her eyes.

“Why the fuck mirrors? Are mirrors glasses? Window-glasses? What a stroke of genius of fate. Of course, at this point people did not believe in faith, a somewhat anachronistic concoction, anymore. But then, in spite of technology, how do you know – to have picked mirrors as the last remnant of life-energy?

The thought of recovering a mirror, that symbol of vanity and coherence of the self, tickled Robin’s sense of glory. He pictured himself as the hero, just like in the texts he had at one point read in brain training.

Robin the hero would save those he loved most – women, womyn – and himself, rescue them from the planet where it was possible to survive only with the help of mirrors. Robin didn’t know exactly where to but knew how it should look like. He gave the idea a second thought and suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore if he knows where to go. Sure about the need to leave and sensing that the journey away from the planet will be long and exhausting but nonetheless necessary, Robin started preparing for the journey of his life.


II. Potatoes Don't Have a Gender
A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. She was sitting in a large oval room, surrounded by kaleidoscopes of windows. Rainbow-light was reflecting everywhere, bouncing off her hair, giving it the colour of the old flags she had seen in the history Portals, carried on poles by strange women with short hair. Her salopettes were slightly wet with sweat and she was sitting surrounded by fragments of broken glass.

A short, curvy figure walked up to her: “What are you doing, Ariadne?”

“Shh!,” the other said. Her stained fringe shook irritably: “'I'm concentrating.”

It had taken her so long to get to this point, she felt. And yet only a few hours ago she had been sitting in the mess-cafeteria, sipping her tomato juice with Vox. And now they were here, at last. And she had to concentrate. Hard. Or everything might be lost.

Vox ate her mashed potato hungrily. Ariadne was acting strangely. Quiet, frowning. Holding her tomato juice in her hand, barely drinking it and eating nothing, even though they had a busy day of Lyte Krystal mining ahead. What the hell was going on with her?

Annoyed, she finished and slurped down her cold, luminous energy T. In a way she felt manipulated, as if she was in some kind of sarcastic system of cow-willing-sipping luminous energy T in the morning, replenishing, just to pour all the energy into the Lyte Krystal. On the other hand, their plan was projecting an arduous night ahead.

While sipping on the mashed potatoes (yes, they could be sipped as well if X-rayed with the sharp light of the awakening morning), they were sorting out the last details of the night that was lying ahead. They didn't let themselves be bothered by the annoying phone ringing, or by people who were passing by, iodizing in wonder at the two persons sitting on the floor, surrounded by glass-spirals, eating breakfast and talking just as casually as if they were shopping at the market. No, they didn't let themselves be disturbed by the BIG ONE, who was flying into town and who was way more important than any of their human concerns.

Ariadne's concentration period was finished. She opened her eyes again and instantly the rainbow-light disappeared from her voluminous hair. As she looked around herself, nervous about the BIG JUICY ONE's arrival, she noticed that her hair looked even longer and darker in the shattered glass reflection. She wished she could cut it right there, at once, just like Vox did after seeing the holographic representation of her strong predecessors' history of struggle against the BIG ONE. What worries! Now, only a hundred years later, she and Vox were on a diplomatic mission to introduce the BIG ONE to the new mashed potatoes recipe which healed the heart-break off all species, BIG and small.

Everything became great as Vox accepted the new wisdom. And everybody really loved the BIG POTATO ONE. Potatoes don't have a gender. Who knew it would be that easy? And it all started with a facility manager ...


III. Metamorph Now!
A beautiful facility manager insisted on a heart-breaking glass window. So he looked at it. Why do these cyborgs always destroy windows? That was his life: queering ponies, broken crocodiles.

“Mr. Suffer?”

Oh, no. He hated to be called by his real name.

“Yes, divine queen of perverts?”

Cyborgs are so logically engaged. You can’t win.

“Why is there a teddy lying on the second floor?”

“I don’t know. Do you wish that I metamorph it?”

“No, thanks.”

And then he saw it. The face in the window. Again. This planet was a mess.

He looked down and returned to his work. They called him Mr. Suffer but nobody knew his real name. He forgot it a long ago, in the Third-Iron-Age. And no one bothered to give cyborgs a name these days. There were too many of them … us … no, them. So hard to think of the trillions of slick figures of his kind. And of course, that is what the humans always wanted. To de-figure them. To take cyborg culture and hide it from all second-class citizens of the Eleventh Galaxy. No wonder, he thought cynically. With the combined life-force of these eternal lifeforms, a revolution could be staged.

“Screech.”

Again he heard it, that sound that his Professoress once described as the sound of fingers scraping a blackboard.

“Screech.”

Quickly, he looked up. Nothing.

“Queenie, oh queenie,” he mumbled.

His Supervisoress reappeared.

“About that teddy: can you metamorph it after all? Its fuzzy little legs are bringing out my maternal instincts.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Typical, he thought. She was scared.

Scribbling little letters which don’t deserve their name onto the surface of the table, the divine queen of perverts was pondering: “Is there a difference between Teddies and Cyborgs, and if yes, who gets to name them? In a way, Teddies had been just very lucky but maybe also strategic in selling their fuzzy legs as completely inoffensive; so trivial and cute that revolutionary metamorphosis could not be thought of.”

Queenie started thinking aloud but just couldn't get it why the Cyborgs were always said to be biologically engaged. After all, she never saw any Cyborg sharing its desire with another Cyborg. At least not with her own eyes. Or was she simply ignorant? Maybe she imagined desire in a certain way, thought it had to assume a certain shape ...

In this moment, Mr. Suffer realised he was in his own world. There were still teddies around him but no cyborgs in sight although he could swear he smelled the overwhelming saliva from their mouths ... not in sight but surely present. Instead, only a sales-person was looking at him like he was insane. He was sure that this sales-person thought so, but he didn’t care about it. Cyborgs were around him and they might have desires, too (he just didn’t see them) ... and he himself ... yes, he himself ... a small flash of insight grew … became huge ... yes, he desired them! He desired THEM!

“Oooh! Cyborgs,” he screeched like a nail scraping against rusty metal, “why wasn’t I constructed as an autoerotic cyborg, why can’t I just please myself?!”

“Don’t despair,” shouted the divine queen of perverts, “metamorph! Metamorph now!”

“Yes, I am ... am ... mmh ...”

His electronic consciousness faded out for a second, perhaps a century. When he opened his eyes again, he realized he was tied to the iron frame of a velvet-red bed. A dozen fluffy and warm teddies were sitting on his chest, salivating with desire and gazing transfixed into his many compound eyes.

“Who am I,” he thought, “what have I become?”

Perhaps it no longer mattered ...


IV. One grows, one grows up to the task of growing
A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. The window belonged to a fancy shop with antique teddy bears. They were not in the best shape, some of them were missing legs, some of them had no head, but looking at them, the facility manager could cry tears – so beautiful they were in their uniqueness! They were to be exhibited, the facility manager decided, and so s_he went against the conviction of her_his colleagues and clients who thought s_he's gone crazy. S_he was standing in front of the shop, looking at it from a distance, aware of the treasure that was lying behind the wooden bulk windows. S_he was thinking of teddy bears and their heads and legs and bellies and filling that was partly pushing to the surface of their beings. S_he could almost smell their fur, it had the sweet odour of years of humidity.

“Aaa-khm!”

The facility manager moved her/his beautiful head towards the sudden sound. What was that?

“Aaa-khm,” repeated the sound and by now (s)he knew that this was not some random noise from the street, not the cracking of the boards that covered the window – no, the sound was coming from behind the boards. (S)he brought her perfectly violet nose closer to the window and looked at the damp teddy bears from real close. One of them seemed to move slightly, as if to stretch its muscles. Suddenly, it pulled out a sign that said: “WE ARE NOT EXHIBITS. FLUCK YOU!”

“What?”

“Which part of the sentence you didn't understand?”

“Maybe the 'Fluck you' part.”

“C'mon, I'm a bear. Do you expect a perfect pronunciation or what?”

“I didn't even know that a toy is able to talk.”

