For Every Tib and Tom Cat


on crumbling paper those fading stigmata

Old text on crumbling paper – Reggie Morell’s biography

They brought him to earth and everything went smoothly until he banged his head and notched his skull and his left lobe got mauled. That happened more or less at the same time when he was three and a little brother was suddenly also there, and envy raised its head and bit him with a bite that would endure forever.

At six, some in his immediate family came to visit, and he took his two girl cousins into an empty room and he made them strip as he stripped also, and then the older of the girls (she was six months older than him...) he started fucking her on the floor. In the middle of the proceedings, the door flew open and ah, the shouts of horror and so on. Grannies, aunts, mothers, all the crazy screaming, “the obscenity, the viciousness, the boy’s the devil, such indecency, no fear of almighty god!” and he snatched his trousers and, under a rain of blows, ran out the main door of the house and down the stairs. He tripped and fell, and at the end of the run of the steep gradient, he banged his head (the right lobe this time) on the metallic edge of a bascule that happened to stand at the bottom, near the door to the street. Before losing consciousness in a pool of blood, he heard his grandmother saying: “Ah, how fitting always is god’s punishment!” and “Indeed, and how well deserved!

That unfortunate happening marked the end of his shared sexual life for a while. He masturbated like a monkey, though, and using many types of “filthy, abnormal” subterfuges, until when, at just 23, he managed to ask an old banished whore that loitered in a narrow dark alley near the France Railway Station in Barcelona, where he went to stay for a few days for literary reasons, for a session in bed. Where the acquiescing whore got him, in a worse hotel still than the one nearby where he was staying, he mainly acquired a dose of crabs which later obliged him to shave all his hairs (minus those on his head) and continually rub (for a couple of weeks) the extent of his skin with DDT.

As he was sent to school, he managed to avoid the official fascist institutions where almost everyone else who was allowed to study (thanks to their parents’ monies) went. The teachers he had, happened to be unapproved Catalonians who, though they taught all their classes (save French) in the commonly abhorred and ridiculed lingo of the invaders, talked in-between classes, and shouted and beat the crap out of the few children they had under their ferule, in healthy Catalonian. Going to take examination in a “free” condition, he passed his grades very irregularly, often having to repeat over, now a whole grade, now a particular matter. The last two years before University, thanks to an improvement in his parents’ fortunes, he was sent to a boarding school handled by religious “brothers”. He saw immediately (and wasn’t too bothered by the fact) that this “brother” business, like most of the religion shit, is just a cover for pedophiles. No problem – though the obvious connection of homosexuality and religion was already intriguing. Now, in this semi-official state, church and fascism interlocking so disgustingly that at the time could hardly be distinguished which was which, he passed all his grades with little or no trouble.

He was seventeen when he was accepted into pre-med. That was the year, a little after his entrance into the University, when he realized once and for all that what he had been fed all those years (pertaining to matters religious and so on) was garbage. That what on the surface seemed that everyone believed, was in fact, deep down, only pretense, an ugly façade; that actually nobody believed in any of all that shit about hell, heaven, virgins, sacred offices, gods, souls... that the whole fucking cesspool of sanctity, and reward and punishment in an afterlife, the whole fairytale caboodle, was just a cruel despicable charade. He wasn’t sure up till now; he thought maybe all those faggotty church fathers and beards and sages and whatnot, with their ruffles and skirts, and hats and crosses and miters and shits, with their airs of laughable severity, their ponderous enunciation, their damned phoniness... perhaps... it could be... they could really be unto something. No! He saw that it was all garbage, that nobody really could swallow such loutish criminal filth. He got the shock of his life. An “existential crisis”, so-called at the time, the anguish of living without other purpose at the end that having to die and disappear into oblivion for eternity. He wished he had been never brought into that malignant cage, the earth. Ah, for abortion! To be born into death, what a luxury! Nobody should be brought here who is going to be told all that amount of swill, as if injected or vaccinated with juice of turds from the word go, and then have the truth hidden and forbidden, and being condemned for even thinking about the truth – talk about torture, shit! All the sanctimonious ignoramuses who are allowed to produce litters and litters of little sanctimonious pricks! How nice for a massive suicide at birth! Maybe there would be less of us burning in anxiety. Such cruelty: to poison a child with all that slop.

