SNAPSHOTS

SNAPSHOTS
Alessandro Cusimano

 From Los Angeles to Tijuana, from California to Mexico. 72 hours in the life of a singular character, Vincent Muscaino, modern writer in a fast world. Instants, frames, the escape of a man in perpetual conflict with himself. Confusional states of an extraordinarily lucid mind. Transgression and reflections, indignation and temptations. Unable to stem the devastating force of his failure, his life is marked by depression, by the use of alcohol and drugs. Apathetic and selfish, promiscuous and persecuted by the search for celebrity, he has reached his breaking point. He knows how to drag us into the beyond, while a mysterious radio station reveals, from the inside of his car, awful truths.

 

Episode 1 – Garage

 …. 00:47 am…. I have pills, I take 2. I drink a B52, $ 5. I’m still on the highway to Mexico, with a flat tire. I’ll be late because I have no spare wheel. I don’t care…. if all goes well I will know a pretty girl…. a gas station clerk with green hair and white platform shoes: never seen anything like that…. 02:23 am…. I drink another B52…. after all she is not so bad…. 04:16 am…. I lost my pills in my underpants. If I have fallen so low, then it means I’m already on the restroom floor. She is taking away her pants…. has pills…. I take 3….

Episode 2 – The Radio

.the willingness to cut the scenes of excessive violence must be restrained. The reactionary boor is repugnant, but this is the vocation of every human being, according to the speaker of a next-generation TV set bought at the supermarket in a kamikaze raid during a commercial break. The roads are black, they also populated by black squares, layered one on the other and surrounded by drainage Channels causing visible stretch marks to the eye. The pupils are trained on the white cynicism of a great beauty monitoring. The most blonde of the realm rolls the dice in a way that you choke and gape. In prime time, the mess of crime news is a highly nutritious mixture it is also black forced by a recurring kermess in red with streaks of yellow and leaden subtitles. Alluring, the language of the fairy tale spits the frothy illusion of a infinite opening. The flowery meadow is a trap for the eye, the arrogance has an unstable balance and deliberately does not solve it the fable tells us sadistic methods of punishment. The obsession enters the consciousness, displays the dream, annoys the nightmare….

– 

Episode 3 – Tijuana

  –

.men who change face, have killed their bottle companion, carry a poison you can breathe, for themselves and for the others. Smelly, ill-washed females go in search of a scolding, arrange spike heels and knives. On the verge of the road, a boy with the lively gesticulation and the candid rudeness, walks straight; some stocky women admire him because he imitates those ones who promise to improve their life. Two sisters, differently annoying, move parallel with the irony of temperament, joking between alliance and confrontation. Feminine raids are affectation, with the habit of saying certain things. Shame sometimes is mentioned, vanishing then without trace, when the silence drys the noise of an occasional weakness. A fleshy cat aims to the bird cage causing a strident clinking of metal strings. The desire of sacking draws his stopped cravings and begins to scrape its hide. Every dusk is made for creatures good with the blade who snap a well done trifle, but already tasted rare elsewhere….

– 

Episode 4 – Cockaigne

  –

.a sudden rush of sympathy…. pure…. powder straining after an effect. Wanted, ivory without shame, arabesque of a nervous wondering, at night. Crushed disorder, when the stories are restless…. hard light, bonfire. Fast intonation, tight electric wire…. slight wounded internals, appetite…. nexus. Real vein ready to suck back words, cracks, to entice the glance, the breath….. anxious to start again….

– 

Episode 5 – The Hump

– 

..take it easy…..everything is fine. I sat on my own, talking about this and that, in a restroom with no windows, where I put on airs with women because of the hump and where I remember I had a couple of drinks, on the house. The master is an elegant dwarf, upper class people. As long as in the confessional, out of order, of a porno movie theater, I languished with love, on the phone, with a dumb bitch who was fidgeting with the obsession of the evil eye. Right here behind, at the bottom of the alley…..

– 

Episode 6 – Closeups

– 

.a dog bitten in the throat, put it in a sack and thrown in a dumpster. Born to fight, to devour, to suffer. Shut in a plastic bag and squeezed with a rope. Struggles to the bitter end. And girls, wearing close-fitting longuettes, beautiful and nasty, jolly or conceited, transparent and winking. The Slav type of blonde sells like hot cakes. Sexy, fair, blue eyes, cold and wild, severe and martial, queens of an outskirts nazi-porno. Boys in jeans, shirt, tank top, haughty the efforts of one year in the gym, or to the millstone of the yard. And colors: lemon yellow, cornflower blue. Places to spend the afternoon, listening to the voices. Convenient slum to admire the inconvenience. Raped land, sand, twigs, reeds. River, sea, ground, without borders. Fishermen who don’t fish, the sound of water, an orgy of piled wood in the form of housing. A child here cannot suffer any opinion and here children play the war against the loneliness. A little man, thin and sharp, folded on his chair, watching TV. The stench ferments the moisture, crushes the walls and sneaks out with rats and cockroaches. At the bottom of the main road three caravans leave behind syringe vending machines, hanged on breached fences. Young people in their natural cruelty, gay prostitutes, premonitory dreams and scenes shared at the tavern. The melodrama lives on with the easy tear but it’s a dry tragedy, lingering in pandering concessions to pandering landscapes or strong closeups. In oral tales in their living speech. Within reach, baby girls with the lipstick, faces of Christ turning up from t-shirts, mobile phones, tattoos. Sweaty people who don’t understand, waiting for something to happen. Then, everyone returns to his stories, after a seaside resort interval, in the unstable space which is alcove, restaurant, office, empty, full, womb, against the fellow man. The feeling of suffocation, overcrowding, emptied vacuum. At night, the pushers greet the big cars. Hawaiian shirts, cigarettes, gold chains, convicts in a break, in an almost balanced cosmos. The forced segregation gives a life closer to the everyday deceptions, these voices ignore and destroy….

