Domenica, 07 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 18:46

My name is Lionel Gerkin and I once loved a girl named Silvia Rose.

We first met on a rainy Monday morning. I was running for the train. there was confusion on the wet streets. A car backfired violently. The police horse, whose rider was trying to direct trafiic, reared in fright.

As it came down, its hooves struck me across the head. I was thrown against her and then fell flat on my face into a puddle that seemed deep enough to drown a horse. (Of course a horse would have been able to swin).

I have never been able to swim. And luckily Silvia saved me. She dived in after me. I was slowly dropping to the bottom of the puddle. The weight of my work bag slowly dragging me under. I couldn't let it go as I had an important presentation to make at work on that day.

I felt her hand grab the heavy corduroy jacket that I was wearing. I opened my eyes and a blurred figure in my watery world smiled back at me.

Just before I passed out, she pulled me out of that puddle and with the help of some bystanders was able to lift me to safety.

I never found out if she performed mouth to mouth resucitation. I never found out if our lips met on that day. All I know is that as everything faded to black, I saw her wings spread wide and she flew away, beyond the dark clouds, beyond the rain, beyond the reaches of mere mortals like me.

When I came to, I was surrounded by dancers. The music was blarring to a rhumba beat. The heat of the dance and the sweat of bodies flew wildly. The sun shone blindingly. Beautiful bodies swayed to the beat.

It was intoxicating. God, I thought, I must be in Rhumba Land.

Lunedì, 08 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 16:55

The rhumba is more than a form of musical expression, it's a form of physical expression. You can't do it sitting down. Your feet start to tap, your body swings. You say to yourself, "I can control this", but before you know it, your hand is swinging and fingers snapping.

Why even babies have been known to fly out of their cribs due to the physical excitement caused by a good rhumba.

The Rhumba, as we know it was spawned in Cuba about 100 yearsago. It wasn't one for the upper classes who found it hard to express themselves due to the lacivius nature of the dance and their anul upbringing.

Upper class folk barely go to the toilet as we all know, let alone dance the rhumba.

The rhumba folk dance is a sex pantomime with the man being the agressor and the woman on the defense. It is an instinctual dance, much like the male peacock displaying his magnificent array of feathers in an attempt to attract the female.

Like the dance of the peacock, the Rhumba is immersed in Latin passion. It is characterised by the movement of the hips, achieved by transferring from one foot to the other. This hip movement is combined with very smooth steps, giving the dance a sensual nature.

It is more than that, rhumba has the same unstructured feel as Jazz music. There is a freedom in its rythmic beat that allows you to soar, to express yourself, to unlock inhibitions.

Normally, this openess is a frightening possibility to face in our culture. Normally it is only achieved through strong drink or drugs.

There was nothing normal about Rhumba Land. Frightening? yes; Excited by the the discoveries you were about to make? yes; Looking forward to them with apprehension? yes.

Could it possibley be dangerous? definitely.

Martedì, 09 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:30

I had seen her every day for months. She caught the same train. The 8.10am Monday to Friday, direct to the city. She always sat next to the tap dancer that was dressed as a huge halapeno pepper.

That man was hot. The way he moved his feet was amazing. But it wouldn't have been all that hard as we occupied the same carriage as the rythym section of the local Cuban band. The drums beat, the trumpets rang out and the maracas shoosed their way through the morning ride.

The first time I saw Silvia the band was playing a beautiful rendition of "Stranger in Paradise". The first thing I saw were her eyes. They were black like night. Her skin as smooth as silk and tinged in the dark earthy hues of an olive grove. I remember approaching her as the train stopped and I had risen to get out.

She was the smell of freedom. At first I thought it may have been the halapeno tap dancer, but he had already departed.

This was something different. She smelled of emerald lakes, sheltered pathways and lush, open meadows. She looked up at me as I waited for her to pass on her way to the exit. She smiled with a reserved warmness.