[By way of illustration here’s this little episode that “they” claim to have once taken place. Morell is in the hall where the marriage must be celebrated later in the evening. There’s his son Marc-Antoni. There’s Marc-Antoni’s cousin, the girl that’s getting married later on – she sits on a chair near the table where the plates and cups and glasses and napkins and whatnot are already laid, she’s being combed by a faggotty barber. There’s her mother, there’s her grandmother, both fussing about the table – Morell is eating some scraped carrots from a small bowl, Marc-Antoni is having in another small bowl a few spaghetti daubed with tomato sauce. Now Marc-Antoni, who is only six, takes out his camera and attempts to photograph the bride – ugly and in fact ludicrous with her hair all in a crested bunch. Ah, what is he doing! The screeches of the mother, and the grandmother, and the girl, and the barber – the fucking faggotty barber! They are all trying to snatch the camera from Marc-Antoni. Morell tosses his bowl of shredded carrot into the garbage bin; he tosses also, with Marc-Antoni’s small bowl, the big bowl with the nauseating spaghettis stained with the tomato sauce, and he rescues the camera, and he shouts boldly above the fray. “A faggotty barber telling my son what to photograph or not! Nobody tells a child what to see with his eyes or not. His eyes are for seeing, unimpeded! Nobody tells a child, less than to anybody else to a child, what to see or not, what to photograph or not! No fucking body, okay, no!” And with the child and the telling camera he storms forever out of those stupid peoples’ lives.]

Now, with the raking crisis on, he wanted to die. He was a victim, he thought, and no possibility of redemption whatsoever. A defenseless worm: like any other thing alive. Thrown into a passing maelstrom. A blow, and gone. A toy in malefic paws, a discordant instrument blown by vicious death. Soon to be annihilated forever and ever. And, to top it all, suffering. Suffering no end. Why? Why the suffering, only stopped by annihilation? Who wouldn’t choose the shortcut? A fast goodbye to it all... but how? How does one cross over, to total oblivion, to absolute absence? Lurking underground in reeking galleries... do you fall in front of an arriving engine? The shame afterwards. Your body, the bowels, beshitted, all spread; the obscenity, the people gagging, retching...

He lost weight. He got dangerously thin and frail. There was no reason he could find that would justify going on living. Nothing whetted his appetite, not even literature, that from very early on had become such a delightful refuge. Also literature now under the sinister pall of death, of transient worthlessness...

Everything dying all around. Family, famous people, the animals continually sacrificed, eaten, destroyed. What’s the point? There was no point. There is no point. There will never be any point. That’s it. He would have wanted to be daring enough – commit suicide in a heroic enough way; but that was dreaming; in his sickness not even strength to do away with himself could he muster. He was committing suicide in a slow painstaking way, through inanition, with despair eating him inside out.

There was in his town a psychologist who had recently opened a clinic. Reggie Morell went to see him; the psychologist told Morell that he could make room for him and that the single student union, the fascist union, the only allowed, would nonetheless surely pay. The physician filled all the forms, readied all the paperwork. Reggie went inside the clinic a few days before he was eighteen. He stayed there during the whole summer. He underwent coma after coma, nightly; first through a few ineffective, too abusive, electroshocks; afterward through the insulinic treatment, much more successful. Slowly, all his pressing anguishes got erased. Superficially, but the relief was noticeable. Not so nervous now – just the remnants of unquiet underneath – ready to inflame the blood now and then (as soon as some creep thereabouts spouted the patriotic shit, the martial shit, the religious shit, the bureaucratic shit; as soon as some drops of the creep’s sanctimonious, revolting, pap rotted, by salivous contact, the integument of his renewed spirit). On the outside he donned his slightly amenable mask; his piercing eyes, though, vigilant under a serious, rather unmoving, countenance. Birdlike, taking it all in with a fast twist of the neck. Better like a sphinx. No reason to fluster, to ruffle one’s feathers for such piddly stuff. And, after all, isn’t everything just as trivial?

As autumn started he came out of the clinic. Everything looked new – the landscape, the trees, the little brotherly animals... And each of them had its own immediate value; all had their right to exist during the short passing span of life to them allotted by the cruel circumstances...

Tossing away as molted useless skin the immense vanity of pretending to have a special soul, some type or other of little light different from the little life light belonging per se to each natural thing – a tree, a newt, a bug – Reggie Morell had become a full-fledged atheist, and a convinced communist to boot. From then on, he hated and loathed with all his strength the vile sellers of barefaced lies – the priests, bishops, all the damned hierarchy of malignant clowns turned exclusive representatives of evil gods, treacherous, monstrous gods, on top of whom Morell now defecated (and would continue defecating for the remainder of his life) without any kind of letdown or afterthought, and whom, if ever he’d been given the chance, would have squashed underfoot as the worst most poisonous virus must be squashed on sight. Still worse, still more worthy of rebuke and revulsion he found to be the cowardly so-called skeptics and agnostics. [What is there to be skeptic or agnostic about? There is no fucking god, there is only malice made thing. If there would ever be a god, it would have to be the most evil thing ever by matter devised. Inventor of all sorts of excruciating pains, and of death. Damn the butcher. Know him by the rotten fruits he yields! And pity the poor crushed nobodies tortured and murdered by the religious machine.]

