I was born in the place unknown to anyone.

My mother had given me to the world from between the huge roots of one ancient tree which grew solitary from the middle of the mountain flank. She said I was laughing when I came out of her. And that was the name she called me - the laughing god. She said she had no pain to open a passage for me in herself, I just jumped out from the matrix and I did laugh. I came to the world fast and openhearted, amazed by the views and expressing my happiness via full of innocence, trustful laugh. Mother was walking across the countries with the wish to find the place where she could celebrate my birth in absolute peace. After six months of everyday walk she arrived at the mountains so majestic and clearly presenting themselves over the far horizon. She decided to follow the path rolling like a little torrent of the white and gray stones, she penetrated the forest, she had a camp for the summer on the side of the valley where she found one old build of the mountain rocks shelter for the Sheppard. Mother was fed by the forest, the torrent and a few goats, who visited her regularly when the round shape of the matrix manifested an official new arrival. But when the sun had begun to paint the lazy body of summer Nature's body with more vivid colors, I felt the rising temperature of the creations and I decided to join the autumnal sun painting spectacle. I gave a few strong kicks in the stomach of my mother to make her understand my wishes. She felt my strength very well, this is why she moved from the Sheppard shelter precipitously far into the mountains to find a place strong enough to support my arrival. After a few days of the intensive in meditation walk she entered the territory of one huge and eternal oak growing on the side of the mountain which was like a cosmic rock planted into earth to grow a holly tree. Mother, tired of the long walk and irritated finally by my impatience kicks, had taken a seat between the giant roots penetrating by the marble rocks to the soul of the mountain. The mountain was singing with the green leaves of the oak the eternal song to the universe. Mother prepared the sheets and the waters, she had built a small altar where she left the herbs, some cheese and milk from the goats, some honey from the wild bees, some fruits of the forest, the candles and the olive creams. Mother had washed herself while I was kicking her intestines with no mercy. Finally, she did a massage to her legs and her shoulders, she took a seat between two strong and fat

roots of the oak, she gripped her fingers on the row skin of the tree, and she opened the gates.The stream of the sunlight got through the opened gates to enlighten the tide channel, which was the only way out for me. I felt for the first time in my life the taste of curiosity and without thinking twice I pushed with my feet against the hot and soft seal of the motherland where I had spent nine months. Mother said I pushed myself out of her with such a power that she had no time to celebrate the instant of the creation. I had broken the membranes of her with my head, I moved like a snake through the channel in her flesh, and finally I came to meet the sun and to take a look at His total creation for the first time. First what I saw was the blue of the sky, the immensity with no ends, which I knew would be all to discover one day. The lights of the far hanging stars were dancing all around, the colors in soft implosion did the holy image decoration in the interiors of my fresh arrived soul. The song of the mountain singing with the oak leaves was so melodious that I became instantly full charmed, and the air mixed with the sun dust filled my lungs. There was no reason to cry. I was lying on my back between the legs of my mother, totally amazed by my discovery, still connected to her with an umbilical cord, I knew I came to the right place. And finally liberated of the questions about my journey, I had begun to laugh. The sun was touching my head with its hot hands carefully, softly, to give me the most precious impressions about himself. The wind came to kiss my skin, to sit on my chest and to look in my eyes with his translucent eyes. The song of the mountain penetrated through my ears, and with the crystalline fall of the melody synchronized the rhythm of my heart with the beat of Nature. I have left the matrix. Lying on the dry leaves of the oak, between the strong legs of my mother, I have laughed my gratitude to her for this pure creation spectacle which she decided to share with me. Mother looked at me, I finally saw her face. Over her head was watching us the eternal giant Oak tree, over his head watched at us the Mountain, over the mountain watched at us the sky, and from the center of the sky watched at us the ultimate creator -The Sun. Mother was very surprised by my fresh arrival attitude. " Do you laugh all about this? Or are you so crazy of the fear...?" she asked and with the sharp knife she cut our connection. I didn't mind, I knew that I am in the right place and my journey will be a pure stream of pleasures, so I laughed more, and Iwatched in the mother's eyes with immeasurable happiness. She enlightened her most charming smile when she observed that I have no fear. She took me in her hands and lifted me to the sky, the big pearls of the tears of ultimate joy had rolled from her eyes full of the stars. " You laugh the happiness, my boy... I name you The Laughing God!" she said, and she stood up to show me to the world. 

Mother was an anarchist.

There were no laws, neither me a Laughing God wasn’t of any authority for her. She was doing her life out of compromise. Her hands were the most precious tools, her eyes and her ears the only teachers. Her mind was the only one manager of her reality, and her heart was the only judge of herself. The only transport she was using all her life was her feet and her back. Mother was very creative women. She didn't know about any limits in this matter. She was dancing, singing, meditating and creating her world with constant power. She knew the herbs like she knew to take care of the plants. The animals had a trust on her. They protected her, and they did care for her more than she would ever need. The times I shared with her were glorious. But one day she turned herself in to the ashes, and before it had come she asked me, with the words already pronounced from the stars, to bring her back to the tree where our love had been materialized. So I did. However, her path was rolling to her last beat on the earth through many adventures, many summers and many winters, and many of them she did share with me.We had a sumptuous breathtaking, the tender full encountering of the two who were waiting for long time the first seeing of each other face. Mother was seating between the roots of one old and giant Oak. She was holding on her breast a child born from her a few sun blinking before. The both of them covered with white, blue and orange sheets were watching them into the eyes, they were exploring with their hands the shapes of them. A young woman was shining the mysterious light around her and her child. The child was playing withher long hairs, with her lips, with her nose and with her hands. I was amazed by the beauty of my mother.Her eyes were hypnotizing with the colors of the sky turned by the waterfalls of the crystalline energy and contrasted with the green secrets of the deep jungle. The myriads of the universe images were tacted with the violet and magenta thunders of the racing stars. The awesome wisdom was dancing with the craziness of the endless curiosity on the landscape around her irises. And those irises like the black holes of the cosmos, large, imperturbable stayed forever carved in the bottom of my heart where these beautiful women left her evident maternal imprint. Her being was the calm over the worries of all beings.