There was a depth in her eyes where a man could happily drown.

Her gaze launched an arrow that pierced my chest with a violence I had never felt before. It took all my strength and presence to hide the blood that was dripping on to the new shoes I had recently purchased for a song at Kmart.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. I could hear it in my ears as I leaned over to her. I asked her to dance. She coyly declined and walked away.

Men like me never end up with women like Silvia.

Damn, they were playing one of my favourite songs, "Strangers in the Night". Who could blame her, it was too early in the morning.

I loved how the band had accentuated the rhythmic rhumba beat of the song Frank Sinatra had made famous. I sat and listened for a while.

There was a handful of men, looking solemn and far too sober. We sang along at the best words in the song: "Dooby-dooby-doo, Doo-doo-doo-dah-dah, Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-yah-yah-yah."

Mercoledì, 10 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 07:10

My name, as you know, is Lionel Gerkin. I am a little over the age of young. I live by myself. Both my parents died in an awful accident many years ago.

They were at a party of a "Well-to-do". They had been promised a big break. There were thousands of others also at the party who had been promised the same big break.

There was much wine and song and of course dance. What would RhumbaLand be without dance?

The large palatial building stood on the steep incline of a sheer cliff face. A large, expansive balcony jutted out from the building and swallowed up the view of a dark aubergine sea that lashed hungrily far below.

Bodies swayed to the latin beat, sweat rolled off the edges of the balcony which itself groaned under the weight. However, no one heard the groans and soon, it could hold itself intact no more and gave way.

It tumbled into the arms of the hungry aubergine sea far below who swallowed it whole along with all the people who had been dancing only a few seconds before. My parents were among them.

The sea gave a thankful burp and went out with the tide.

That's life, I suppose, I don't think about it too much.

I have a good job and it keeps me busy. I work at the Factory of Dance. We make all kinds of things. I am on the processing line for Toasters. I'm a quality inspector. My favourite job is timing the electrical elements and how long it takes to create a well toasted slice.

Over the last year we have sliced off (sorry about the pun but it does get a few laughs around here), some 10 seconds off this time. I am very proud of my achievement and I know it has not gone unnoticed in higher circles.

Even Silvia Rose noticed. Yes, she works here in management. I received an email from her a few months ago "acknowledging the wonderful quality of work" that was being performed by the team.

I saw her on my way to the toilet just after that. She was racing out of the women's, her hands slightly wet. A few drops of water dripped to the floor. She looked back at me and smiled.

The drips of water on the floor, arched up and danced to the strains of the music that was coming out of the loudspeakers.

Valerie Flock was only 21 when she had her first child. Well, actually, she had two first children. She had twins. Both girls. Both healthy.

A couple of years later, Valerie, her husband Charles and their two daughters were out camping. Both children fell asleep to the gentle, slumbering sound of their father's guitar.

Birds sang in the trees as dusk fell so gently you hardly heard it. Crickets trilled to the beat. Even the atmosphere sighed deeply and for a while the very air around you felt as if it had been sucked away by some magical force.

The girls slept deeply in their tent as Valerie and Charles danced around the camp fire and made love under the stars.

Of course, the stars were very discreet and looked away so as not to embarass the happy couple. They did however steal a peek at Charles's very white bottom as it bobbed like a float on a fishing line line in a sea of darkness.

When Valerie and Charles were sated, the entered the tent. One of their daughters was gone. She was no where to be seen. An investigation was held, the area scoured and then scoured again. But no trace was found.

Nothing.

Every evening before bed and every morning before dancing, Valerie would look up at the stars and say a little prayer for her daughter. The toll was great on the family and Valerie and Charles soon parted.

Many years later, Valerie was at a party. She spied a young girl across the room. The girl looked so much like her daughter Matilda whom she had left at home. She was curious. Very curious.

She asked the girl if she could borrow a small piece of her beautiful auburn hair. The girl agreed.