Only the atheist is a dignified enough person. That’s why he came to approach the communist idea; as a system, at least theoretically, it sought to right and level the field against the injustices created both by society and nature, where some gained privilege by depriving the rest of a chance at enjoyment, albeit mild, of a life without lies. Communism postulated the only praiseworthy progress: the scientific one, of course – the scientific progress whose target was the conquest of space. With the caveat, alas, in the last analysis, that as with any other political system, it also allowed the usual scum to rise to the top – the unavoidable bullies keen on ordering about the lives of others. So, what on paper looked so fair, once in the paws of the authoritarian and the martially-minded, became soiled, and the injustices didn’t get quite mended, with the bottom-dwellers ending still working as hard as ever, and the top-brass, as it were, ruling and imposing their cankered will. At least, however, communism had the advantage over all other systems that everyone in it was an atheist, and, at least from scratch, could be considered a whole person.

For that’s something Morell never quite got. The fact that there apparently could be so many people whose brains were so degenerated as to imagine themselves to be in any thing different from any other animal with eyes on their faces, and bowels in their bellies, and holes to shit and fuck. It was beyond him that anybody could be so foolishly conceited and also so extremely dim-witted as to think himself in any way superior, in any basic trait, to any other animal – saving the fact that humans, due to evolution’s whim, could have a cerebral capacity that could exceed the one had by practically the rest of all known animals – a feature that, properly used, had to be put into function in the scientific discovery of space, and never, of course, in stupid religious ideas in the final analysis only valid for creating new recipes for murdering others – the so-called unfaithful, the unbelievers, the infidels, etc... Ah, unmentionable, the amount of worthless shit!

Ah, yes. The horror and the loathing that inspired in him the assholes that believe in books written by a few faggotty fanatics – all the garbage in bibles and qurans and “sacred” writings, all the murderous injunctions big and small produced by the repressing shitty queers! These are books for whom a much better plight would had been if used as bumpf to wipe first thing the asses of the ancients to whom they were recited or for whom they were written – murderous fairy tales; malignant, infectious texts better wasted in the latrines – the lots and lots of mental crises that humans would have been spared to suffer; and the crimes, the piles and piles of crimes avoided!

He has it tough, Morell – an atheist, a core communist, an exile. He’s got no place in this world of deceptions – deceptions and what else...? Practically nothing else. And, on top of it all, he’s of the opinion that there’s nothing that deserves to be own. Knowledge, okay – knowledge helps you to get it, is a great help to get by as you go along. But real contact with those humans alienated, already irretrievably poisoned at primary school, steeped in ideas so crazy and asinine as the belief in gods and souls, and fatherlands and flags – in all that vomiting produced by a bunch of fanatical queers that wrote religions and wrote and write national constitutions and laws to bully and control the habits and behavior of the rest of the deluded people, and all based on lies and empty concepts polluted by the incredible stupidity of old farts of old – all this takes him elsewhere, out of reach; he sees behind the masks, he’s already gazing across, discovering the rotting skeleton, deducing from all the shitted shit that pours from all the assholes the ashes of bodies that melt together in infinite nothingness. That’s why he’s got to be apart – a solitary, taciturn, saturnine, awkward estranger.

He learns the ways of access, though, also that. He runs and walks, and often without having to take any train or vehicle whatsoever. All machines he hates, he fears them, he flees their smoke, their noise, he thinks they are useless, only invented to annoy, bloody thought-interrupting, lung-polluting machines – all except those that point toward the proper progress – the progress toward space. The worse machines, those used for productivity – “productivity,” what a dirty word, bringing to mind all those appalling obscenities: bureaucracy, lethal numbers, repulsive commerce – spreading the sickness, fostering the deadly vanity.

To the shit piles with all the vehicles, then. Instead, with nimble strong legs, let’s cross the sudden bridges that sprout here and there and have become handy shortcuts. And he doesn’t stop, on the contrary he increases his pace, sidewinding, like a supple nice snake, he has no patience, no, passing without looking once, he can’t stomach any of those beeches where the indolent roast themselves. And never goes near the hurly-burly of big feasts and big cities. [And yet, it must be said that as soon as he had saved enough, so that he could emigrate; as soon as, after performing a row of “base” jobs (for, medicine, he had abandoned after his stay in the clinic – the sick human body too horrible and anguishing and premonitory to behold), he had gathered enough money, he went to Paris. Ah, liberty at last! In exile, but free. Paris, London, Hamburg, New York. He never returned to the country of his birth, devastated then, as is still now, by the insufferably loathsome invader.] [Never returned to the invaded great city neither (where he had belonged for a while to the few that were the liberating vanguard). Why are the invaders shouting louder and louder, and the mumbles of the locals are getting sparser and sparser, and also fainter and fainter? Why? Well, everything must go to pot.]

