Sunday, September 18, 2005


Got a haircut, poor man’s miniature Lyle Lovett style.


Why the upsurge of fetishizing writing “spaces”? I write anywhere. Everywhere.

Early morning mostly silent conversation with the Drosophila who work my bowl of bananas. Maybe eight or nine or so. I peer closely, my big blue human eyes, trying to determine eye-colors. Red, mostly. (Opposing white.) I note how one fly trails another—never gaining, never falling behind, never taking wing, running along on legs that pure insect speed makes invisible.

“You’re idiots! Manipulated! You believe the newspapers! Yes! Inhale! Yes! I’m telling you that the Americans sacrificed several thousand of their citizens so they could attack the Taliban trash. Whether it’s oil or some other crap they’re after, I don’t know. But it’s not a battle for the freedom of some oppressed women, I’m sure of that. You’re surprised the Americans sacrificed their own people. Americans? Yes indeed, ladies and gentlemen! So whose lives should they sacrifice? Hungarians? . . . What on earth do I have to do with ‘them’? What on earth do the Taliban women have to do with the Americans? Nothing, but in fact they do. I, daughter of the I-hope-late Z>ivko, and a fucked-up Taliban woman with headwear, we’re the same. So is the American who takes little slippers off Taliban women’s little feet in the middle of nowhere. Someone is plying a game in our name. The chador is being removed for our good. But, my blind friends, what you don’t get is that we’re all under the chador. The fucking Taliban women are under the chador. The deceased Americans from the twin towers are under the chador, so are the living Americans in godforsaken Indiana and Afghanistan and Iraq and Iran and Bosnia-Herzegovina and Guatemala and the Philippines and in Italy. I’m under the chador, and so are you assholes who don’t understand a fucking thing. Is there anyone who’s not covered, I hear you yelling full of hope. There are. In the world there are perhaps a hundred or a hundred and fifty sons of bitches whose heads aren’t covered and who hold our lives in their hands. The entire world is being fucked by five corporations, ones like Coca-Cola. The rest of us are Taliban women.”

Vedrana Rudan, trans. Celia Hawkesworth, Night, (Dalkey Archive, 2004)