Valerie had it tested. The DNA results found one amazing result. The match was unmistakeable. This was her daughter. The very same daughter that had been lost so many years ago.

This daughter's name was Silvia Rose.

Giovedì, 11 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Uncle Jozef at 06:58

As a little girl, Silvia's favourite relative was her Uncle Josef. Uncle Josef wasn't really a blood relative, but he loved Silvia like he was.

He had long card nights where friends would venture into the home laden with food and drink and leave lighter of wallet. These were rowdy nights of loud music and voices booming across cavernous rooms and shadows dancing on walls. Sometimes blood flowed along with wine.

Silvia often played under the table. Josef would scratch her rich auburn hair and claim it brought him good luck. However, that came from somewhere else.

Under the table just where Josef sat was a card strapped to the side of the old table. On its white base blazed a bright, red heart. It was this ace that was often brought out to clinch a hand.

Many years later, Silvia was wondering through an old gramaphone shop. There was one old gramaphone that she particularly took a shine to. As she neared it, she noticed the table it happened to be sitting on.

It seemed to be the same table she had sat under all those years ago while her uncle Josef played cards. There were those distinctive rounded legs that looked as if they had once belonged to the Michelin Man. She had often thought of this table fondly.

She dropped slowly to the floor. The assistant at the counter noticed her and move away from the register to get a closer look. Silvia seemed to have disappeared. He couldn't see her. He moved quickly to the table. Was she placing an item in her bag? He had already been fined by the owner for allowing a rare recording to disappear. He couldn't even remember the name of the artist, nor did he care. He just wanted to make sure that he had enough money to take out Rosalita as he thought this time he may get lucky.

Where did that woman disappear to? He raised his feet and started to race a little. His tap shoes sounded like a rapid accompaniment to the Bolero which was playing loudly in the background.

He arrived at the table just as Silvia was rising from below. In her hand was a playing card. On its white base was a blazing, red heart. On Silvia's face was a glowing smile.

"I'l take it", she said.

Venerdì, 12 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 19:25

I find it very hard to complete this entry. I have just returned from a funeral. It was a beautiful, sunny day as is always the case in RhumbaLand. But it was different.

The normally, whispering wind excused itself and lay silent. Car horns that were pressed in anger refused to honk out of respect. Blades of grass bowed their silky heads.

Even the sun found a large tree to hide behind so that a kind, cooling shadow would fall over the funeral party.

Once the coffin had been lowered, and the first grains of dirt started to cover the memories, a bird in the nearby tree started singing. It was a Hummingbird. A Rufous hummingbird. It puffed out its silken, golden chest and you could see its pointy beak start to warble.

The Rufous hummingbird's natural habitat is the northwest coast of the USA, all the way up to Alaska. How it made its way here I will never know.

The hummingbird cleared its throat and sang an old Cole Porter classic:

Everytime we say goodbye I die a little
Everytime we say goodbye I wonder why a little
Why the gods above me who must be in the know
Think so little of me, they allow you to go

And when you're near there's such an air of Spring about it
I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it
There's no love song finer but how strange the change from major to minor
Everytime we say goodbye

Why the gods above me who must be in the know
Think so little of me, they allow you to go
And when you're near there's such an air of Spring about it
I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it

There's no love song finer but how strange the change from major to minor
Everytime we say goodbye, everytime we say goodbye
Everytime we say goodbye, everytime we say goodbye.....

Sabato, 13 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 12:17

I sat listening to Chet Baker on the gramaphone. It was one of my favourite Chet Baker songs: Little Man You've Had a Busy Day.

It's just a beautiful laid back piece that's pure Chet. But that's Chet. He looked at me and said: "Jazz is like a banana, it has to be consumed on the spot."

"You idiot", I said, "that's a Jean Paul Satre saying. And anyway what are you doing in RhumabLand?"

"Jazz is like a banana ..."

"Shut up, Chet! Just shut up."

