MEMORIES OF PAST AND PRESENT Written at Balthazar, 2010
You need. a notebook girl
Sunday is not a good time.
He is arriving and I have to be home
To receive him.
I want to get back home at a decent hour
I was never like that.
What about your repressed family memories?
Memories?
What memories?
Mine?
Or your memories?
It must be yours because I don't have any.
You never had a family?
Never...
He dropped out of nowhere
No where?
Hhhh, ahahahha
Nowhere, (Start to sing) Nowhere...nowhere, nowhere...
I just made it up
You must be a genius
I am.
You didn't know that?
How would I know?
I never met you before
Doesn't matter.
You had to know Geniuses all over the planet
They throw off these vibes
over the sky,
over the occeans,
over the mountains.
I am a genius and you need to know that.
I am smarter than all of you
Sons of bitches...
and you need to know that.
I am going to get everything in this world
And you need to know that
And if I can't get the things that I want,
I am going to steal them,
Frome everybody.
You need to know that.
I am going to hustle
I am going to be the biggest crook,
biggest criminal,
Biggest snake,
biggest fox and you need to know that.
My purpose is to get what I want and I am going to get it.
No stopping me.
No person,
no memory,
no mother,
no father,
no wife,
no goddamed
Children are going to stop me from what I want.
You gys---you losers,
you can have all the suppressed,
repressed,
Melancholic romantic memories of your past
...and thats all
You are going to have.
The lousy,
miserable,
stinking,
awful memories.
And you are going...
To wallow in your shitty,
pissy memories for the rest of your miserable
Lives.
"Oh!my life,
Oh! my life,
it was so woderful,
it was so faboulous,
Oh! my garden full of roses..."
Liers,
All of them,
They never had a garden and no roses in those gardens.
Maybe some dry,
Thorny bushes on a dusty corner of a desert look alike Oasis.
Which pricks their subconscious and remind them of the imaginary garden.
They are all liers.
Liers, liers, liers.
Any one who raves about his/her past is a raving maniac in denial.
They do know that they had the lousiest possible birth,
lousiest...
Possible childhood,
lousy parents,
lousy one room flat in a horrible ghetto...
No food in the house,
father, a clerk,
a clerk,
a goverment clerk...
Very glamourous slavery and you are behaving as if your father
Was the chairman of a hedge fund with unlimited reources. and
Connections with other corrupt hedge fund bankers and financiers,
All over Switzerland and Mayfair of London...
Your mother perhaps was a cleaning lady.
I am sure everyone here who came from somewhere else,
Their mother was nothing but a. cleaning lady because they,
Are always bragging about how clean their houses were.
And who cleaned those immacually clean houses for them?
Their mothers did that.
Their mothers were cleaning ladies in their own houses.
They got up
, put a scarf over their heads,
got a broom,
In their hands and startted cleaning like witches.
Clean--clean--clean.
Clean again.
Scrub--scrub--scrub.
Their,
Sons and daughters can impress us, 30 years later with their clean houses
And wonderfully romantic memories of their mothers holding brooms
In their hands with bent backs so they can substitute them with
The image of "A cleaning lady."
'A servant."
'A serf."
Who bring memorie and sulk for the rest of their lives.
Memories of
Scrubbing their floors so they can impress us with their clean memories.
So they can sit on their memories
And sulk for the rest of their lives.
No I don't have memories.
Memories of no one.
None.
No mother holding a mop.
No father a goverment's clerk,
Bowing to the corrupt boss 14 hours a day.
And bring only a few Copeks,
A few pennies,
A few coins home...
And then beat up his hungry children
Whom he couldn't feed even after
The slavery of 14 hours a day job.
No, I don't want memories.
Why would I have horrible memories like these?
I am going to let all the memories go out of my way.
Infact I have already taken them out of my path.
To achieve success of a world class crook with billions
Of dollars of other people's money at my disposal so,
I can have yachts, boats and villas and chateaus.
I like the word, "Chateaue."
It's so romantic.
Makes me feel like I am an aristocrat,
French aristocrat with,
Great taste in excellent cuisine,
wines and chcolates and paintings.
Oh! the French painters...
I will learn all the names of all the important
Painters.
I know some of the names already.
It's extremely essential to know the names of the important
Painters and designers and chefs and jewelers and stars.
One has to memorize the most important names of all
the people with important careers
And crafts so you can drop names...
When you are in the company of other billionaire crooks.
That's all they do.
Drop names all night...
"Oh! I just bought Picasso for 100 million dollars."
"Oh! I do know Jack Nicholson."
