All Y ever did was send me books he had published in the academic world. Not once did he think to send me a book I might be interested in reading. At twenty the only thing I still had from Y was the train set he had given me as a five year old child.
Y was slender. He had a long bony nose that complemented his long thin face. He yanked on it like a penis when he ruminated. He wasn’t able to think without masturbating and he wasn’t able to masturbate without thinking.
He used his intelligence and his polio warped body to dominate us. The left half of his body was concave. He peed and fucked where he liked, his penis often out for the hell of it.
Y had shown an increased interest in me since the death of my mother. He said he had become scared of me.
As a child Y would leave me in his vehicle like a dog when he did errands. If I did anything out of character he chastised me severely. He let me drink beer when I was fourteen, but it had to be with him and no one else. He explained to me the pleasure of fucking a woman on the side of a road. I spent interminable hours smoking alone at his summer home.
Y had only 24 followers on twitter. Twenty are purported sex workers. One of the photos of the twenty is a masturbatory simulation. Another is the simulation of a woman’s murder and rape.
The simulations got progressively graphic and bleak. I felt nauseous and depleted when I thought about it.
My life took place in a ranch house. There was sky falling down on the roof, somewhere a tree. My voice spoke in Dutch and English. J my child knew how to scream. At the tender age of five she cursed me with the word I used against my wife: idiot,idiot,idiot.
Y had on his denim shirt. He was bald. He had white marks where the skin cancer had been removed. He addressed me with his index finger: D has never made anything beautiful. We call his sculpture bus stops. O doesn’t make art. He’s a bullshit artist. No one cares about form. Things are different now. Anything is possible. People are told that O’s work is fashionable and they want it on their wall. All they want is a O piece on their wall. The same goes for W. His studio was a factory. He had dozens working under him. They produced one piece after the other. All people want is a W piece on the wall not to look at but so they can tell their friends that they have one. Listen no one cares about art. I don’t know why you bother with your drawings. It started as far as I can see with Z. He stole everything from B and B stole everything from me. X wasn’t really anywhere until he used the screen print. F is on top. They named him the best artist of the 20th century, but look at the state of his children. He doesn’t do anything with form. His work doesn’t do anything for me. All he does is impose stuff on photos. He doesn’t do anything significant with the geometry. For awhile in the nineties he wasn’t producing much but then of late he has been producing a lot. He has a team of people under him making the stuff. You know I never thought O would make it. He was living in that cold tenement building on the Bowery. I can’t believe he made it. Remember I had his wife on my lap that Christmas. How old were you 10, 12? I scared the shit out of your mother. I stuck my finger in her mouth. She locked herself in the bedroom with you. She was very difficult, but it was worth it. She made it worth your while if you stuck it out. I’m glad she never left me. In the beginning she wanted to leave. I tell the lawyer to give you whatever you need. I have taken notes on your mental health in my journal. You’ve seen the notes when I asked you to photocopy them. I’m enjoying the company of my brother again. You know the lady who got shot dead in her car in L. A.. She was involved with actors and movies. I went on a dinner date with her. They thought she would make for good company since she said she likes my work and wants to see my studio. How strange that the first woman I go out to dinner with is killed. Picasso was a sloppy painter. Human beings are a mystery. They are never happy.
I want to live, I thought to myself.