Little Genevieve

Here is little Genevieve walking backwards with her eyes closed along the thundering highway. If you have ever gone backwards more than a hundred feet, you know how hard it is to keep a straight line. She is zigzagging on the pure asphalt; there is not even an earthy rumble strip. Did somebody leave her there alone, forget her, abandon her? Is she in a trance, sleepwalking? Why does she not open her eyes? Ohh, I can see now she is trying to lift her eyelids, blinking slightly.

In a haze of fumes and fogs she senses giant bubbles, icy bubbles, steamy bubbles, green, grey, black, orange bubbles, powerful, overwhelming bubbles, thrusting themselves towards her as voracious snakes, crocodiles, hyenas, wolves. Will they attack her, tear her into pieces, devour her with gusto? Where is she now? Is she already in the mouth of a huge whale, a hungry shark?  Is she about to be ground down into a delicious meal, giving joy to the palate of a tiger, the stomach of a lion? Where do those scary, relentlessly pounding bubbles come from? What is going on with little Genevieve?

Seconds later the bubbles are spiraling into clouds, streaming, merging, transforming into smothering towers of life or death. A psychedelic light circus of colors and shapes, a skyquake rocking her from the dark depth of a huge soft womb into the sharp harsh daylight. Is the world going to collapse or explode? Make a move Genevieve, open your eyes, head somewhere, anywhere, get out!

What’s going on now? Genevieve is paralyzed, freezing into an ice beam right in the middle of the road, no words, no screams, no sighs, no whispers. Stillborn?  Why doesn’t she move? How could she move? Legs first or head, arms or eyes or mouth or tongue? Why does nothing happen to her? Yes, nothing is happening, deep frost, total ice, stuck forever. Only bubbles that float into clouds that morph into vehicles careening towards her; red sedans, blue pickups, white vans, a black truck, a big blue bus, a giraffe in between, all speeding, dashing desperately towards the water, lemmings throwing themselves lustfully into the black river of death. Hundreds, thousands, an endless race. Will any of those vehicles run her over?  Hit her in the stomach, heart, brain? Will she be wounded forever? Crippled for the rest of her life? Or killed on the spot? Is that her end? The end of her life as she knows it?

MOVE! This is dangerous. A car will hit you! Is that what you want, do you expect it, or you just don’t care? Are you on a suicide mission? Maybe too helpless or scared to kill yourself actively, or too proud? Hanging on to life or not, who knows? Leaving it up to fate? Playing Russian roulette? A victim of your birth? A sacrifice to your gods?

Genevieve starts opening her eyes, moving her legs, slowly, carefully turning around. She goes straight home now. She survived this time.

© Maniwolf

Santa Monica and Brentwood, 04/08/21, 04/15/21

Edited by Maniwolf and Alyssia 10/13/24

E / 504

Last Saturday I met my cousin Rolf at the shopping center. He looked good, he had always been a lively lad, flaxen-haired with an oily shimmer, but now he looked really fattened up. In his arms he was holding an exotic beauty; he introduced her to me straight away, “This is my novia Blanquita from Venezuela,” he said with the expression of a conqueror, and beautiful Blanquita smiled at me obligingly. With his smooth features, slightly shiny sheen, rosy cheeks and jolly manner, he came across like a well-fed little pig. “Rolf,” I shouted, “hey, I thought you were in prison.”

To tell the truth, Rolf had had a few awful stories on his hands. As relatives, we were of course on his side and didn’t want to learn the details. He was a cunning financial juggler and nobody in our family understood his dubious business dealings. We didn’t even know what he actually did, but we always saw him happily living the high life, with beautiful women, expensive cars and in a constant party mood.

I was only aware that his shady financial dealings had caused trouble recently. He must have taken things too far. A number of companies had gone bust, and all fingers were pointing at him. The journalists were hot on his heels and some newspapers had spread nasty stories about him, even on page one. After a short-notice, partly secret trial with abbreviated witness testimonies, he was surprisingly quickly sentenced to a fraction of the prison term that the public prosecutor had requested.

“Haha,” he said, “not on my weekend leaves, for which I have a blanket authorization from the very top. I can practically do what I want on those leaves as long as I don’t break the electronic leash.” He took me to the side and whispered in my ear: “The prison belongs to the GoodPeopleBank. With the CEO I’m on a first-name basis. He understands quite well that today I’m in and he’s out and tomorrow it could just as well be the other way around. And you know what? It’s one of the banks I owe a huge amount of money to. They have to treat me like a maggot in bacon or they won’t get anything, you understand?”

“Gosh,” I said, “you seem to have been a lucky piggy again.” “No pig,” he said, “you just have to know the right chicks and owe money to as many people as possible, then the whole world will take care of you.” And as usual when he talked, his little eyes danced behind his fat bulges, and his grin ran the whole gamut of human well-being from good-natured chuckle to derisive laughter.