“I'm lonely. And my name is Zoo, by the way.”

“What kind of a name is 'Zoo'?”

The bear seemed to grow: “What kind of a job is a 'facility manager'?”

“You're a naughty little bear.” Am I really talking to a bear, she thought in the mean time, I should visit the doctor. While it wondered, the bear apparently returned to its inanimate stasis. And then: “Naughty little bear, am I? Are you trying to dominate me or what?”

Aa-khm laughed: “Well, I guess they don't call you 'Bears' for nothing. Who would think that toys are into BDSM?!”

To her/his surprise, the teddy laughed heartily with her. Did it understand? No one, not even the Sybil-IV's got his/her jokes. They were too old-fashioned, filled with references to a time long gone. So s/he kept laughing, hysterically now, the sound coming deep from hir belly.

“Look, shut-up,” the teddy bear hissed, “you've got to get me out of here. I'm old and trapped. Look, my shagging is starting to get mouldy.” Zoo held up a leg impatiently, showing Aa-khm the newly-formed star crystals. Zoo was here for too long and too frustrated to bandy about PleasSex with a facility manager. However, s_he was pleasantly appealing. Zoo quickly thought about how simple it was for it to label people as appealing or not. Where did it learn that? Behind the glass window, checking out passers-by.

Like a balloon with its sides stretching, Zoo became larger. A kind of an unpleasant feeling, but one grows, one grows up to the task of growing, stretching, filling up space. Like a yeast dough with a slightly fractured surface. Fractured? It started with some cracks, cracks turning into fractals, like sprinkled sugar all over the place. A kind of slow-motion but steady, then a point of fullness, a point where glass resistance is overwhelmed by Zoo's mighty belly, crashing and cracking, shattering all over the floor. The glass window is broken, and so is Zoo's mightily enlarged heart. Literally.



V. Embizzle's Home

A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. Glass had proven instrumental to Embizzle's daily routine at least once or twice before. Its power to break people's hearts, literally, helped her once to dodge a ticket checker, another time to stop a night train from departing on time.

Looking at the window frame, Embizzle could not help giving in to the – what was by now thought to be obsolete – way of insulating living units. So Embizzle was choosing the occasions, the moments when it used its power very carefully and sparsely. It always focused on something that was incredibly important to it or to those it loved. And it loved people very much. Throughout the years it would observe how its use of power made people do things they wouldn't do otherwise but were just more right – they brought more equilibrium and justice (however vague this concept might be). However, when people would act in a more just way, their hearts would turn bigger and bigger until they would explode.

Embizzle itself was hurt by it and now, at this point was wondering whether the glass windows were the key to get rid of all this pain. After all, the glass was supposedly emotionless – and motionless. But wasn't there always something, someone behind the window glass?

Embizzle tried to look through the dusty window but only saw its own reflection. Its beauty was typical of its species: vertical eyes, horizontal nose, vertical mouth et cetera. But Embizzle was used to her face. So used, xe no longer noticed it. Right now she knew only one thing: her reflection in the dark dusty window was on her way, preventing her from seeing what was behind it. So s/he smashed the window with her fist.

She was surprised to see how easily the glass broke. How soft. It melted away and she was surprised again. The window was hiding a different room. There stood a scientist and mumbled: “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Embarrassing. Her beloved H was a small scientist? An ant? An insect with a writing pad in its hands? Ridiculous?

Embizzle wished she hadn't broken the window. This story was going to end really bad and she knew who would suffer in the end – herself. Looking at the scientist she noticed something strange about the creature. Although it definitely had insecticide characteristics it also had the same slightly slanting eyes as H, Embizzle's own long mouth. But, as well as this, the scientist had long white fingers, which were writing feverishly in a book. Looking at H, her own heart was breaking.

“Hello Embizzle.” The creature smiled: “Recognise me? I am your syster.”

And Embizzle knew then, where her ana…est dreams and skills had led her. Here. Home. To this beautiful, tri-specied creature, truly a child of the anti-speciesist Order's own philosophy. Looking at her, Embizzle knew that her hardest work had only just begun. Instead of breaking hearts, she would now have to learn to mend her own.


Part 3: A Wild Teddy Bear ...

Part 3: A Wild Teddy Bear ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 3: 
A Wild Teddy Bear Cried Over a Deconstructed Baby


I. One-Way Baby Route to Neukölnoid 
A wild teddy bear cried over a deconstructed baby when Elija awakened on its new planet. The sun had just risen and the tidy hills were covered in a kind of pinkish light. Even Elija's skin looked a bit pinkish. Except for the teddy bear and the baby everything seemed to be empty. Just these hills (Elija remembered them from some kids show), everywhere. When Elija looked closer, she saw that the teddy bear's tears were small little wool balls that started rolling down the hills and when they got stuck somewhere, they sprouted little trees with wool-ball leaves.

The baby didn't know it was deconstructed, it didn't care. It started playing with the wool balls and wool-ball trees. Elija didn't know what to think about all this, but then she thought that she also didn't have to, and started playing with the baby, throwing wool balls and piling the up. The teddy bear was still crying, so more and more wool rolled down the hills. But when Elija and the baby stopped touching the balls, the teddy stopped crying immediately. It started singing and the baby began to reconstruct itself.

When the baby was in one piece again, Elija noticed that somebody was shouting. A lot of creatures here, she thought. She saw the shouting one crawling on the sand towards them very quickly. It was a giant blue slug, now heading for the baby. It hugged the baby while softly talking to it and seemed very happy.

The happy times were over and done! The community did not approve those happy F-E-E-L-I-N-G-S, as they called them, in the stratosphere of deconstruction. The teddy bear unveiled his mask – it never cried, that was just woollen leakage coming from the old grandpa disguised in a fluffy bear. This was a strategy employed by the people of the planet of Media Deconstruction to deconstruct semi-innocent babies! Then they would use the babies as prototypes to live on planet Earth.

The way to stop this circus was to save the babies by transporting them to another dimension called Neukölnoid where no teddy bear could find them. As we speak, the new babies are coming to their new habitat. And yes, it's a one-way baby route to Neukölnoid! The robots of Neukölnoid will be happy to adopt these new imported life forms.



II. “Bahbahbuaha ...”
A wild Teddy Bear cried over a deconstructed baby.

“Not again!” said the baby, this time completely deconstructed. Teddy Bear had done this before. The last time it was when the omnipresent Robot had a massive jet-lag and started deconstructing the baby furiously.

“Look,” said the baby, “I think someone is manipulating with our time and space coordinates. That's why you leak tears, my dearest Teddy bear.” As soon as the baby said that, the Teddy Bear started vomiting uranium jelly candies.

In that moment, Ara the Third of the 3 Homeless Companions, randomly travelling through the space, entered the enormous bathroom of their ship. She spotted the candy and started to collect it from Teddy and stuffed it into her mouth.

“We have to do something,” Teddy Bear gasped.

“I like the candy,” Ara the huge parrot said. After she took a look at the baby she changed her mind: “OK, I do have an aunt on Planet B3, she is a witch and maybe she can help us. But we probably need the candy to pay her, so you need to stop eating it.”

They found a hygiene products bag in the bathroom and held it under Teddy's mouth to collect the candy. When it was full they left the bathroom and hitch-hiked to Planet B3.

During their travel the baby deconstructed more and more. Its body became only texts and discourses, its gender was gone long ago. But its shit was still real and they had forgotten to take enough diapers along. They used whatever they could find in the various spaceships and spaceship stops but they were still very happy when they finally met the witch. But something was wrong with her.

“Oh, my babyyy,” the witch screamed with tears in her eyes, “I've been searching for you forever.” She took the baby under her hairy armpits, watching it closely.

The baby made babbling sounds: “Bahbahbuaha ...”

What happened to it during the journey? Where did all its words go? Did it lose them? And what did it receive instead of words? The witch smiled happily and looked a bit scary with her black yellow sharp teeth.

“Finally you are ready, baby. The only purpose of your journey was to bring me the total power of deconstruction. I will see, finally see! I'll be the last and final judge.” And so she kissed our little deconstructed baby and sucked. She sucked until nothing was left except for the little crying Teddy Bear.