"He is a good friend of mine."\
"I had lunch with him the other day at. Balthazar."
Oh! He didn't mean the actor, Jack Nicholson,
He meant the painting by Picasso called, "The actor."
Oh! I have that painting as well.
I bought it a while ago
It's hanging on one of the walls of one of my villas in Normandy.
I also have villas in Provance and Burgundy.
I know all these beautiful places because,
I have villas and Chateau's all over.
I even know the name of Louise the sixteen,
So I can drop his name....In the company of others
When I am in the company of other clever and cunning crooks,
Who know how to steal millions and never get caught.
They were all lawyers.
Or they knew top most lawyers
Who can get them out of all kind of frauds.
I am not a lawyer.
I don't need. to be one...
I am already a bigger crook than all the lawyers.
I can teach them a thing or two.
I also know the names of important restaurants and important chefs,
So I can drop them like a bad waiter who in a bad, cheap restaurant
Can drop all the spagetti and meatballs on your Gucci dress.
Right on your lap...
ruining your artner's expansive Tom Ford's suit,
(See I know his name too)
It's all a game and crooks play that game to get ahead.
One has to. Play the game, I mean...
One can just go home some time
When one is too tired to play games,
Send all servants home,
Shut the door,
make a scotch,
(McCanne...$60 a shot at Balthazar,
Gulp it down and curse all groups.
All people you don't like and curse them till,
Doom's day in the privacy of your own home.
But outside in the corrupt world of money,
You have to behave as if you like everyone
And you like them so much that you buy everything tey make, everythin,
They design,
eat all the food by gourmet chefs,
See plays by famous writers,
Get invited to
Their yachts,
drink $4000 a bottle wine
With them and do every other damn thing of importance in a cheerful manner
I do all what I have to do.
Part of the job
And the job is to make money...tons and tons of it.
'Money,
Money,
Money...
So much money that no one would be able to count.
But don't worry about counting your billions,
Just have them in your safe locked up...
You just make money and let the accountant count it.
The bigger the crook the accountant is better will be his counting skills
Accountant who is a crook who counts other people's money would know
How to cheat you of a million or two and you would never know it...
That's the accountant for you.
Thats part of their job
You cheated some one else,
Let them cheat you,
At least they are keeping your money safe,
From. the corrupt govt.
But don't worry,
Corrupt govt never touch corrupt billionair's money.
That's part of their job as. well.
Everyone has a job to do
And they are doing it to the best of their ability.
Give some money to the govt, like you let the accountant have it.
Be silent and discrete about it.
It's all part of the game
Everyone involved have to know how to play it.
And if you don't know, learn.
Learn the game of money.
And to play the game of corruption,
You have to cut the part of your brain to forget all morals,
All decency, all integrity.
The part of the brain...
Which stores your painful memories,
Of your clean and honest childhood,
Which you are trying to twist around,
To change the nature of your memory,
which is not part of your new game.
Not the part of the the game of making millions.
Millions of corrupt dollars.
Your memory was to be a decent, honest, clean human being.
Just like your honorable parents,
poor but honorable. Etremely honorable people with character.
That memory of your extremely honest parents is always there,
To haunt you....
Image of your mother with the bent back mopping the floors...
Well, that particular memory stood in the way of your honest, hard earned success.
And the memory of your tired clerk father coming home every,
Evening exhausted,
Bitter and angry,
Unable to feed his children properly,
That poverty and the trap...
Of that routine of misery...
Made you who you are today.
You who sold his soul to the devil
You are the character in Faust.
You are the black, dark soul of the devil
Unlike your noble, honorable, struggling parents.
You wanted to forget that part of your memory...
At any cost...
At any cost...
And the cost was corruption
But it doesn't matter
Because your aim was not to have any mention
Of that memory...that painful memory, that reflection of poverty...
There shouldn't be any talk of that misery in a chateaue...
That was the decision you made...
Which made you the most corrupt financier in the world.
No one talks about that memory in any of their Chateaus...
Because they are all so cunning,
Corrupt crooks,
hey want to believe that they never ever never ever had those...
Honest parents with bent backs and miseryof centuries..
.Crushing their hopes and dreams...
Those people from miserably honest and kind families
With fear of god and feel for humanity
Could not have become what they became,
But they lost all decency and became billionairs.
Now they own a chateu or two rave about
How wonderful their past life was...
And that's the very reason for their brilliant success here in the present
While they are drownig themselves in chamagne...in a group
Of huslers with the same past of misery...
But they are just raving and raving about their theft.
