Free Don Quixote, Which Was a Dream by Kathy Acker Page A

aristocrats're rich. Being a rational man, I'm an aristocrat. I'll
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    kill the Vietnamese and the Nicaraguans and I'll fall in love with whomever I please. Rationality has made me a totally free man and my country a democracy.
    The Prince's lust: Why do the bourgeoisie shit? Bourgeoisie, you're not apart from the world. That's not your myth. You are the world. You don't create my palace: you're greedy for sensuality. You want want beyond all measure, Don Calogero, and you're poisoning this world by your greed. We control money or devaluation, and you control greed or things. 'This suit must'a cost a lotta moola,' my future daughter-in-law's father, Don Calogero, says to me. Insect, crawling along my suit lapel. Bourgeois shit.
    The Prince's feelings: Maybe you're unhappy. You hold me in your heart with your large hands. This perception of humanity breaks through isolation and judgement.
    :Yes, I love you. I'm beginning to trust you and give you my heart, that is, my trust. The only thing there is the only possibility against rationality which is shit and death is trust; you say that you want it.
    :When I stop believing trust, I decide to die.
    The end of the ball.
    The Prince: On My Death:
    :OK. I'm growing old. What does that mean? I know I've less
    and less energy. But I'm focusing more clearly so I don't have
    less energy. When I'm not focusing I can feel the energy's
    weaker:
    :I'm no one. I'm no longer a personality.
    :It's as if there's (me's) this black statue whose being is obsessed in and is its work. When the work goes, the being goes. The world obtrudes: there's only universe.
    :I want writing is the world.
    :Is courting writing, courting death?
    :Approaching death changes your physical appearance. Just as when a fashion designer takes hold of your body, you no longer recognize your physical self. You act as you would never act, such as you shit in your pants in front of people. You have to flee from this self.
    :Fleeing makes me want to die.
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    :Even though I'm more and more tired, I know there's more and more no need of sleep, cause soon I'm going to sleep forever. I have to be as conscious as possible every of these few moments left. I want to taste: I remember I've savored most of my experiences; I will enjoy.
    :What do I enjoy? I'm apart from the world its social identities. 1 enjoy the mentality that leads to the world. The palace. (The world isn't separate from death.) All kinds of events're equally real. Memories're now the events most available for me to taste. As I care less and less about the world its social identities, I forget memories. I luxuriate in appearances. Every appearance or change's perfect. The closer I get to dying, the more time is perfect.
    :I'm in the hospital. Cold tiled floors beneath the feet. Pale green walls pale green ceiling pale gray floor tiles. The hall outside this room: nausea-yellow walls nausea-yellow ceiling pale gray floor tiles. This is as far as the eye can see. This room is called 'a luxury room'. Even though (I remember) I've got money history etc., all my perceptions're narrowed down to this. My narrow bed in a box. I'm a narrow bed in a box.
    :My perceptions're going.
    :There's no one in this world of whirling. I've no one to turn to. I have to face the formal nausea alone. The formal nausea's absorbingly interesting: swirls of red slight lines of yellow some white within the swirls. I have to garner, and am, all my energy (me) to deal with this. Those who're in the world should deal with the world. Every human with where they're in. Giovanni, Stella, Frabrizietto: my blood, you should take care of blood. But you don't think anymore; you go after objects: it's the end of the aristocratic world, still mine, and the beginning of the bourgeois.
    :I no longer exist.
    :It's not only that my senses've been deprived shut in on themselves; now they're sending me in the priest whom I hate. Reality is taken away from me. I hate His cockless thighs. I hate the snot,