Back to Introduction
Back to the workshop invitation where the writing technique is explained (in case you were wondering what on Earth this is).

15. feb. 2011

Esej 'Težave s queerom' v časopisu Tribuna

V februarski številki študentskega časopisa Tribuna je izšla krajša verzija eseja Težave s queerom. V njem obravnavam pomene, ki se v Sloveniji vpisujejo v uvoženi in še neprevedeni pojem »queer«. Esej je ilustrirala Ana Baraga, tukaj pa je dostopen v PDF obliki. Daljša verzija je izšla v zborniku Feminizam: politika jednakosti za sve (Jelena Petrović, Damir Arsenijević (ur.), Beograd: Profemina, 2011).

Iz uvoda: »'Queer ... kaj to sploh pomeni?' me sprašujejo znanke in znanci, ki nimajo neposrednega stika s feministično, lezbično in gejevsko sceno, a vedo, da se oba, izraz in jaz, loviva med njimi. Vprašanje je umestno. Odkar je tudi v Ljubljani popularno trditi, da si queer, je iskanje politično spodbudnega odgovora še posebej pomembno za lezbično in gejevsko skupnost, saj queerovska novotarija (zaenkrat) zadeva predvsem njo. Zastavljajo se še druga vprašanja, recimo v kakšnih kontekstih se pri nas pojavlja ta izmuzljiva tujka? Ali zastopa novo samoopredelitev, življenjski slog, modno muho, novo politiko, posebno teoretsko metodo ali celo novo paradigmo? Menda ne vsega naštetega? Kdo in kaj se torej definira kot queer(ovsko)?«

6. feb. 2011

In Other Wor(l)ds workshop at Lad.i.y.fest Berlin

My next writing workshop is going to take place at the 2011 winter edition of Lad.i.y.fest on Saturday, February 19th from 12.00 to 15.00 at the f.a.q. Laden in Jonasstrasse 40 in Neukölln, Berlin. 

In Other Wor(l)ds: Collective Writing of Feminist-Queer Science Fiction
At the workshop, we are going to hold hostage individual authorship. We won’t wait for inspiration and we won’t worry about controlling the narrative either. Instead, we are going to play with the rigid conventions of genre and gender by disguising feminist-queer ideas as utopian characters of our choice.

The roboladies of Hermannstrasse.

The workshop will start with a short discussion about feminist-queer science fiction and the ideas or characters we would like to explore in an utopian setting. We will continue by playing several Surrealist games in “automatic writing” in order to relax and prepare for the climax: the collective writing of gender-fucking and mind-bending speculative stories. To amuse ourselves, we are going to conclude the workshop with a reading of our mistress-pieces.

We are going to play the following games: Definitions (or Question and Answer), Conditionals and two versions of Exquisite Corpse. The game descriptions below are taken from Mel Gooding's A Book of Surrealist Games (Shambhala Redstone Editions, Boston, 1993). In Gooding's words, these games can be played by anyone. The strange conjunctions, humorous or poetic, that they generate give them their point since the exploration of chance with automatic techniques is central to these and many other Surrealist games. 

The two faces of Ardra (from the Star Trek series).
 
Definitions (or Question and Answer): the game is played in pairs. A question is written down, the paper folded to conceal it from the next player, who writes an answer. Remarkable facts emerge. 

Conditionals: for two or more players. The same procedure as before, but in this case the first player must write a hypotetical sentence beginning with ‘If’ or ‘When’, then conceal it. The second player writes a sentence in the conditional or future tense. 

Exquisite Corpse: for a minimum of three players. Each writes on a sheet of paper a definite (‘The’) or indefinite (‘A’) article and an adjective. The sheet is folded so as to conceal the words, and passed round to the next player. Each player than writes a noun, conceals it, and the process is repeated with a verb, another definite or indefinite article and adjective, and finally another noun. The paper is unfolded and the sentences read out. Players may agree on small changes to ensure grammatical consistency. The game acquired its name from the first sentence obtained in that way: “The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine.”

Konrad Potthoff's Wilhelmine meets Rosie (from The Jetsons).

I modified the game Exquisite Corpse in order to use it for collective writing of stories at In Other Wor(l)ds workshops in the following way: for four or five players (or several groups of four or five). Each participant begins by writing her own story. Ten minutes later, he passes the piece to the next person. After reading it (or not), xe continues where the other person stopped. The workshop is finished when everyone has written a part of every story and they are read aloud to ourselves or to the audience that can endure it;) 

The workshop will be in English. Please, bring a pen and some paper! 
Open to all genders, no application necessary. 

Stories from previous workshops can be read here and here.

Dogodek je podprlo Ministrstvo za kulturo Republike Slovenije. / Supported by the Slovene Ministry of Culture.

27. jan. 2011

RadioCona's So.und.ing Project hosts Wanda & Nova deViator

My text about Wanda's and Nova deViator's collaborative art projects has been included in a radioCona broadcast as part of its Zvo.či.ti / So.und.ing Project in December 2010. The project consists of a series of audio broadcasts about Slovenian composers, musicians, sound innovators, activists, multimedia artists, authors of electro-acoustic and various sound experiments. (Photo: Nada Žgank)


The radio broadcast about Wanda's and Nova deViator's work can be heard here.
Below are the English and the Slovene version of the text.

Co-effectuation: Maja Delak and Luka Prinčič alias Wanda & Nova deViator
The collaboration between Maja Delak and Luka Prinčič began two year ago with the performance Ways of Love (2009) and continued with Frozen Images (2009/10) – the latter was credited to pseudonyms Wanda and Nova deViator. Maja Delak is this year’s recipient of the Prešeren Foundation Award, a choreographer and dancer, who has behind her a considerable number of collaborations with different musicians, dancers, actors, and choreographers. The same goes for the musician, DJ, and intermedia artist Luka Prinčič, who first appeared as a performer precisely in the joint projects with Maja Delak, while in this exchange, Wanda picked up the microphone for the first time, wrote the lyrics for their trippy electro tracks, and also sang them.

Their projects intertwine many – often colliding – languages: rhythm, voice, music, noise; video, photography, theory; manifestoes, poetry. It seems that their reparatory investigation, this courageous picking up from all over, wagered on the possibility of their own surprise over the outcomes of their collaborative process and over what may emerge from their overlapping, dissonances, resonances, slips, and congruencies. It seems that their wager is won – as they have offered to the home audiences a new aesthetics and politics; well, at least to that part of the audience who had missed or overlooked the Ljubljana-based queer dissidents from the 80s.

Maja Delak and Luka Prinčič's performative events scream with punk ethics and kitchy porn chic aesthetics, which come together also in Western grassroots or DIY feminism of the “third wave”. I was reminded of the fact that this feminism skirted the borders of our country precisely at their appearance at the International Feminist and Queer Festival Red Dawns, where Frozen Images resonated as a genuine manifesto! It was a moment of relief and joy and empowerment, because the authors intentionally and unbendingly, passionately and sexily, approached the themes that are rarely dealt with in our space, certainly not at the same time: lust for enjoyment, anxiety, hypersexualisation and pornification of our bodies, violence, idealisation of love, and of course – the motor of everything – consumerism.

Ways of Love meander between the sampled, or temporarily “frozen”, scenes of two types of gender roles: those marked with violence and those founded on consensual submission and dominance. The insight into how to become aware of the power relations in relationships and how to break the vicious circle of violent love is disclosed in the performance precisely with the emptying of form – which could not be other than violent and painful. The second performance event, Frozen Images, raised a possibility of stirring up and overcoming the violence we exert over ourselves under the pressure of buy-and-sell images of Sex Appeal, Beauty, Health, Youth, and Success – with laughter. With lust. With objectifying to our own taste. With our own perverseness and again – with love.

