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Sh-h-h!
The only permissible answer to all your questions is silence.

Monday, water.
Tuesday, water.
Wednesday, water.
Thursday, water.
Friday, water.
Saturday, Rhonda camps on her unmade bed, scantily dressed. Skin damp and reddened. An LP idles on the record player but it doesn’t matter, Lenka is singing.
Two nights ago the ceiling fan broke. No one has yet bothered to fix it. Meanwhile, the mosquitoes proliferate. We all have swollen bumps from sweating and too much scratching.

Didot just joined us, from a trip incomprehensibly long.
You are in great shape! – he says.
I’m vanquished – I say – I have cancer.

Rhonda, drumming a forefinger on her cheekbone, has an eye that wants to look at us, and another that craves sleep. Her fuchsia nail polish strikes me as livelier against the long blue of her eye socket.

What becomes of the heart of a man when he gets here is… – I fall silent.
Why bother talking, if it is only from the grave that no one returns?

The peppy and athletic Didot doesn’t get it. He goes back and forth on the shore, spurs us to dance. Only those who experience it know how hard, impossible it is to speak of the

nausea that strikes down a man and prevents him from doing any normal activity, forcing him to indolence. I too have succumbed. The same has happened to Rhonda and Lenka. And the more desperate our situation, the more frequent and longer the attacks.

Short is life, and agitated and restless, as the waves now crashing at our feet and whose dying call is our last requiem. These words aren’t mine. I have salvaged all as I recall them. It must be because every life dies and every death lives. Again.

Rhonda and I recite the Psalm of the Hanged:

Behold, I was shapen in wickedness:
and in sin hath my mother conceived me.
But lo, Thou desirest truth in the inward parts:
and shalt make me to understand wisdom secretly.
Thou shalt purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean:
Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Thou shalt make me hear of joy and gladness:
that the bones which Thou hast broken may rejoice.
Turn Thy face from my sins: and put out all my misdeeds…

Didot halts to look at us.

{Atollo Australe: un collage di pensieri altrui}

 

Helmut Dosantos was born in Rome, Italy and moved to Prague in 2005, where he was admitted to the National Academy of Cinema of Czech Republic (FAMU). In 2012 he directed and produced the fiction mid-length film Dissent, which has since been selected by more than thirty film festivals worldwide in addition to receiving several nominations and awards. His current projects include a three-chapter feature documentary Gods of Mexico, the feature drama Ruta Sagrada, awarded Best International Screenplay at the Rhode Island International Film Festival 2013, and the theatre play Gaîa, which will premiere at the renowned 43rd International Festival Cervantino 2015.

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