People like that talk about money only and whatever that money can buy.
Most of them talk about their slim mistresses,
flowers they send them,
holidays,
jewels,
paintings and
Caviar...Yes, thats what they talk about...
But people with an ounce of humanity and love of their parents
Always cherish their memories of the past
No matter how sad and tragic they might have been.
The others looters have no time for that.
They talk with money people how to make more money..
.Never the right way though...
Its wonderful to make money the honest way...
But no one can make a billion the honest way...
And for them mnoey is never enough.
There is always more money to be made.
Money has an imagination, so do the money makers...
Money knows many ways how to make more money
Money knows how to be spent
Money knows how to impress others
Money knows how to travel fast and vast
Money knows how to get to the. most beautiful mountains and valleys
And lakes and occeans.
Money's imagination is not limited.
No, not at all.
Not like the narrowest possible,
limitations of a memory.
"A memory" which is always stuck in one place,
In one spot...
Like glued to the part of the brain with the strongest possible glue.
Memory is stuck in a moment of pain even if by an extraoridanry miracle.
A memory is a good memory...but still gives you pain.
Memory's function is to give you pain and make you sad
And when. you have pain and when you are sad...
You can never make money.
And to make so much money like I have made have made,
Sadness becomes the enemy of that kind of money
But not me...I am far from sadness...
The one who don't make money are the sad ones
The ones who don't make money are the one's who feel pain
Pain is the biggest obstacle in your way...
The failures of the world
The losers of the world
With memories
Memories of their past
The mother withe bent back
And a broom in her hand
Father a clerk, how embarrasing
To mention that in a Chatuea....
Corruption is never sad.
Neither are the corrupt ones...
They never have pain
They are always busy
Thinking,
Planning...
How to make a deal.
THEY DON'T HAVE THE TIME FOR ROMANTIC SADNESS.
THEY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR A PAINFUL MEMORY
THAT IS THE JOB OF A POET
TO BE SAD...
TO REMEBER HIS PAINFUL MEMORIES
LIKE A BRILLAIANT ACTOR
WHO MEMORIZE HIS SCRIPT METICULOUSLY
AND IN A FRACTION OF A SECOND CAN RECITE
WITHOUT LOOSING ONE SENTENCE,
ONE WORD....
A POET CAN'T BE A POET WITHOUT HAVING THE
POWER OF RCALLING A MEMORY,
VERY PAINFUL MEMORY AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE
A MELANCHOLIC MEMORY OF HIS MOTHER
HIS FATHER
HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS
OF HIS NEIGBORS
OF HIS NEIGBORHOOD
OF HIS LONG LOST CITY
WHERE HE WAS BORN
OF HIS LANUAGE
A MELODIOUS LANGUAGE
WHICH NO ONE UNDERSTAND
IN A CHATEAU
WHICH NO ONE SPEAKS IN A BILLION DOLLAR CHATEAU
ONY MONEY SPEAKS THERE
THAT'S ALL...
ONY MONEY
THERE IS NO POET THERE
NO POET
AND NO MEMORIES.
Well, have you ever seen a billionair poet ever?
Never...
ONLY THE POET
ONLY THE POET
WHOSE PAINFUL MEMORIES BLOCKED HIM
FROM MAKING MONEY...
MONEY OF SUBSTANCE
MONEY OF CONSEQUENCE
MONEY OF CORRUPTION
MONEY WHICH BUYS CHATEAUS AND VILLAS.
ALL OVER THE WORLD.
POET DOESN'T HAVE CHATEAUS.
HE IS ALWAYS DREAMING ABOUT THE VERSE
HE WILL COMPOSE,,,OR THINK ABOUT THE,
THE VERSE HE WISH TO COMPOSE...
But it would have been nice if he ever owned a villa
Thats where he would have put the memory of his. mother
With the bent back and mopp in her hand
And his poor, angry, frustrated govt clerk of a father...
They passed on....
Passed on before he could buy a villa
But he could have never been able to buy that vialla
Even if he dreamt of it sometime
Because he was an. honest man
Who was a poet and all his possessions were
Just memories.
Memories of his past and present
No memory of the future
He had no future...
Just the memory of a sad childhood
Which occupied his mind day and night
AND THEN THE POET WOKE UP
AND A FLY WAS BUZZING ALL OVER THE
DARK,
DAMP,
DIRTY ROOM MAKING THE
BUZZ,
BUZZ,
BUZZING SOUND
WHICH INTERUPPTED ALL HIS DREAMS
AND NIGHTMARES....