This sumptuous and made-for-all-senses multimedia work by Maja Delak and Luka Prinčič is a genuine cut’n’paste, a swift image and sound collage that allows for many readings and listenings, many feelings and reflections. But only after one tears away from the fleeting images and voicings; only after one dances to the wild riot grrrl version of You Don’t Own Me, with Wanda and deViator jumping all over the stage. And this may very well be the most beautiful achievement or co-effectuation Maja Delak and Luka Prinčič’s collaboration: their accessibility and clarity – despite the work’s decentredness – makes their work is inspiring and empowering. Ultimately also because the “you” from You Don’t Own Me does not refer to a man made of flesh and blood but rather to Martell or some other corporation that imposes patriarchal patterns of behaviour for everyday use. (Translated by Katja Kosi.)

*

Součinkovanje: Maja Delak in Luka Prinčič alias Wanda & Nova deViator
Sodelovanje Maje Delak in Luke Prinčiča se je začelo s performansom Poti ljubezni (2009) in nadaljevalo z Zamrznjenimi podobami (2009/10) – pod slednje sta se podpisala kot Wanda in Nova deViator. Maja Delak je, kot že veste, lanskoletna nagrajenka Prešernovega sklada, sicer pa koreografinja in plesalka, ki ima za sabo že lepo število sodelovanj z različnimi glasbenicami, plesalkami, igralci in koreografi. Enako velja za glasbenika, didžeja in intermedijskega umetnika Luka Prinčiča, ki je v projektih z Majo Delak prvič nastopil kot performer. »Wanda« je prvič prijela za mikrofon, napisala besedila za njune zatripane elektro komade in jih tudi odpela.

V obeh projektih se prepleta – in bode – mnogo jezikov. Ritem, gib, glas, glasba, hrup. Video, fotografija, teorija. Manifesti, poezija. Zdi se, da je njuno reparativno raziskovanje, to pogumno jemanje s sto koncev in krajev, stavilo na možnost, da bosta morda presenečena nad tem, kaj bo v procesu skupnega dela in doživljanja nastalo iz njunih prekrivanj, neubranosti, sozvočij, spodrsljajev in ujemanj. Meni se zdi, da sta stavo dobila. In z njima domače občinstvo, saj sta nam ponudila novo estetiko in politiko – vsaj tistim, ki nismo vedeli za ljubljanske queer diverzante iz osemdesetih.

Iz njunih performansov kričita naredi-sama pank etika in kičasta porno chic estetika, ki sta se menda prvič srečali v enem od zahodnih feminizmov »tretjega vala«. Da je ta feminizem naše kraje skoraj povsem zaobšel, sem se zavedla po njunem nastopu, ko sem občutila pravo olajšanje in radost in moč. Zdi se mi, da zato, ker sta tako premišljeno in odločno, strastno in seksi stopila naravnost k temam, ki so pri nas redko na spisku, sploh pa ne skupaj: o gnanju za užitkom, hiperseksualizaciji in pornifikaciji naših teles, o idealiziranju ljubezni in o potrošništvu, ki vse skupaj poganja. Na feminističnem in queer festivalu Rdeče zore, kjer sem Zamrznjene podobe doživela prvič, je performans zvenel kot manifest!

Poti ljubezni so nasemplani in razdrobljeni, začasno »zamrznjeni« prizori vrste nasilnih spolnih vlog, pa tudi prostovoljnega podrejanja in nadvlade – vlog, ki jih v performansu niti približno ne enačita z nasiljem. V njuni prvi predstavi je olajšanje in uvid v to, kako prekiniti začarani krog nasilne ljubezni, prineslo prav izpraznjevanje forme, ki ni moglo biti drugačno kot nasilno in boleče. V drugi predstavi, Zamrznjene podobe, sta nakazala možnost, da je v nasilje, ki ga nad sabo izvajamo zaradi varljivih kupoprodajnih podob o tem, kako izgledajo seksapil, lepota, zdravje in mladost, mogoče podrezati s smehom. Poželenjem. Mislijo. Objektivizacijo. Perverzijo. In ponovno – z ljubeznijo.

Njuno razkošno, skoraj vsem čutom dostopno multimedijsko delo je pravi cut'n'paste, hiter slikovni in zvokovni kolaž, ki dopušča veliko branj, veliko poslušanj, veliko občutenj in razmislekov. A šele potem, ko se odtržeš od bežečih slik in besed. Potem ko z Wando in deViatorjem, ki skačeta po odru, zaplešeš na njuno podivjano riot grrrl verzijo komada You Don't Own Me. Performansa Maje Delak in Luke Prinčiča navdihujeta in dajeta moč, ker sta dostopna. Ker si pustita blizu. Pa tudi zato, ker v tistem »you« iz You Don't Own Me ne vidita moškega iz mesa in krvi, ampak prej kak Martell ali drugo korporacijo, ki šopa patriarhalne vzorce obnašanja za vsakdanjo rabo.

14. jan. 2011

Bralni krožek o feminističnih, grrl, lezbičnih in queer zinih

Lezbično-feministična univerza vabi na

lezbično-feministični krožek na temo feminističnih, grrl, lezbičnih in queer zinov.

Pogovarjale se bomo o dveh preglednih tekstih »Zine and heard: fringe feminism and the zines of the third wave« (avtorica M.L. Fraser, Feminist collections, 23(4), 2002, str. 6-10) in »Come on, join the conversation! Zines as a medium for feminist dialogue and community building« (avtorica Angela Richardson, Feminist collections, 17(3-4), 1996, str. 10-13).

Oba teksta sta dostopna na naslovu lezfemuniverza(a)gmail.com in na spletu.



Svoje izkušnje z ustvarjanjem zinov in mini razstavo feminističnih, grrl, lezbičnih in queer zinov bo predstavila Tea Hvala, magistrica študij spolov, publicistka in prevajalka, ki je konec devetdesetih izdajala zin Pssst...

V nedeljo, 23. januarja 2011 ob 19h v klubu Tiffany (ŠKUC-Kulturni center Q). 

Lezbično-feministična univerza poudarja varen ženski prostor, zato so dogodki v okviru le-te namenjeni le njim. Vabljene!

24. dec. 2010

Essay on Red Dawns Fest published in Monitor ISH journal

Monitor ISH, an electronic and printed academic journal from Ljubljana, published my looong essay about Feminist and Queer Festival Red Dawns (Rdeče zore) in its 2010 issue. The article contains selected chapters from my MA thesis. In it, I wonder whether the festival managed to create a feminist and queer grassroots public (space) in its ten-year-long history. I discuss feminist political theory of counterpublics and juxtapose it with the views expressed by 17 festival (co)organisers whom I interviewed in 2009. The theme is framed within the recent history of feminist, lesbian and queer organising in Ljubljana, within the contemporary current of transnational DIY grassroots feminism and within the postsocialist frame.

The article is available in PDF.
Previous issues of Monitor ISH can be reached here.

16. dec. 2010

Predstavitev romana Valencia

V začetku devetdesetih je v središču delavske četrti Mission v San Franciscu zaživela literarna scena, prežeta z uporniškim duhom grrl panka, queerovskim aktivizmom in raziskovanjem spolnosti, ki je radikalno prekinilo s feminizmom drugega vala. To živahno obrobje lezbične in gejevske kulture je soustvarjala tudi Michelle Tea, ki je v roman Valencia prenesla divjo poezijo, opojno zaljubljenost in sočno spolnost noči na Valencii.




















Michelle Tea: Valencia (ŠKUC Lambda, 2010)
Prevedla Tea Hvala


Prva, krajša predstavitev bo potekala v okviru praznovanja dvajsete obletnice obstoja zbirke Lambda, v ponedeljek, 20. decembra 2010, ob 20.00 v Galeriji Škuc v Ljubljani. Več o dogodku. 

Druga, podrobnejša predstavitev bo potekala v okviru zadnjih letošnjih Literarnih megabajtov - v četrtek, 23. decembra 2010, ob 20.00 v klubu Tiffany (ŠKUC - Kulturni center Q) na Metelkovi. O Michelle Tea, njenem romanu in prevajalskih izzivih se bo z mano pogovarjala Špela Bibič. Več o dogodku. 