He kept playing. Behind him the walls fell away and a lushly covered meadow appeared. The sun shone down gently. Birds chirpped and the wind gently tip-toed across the fields trying not to ruffle anything or anyone.

And then there was Silvia. The sun had picked her out for special attention. She seemed to glow under its gaze. Her eyes smiled. She held out her hand to me.

I walked over Chet (I think I heard him squelch) and took her hand. Chet, bless his heart, kept playing. I placed my arm around her waist and drew her close. I could smell the minty air of her breath against my face. I could see my future in her eyes. I could feel my existence have meaning.

Silvia placed her cheek against mine. Her smooth, cool skin against mine. I could feel the very molecules that make up her being against mine. She reached up to my ear and gently bit it between her teeth. She spoke about the growing sadness in her heart. She spoke about her need for someone to bring joy and life into her world.

I said I could do that. I wanted to do that. I was ready to do just that and make it my life's devotion.

She kissed my earlobe again as we danced closer and closer. I could feel her groin groan against mine. She looked at me, my heart was racing. The pounding in my chest was quite noticeable. I could hear the beating over Chet's playing.

Our eyes met, her lips parted as they came closer to mine. I closed my eyes and heard her say: "Jazz is like a banana, it has to be consumed on the spot."

"What! What!!" I shook my head. I opened my eyes in fright. There was Chet. "Where's Silvia? What have you done with her?"

"Who's Silvia, man? Like I was saying, 'Jazz is like a ...'"

"Shut up! Just shut up, Chet. You're suppose to be dead. You died in 1988. That saying belongs to Jean Paul Satre. You were a great trumpet player. You and Gerry Mulligan were great together. But your big mistake was singing. You were a shit singer. I could have done a better job. In fact I do a better job singing than you ever did while you were alive.

"This is RhumbaLand, idiot. You should have kept that goddam trumpet in your mouth and never taken it out. You shine with the trumpet, you suck with your voice. So, just shut up, okay."

Well, that's what I told the surgeon I had said to Chet as he was about to surgically remove the flugelhorn wrapped around my head. Chet was also very competent with a flugelhorn. Did I forget to mention that?

Lunedì, 15 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 15:51

I lay here with a hole in my heart.

Blood is flowing out in torrents.

It falls over the keyboard.

I can hear the splash, splash, splash of red pools as I type. They lap at the edges of the desk. My coffee cup has become an island in a crimson sea.

The wound was administed by the letter she wrote. Silvia.

"I don't love you anymore", she wrote. "I love another", she wrote.

Splash, splash, splash.

These words were written with letters of such violence that they have torn a hole in my chest. I have not been able to hear her voice.

Splash, splash, splash.

May the poison in my heart flood my senses. May the desire in my heart find a route to revenge.

May the tear in my chest heal over with scar tissue of such ferocity that it can turn away and abandon any thoughts of compassion.

May this emotion avoid no one. No one except my daughter. Our daughter. The daughter you have now taken from me. The daughter you will turn against me.

Splash, splash, splash. Splash, splash, splash. Splash, splash, splash.

Martedì, 16 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 07:14

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez was his name. "I am Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez" is the way that he always introduced himself. His Cuban first name was pronounced "Jay-seus", but having the fortune of attending schools in a western country meant that he developed a nickname of "Gee Wiz".

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez. His pencil thin moustache, his aligator shoes, his outcrop of entangled locks that grew wildly on his scalp, also gave a healthy, hirsute covering to his back and chest.

In fact, one former girlfriend claimed to have shaved her name into his back. Maria Immaculata Teresa Cervantes got every letter on there. However, by morning the proof had been covered over by a new thicker growth. On hot summer days when Jesus removed his shirt, you could still make the faint curly outline of Maria.

He could dance. His favourite was the Tango as it was more physical than the Rhumba. The tango is about violence and power. One partner is guide and subjugates his partner into following. The tango is not about cooperation and a liberating freedom.