Literature he enjoys, even from the earliest years, no longer melancholic when he reads. I’ve already stated the fact. (Include here the traumas suffered when seeing his library burn, and that twice – first time, he’s only twelve, his angered father burns his books; twenty-five years later is his wife’s turn to burn, too piffed, his books. Ah well!) The consolation of literature always there, almost up till the very end – reading, the instant stabilizes itself, the brain becomes properly synchronized, the world acquires meaning. He had taught himself German and Russian. He had figured that with “everyone” knowing French or English, some other translations would come his way – thus he manages to set a foot in a publishing house. Translations indeed come his way, also from the English now. Wide opened side doors to literature. And the knowing of tongues – what a blessing! – not to be ever at the mercy of the ecclesiastical and fascist (same thing) garbage the invading castilians have as sole pseudocultural serving! From quite early on, he discovers the fine, enlightened, authors and writers of books sold in the Rambla for the lucky tourists. [Something always did he then possess (for him a grave ethical infringement), a certain quantity of books. But was that “possess”? He thought maybe books counted rather as essential nourishment, and anyway as easily burnable, fungible, as other evanescent staples. And yet it is true that losing them hurt a lot. His sin, no doubt, he jokes.]

Besides, as I was saying, there’s nary a thing he considers worth possessing. And less still women, of course. Volatile stuff! You can’t own what flies freely. Ununderstandable any death provoked because somebody sought the exclusive possession of some female! Passions are manifestations of extreme silliness, of a touched brain, of simply unfathomable foolishness. Women are free entities, their cunts are hairy insects that love going from cock to cock, as bees, drinking now from that flesh flower, now from that other lovely flesh flower. You can’t possess such ethereality. And anyway dreary mister death is there loitering with his sticky damned net – he will bag the bug sooner or later. Why the fucking trouble, he wonders.

Instead, friendship is the answer. Friendship with loved woman – loved, and free – let’s never forget the “free” item – that’s the secret – let the bug drink wherever the kind wind takes her – the point is to wait for her return. In friendship. And don’t forget to befriend also the sparse atheist and the good communist (never authoritarian, never martial), no matter if he’s to be counted among your kin or not. And keep your friendship with trees and the brotherly animals – they are your own kind also. And be friends with the landscapes – extend your loving gaze over the impeccable wasteland. Never forget your friendship with satellites and planets and galaxies. And that meteorites (and the sundry stones whose history and secrets are all-important) are your friends. That the whole universe itself you hold faithfully in friendship – no silly friendship yours, of course. A friendship renewed with every passing instant – for it won’t last, as you know – death’s loitering, okay? Death’s about to take you away – and they, the animals, the trees, the landscapes, the stones, the women, the atheists, the communists, the galaxies, the universes, all your friends... will continue dying, living (is all the same thing), after you are gone – minus your friendship, them, but still going strong, the memory of you perhaps a fast disappearing indentation and no more.

Ah, and all those disgraceful parasites, the fanatical crazy queers that follow the bibles, qurans, constitutions, flags, fatherlands... all those foolish miasmatic specks of tainted dust that delude themselves into believing themselves to be so fundamentally, vainly, unique, with a soul that shall survive no less...?! All that sad ugly spread on the surface... pestiferous, fetid, fungous...?

Those...? Nothing; I won’t waste a second more thinking about them – too minimal, too fleeting, an easily wiped repugnance stuck on the remotest bit of skin of a dear old planet. The wind of the years shall wash it away; they shall vanish without a trace – all their lies turned into the flying paltry ashes of an anonymous mummy.

Well, and thus ends Reggie Morell’s biography – he died, or had died, or will die... smiling. Everything elapsed so fast... everything elapses so fast. Sidewiping, like a nimble snake, never too taken up with the stuff already learned; sniffing new landmarks... until the landmark became a dark wall where the joke ended, his smile suddenly gone. Bitter now. At the very end, holding some hope, you think...? No, none. Perhaps wishing to die well. He was decaying fast... sicknesses in the blood... Ephemeral, transitory... An old text already half illegible, and crumbling, melting... And then...? Good night.

Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,