Adorable E-Book

Ida Marie Hede

• Herausgeber: Lolli Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 146

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

From one of Scandinavia's most innovative writers, a shimmering journey into the absurd phenomenality of family life – and the human microbiome Adorable is a haunting, transmundane portrait of a young family told in four parts, in Copenhagen and London. The love between B and Q is tender but worn. When their daughter Æ is born, the everyday lights up in a new way. In its second part, the dead are animated in B's brain. When B's father dies, the news is delivered to her by phone and an essayistic, collagist meditation on death and transmission ensues. And then, it's finally Friday. B and Q descend below the living room floor and wander through a cracked and skittish underworld. In Ida Marie Hede's porous world, which is our world too, grime, bacteria, and even death are intimately bound up with health and renewal. Fusing the commonplace and the profound, the material and the spiritual, the elegiac and the conceptual, Adorable powerfully insists that it is impossible to tell where death and life begin or end. Praise for Adorable Ida Marie Hede's Adorable is this incredible, tiny, undead person you can possess and make mouth subconscious astonishments. The transubstantiation of book to wet undead joy comes from Hede's use of words for feelings and experiences fantastically resistant to representation. In its vivid wrangle, Hede's language blooms into dazzling gratuity by anaphoric increments, as it laps hungrily at death and toddlers and shit and grief and slime and herself. The whole thing glistens and then spontaneously incorporates – Ed Atkins A teeming, fluid book wet with leaking bodies, influences, concerns, memories, moods. Hede's defamiliarising creation brims over with love and broaches our consciousness, making our own world hot and sticky. Viscerally apt reading for the fraught era we find ourselves in: obsessed with contagion and encroachment, yet besotted with connection and touch – Jen Calleja Adorable pulls us between wanting to live and having to die, between child found and parent lost, feeling from inside Hede's brain-womb all that hide and seek within the concaves of living rooms, telephone calls, and other skins. An urgent, brutally tactile novel that grows boundless in the mind, Adorable achieves life – Mara Coson The reality of bodily fluids is so incisive that what first seems shocking becomes part of the narrative arc, the language of a strange other world. Is the setting of the book B's belly or her brain? Only a fool would separate the two in Hede's prose – Full Stop Adorable is the story of B, Q and their daughter Æ — one that transcends countries, genres, and is drawn with charm and poetry. Hede's analyses are profound and intellectual. She is unafraid to unpick the grotesqueness of humanity, coupling her descriptions with delicate observations on love and family.A fascinating and gripping read – Lunate Adorable is a lovely, creative take on both life and death – strikingly and effectively earthy, but also beautiful in its spun-out fantasies. It impresses particularly in its descriptions of young(est) childhood (and parenthood). The presentation is not straightforward, but there is a coherence to the whole, and certainly sufficient story, too, making for an engaging and stimulating work – Michael Orthofer, The Complete Review IDA MARIE HEDE (b. 1980) is the author of seven books and numerous plays. She holds an MA in Art History from the University of Copenhagen and Goldsmiths College and graduated from the School of Creative Writing in Copenhagen in 2008. Hede has taught at Gladiatorskolen, the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, and is currently a creative writing lecturer at Johan Borup's Højskole as well as an art critic for Dagbladet Information. She has received the Danish Art Council's prestigious three-year working grant, and in 2018 Adorable was nominated for the Danish Critics' Prize for Literature.

Leseprobe

Adorable

PRAISE FOR ADORABLE

“Ida Marie Hede’s Adorable is this incredible, tiny, undead person you can possess and make mouth subconscious astonishments. The transubstantiation of book to wet undead joy comes from Hede’s use of words for feelings and experiences fantastically resistant to representation. In its vivid wrangle, Hede’s language blooms into dazzling gratuity by anaphoric increments, as it laps hungrily at death and toddlers and shit and grief and slime and herself. The whole thing glistens and then spontaneously incorporates.”

— Ed Atkins

“A teeming, fluid book wet with leaking bodies, influences, concerns, memories, moods. Hede’s defamiliarising creation brims over with love and broaches our consciousness, making our own world hot and sticky. Viscerally apt reading for the fraught era we find ourselves in: obsessed with contagion and encroachment, yet besotted with connection and touch.”

— Jen Calleja

“Adorable pulls us between wanting to live and having to die, between child found and parent lost, feeling from inside Hede’s brain-womb all that hide and seek within the concaves of living rooms, telephone calls, and other skins. An urgent, brutally tactile novel that grows boundless in the mind, Adorable achieves life.”