Vabljeni, vabljene!


Michelle Tea (1971) je ameriška prozaistka, pesnica, urednica in organizatorka literarnih dogodkov. Njen prvenec The Passionate Mistakes and Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America (1998) je zaznamovala neposredna avtobiografska pisava, s katero, kot pravi avtorica, »izvaja samo sebe«. Za drugi roman Valencia je leta 2000 prejela nagrado Lambda. Izdala je tudi spomine The Chelsea Whistle (2002), pesniško zbirko The Beautiful (2003), grafični roman Rent Girl (2004) v sodelovanju z ilustratorko Laurenn McCubbin in roman Rose of No Man's Land (2006). (So)uredila je štiri zbornike avtobiografske proze mlajših ameriških lezbičnih pisateljic, ki izhajajo iz delavskega okolja. 

Tea Hvala (1980) prevaja prozo in eseje iz angleščine. Valencia je njen prvi obsežnejši prozni prevod.

Fotke s predstavitve Svetov drugih

Fotografije s predstavitve zbirke feministično-kvirovskih znanstvenofantastičnih zgodb Svetovi drugih, ki je potekala 15. decembra 2010 v klubu Tiffany (ŠKUC - Kulturni center Q) na Metelkovi.
 



25. nov. 2010

Vabilo na predstavitev knjige Svetovi drugih in stripovsko razstavo

Tea Hvala (ur.): Svetovi drugih
KUD Anarhiv, Ljubljana, 2010

Zgodbe, objavljene v knjigi Svetovi drugih, so nastale na štirih istoimenskih delavnicah v Ljubljani, kjer smo se preizkušali v skupinskem pisanju feministične in kvirovske znanstvene fantastike. Zanimali so nas svetovi drugih, ki so zaznamovani s spolom, ker štrlijo iz povprečja »ženstvenih žensk« in »možatih moških«. Namesto usodnih vpisov v telo nam je znanstvena fantastika ponudila možnost igrivih opisov – in dali smo si duška.

Zgledovali smo se po nadrealistični igri Slastno trupelce in po stripovski improvizaciji. Vsak udeleženec je začel pisati svojo zgodbo in jo čez čas podal drugemu. Ta je napisano prebral in nadaljeval po svoje, zgodbe pa so krožile, dokler ni vsak prispeval k vsaki zgodbi. Tako je nastalo dvajset zgodbic, ki hočejo v svet – v kakšno kuhinjo ali kánon, pod kakšen bambusovec ali v spomin.

Na delavnicah so sodelovale/i: Špela Bibič, Tibor Bolha, Ana Grobler, Ida Hiršenfelder, Tea Hvala, Iva Kosmos, Vesna Lemaić, Dare Pejić, Maruša Meglič, Teja Oblak, Danijela Zajc in Matej.

Na predstavitvi bomo prebrali zgodbo ali dve, ogledali pa si boste lahko tudi razstavo kratkih stripovskih zgodb, ki so nastale na delavnicah skupinskega ustvarjanja stripov v Kulturnem centru Q novembra letos. Tudi v tem primeru so stripi krožili med udeleženci, ki so izbirali med različnimi tehnikami: »izreži in prilepi«, dodajanje besedila že obstoječim likovnim predlogam ipd.

Sledila bo mini žurka s pokvirjeno muziko za ples. 

Vabljeni, vabljene!

V sredo, 15. decembra 2010, ob 20.00 v klubu Tiffany (ŠKUC - Kulturni center Q), AKC Metelkova mesto, Ljubljana

Vse delavnice v klubih Monokel in Tiffany (ŠKUC-Kulturni center Q) so potekale v okviru projekta BuQve – LGBTIQ literatura in kultura, ki je del projekta Ljubljana – svetovna prestolnica knjige 2010. Delavnice Svetovi drugih so potekale tudi v okviru programa Škratova čitalnica v organizaciji KUD Anarhiv in v Info centru ŠKUC v okviru programa Ustvarjalni ponedeljki. Izid knjige je podprla tiskarna DEMAT d.o.o.

Urad za mladino




Urad za mladino

15. sep. 2010

When we Move, It's a Movement

Drage drage,

obveščam vas, da sem septembra na Fakulteti za podiplomski humanistični študij ISH na programu Antropologija spolov uspešno zagovarjala svojo magistrsko nalogo o feminističnem in kvirovskem festivalu Rdeče zore »When we Move, it's a Movement«. Rdeče zore Festival as a Feminist-Queer Counterpublic [»Ko se premaknemo, nastane gibanje«. Festival Rdeče zore kot feministično-queerovska kontrajavnost].

Naloga je v angleščini, za izposojo pa je na voljo v Škratovi čitalnici in Lezbični knjižnici (obe sta na Metelkovi).

25. avg. 2010

Svetovi drugih v Kulturnem centru Q - zgodbe

Kaj imajo skupnega kaktus s 14-imi bodicami, antropomorfna mačka Mima, Dekorativka in Dekorativ'c, ultra hitro dirkalno kolo in Hilda Tovšak? V petih ZF zgodbah, ki so nastale na delavnici Svetovi drugih v petek, 20. avgusta 2010, se je izkazalo, da marsikaj! Recimo, vsi so hiteli na urbani vrt Kulturnega centra Q, kjer smo jih pričakovale in zapisale udeleženke in udeleženec tokratne delavnice: Špela Bibič, Vesna Lemaić, Maruša Meglič, Tea Hvala in Dare Pejić.


Kakšen ponedeljek!
»Kakšen ponedeljek!« si je rekla Hilda, ko je zapirala garažna vrata za svojim hummerjem. Hildi vikendi nikoli niso bili povšeči. Oboževala je začetke delovnega tedna in ta dan ji je bil še posebej pri srcu, saj je Jankovič po dokaj sprejemljivi odkupnini spremenil obdelovalno zemljo metelkovskih vrtičkarjev v zazidljivo površino. Bela Ljubljana – zibelka evropske modernosti … kar videla se je že tam! Urbani vrt bivšega gejevskega in lezbičnega hortikulturnega društva. Res prestižna lokacija, ki ji ni para! In ona si bo lahko svoj kotiček izbrala prva. Zidar, ugrizni se v rit! Hudomušno se je nasmehnila, spominjajoč se delavske drame, ki jo je zakuhala nekaj let nazaj.

»Mojega talenta bi bilo res škoda za Peterletove Krščanske demokrate ...« Hilda Tovšak je razbila zapornico, ta je zabobnela čez vetrobran in ji napovedala usodni dan. Sparkirala se je ob Yalli. Pograbila je mešanca s sprijeto dlako, ki jo je oblajal, in ga ugriznila. Njam, pasja kri je bila skoraj tako okusna kot delavski znoj. Na levi je zagledala gručo delavcev, ki je pripadala – po kombinezonih sodeč – njeni blagovni znamki gradbincev. Želela jih je potrepljati po plečih, jim spregovoriti kako spodbudno besedo. Toda ko je pristopila, so jo zgrabili in jo potisnili v luknjo, ki je režala v zidu. Suhljat zidar je zmetal tekoč beton okoli njenih stopal. Hilda se je kar smejala, kot bi šlo za obešenjaško šalo. Šele ko ni več mogla premakniti nog, ji je prišlo na misel, da je za svoj odrešiteljski prihod naročila fotografe iz velikih medijskih hiš.

Ampak: kje so bili?? Mislim, kje so bili pravi fotografi? Zaenkrat je okrog njene vse bolj otrple postave skakljal samo panker z majhno digitalno štrkalico, ki se je nasmihal tako zlobno, tako privoščljivo, da je Hilda takoj vedela, da ni bil pravi novinar. Ni bil njen – kaj šele naš!! Z nekakšno mešanico slasti in gnusa je pomislila na stotine preznojenih pedrov in lezbač, ki bodo še isto noč ko nori plesali na neokusno tut-tuc-tuc glasbo in se naslajali ob njeni »formi vivi«. Ti ljudje so, to je bilo vsem gradbincem in menedžerkam jasno, svoje vikende potegnili do torka! Odločila se je, da bo ignorirala »fotografa« in svoje vse krajše minute raje posvetila temu, kar je znala najbolje: vlečenju svoje riti iz dreka, se pravi, betona.