The tango is about dictatorship and oppression. And Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez loved it. He loved the physical violence associated with it. He loved its aggression. He loved the driving staccato of its beat.

And Silvia loved him.

It was the gold tooth that always worried me about Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez. That and the gun that he kept in a holster strapped to his ankle.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez kept the devil on a leash, but it would soon escape and do more than bite the hand that fed it.

Giovedì, 18 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 06:56

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez slapped her face. Silvia's face. His boot thudded into the wooden boards. It caused my glass to shake as it rested on my table a number of meters away.

He slapped her again and he smiled. His pencil thin moustache pinched its way towards his nose which edged away in fear of any contact with the dagger sharp line of hair.

The music ripped through the room in all its physical grandeur. It was the tango, a strident beat that splashed up against the walls as if it was trying to break loose of the room.

Together they danced as lovers and the audience watched as voyeurs. We felt guilty by our stare but could not turn away. I tried.

A sharp glint of light pierced my eye. I looked up and noticed the gold tooth exposed to the lights that struck the dance floor. Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez now smiled hugely his teeth bared themselves as he pulled Silvia toward him, close.

I could smell his sweat as it dripped from his brow and raced down her breast, across the flat plains of her stomach that I had caressed earlier that morning. I could feel that bead racing beyond her belly button, and penetrating the area of her pubic hairs.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez threw back his head in triumph. He flung Silvia away like a rag doll and she sprawled across the floor spent and sated. I saw the look in her eye.

The music stopped, the atmosphere crashed to the floor in relief and the audience exploded with its applause. Both bowed.

He looked at me as he held Silvia tight. His gold tooth on display barred for me to see. The gun in his ankle holster hot, passionate and ready for its turn to dance.

Venerdì, 19 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 07:38

Uncle Jozef gave us that big smile of his. "Enjoy", he said with a happiness that sprayed over us. He closed the door and the room shut out the day, the dance factory, the dance, the word. Soft streams of light entered where holes in the old house had long ago not been seen fit to fix.

I sat next to Silvia, just the two of us alone and happy.

"Jozef, what are you doing there?" A voice passing by called out.

"Nothing, you old fool. I'm like you, just wasting my time waiting for someone to come and collect me from this world."

Our hands touched. I felt mine were slightly soiled from the dance factory. I had a toaster's electric circuits explode on me that morning and the signs of it were still there. Silvia placed her lips against the stain and it instantly cleared.

I could have had cancer and it would have been cured.

"Play something with that accordion of yours, Jozef."

"Oh, go away."

"Oh, go on".

As our lips met, the first notes of The Cure's "Pictures of you" sneaked in under the door.

Uncle Jozef sang with his thick accent:

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel

Silvia pressed close against me. I could feel her heart beating. I felt the curve of her back, strong.

"There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart"

Her arms reached around my neck and drew me closer. She lifted herself and wrapped her legs around me.

There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to never feel the breaking apart

Our lips crushed together. Our bodies melted like cheap metal. Again the world exploded into a sea of lights. The atmosphere became heavy with a wonder that I cannot explain.

Remembering you, how you used to be
Slow drowned
You were angels
So much more than everything

I felt the warmth of her bare skin against mine. I followed the valley between her breasts as she sighed quietly. I reached out for her hand, to clasp it tightly. To hold it near. Never let it go. I couldn't find it.

Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you

Silence.

Pure silence.

"Thank you, Jozef", shouted a bystander. "That was so wonderful." said a woman. Jozef was quiet. I could feel his lips curl up at the edges in a smile of thanks. A dusky shadow fell over the room as the sun hid behind a cloud for a moment.

If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you

Lunedì, 22 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 14:55

It was a couple of days before you were due. We had been counting down the minutes for nine months. We had just celebrated our second year of marriage. There was a drop of champagne and I remember very rich chocolate cake.

During the night, your mother came into labour.

That chocolate cake had come from Sven's around the corner. It was his specialty.

