Excerpt from FACELESS

Alfonso Borello's orgy of life stories continues. No characters, no puppets; just people.   Excerpt from FACELESS

Copyright 2012 by Alfonso Borello, all rights reserved  

I'm not going to turn the camera on today.

A day of relax, maybe a picnic with a good piece of bread and a good bottle of San Pellegrino. My orgy of life stories will continue, as always sans characters, sans puppets; just people. Why am I always in the middle of it? Because stories need a point of view. It's like voyeurism but without sexual gratification. What's wrong with all these people inside my little camera? Nothing, really. The term We are all part of society has been used so many times that is almost nauseating. I'm always fascinated by ordinary reality, pandemonium, and strange fantasies. Perhaps what's most interesting is what lies underneath reality. Make no mistakes, we're all in it by default. Did you know that my very first tape was actually destroyed? The room was full of clocks; the short man played a Corelli's sonata which was rather intoxicating; I swear, it sounded horrible. There was definitely something wrong with that pianoforte. I thought he wasn't aware of it, despite my lambasting. When I finally found the courage to say something to him, his seat collapsed; he stood up theatrically, and with a frozen chicken and brute energy, he destroyed his precious Steinway. He then looked at me, quite satisfied, and included my little gadget in the ritual. “Why did you do that?” I asked with a saccharine tone. “My dear, today I wanted to explain to you and myself, what lies beneath life,” he explained callously. His voice was somewhat guttural for his stature, but the result was cathartic enough. “Yes, I can see your point.” “Always do the best you can.” “I think the performance felt a little bit rushed, at least to my ears.” “Something incredible happened.” “What was it?” “A sense of accomplishment.” “And so came the destruction.” “Yes, first you create your masterpiece one piece at the time, and then, then you destroy it with your very own hands.” “No, my dear,” I interrupted him, “You ignored me, and that was the result.” “Perhaps you're right. I'm an artist, and jilted by my own skin,” his ire suddenly vanished but his face was shiny with fear.   The red blanket was finally on the grass. Let's try this bread; it's still warm. Wait, a bird just pooped on my head. Gross. She's now on the blanket, begging for crumbs. Those tiny eyes look familiar to me. “You're back my dear lady. You're now the most beautiful goldfinch. Where have you been?” She's hungry; well, birds eat so little. Maybe I can spare my loaf of bread for today. “Which part would you like?” She just chirped something. “White or wheat?” She's chirping again. “What did you just say? Well, she's finally happy. “See, I told you it wasn't so bad, after all; you just needed a little consolidation of neurons.” “Chirp, chirp.” “Good girl!”