»Hej, ti, delavec!« je zaklicala z močnim glasom, tako kot so jo naučili kmetje pri SLS: »Préstani!« Delavec je dvignil pogled in zidarsko žlico k njej, za trenutek res prenehal z delom, potem pa jedko, a z nasmeškom odgovoril: » Še vedno delam za vas! Zvest sem firmi – do njenega groba ji bom zvest!« Potem je zajel novo žlico malte in jo počasi, z občutkom namazal čez Hildina presenečena usta. »Pljosk«, še eno pravo zidarsko kepo ji je namazal čez usta. Solze so Hildi začele štrcati iz očesnih izboklin in pomislila je na svojo že plačano članarino pri stranki SLS. Oni ji bodo znali pomagati! Če se jo ne loti kakšna radikalna struja homolevice. Ponavadi so ob tej uri že pri Vrtu.

»Drži jo!«, je za vogalom zakričala militantna Dekorativka na svojem ultra hitrem dirkalnem kolesu. Položili so Hildino maso čez balanco in jo s pomočjo še dveh YHD-jevcev z neverjetno hitrostjo pripeljali do vrta. Preznojeni pedri so se veselili nove scenografije.

»Hildiona!«, se je spomnil bistroumni deček in že so prvo damo gradbenega lobija postavili k obzidju Vrta.

Hildiona (Narisala Maruša Meglič)

»Sveta Judith Butler, kako ji paše tale malta!« so se zedinile lezbijke in pedri ter peščica tistih nekje vmes. Že so zvlekli vodovodne cevi do otrple Hildione in začeli kopati gramozno jamo. Do jame so speljali vodovodne cevi tako spretno, kot bi že celo življenje delali na Vegradovih gradbiščih. Kognitivni delavci in delavke so vihteli lopate, njihovo garanje je tu in tam zmotil le obupan Hildin krik iz trebušne prepone: »Saj jaz imam delavce vendar rada!«

Cevi za fontano so že skoraj speljane. Hilda je postala že čisto zatrdela. Le še s težavo je dihala v svojem maltnem oklepu. V zadnjih trenutkih svojega življenja je videla le še krvoločne poglede pedrov in lezbijk ter zmagoslavne oči Dekorativke, ki je samozavestno klicala ukaze, kam naj okamenelo Hildo postavijo k fontani. To je bil torej njen konec. In še danes, če se kdaj ustavite na Vrtu in v prijetni senčki poslušate žuborenje fontane, zaslišite tihe, obupane klice iz trebušne prepone strašne Hildione.


Dekorativka v urbanem vrtu
Dekorativka z globokim dekoltejem je stala pod izsušenim urbanim drevesom. Bolele so jo noge in počepnila bi, razkoračila noge po moško, se s hrbtom naslonila na deblo, morda celo sedla, a to se ji ni zdelo primerno, tam že ne. Zato se je raje z roko naslonila na ubogo, trhlo deblo in zavzdihnila. Drevo se je pod njeno težo rahlo upognilo in zaškripalo čisto po dekorativkino: »Aaaiiih...«.

S kratkovidnim pogledom je od daleč spremljala Hildo, ki je po živahnih gibih sodeč še vedno objemala vsako novo obiskovalko, ki se je prikazala pred klubom. Včasih, ko se je Hilda s telesom obrnila v njeno smer, se ji je zazdelo, da se ji je nasmehnila in hitro ji je vrnila nervozen nasmeh, ki ji je ves otrpel obtičal na obrazu. Dovolj, je pomislila, sprostila roko, si poravnala oprijeto majico in izpod drevesa stopila v soj uličnih svetilk. Šla je naravnost k Hildi ...

Hilda je pljunila pred njo nenavadno zeleno mast in ji s tem pokazala naklonjenost. Iz masti je zabrbotalo nekaj po makedonsko, a to Hilde ni vznemirilo. S tolsto nogo je stopila na mast in zadušila krike. Na masti je ostal odtis stopala s platfusom. Dekorativka je Hildo pobožala po njenem trebušnem izrastku. Prav toplina Hildinega štrclja je Dekorativki dala vedeti, da je vesela ponovnega srečanja. Poznali sta se še iz časov, ko je Hilda Dekorativko zaposlila v svojem podjetju in ji zaupala napeljavo cevi po podzemnih rovih, ki vodijo vse do Vrta. Dekorativka se je tega zavedla šele sedaj, potem ko ji je bilo Drevo na Vrtu obnovilo vse umazane štorije o njej. Hilda je namreč posedovala krvavi izplen, govorilo se je, da je svoje zaposlene vsakega kritičnega 15. v mesecu pospravila za kosilo. Dekorativka je preživela spričo nenavadnega naključja – postala je žena največje živine. Podnevi mu je bilo ime Septor, ponoči pa so to živino z Vrta klicali Serpentina.

Napočil je čas za maščevanje. Hilda si je to zaslužila. Maščevanje se mora odviti na kraju zločina – to se edino spodobi. Zapeljivo ji je pomežiknila in čakala na njen hropeči odziv. Ni ji bilo treba dolgo čakati, Hilda ji je sledila kot cucek; zavoljo starih, strastnih, potnih, vročih časov jo je povabila na snidenje prav sem – na ta čudoviti urbani vrt. Ponudba je obljubljala preveč, da bi jo njena gradbeniška gnada zavrnili. Dekorativka je zarotniško počenila za drevo in čakala.

Dekorativka je bila zadnja med povabljenci. Zato si je lahko Hilda oziroma, bolje rečeno, njen nabrekli štrcelj, vzel nekaj časa ter Dekoretivki namenil par besed zavoljo dobrih starih časov. Dekorativka se je še naprej prisiljeno smehljala, jezik ji je bil omrtvičen od sovraštva. Nazadnje ji je morala slediti v podzemlje. Vedela je, da se spušča v strašno nevarnost ... a vendar. To noč naj bi bila Dekorativka sprejeta v Hildino skrivno sekto. Postala bo ena izmed svečenic in varuhinj skrivnosti. Kot po naključju je bil tisti dan 15. v mesecu. Dekorativka je vzdrhtela in potne kaplje so zdrknile med njeno mogočno oprsje. Svečenic, ki so stale v krogu, je bilo veliko. Dekorativka je oprezno pogledala ženske okoli sebe in začudena prepoznala med njimi prodajalko iz Merkatorja in knjižničarko iz mestne knjižnice. Ne glede na številčno premoč je Dekorativka čutila, da je zdaj čas za obračun s Hildo.

V sobo so pripeljali žrtveno jagnje ... Dekorativki je zastala sapa ... Bil je Septor alias Serpentina – veliki 15-metrski piton, ki je sikal: »Kapital ssse mora oplajati! Kapital ssse mora oplajati!« Svečenice so se gugale na mestu in žebrale: »You can come as you are, but pay as you go!«

Hilda je razprla čeljusti in si Serpentinov rep stlačila v usta. Začela ga je goltati. Dekorativka ni hotela vstopiti in delovati v tem skritem sprevrženem lobiju. Za Serpentino je bilo že prepozno, morala je rešiti lastno dekorativno kožo. Dobro se je seznanila s cevmi podzemnih rovov v Hildinem podjetju. Pognala se je k napeljavi, si razgalila mišičasto oprsje in se s kremenitima dojkama oprijela cevi. Stisnila je tako močno, da ji je razneslo bradavici, toda razneslo je tudi cev. Sobo je zalila kanalizacija. Dekorativka je bila tudi dobra plavalka, med klici utopljenk se je prebila na površje urbanega vrta. Prelomila je kaktus napol in si s kaktusovim mlekom namazala prsi. Zrasle so ji zelene bradavice z bodicami. O tako dekoriranih dojkah je sanjala vse življenje.