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Episode 7 – The Vending Machine

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.crawling against the light, the beggars keep watching the city that has betrayed them, has given them nothing. Red faced nails in single file, move strange amputated shapes, branched on the sidewalk. And the memory, well painted on their face, has the sound of a chorus of voices and the voices die in the most bestial notes in the history of their humanity. In thousands continue to strive for one truth at a time, for a life as a vending machine….

Episode 8 – Brunch

 –

.I woke up, in the back seat of my car. On the other side, of the street, I go for a stroll in a restroom and dive into the shake of the submerged hubbub, foreshadowing virgin honey, and quarters of ass in the very front row, foretasting chocolate croquettes and teenage thighs. I had never seen a woman so angry with her husband and calling him a fag, since now he goes crazy for a quarrelsome girlie, up town star who gave the child to her grandmother scantily dressed in rags. And where I might live without let the brain work, staying on the beach, talking to the old man who smokes on his wheelchair, among the sunburned butts….

– 

Episode 9 – The Radio

 –

.the medicine man had a vision and disappeared in a prison of the Empire Film Producer. Metal animal worn away with the rust. And they call him killer, when the killers accuse a killer. Outside, one night, noble light, moon, when the windows are open. The rifle of the inhuman man, a slanting creature beyond the measure, a sergeant. Eats up his supper taken from home and kills. Someone who has the power to do this, watching the people who do so without shame. The actor’s life. Obscene reflexes, oblong planes appeal to the low. Old Glory ponders the rights and wrongs, grimaces deform the faces and make them ugly, broken down window panes, internals of wide open mouths….

– 

Episode 10 – The Notebooks

 –

.passion creates the torment that undermines the desire, violates the deception of platitudes and strangles the void; causes the panting that opens a terrible beauty wide, has the glance of a moment, moves the melodies and gives unbeatable finals. But now, the light, the colors, pose without any compassion, without regret, without conquering the rest of my life. I meander aimlessly, approaching the people with the pleasure of discovering my flaws. Friends, acquaintances, the strangers. Countless eyes, mislaid, ready for anything. Venom, sentence, rage. All appears central, disclosing a prison as a gift, no glint in a lifetime, a vision with no depth. As if time had stopped in a glacier of emotions or in a wishing well. The bright, inside me, chases a cry full of dry tears and hits the clear opinion coming to me: dissociation, impractical idea, unreal passion. My nature takes a tragic turn in an eternal return to my degrading diversity, until the implacable conflict I am required to consume in an abnormal way. Yet I had an iron will. In my notebooks I sketched the abyss, the dung heap of inequality. Nevertheless my personality faded away, rubbing the impalpable, overcoming my resistance, insistently. Reason and unconsciousness, my devotion to these two sisters grim. If I only had found a way to deal with them, without turning away from myself, from the reasonable friend, from the excellent madman towering above, locked up. Instead I mortified my king and all my men, I devoured them again, still alive. In front of a black landscape oil has overflowed from the asphalt and greased the streets. Then I felt a smell of liquefied fire that took me by the throat and struck me in the chest. A bullet of pure amber, because I remember being dropped, slowly, and nobody was there except for a colour of molasses. It was dark burnt. I took a whole bottle and drank up to bursting, up to take fire and burn, but my fate was even worse….

 

  1. An impressive piece of writing from a smart man. The word “fevered” comes to mind.

  2. That’s very poetic writing. Sort of plotless, or,if there is a plot, it perhaps takes a re-reading to follow it, but very strong and original. You write very well, I think – if that doesn’t sound patronising to say so, it isn’t meant that way. It’s a different kind of fiction, a little, maybe, like Joyce?

  3. Alessandro Cusimano

    Heartfelt thanks to all of you. Actually the characters I tell about, are strange creatures whose life unfolds between sarcasm and resentful emotion. They’re anarchist and visionary, painful and surreal. The events reflect on anxiety, crush conventions and illusions, irreverent, proclaiming life is, by its nature, a scandal. Irony and despair. A world in which the author, myself, appears several times, wanderer among the wanderers. Strong contradictions, alchemical synthesis, oxymorons, antithesis, intermittent flashes; sinks in the destruction, in perversion, but also knows to linger in the ecstasy and in moments of harmony, nostalgia, crossing, so evocative, shadowy characters. Thanks again!

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