— Mara Coson

“Ida Marie Hede writes about the trivialities of life and death with a swirling and bubbling and completely shameless brilliance that this reader just cannot get enough of.”

— Lars Bukdahl, Weekendavisen

“In unruly language accommodating both the absurd, the humorous, and sometimes the devastating, Adorable sets the body free. Hede’s prose emits a vivacious energy that fills the reader.”

— Marie Hjørnet Nielsen, Standart

“Adorable is about families, phones, shit, and love, but in particular about death, and it is one of the best books I have read this year. Never before has the posthumanist paradigm shift been so cheerful in all its dark insistence.”

— Solveig Daugaard, Information

1.A HEART-SHAPED BUM

2.A ROOM IN B’S BRAIN IS ARRANGED FOR THE DEAD

3.DEATH ESSAY

4.FRIDAY NIGHT

1.A HEART-SHAPED BUM

B IS A GROWN woman, she has a rhombus-shaped bum.

Q is a grown man, he has a square bum.

Æ is small.

Her bum is heart-shaped.

Compared to ants, beetles and flower pistils, Æ is a giant.

From the perspective of a human — from a B perspective, a Q perspective — Æ is absolutely miniature.

She laughs and pushes open a door. She wobbles into their empty bedroom. She hides behind a curtain, in a room of hefty feelings. A recent argument hangs limply in the white material. Then she walks into the hallway, down the stairs, it’s dark. Her face in a spider web. A spider web across her cheeks. She goes outside. A woodlouse between the bricks in the driveway. She stumbles, she spins around, she’s still tangled in the spider web. A lace veil over her mouth. A small fly on a spider web thread goes right down her throat. Into her stomach, where it sputters. Fly wings in a still-growing stomach.

On the idyllic suburban street, where spring is on full display, there are white-painted houses, driveways, large gardens with trampolines and fruit trees. There is shit from the snails, from the compost and the cats’ paws.

The idyllic suburban street doesn’t have a bum, but if it did, it would be a round and bulging one.

Stuffed almost.

Nørreport’s bum is different. It’s just okay — speckled by heat discoloration, uneven around the edges, like it’s been poorly Photoshopped.

Nørreport is disgusting in its own way. Secretions from countless living things seem especially uncomfortable here, lazier, squished around the kerbs, in the cracks between the slabs of concrete, dog shit and spit and ketchup. It can’t just slide into the ground. It has to sparkle in its foulness. And then there’s everything else, flapping plastic bags and blue shards of glass and balloon knots. But all of this human detritus doesn’t have any bacteria inside it. Nørreport’s walls and asphalt don’t have enough foreign bodies to make living bodies immune: a body needs to encounter new bacteria every day in a varied stream. That’s how the body develops its protection. That’s how the body stays alive. That’s how human survival is ensured.

B and Q take Æ and roll her across the floor of the metro towards Nørreport.

Æ rolls like a little bundle.

Or like a snail, slow.

None of the other passengers pick her up.

Or give her a push.

She’s not their child, they probably don’t dare.

What, would you grab the neck of her sweater or one of her pigtails or something.

Grab her wrist.

The trail of slime behind Æ is made of spit, flakes of skin, sweat.

Hurried finger-doodles on the metro’s linoleum floor.

Æ could roll forever.

Roll as far as the train car reaches. Collecting dirt, cigarette stubs, insect wings and bits of liquorice from the floor. Pressing them into the palms of her hands and her bird’s nest of hair and her puffy jumpsuit.

Finally coming to a stop by the panoramic window.

Her clothes, smothered with hundreds of small chunks, like sprinkles.

Lying on her belly with her hands folded under her body and her bum in the air and her face pressed flat against the floor.

B’S BELLY IS FLAT NOW. She really loves its doughy flatness. The punctured white softness that will never be tight again.

Before the flatness her belly is temporarily full, absolutely bulging. A piece of skin around something kicking and living, which is Æ.

Æ is pulled out of B’s womb with forceps that grab her temples. Small red indents on her temples. Æ comes out coated in bacteria from B’s vagina and arse. Bacteria seep into Æ and trigger an immune response: now Æ can live for a thousand years. But it’s almost like Æ doesn’t want to come out — her head won’t turn the last bit of the way in B’s pelvis; a head is actually stuck, pushing on her cervix. Warm, drawn-out spasms of pain, and Æ will have to be taken out by C-section.

If Æ comes out through B’s sliced-open belly, there won’t be enough bacteria. The doctor needs to stick a finger up B’s arsehole, rotate it deftly and then smear a wet finger caked with bacteria across Æ’s shrieking lips.

