Bughum’s First Lady

Between the binding spirals of this diary is written between.

What has gone
is going to be
I’ll draw with my toes.

How is it that you never fall?

A child is the sweetest dictator if there is one. Puffy cheeks, brilliant lips, fiery eyes, conspicuously risen tummy – pointing fingers, demanding trials, mauling innocent Barbies – mutilating, destroying, executing. A child creates the world in his own image and gets rid of it as soon as her world collides with other more detailed, strange worlds. That’s her first lesson in democracy. But it is hard to get rid of what you have created with your own little clumsy hands. So the world remains, with all its grotesqueries and wild dreams and collected stones. The new democratic, egalitarian world of the growing child is always brimming with the possibilities of a rather violent military coup, waiting to transcend conformity, and establishing again, a conformity of a transcendental nature, with superlative principles and ideals and the similar nonsense. To sum up: a child is the living proof of why humanity hasn’t gone far. And to further sum up: I hate children.

I had a pretty gory childhood. I came out covered in blood. Everyone was so happy that they forgot to wipe all that blood off my nose. I must have sneezed my larynx out when finally, someone had the courage to do the obvious. I was wiped and wrapped and served to my mother who devoured me with her teary eyes. She was crying because she knew I was way more beautiful than she could ever be. She brought her nose closer to mine. She was trying to be the archetypal mother image. I sneezed sarcastically. How could such a small thing sneeze, she thought. She was hurt and from that day on nothing remained as it used to be between us. She always wanted me to be as I was, when I was inside her, you know, for nine months and fourteen days – feeling secure, being small, not talking much. But I sneezed. My mother never wanted a son who would sneeze. Well, to be frank, I never wanted a mother who wasn’t much to look at. We both grew up hating each other but we never fought – we just left each other to live – and we behaved as if nothing ever happened between us.

The strangest thing happened when I grew young and she grew small: I started to look like her! – her, when I saw her from the outside for the first time, when I sarcastically sneezed. She died of a cold. Her nose could not keep up with the changing world. I was there when her body was leaving her. How could one so small and old be so beautiful? I thought. I couldn’t resist from bringing my nose close to hers – she sneezed as I did so (she was always a bit theatrical). When I was burying her I could see that I was burying a very beautiful face – a face that outdid mine in its wet nose beauty, as beautiful as I once was. And in the end, she was herself what she wanted me to be – secure, small, not talking much. I was crying because I knew she was way more beautiful than I could ever be.


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