“In other words, no Abu Ghraib,” I said. “No,” he said, “of course there are dark corridors and cells where the guards occasionally swing their clubs, but only the poor creatures, the stupid ones who have no idea about life and its true beauty languish there. Of course I have nothing to do with them, in my department we are among ourselves. It’s called the castle of celebrities, and used to be a duke’s residence, ultimate elegance I tell you. A true luxury hotel, you must imagine, it’s really fantastic. An orderly daily routine like in a fine resort, pure relaxation, it’s good for your health and good for business. No reproaches from the wife, no stressful problems with the children, no arguments with girlfriends, no annoying phone calls, no tabloid scribblers with stupid questions, no drunken sprees with business associates, no court, prosecutors, creditors or bailiffs breathing down my neck. Ohh, everything is nicely arranged,” he exclaimed, prancing, while lovely Blanquita cradled herself in his arms, “and my lawyers are watching over my well-being, while I drive my schemes forward with my business friends inside and outside. During the week I’m looked after properly, so to speak, and on the weekends I’m firing away, full of energy. It’s practically the same as outside, just with the signs reversed, but as you know, minus times minus equals plus and the difference is what I live off!  On top of that it’s much quieter, oh yes, basically a paradise.”

“We’re going to build a skyscraper in Taiwan,” he said, “right in downtown Taipei, trapezoidal, with rotating interactive platforms, a virtual multimedia experience, all already financed. I’ve got a whole consortium behind me, they’re all terrified to death that I’m going to file for bankruptcy, so they’re feeding me with abandon. That’s love in this day and age!” He began to explain his project to me, pouring a torrent of words over me, waving his arms, jumping from one foot to the other, sprinkling in his favorite phrases, “I’m telling you” and “you understand” and “that’s how it’s done” and “can you imagine”, and “the world will be amazed”, and “it’s never been done before”. I glanced around, looking for a way out, waved a cab over, “I’d better get going Rolf, the children are waiting for me.”

“Rolf,” I said as I left, “it’s going to end badly with you.” He laughed, “Never mind,” he called after me, “if you look closely, won’t it end badly with all of us?” I jumped into the cab and his words resonated with me, haunting me all day. Here you work hard and try to be a righteous person, and what do you get for it? Doesn’t it end badly for all of us? Rolf had ruined my day, and I wished I hadn’t run into him.

© 2009 – 2024 Maniwolf – All rights reserved

Pacific Palisades, August 2009; Bonita, February, May 2024

D / E 926

Translated from the German with DeepL.com. Edited by WordExpress Corporation and Maniwolf

Little Genevieve

Here is little Genevieve walking backwards with her eyes closed along the thundering highway. If you have ever gone backwards more than a hundred feet, you know how hard it is to keep a straight line. She is zigzagging on the pure asphalt; there is not even an earthy rumble strip. Did somebody leave her there alone, forget her, abandon her? Is she in a trance, sleepwalking? Why does she not open her eyes? Ohh, I can see now she is trying to lift her eyelids, blinking slightly.

In a haze of fumes and fogs she senses giant bubbles, icy bubbles, steamy bubbles, green, grey, black, orange bubbles, powerful, overwhelming bubbles, thrusting themselves towards her as voracious snakes, crocodiles, hyenas, wolves. Will they attack her, tear her into pieces, devour her with gusto? Where is she now? Is she already in the mouth of a huge whale, a hungry shark?  Is she about to be ground down into a delicious meal, giving joy to the palate of a tiger, the stomach of a lion? Where do those scary, relentlessly pounding bubbles come from? What is going on with little Genevieve?

Seconds later the bubbles are spiraling into clouds, streaming, merging, transforming into smothering towers of life or death. A psychedelic light circus of colors and shapes, a skyquake rocking her from the dark depth of a huge soft womb into the sharp harsh daylight. Is the world going to collapse or explode? Make a move Genevieve, open your eyes, head somewhere, anywhere, get out!

What’s going on now? Genevieve is paralyzed, freezing into an ice beam right in the middle of the road, no words, no screams, no sighs, no whispers. Stillborn?  Why doesn’t she move? How could she move? Legs first or head, arms or eyes or mouth or tongue? Why does nothing happen to her? Yes, nothing is happening, deep frost, total ice, stuck forever. Only bubbles that float into clouds that morph into vehicles careening towards her; red sedans, blue pickups, white vans, a black truck, a big blue bus, a giraffe in between, all speeding, dashing desperately towards the water, lemmings throwing themselves lustfully into the black river of death. Hundreds, thousands, an endless race. Will any of those vehicles run her over?  Hit her in the stomach, heart, brain? Will she be wounded forever? Crippled for the rest of her life? Or killed on the spot? Is that her end? The end of her life as she knows it?

MOVE! This is dangerous. A car will hit you! Is that what you want, do you expect it, or you just don’t care? Are you on a suicide mission? Maybe too helpless or scared to kill yourself actively, or too proud? Hanging on to life or not, who knows? Leaving it up to fate? Playing Russian roulette? A victim of your birth? A sacrifice to your gods?

Genevieve starts opening her eyes, moving her legs, slowly, carefully turning around. She goes straight home now. She survived this time.

© Maniwolf

Santa Monica and Brentwood, 04/08/21, 04/15/21

Edited by Maniwolf and Alyssia 10/13/24

E / 504