It doesn’t matter how Æ was born, her lips quickly locate B’s nipples and start sucking. Milk and cracked skin, gums gnawing on breast flesh.

B would like to live for a thousand years too. She holds Æ in her arms, Æ is so new. B can barely figure out how to hold her. As long as she doesn’t drop her: lose hold of her head and break her neck.

Now that Æ exists, B wants to survive the apocalypse everyone is talking about. She wants to grow old and wrinkled and withered and shrunken so she can stay in the world with Æ. She wants to communicate with an adult Æ on the phones of the future. Maybe through some form of telepathy, maybe through small strands of DNA — conversing with each other as mother and daughter will, in the future that might be.

B no longer doubts the future or its new technologies. Æ’s presence moves the lifespan of all things infinitely outwards.

B says she wants to be stronger too, to have bacteria from a body that is not her own. Bacteria is like a life-giving elixir: faecal bacteria from X are transplanted into Y’s digestive tract and changes are observed in Y’s mood and metabolism.

Her belly skin is nowhere near tight again, the lacerations on her uterine walls not even slightly healed. B bleeds into her big mum-nappy, long slimy strands.

Maybe she needs to go home and rest, to lie down with her legs up and with Æ balanced on her belly and a croissant in her hand. Æ’s mouth on her breast and stiff splashes of milk on her baby face.

Or maybe she’s too eager and can’t relax. After Æ is born, she can’t get enough life. She’s taken directly from the delivery room to the gastroenterology ward.

There, a probe is inserted through B’s oesophagus and into her stomach. Down here, the party is already in full swing! There are billions of faecal bacteria in B’s stomach, more than there are humans on Earth, bacteria that have lived for millions of years, which moved into B the day she was born, and which will move on when she dies. In that sense, the word human isn’t very accurate. She’s not mostly human, not at all. Bacteria bounce around, frolicking with half-digested food, as if inside a centrifuge. But it’s not enough, she needs more! Inside the tube, there’s shit from a shit-donor whom B doesn’t know. As the shit descends into her system, B is dangerously close to the brown mass: only the plastic barrier of the probe separates her from the stranger’s shit, sliding through her to become part of her intestinal flora.

She might as well have eaten the poo herself.

B is waiting for a change. Bacteria gives everyone a second chance.

So the skinny person can become a chubby person, the aggressive person can become a calm person, the restless one even-keeled, the depressed and anxious person can become optimistic and impulsive, the optimistic and hopeful person can become deadly serious and thereby increase their sex appeal.

And the person who loves long black lace opera gloves and full polka-dot skirts and big white plastic hairclips will want to wear tracksuits and shrunken woollen vests and sexy black baseball caps that make your eyes really round and blue.

And the person who loves T-shirts with bleach stains and pasty everyday faces and post-humanist theory will want to dance the lindy hop, a dance that makes your cheeks rosy-red.

The person in Buffalo boots puts on an old fisherman’s sweater, the person with acne gets glowing skin, the person with raised eyebrows can have them lowered, the too-pretty person can get a little more asymmetrical.

The person who’s always been missing a crooked and compelling scar on their cheek gets a crooked and compelling scar on their cheek, the person with big boobs gets small boobs, the person with a flowering arm gets a shrivelled arm.

The wildly hairy person loses all their hair, the person who feels too white gets darker skin, the woman who’s had multiple abortions loses her ability to conceive, the person with a belly flat like a pancake gets a swollen belly that’s doughy like sandwich bread.

So that everyone will be able to achieve their desires, so that all of us, the oppressed, can transform ourselves and become the upstanding humans we all secretly dream of being.

So that all of us, the ones in power, can transform ourselves and become the courageous underdogs we all secretly dream of being, and maybe already are.

Who sent the poo? Just as they’re always in the process of producing semen, bodies keep producing shit. If there’s a shortage of shit somewhere in the world, more is likely to turn up soon somewhere else.

More babies, better mood, worse smell.

B doesn’t know who donated her faecal sample, the hospital won’t give her that kind of information. Whether it was a hopeful gift from an old arsehole, sweetheart, I’m giving you the best-cut stuff I’ve got.

B is back home. She watches movies on the couch while she nurses Æ.

In Pasolini’s Salò, a group of teenagers are held captive in a castle. They’re served swollen chunks of shit on porcelain platters and they eat them slowly from porcelain plates, revolted, punctuated by fits of vomiting, down goes the shit.

Æ gurgles, milk spouts out of her and soaks a cloth nappy, a shirt, baby eyelashes, peach fuzz.