Mima, antropomorfna mačka
Antropomorfna mačka z imenom Mima je splezala na streho mestne hiše. Spustila se je noč in Mimi se je spotegnil smrkelj na svetleč strešnik. Izpod te strehe je iz županovega urada prišla direktiva o izselitvi vseh antropomorfnih mačk iz mestnega centra in drugih mestnih četrti. Razlog: sobivanje domačinov je zaradi previsoke etike antropomorfnih mačk postalo nevzdržno. Ogrožale so javni red in mir.

Mima bi lahko vso noč preždela na te osovraženi strehi. Čez cesto je lahko opazovala črne silhuete desetin drugih kaznjenk, ki so se kljub negotovi usodi prišle lunačit pod mesec.

»Miiiima!« je zaslišala s svoje leve. »Mrrrnjav! Mau!« Naglo se je obrnila in zagledala Mačico, staro znanko, kako ji v pozdrav navdušeno, s tistim prebrisanim nasmehom na smrčjih ustnicah z repom maha v pozdrav.

»Tudi ti protestiraš?« je rekla. »Lepo! Zelo etično od tebe!«

»Kaj me hecaš,« se je namrdnila Mima in pomislila, spet, kot že tolikokrat, od kar je prišla nova direktiva, kako neumno se ji je zdelo, da se mora čisto preveč po človeško boriti za svojo pravico do obstoja v tem mestecu. Bala se je, da jo bo človeška nestrpnost do mesečne mačje poezije prisilila v preveč ljudem podobne taktike upora. Recimo, skvotiranje. Tako človeška spet ni hotela postati. Vseeno se je dvignila na zadnje tace, iz navade je vstala in se pognala na sosednjo streho k Mačici. V pozdrav je nepričakovano dobila čisto mačji, jezičen in hrapav poljub.

»Mljask, mljask!« se je zaslišalo nad mestno hišo in sto drugih mačk je veselo, v bojevniškem duhu vzkliknilo:
Mljask, mljask!
Ko jebe čast!
Mesec je naš!

V svojih mačjih prsih so začutile, da gre zdaj zares. Bojni klici so se razlegali iz vseh streh tega zahojenega mesta. V njih se je prebudila, kot Trnjulčica ob poljubu princa predolgo zatirana živalskost, ki je zdaj zahtevala maščevanje. Nocoj se bodo vse zbrale na Vrtu. Mesec jim je vzpodbudno mežikal z neba. Od nekod pa se je zaslišalo glasno hrumenje kvatromobila …

Ena streha je bila najbolj na gosto poseljena v skupnem vrisku – streha nad urbanim vrtom. Tam se je organiziral glavni štab tretje mačje divizije, ki ji je Mima pripadala. Dovolj individualizma! Pogumno v boj in branit svoje ozemlje. Mima je vešče zajahala svoje dirkalno kolo, ki je glasno žvižgalo mimo dimnikov v centru mesta. Ozrla se je za seboj. Nekaj ji je sledilo. Za volanom brnečega kvatromobila je le bežno razločila poteze, ki niso pripadale nikomur drugemu kot njenemu prejšnjemu domačemu ljubljenčku. Izza volana je kukal Hildin debilni nasmešek.

Hildo je zadelo od zadaj, pločevino je mečkal kvatromobile. Tako, od zadaj, je Hildin avtomobil izgledal kot njen debilni nasmešek, ki ga je še malo prej izražala na svoji debilni faci. Kvatromobile je pospešil in Hildo rinil dol s ceste. Bilo je kot v filmu. Tistem brez podnapisov. Hilda je zgrmela v obcestni jarek in obtičala v njem. Ni se mogla premakniti nikamor. Kvatromobile je pospešil do mesta, kjer sta ga čakali Mima in Mačica, sedaj že odločeni, da se borita skupaj. Kvatromobile je zvozil ovinek kar po dveh kolesih – že bi se lahko imenoval Dvomobile, tako ga je neslo!

Mima in Mačica sta skočili v trebuh Kvatromobila. Destinacija je znana; smerokaz je usmeril naravnost na Vrt. Tam so že stekle priprave za karibski večer, najbolj priljubljen tematski večer prebivalcev Vrta. Sredi odra je v havajski opravi poplesaval (kako zgrešeno!) sam – župan! Obraz z dvema modrima frnikulama se mu je zresni in vedel je, da je direktiva o izselitvi že cel teden v polnem teku.

»A-loha«, se je drl s karibskega podiuma župan, ves uraden in pripravljen, da izpelje direktivo do konca. Mima in Mačkica sta karibske ritme že začutili v svojih kolenih. Ples ju je osvobodil skrbi in v ritmu zvokov s Karibov sta poplesavali okoli župana. Tovrsten aktivizem občanov in občank ga je rahlo zmedel. V tem troboju se je zmogel boriti le s tem, da je še sam začel migati z boki. Navidezna napetost je popuščala, stopnjevali so se le ritmični udarci z boki. Baje še danes plešejo tam na vrtu.


Kvatromobile
Še zadnjič je Kvatromobile preveril tank za bencin. Obsesivno-kompulzivna motnja mu ni dala miru, moral je vse preveriti najmanj 14-krat. Število 14 je bilo zanj simbolno število, tudi njegov kaktus v lončku je imel 14 bodic. Ostale bodice mu je Kvatromobile, za prijatelje tudi enobrvi Jan Plestnjak, seveda že zdavnaj populil.

Pograbil je še kaktus in pognal svoja štiri kolesa, ki so mu nadomeščala ude in s katerimi je privekal na svet. Mudilo se jima je na Vrt, še pred tem pa sta morala spotoma nekaj prigrizniti. Kvatromobile je že 14-krat preveril ali ima s sabo tudi veljavno valuto – oslovska očesna zrkla, ki jih uporabljajo na Vrtu. Še zadnji špric fiziološke raztopine v nosnice in že sta se skupaj pognala po skoraj prazni avtocesti. Očiščene nosnice so z lahkoto vase vlekle opojni poletni zrak in vonj po kanalizaciji je naznanjal, da Vrt ni več daleč. Skoraj sta že prispela na cilj, pred vhodom sta že opazila Hildino dirkalno kolo, ko sta na veliko nesrečo padla v roke skupini zlobnih dekorativcev.

Glavni med njimi ali Dekorativ'c, kot so ga klicali, nikoli ni dobro prenašal štirikolesnikov, še manj pa kaktusov. Zanj so bili oboji blazno neestetski. Fortuna jima ta dan ni bila naklonjena. Dekorativci so si 14-krat zavihali rokave – v to je bil prepričan. Vodja je namrgodil nos in vzkliknil: »Fuj, kako je tale Kvatromobile umazan. In tale plešasti kaktus je prava spaka. Oba sta potrebna temeljite stilske preobrazbe! Dajmo, fantje. Čaka nas težko delo!«.

Obkolili so ju. Kvatromobile je z grozo v žarometih opazoval njihove roke, v katerih so držali vedra z vodo, deterđente, polirne spreje in baterijske krtače. Iz nosnic se mu je vlila fiziološka raztopina, pomešana s solznim sluzom. Dekorativci so se spravili na njegovo havbo, zadek in streho. Pena je špricala v vseh smereh. Njegova zrkla so občasno ujela kako zabildano zadnjico, potem pa so mu pogled zameglile ščetine ščetk. Drgnili so ga kot novorojenčkovo ritko. Ko je že misli, da je konec z njim, je zaslišal kričanje svojega 14-bodičnega kaktusa: »Hej! Heeej! Dekorativci! Imava denar. Dovolj denarja, da si z njim kupite nove čevlje!«.

Pena se mu je scedila iz žarometa in pred njim se je odprl prizor: njegov kaktus je imel na vseh 14-ih bodicah nabodena oslovska očesna zrkla – valuto, na katero so bili dekorativci čisto nori. Ni jih zmotilo, da je valuta precej neobstojna – ob bodicah je iz oči polzela sluz – vsak je zaplesal svoj mini rokokojski ples, zarukal kot jelen, ki se spušča v boj, in se pognal h kaktusu.