We rushed to the hospital. Through your mother's huffing and puffing every two and a half minutes, we made it to Saint Jerome's with time to spare.

The cake was built up with layers of chocolate sponge. In between each was a soft layer of chocolate creme mixed with sweetened ricotta cheese. The outer was then coated with more chocolate that had been melted and blended together with crushed almonds. It formed a hard, crunchy crust.

As your mother got out of the car - I have to be thankful for this as it could have happened in the new Volvo - her waters broke. Right there in the street. I heard the splash on the pavement. I though it was raining. I looked up to a clear, night sky. It was full of twinkling stars. The look of horror on Silvia's face told me exactly what had happened. I wasn't going to say a thing.

When you cut into Sven's chocolate cake, you first had to break through the outer crust. If you succeeded, you then carefully sliced through the soft layers, trying to make sure that all the creamy ricotta didn't sqish itself away.

The doctor was already there. He was prepped and waiting. They gave me a gown. "I don't think I'm in any condition to deliver the baby tonight", I joked. No one laughed.

"Me, deliver the baby, ... you know, you've given me a gown ... like a doctor...Ha, Ha, Ha ..." No one laughed. I was in no condition to make jokes.

Silvia looked at me. And I didn't say another word all night.

Eating Sven's famous Chocolate cake, is like having angels making love on your tongue. It's like sex with a perfect stranger. It's like ...

Silvia was looking at me. She knew what I was thinking. And I didn't think another thought all night.

The labour pains where now very frequent. Only seconds apart. Silvia had her legs up and parted like a bad haircut. It must be the most unflattering position for a woman. I decided to stay at the head, while the doctor and his assistants crouched down like they were about to participate in a rugby scrum.

"I can see the head", said the doctor delighted. "Mr Gerkin, would you like to come over and take some photographs of this?"

Really? Who was I going to show 'this' to?

I had visions of nights in front of the fire with Silvia's parents, or Uncle Jozef, looking through photographs of this moment. "And this is the placenta coming out". Maybe we could save them for her boss, Mr Savone. That would be a pleasant evening.

I declined humbly. The doctor insisted I see this. "Come along Lionel, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience." You'll be able to tell your child about this day.

I moved toward the business end of the bed. The doctor pulled me down and I came face to face with the "opening". There was your head, now poking out quite a bit. You were covered in a thick goo that looked like a very thin layer of Sven's famous chocolate cake.

I swallowed hard. That hard outer crust with its crunchy, crushed almond texture, those smooth layers of rich ricotta, the chocolate recipe that had been handed down from Danish ancestors to Danish heirs was about to make its way into the world.

I looked up and the doctor was dragging you out. First one shoulder popped out, then the other. Just as you cried your first sound, Sven's famous chocolate cake coated the pull-on paper boots that covered the assistant's feet. They went from a clinical white to a mission brown. I could see the specs of almond rushing around of the floor.

We christened you Marie Sven Gerkin. Now you know why your middle name is Sven. We never figured that your initials would read MSG.

Sorry about that.

I still dream about that cake, even though I have never tried it again since.

Mercoledì, 24 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 07:56

I pull out a wad of toilet paper from my pocket and blow my nose hard.

Q: "How do you make a tissue dance?"
A: "You blow a little boogie into it."

It's cold outside and I'm nursing a running nose. If I was in a better mood, I would have made some crack about having to chase after it. But not tonight.

My feet wade through watery pools. They splash unhappily on my way to buy tissues. A lady sees me use the toilet paper and looks quickly away as if I were a murderer. I bet she has used toilet paper before.

I could just disregard my nose and let it drip. "Oh, herro, can I havre a bottre of milk, a bag of orangges, the paper and ... ahhh ... oh, yeah ... and a box of tissues. By the whey, do you know how to make a trissure dance?"

"A trissure?"

"A trissure ... a tissue ... Oh, never mind."

It's cold tonight. Have I mentioned that?