FRIDAY NIGHT: B AND Q wipe Æ’s bottom with toilet paper and small slippery wet wipes and damp cotton balls. B and Q are on their knees, wiping streaks of shit off the toilet seat and off the walls and off the shower and off the shower curtain and off baby thighs. Æ’s baby bum cheeks are swollen and red, shiny and trembling too once the clinging shit splotches have been removed.

B and Q scrape caked shit off her little princess underwear with a spoon. They let the cakes fall into the bin from way too high up: brown-yellow kernels fill the air. Shit kernels splatter their faces, as if the compacted chunks of poo have been vaporised and transformed into an airborne disease or a malignant perfume.

B and Q squeeze their eyes shut and contort their faces, lick something wet off their lips. They taste the squirts of shit. They wash and dry and pour rubbing alcohol over their hands, they can’t avoid getting shit all over their hands. They shriek as they watch pruney fingers appear beneath the light brown sludge.

B and Q have taken off Æ’s nappy.

Until Æ learns to understand this new situation and can run to the toilet on her own, they’ll wipe Æ’s pee up from the floor: dark-yellow puddles that turn into streams along the floorboards or hide in overflowing pools behind the toy kitchen and cabinet doors and under deflated balloons in the corners of the living room.

When they find a puddle, an arm of pee has often branched out and taken the shape of: an elephant trunk a prosthesis a curved penis a wing.

Æ’s excretions, the deep puddles of pee on the floor, are like tissue she casts off. With each ornamented shit that lands somewhere in the house, by chance shaped like a spinning top, she approaches a new stage of maturity.

B’s own age has been fuzzy for a while.

It’s mainly through Æ that B feels herself ageing. Æ’s growing body takes her by surprise, breaks down her defences: flays the still image she has of herself in a forever-young body. It’s not that Æ is growing taller than she is. It’s that she’s growing at all: that look in her eye. Has that voice, suddenly skinny legs — as if during the night someone gobbled the fat off her baby thighbones, maybe the greedy mouth that lives under the bed but never bothers to chew on B.

Æ has quickly learned how to exist. She’s made B’s old mannerisms her own. She’s taken them without asking and left B newly self-conscious of every raised eyebrow, every nuzzled earlobe.

But there are plenty of mannerisms in the world. Enough for everyone.

Movements aren’t like money, aren’t like non-perishables, aren’t like food, aren’t like medicine. No one stockpiles them or hoards them, B thinks.

You can make yourself aware of movements.

B sees herself in Æ.

B gives her movements a little extra edge.

At night, the television running, a shadow game on the wall in the light of the floor lamp: Æ’s arms like flapping tree branches, like the chains goth kids wear, like something with a beak or a mouth. Everyone points and jumps with joy. Æ scares herself. She pulls her hands in. How can the body make a shadow, excrete something that appears so sharply? An image that seems delayed at first. The shadow runs after the arm it’s attached to like a child running after an adult, but then without warning it catches up to the arm and moves in front of it, wagging almost teasingly, more flapping and elegant, as if it were pointing out the pink porcine arm suspended in the air, here I am dressed in grey, more precise than you.

B tries to approach the idea of inevitable disintegration. That she is decay wrapped in skin, like a moist cake wrapped in fondant.

On the outside:

Crème de la mer, irritated hair follicles, sweat smell, Nivea smell, crusted self-tanner, crusted sugar, crusted discharge, cotton undershirt, wool tights, tweed skirt, polyester shirt, wool cardigan, gold jewellery, Jil Sander No. 4, bogeys, scabs, dead hair and living hair and on-its-way-out-of-the-head hair.

On the inside:

A marsh of starving bacteria and snaking organs twisted around each other, turning her body into a lazy swampscape.

The kind of place where you can set little turquoise toy houses on the boggy ground, little doll men and doll women who stay in place for a moment before they start to sink.

The kind of place where an electric light is on in the toy kitchen, but not in the bedroom.

The kind of place where a lamp exhaustedly blinks, the bulb won’t go out.

The kind of place where small figures are set in orange beds beneath stiff quilts. A troll behind the toilet bowl.

NEXT TO Æ’S BED ARE small multicoloured lamps. Posters are attached to the sloped ceilings with sticky tack. Jungledyret Hugo and Rita the Fox. The posters are so erratically hung. Maybe they’ll fall onto Æ’s sleeping body.

B kisses Æ goodnight. It’s growling, Æ says, and points at B’s fat rolls: the sound of the belly that in a way still belongs to them both. A space for memories of countless episodes.

To Æ, that belly is like an old house: or like a photograph of a childhood home you can point to and tell stories about. In that room, I was conceived; in that room, I was born.