»Ljubček! Kepica moja! Modni dodatek! Sluzko prijazni!« so vzklikali, ko so stegovali svoje manikirane prste k oslovskim zrklom. Kaktus se ni dal kar tako. Začel se je vrteti okrog svoje osi in zraven prepeval navodila za prevzem valute. Dekorativci niso imeli izbire: če se niso hoteli raniti, so morali počakati, da odpoje do konca. Takole je rekel: »Za vsako oko – Plestenjakova pesem! Za vsako pesem – karaoke! Za vsake karaoke – žurka!! To je vrednost moje valute. Zrihtajte žur, naredite prostor Kvatromobilu in meni – in oči so vaše!!!«.

Kvatromobile ni bil prepričan, da bodo dekorativci sprejeli izziv. Kar se da tiho je prestavil v rikverc in se odmaknil za 1,4 metra – in čakal na najslabše. Njegov plešasti kaktus se je še vedno vrtel okrog svoje osi, oslovska očesa pa so pršila sluz po dekorativcih, ki so svoje prefinjene H&M obleke hiteli skrivati za svoje pohlepne dlani. Eden od njih je medtem izginil na Vrt, ki se je skrival na notranjem dvorišču, in se kmalu vrnil z mikrofonom.

To ni bila zabava po volji obsesivno-kompulzivnega štirikolesnika. Posluha ni imel, ritem mu nikakor ni šel od gum, povrh vsega pa imajo Plestenjakove pesmi povečini liho število ponovitev refrenov. Obšla ga je groza. Kako se je le znašel v takšni situaciji? Nasadil pa ga je njegov lastni kaktus. Ravno, ko se je nameraval po zadnjih gumah neopazno oddrsati proč od urbanega Vrta, mu je za prtljažnik stopila Hilda. Ni dolgo trajalo, preden je enemu izmed mimohodečih dekorativcev iz roke iztrgala mikrofon. Urbanemu Vrtu in njegovim obiskovalcem se je obetala katastrofalna poguba. Gnili nasmešek Hilde Tovšak je zamenjalo neznosno rjovenje: »Iz pekla do raja!!!!!« Antropomorfna druščina mačk na strehi je potihnila.


Hilde Tovšakove kaktus
Kaktus, ki je čakal na okenski polici, je bil darilo. Hilda nikoli ni marala rastlin, s tem kaktusom pa se je začuda z lahkoto poistovetila. Celotna blamaža, vlačenja po časopisih so jo dodobra izžela. Zapra se je pred svetom in njena edina družba je bil molčeči kaktus.

Odprla je okno in val svežega zraka je napolnil sobo. Kaktus je blaženo razširil nosnice in zavzdihnil. Ves prizor je potuhnjeno opazovala antropomorfna mačka in se po vsej sili hotela polastiti kaktusa. Kaktus je malo zaskrbelo. Ta dan naj bi ga lastnica peljala na izlet. Vsaj tako je rekla. Ne zaupa ji najbolj. Tudi zadnjič naj bi se odpravila na lepše, na koncu pa je pristal pri nekem vrtnarju, ki se je specializiral za cepljenje rastlinskih uši.

»Boljš zanjo, da me spet ne nategne«, si je mislil sam pri sebi, rekel pa ni nič. Svoji gradbeniški baronici ni smel pokazati niti trohice dvoma. Posledice bi bile nezamisljive. »Mater, če me misli otpelat v tist urbani vrt, ki si ga je Janković umislu, jo bom prefuku! Poln kaktus je že mam!« Mima je tiho predla in kovala maščevanje za to rastlinsko kroto.

»Mrnjau«, je zapredla Mima, opasna antropomorfna mačka s planeta Zorg. Vsaj tako je govoril Hilda, čeprav so vsi vedeli, da jo je našla na ulicah Zagreba. Mima je zasadila kremplje v Hildino plehnato stegno. »Švist«, so kremplji izpadli iz Miminih tačk. O, le zakaj je morala biti podobna ljudem!? Tako hitro razpada. Poskusila je še z zobmi. »Hask«, je zasadila zobe v Hildino najobčutljivejšo točko. Hildo je zabolelo vse do rektuma, takoj je začela puščati gosto, rumenkasto snov. Vedela je, da je to napad na njeno integriteto.

»Kaktus, moj si! Z mano greš na Vrt!« Ni še dobro končala stavka, že jo je Mima spravila v ležeč položaj s svojimi štirimi hitrimi tačkami. Mima je z gobcem pograbila Kaktus s police in mislila na Vrt. Tam ju bodo razumeli. Lastnini gradbeniške baronice se nikoli ni dobro godilo. Še malo pa bosta Mima in Kaktus na Vrtu. Še dobro, da so javni prevoz speljali kar pod zemljo. Taksist Đuro Normaln ju bo zategnil do Vrta.

»Brez piksla skrbi!«, se je še skozi okno v pozdrav posmejal Đuro. Kaktus in antropomorfna Mačka Mima sta opazovala skozi zadnje steklo, kako se je Hilda z vsakim metrom manjšala in vpila: »Zazidala vaju bom v straniščno školjko!« Mima je objela Kaktus s svojim dolgim prožnim repom, gost kožuh jo je ščitil pred bodicami.

»Moraš mi pomagati, da Hilda ne pozida urbanega vrta. Tam raste veliko tebi podobnih Kaktusov in polmačke, take kot sem jaz, jim delajo družbo. To je tak edini pravi žur in sex plac za take kot sva midva.« Kaktusu so se napele vse bodice in se za nekaj centimetrov dvignile pokonci. To bi bilo življenje: veliko sonca in družba bodičastih kaktusov.

»Velja! Kaj moram narediti?« je vprašal Mimo.

»Hilda ne prenese listnih uši, ki se zadržujejo na Kaktusih. Listne uši uničijo Hildino osebno integriteto. Kaktusove listne uši se hranijo s Hildinimi kapitalskimi interesi! Ti moraš sproducirati te svoje listne uši, da rešiva urbani vrt. Ampak«, je dodala, »pri nas na Zorgu se listne uši reproducirajo kar same, najraje imajo vlažno podrast, sočne sokove, rastlinji znoj. Ti pa si ves izsušen. Ne vem, če bo šlo.« Ob tem je Kaktus pomislil, da so prav taki, na zunaj suhi tudi vsi drugi kaktusi, s katerimi se je nameraval na vrtu intimno in intenzivno zbadati. Zaskrbelo ga je, da z njunim načrtom ne bo nič. Potem se je spomnil, da to vendar ni bil Zorg, z Mimi sta bili kar lepo v gradbeniški provinci Tovšak-Janković na planetu Zemlja.

»Mimi!« je ostro zaklical, »na Zemlji sva! Zemlja je vlažna, še posebej njeni urbani vrtovi! Ni panike!« Še preden je Mimi uspela razpreti svoj gobček, se ji je kaktus zapletel med tačke in jo nežno sunil proti vhodu na vrt. Vstopila je in stopila na nekaj, ob čemer so se njene povsem mačje tačke nagonsko hotele odlepiti od tal. Skočila je na drevo tik ob kovinskih vratcih, ki so vodile na vrt. Kaktus je ostal na tleh in šele z drevesne veje je videla, v kaj sta zabredla: v rumenkasto sluzasto snov, ki se je širila proti botaničnim biserom sredi vrta. A Hildina razsrediščena integriteta se ji je zdela čudno spokojna, skoraj udomačena.

»Vse je OK!« je zaklical Kaktus. »Zmaga!« Kljub odporu se je spustila z drevesa in prednji tački pomočila v sluz. Še vedno ni razumela, o čem je blebetal Kaktus. A ko je svoj smrček bojazljivo približala sluzi, se je njeni antropomorfni betici le posvetilo: po Hildinih ostankih je plavalo na milijone listnih uši. Še sama je skočila v sluzasto zmedo, presrečna, da so kapitalski interesi tokrat le klonili pred vesoljno vlago.

Tistega večera je na urbanem vrtu sledila najbolj nora, razvratna medvrstna orgija.