To my right, I hear the sounds of a disturbance. Cans rattle. A weight slams into a wall. The city streets look away. The lights turn their glare away from the centre of the commotion. I can't see. The moon hides behind a cloud.

I look hard and focus on a couple of bodies. The bigger one, approaches the other, finds his range and strikes with force.

It's like a Japanese animated Manga film and the director has called action. I see a shadow thrown across a wall. Thhuuuump! It tries to get up and run, but a large,dark outline reaches out, grabs the shadow squeezing its throat. Zzzeeeeeugh! Teeth gnash.

The dominant shadow, it's outline bristling like cold steel, cocks back its arm and unleashes it into the slumped mass against the wall. A spray of black spots rush across the wall in fear. Swwwissshhh!

One of the nearby lights hears the danger and slowly revolves to get a better look. Its muted light shines across the scene. I see a pair of dangerous eyes glare back at the interruption. They are fire.

They belong to Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez.

The light moves its gaze in apology. Another punch. A boot. Uuurrrgh! A slumped heap lies quiet, as if sleeping.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez removes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hands. I realise my nose is dripping and I apply my toilet paper to it.

"He will not trouble you again, m'amore." I hear him say.

From out of the shadows, comes a woman in a long overcoat that I recognise. The large collar hides her face. She rushes to him and falls into his arms harboured in his chest. Her lips reach up to his and they meet in a long kiss.

I see your face. The face of Silvia Rose.

The director shouts "cut".

Giovedì, 25 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 06:19

My name is Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez. And I am a dancer. Sometimes I think God looks down from his heaven and wishes he could dance like me. Other dancers don't envy my dancing. They envy what it means.

It means sex.

To men it's the smell of sex. It gets into their nostrils and climbs inside, right in here, deep in here. If they can't release it they'll just burst.

To women it's about fulfillment. They see every thing in me that their man cannot provide. Success, power, smooth dance steps that drive you ever closer to submission.

I love the Tango. Pahhh to the Rhumba. The Tango is my dance. It is strong, physical, always demanding more from you. It's like driving a bed.

Silvia Rose loves the Rhumba. It's about freedom to her. You can see it in her eyes when she dances. You can feel it in her body. She is not there. She is not with me or with her husband.

She is a bird, free. When she is dancing, what you see is her soul.

You can see it, but you cannot touch it. Not even I, Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez can touch it.

But I will.

Venerdì, 26 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 05:48

My name is Marie Sven Gerkin. Don't ask about Sven, okay. These are issues that I deal with everyday. They include the fact that my father is Lionel Gerkin.

And my mother was a bitch. Her name was Silvia Rose.

Don't get me wrong, she was a great dancer and in Rhumbaland that's what's important. People loved her.

Ever since I was a baby, I remember being taken to her exhibitions. Dressed up in lace and silk petticoats up to your arsehole. I watched like everyone else glued to the freedom in her movement. Like every step, every gesture, every dramatic pause, every look had been planned in heaven.

"Oh, you're Silvia Rose's daughter, you're so lucky."

Sure I am.

I sat there putting up with this shit while she flirted with the male dancers. Luckily it was dancing that she was good at and not welding. At least here 90% of the men were gay and she was safe. Well, kind of. They would look up her with their stupid gawky expression and shrill at the things she would say.

She was still a bitch.

I remember the night she took me aside, Lionel was at the table. She had just finished dancing and the atmosphere had calmed down. She was hot and sweaty and she had that look in her eye. The look of sex. It's the last thing you want to see in your parents.

"I want to show you your father," she said. Just like that.

I looked over at Lionel sitting alone at the table, sipping on a Midori. He was probably thinking about how he could make the popping mechanism on a toaster faster or something.

Her hand pointed toward him and then moved away across the room. I followed it like the camera in a movie. Bodies flashed by in a blur. It came to rest on a table at the other end of the room. A large man stood next to it. His head was draped with a bandana. His shirt clung to his skin and was held there via a thin film of sweat. He drank hard and long. He laughed loud. He was like the centre of attention without even trying.

"That's your real father" she whispered in my ear.

"His name is Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez. He is a real dancer. Did you see him tonight? Weren't we great together, baby?."

My name is Marie Sven Gerkin. My father is Lionel Gerkin. And my mother was a bitch.

Lunedì, 29 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 21:40

I wake on a Blue Train. I look outside and the sky is red. I wear dark blue shoes and green socks. I find it hard to lift my head off the seat. I feel detached from my body.

I float high in the ceiling. John Coltrane plays in the next carriage. A dwarf dances in the corner with silver boots on his feet and tassles in his hair.

I get up off the floor. I enter the bathroom to wash my face. I don't know how I got into a blue train.

I look into the gold rimmed mirror in front of me. A red blotched face looks back. Actually, it squints back through a deep, black eye that's partly closed over.

I'm hungry. When was the last time I ate? I have no idea.

I'm hungry and I'm in a Blue Train. My face looks like hamburger meat. Head feels like a ball of lead. And I'm on a Blue Train with John Coltrane.

Martedì, 30 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 22:15

Today I placed a label on my penis. It said:

"May contain traces of Almonds, Brazil Nuts, Bunya Nuts, Caraway Seeds, Celery Seeds, Chestnuts, Chopped Nuts, Fennel Seeds, Hazelnuts, Linseeds, Macadamia Nuts, Peanuts, Pecan Nuts, Pine Nuts, Pistachio Nuts, Poppy Seed, Pumpkin Seeds, Sesame Seeds, Sunflower Seeds, Walnuts, Water Chestnuts and of course my very own nuts."

Mercoledì, 31 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 22:47

I hear the crunch of bone as Jesus (my biological father), hits Lionel Gerkin in the face (the father that raised me since a child). It's a bit strange watching my father fight my father.

"Didnth hurth a bith, shihtead." That's Lionel sounding very unconvincing. I hate it when men do this rubbish. They think they are fighting for a woman's honor or something. As if women care. I don't. And Silvia isn't even here.

The only thing that I know about these two is this:

1) Lionel Gerkin brought me up. If someone said describe him, I wouldn't know how. Although I might tell them about his big overcoat. We would often go to a friend's house on winter evenings. We never had a television for some stupid reason. At the end of the night, I would normally go home with Lionel. Silvia would stay behind. By then, she had drunk a few wines and was ready to rhumba. And what ever else she did. I don't want to go there.

Jesus stirkes again. Blood pours from a cut above Lionel's eye. Poor bastard. Why doesn't he just fall over and stay down. Stay down. He swings and hits the side of a barn, but misses the huge jackass inside - I mean Jesus.

1) On those winter nights, Lionel would wrap me inside his warm overcoat. I could look out at the world from in there. I was safe. Nothing could hurt me then. Nothing could get to me. He would sing me songs as we walked. He couldn't sing for shit, but I didn't know that then.

Lionel tries to hit Jesus again. He has just found out that Jesus has been sleeping with Silvia. He has just found out that I am not his daughter. "Come on, Jesthus. Christh I am going to kill you!" As it states in those "Jesus Saves" posters, we know what Jesus has been saving. He cocks an arm and fires and scores. "BANG". Good night Lionel. "I woucha, winda, winoe ..."

2) Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez had a fling or two with my mother. I was the outcome of one of those flings. Well, at least she thinks I'm one of his. He came up to me once and grabbed my breasts. "You are developing very nicely" he smirked as he squeezed.

Lionel is packaged meat on the floor. "You call yourself a man? You call yourself a MAN? You are nothing. You have nothing to provide. And no one to provide it to."

I walk up behind Jesus and hit him hard with the baseball bat that I have always kept in my room. He shuts up as I hear the pleasurable sound of wood on bone. And then a thump on the floor.