The perfect symmetry of the shape of her face was disturbing for those who believed them the most arrogant. For me, watching those perfect lines of the life expression reminded to me a taste of the milk I had from her breast. Peace, strength and indomitable determination were framed on her front, clear of any wrinkle. The principle of her mind was readable there. She was a natural beauty for herself. She was the only proof of enlighten existence for herself. She was the image and its reflection reintegrated. I touched, with my finger, her skin and her lips. The receptors of me were discovering her nuclear matter shining the full color stardust. I loved her lips. They were a pleasure which initiate the process of procreation, full of vibrating blood they were pulsing the tact of everywhere and of everything. Those lips made me. They let go out the words, which encouraged the eternal code of the rebirth to make her pregnant. Those lips kissed my lips when she lifted me up for a first time from the earth where I landed after I decided to go my journey out of the matrix. Those lips were warm and tender full, they transmitted all best feeling from her to me. I loved her from the first instant she kissed me, and this love I've kept forever The Sun was watching us through the leaves of the Oak. He was particularly curious, this is what mother said " it seems that the sun likes you, he is all the time on your face..." she had for me a smile and two very rounds, very fulls breasts which I was going to suck till the last drop of the precious feeding.Mother did know how to make this food the best taste and the best energy. I have got from her breasts all the finest informations she collected while exploring the world.

I have got the very secret knowledge about the plants and about the herbs from the first instants of my being on her side. Mother was a human who decided to be a woman. I had many opportunities to learn about it, actually from the first days of our together. I saw all the lines of her shape, all the contrasts of her skin and I’ve felt her worm breath going straight to my heart. I had peace and tenderness from her. I’ve got from her the answers to all my questions. I penetrated the world walking my path she did let me to choose. She did walk never the way to make me follow her. She was behind me adjusting my steps, suggesting the options to cross the difficult land, and I felt her supporting hands on my back. She pushed me to swim on the deep water and to jump on the rocks..

Father was a poet.

Mama said.

Fact is that he was very, very imprevisible, impulsive, but never demonstratively angry.

There were only two aspects of his outsider personality which defined the simple and strict foundations of his being.

One of them was the road.

Father had no home.

He never had any home.

He was born on the board of one prehistoric truck somewhere in the deepest of one forgotten country.

His parents were the travelers following the sun and fresh food.

He never had any home, no doors to lock with a personal key.

No favorite chair to miss, no window to look through at the world in trouble.

No fridge, no water closet, no toilet paper.

Father had no home, but never ever was he homeless.

He liked to share a few bottles of wine with the homeless people.

They were sitting together around the archaic fire which was consuming the poorest woods.

They were talking, getting drunk, readjusting the politics,

dancing the monster dances, playing the roots guitars and fighting or doing rude love.

Father loved them.

" They are so free from any civisme , from any illusions, from any shaping of their personalities...

They just are there where they can find enough of the ikea scrap to burn poverty and to drink

all the cheapest beers brewed out of human miserable desires." He said.

Father was living on the road.

He literally hated the hostels and the motels and was avoiding the sickness

of the little towns, growing little cancers on the edges of the industries.

He was laughing on the shower cabins, on the shower gels and the tooth creams.

But he was a real king of the party and the party was constantly calling him wherever he was riding his powerful and indestructible motorbike.

Father has shown me his part of the world, which was very analogue to mothers one, but however also very different.

" You wouldn't become our kid if your mother wouldn't be so crazy and so strange as she is...but I love her and I always will..." He said these words to me in many, many places where we had a break to watch in absolute calm the world around which we were going to explore and to explore... That was one of his love mantras concerning Her, which he was telling to me and praying to the only woman, the mother of his son.All what my father possessed was attached to his bike. One thick poncho, one thick woolen mattress, one hammock, one deep China pan, one large piece of tarp, one espresso cooker and two leather bags.One of them was containing the tools and other one was fulfilled with minimum of personal stuff, Few t-shirts, one trousers, a few socks and underpants and a few books.

Most of this life equipment was attached behind the large seat. This very rudimentary conception of fathers materialism was serving to me as a comfortable seat during all these kilometers from one day when Paa took me for a ride.

Another fundamental aspect of his life was his job.

Father was famous. Not at all in the newspapers, but between the people who considered art. 

Yes, like Mother said, Father was a poet and he was carving his poetry in the marble of the riches palaces. The only tools he was used to using, defined as it, were : one three hundred grams iron hummer, a few chromium chisels, the line markers and a few very old books preserved with extreme caution. The repair motor bike tools set and one cotton rag. He had left one book to me when he left me too.

And evidently it was the poetry book. The poetries from one radical romantisme experience squeezed as a juice from the swollen fruity balls of one young french antihero. Revolted so that catharsis of the syntaxes and death to the immoral bourgeois stagnation over the life!

One morning I have confirmed by a discovery of Father's absence, one evident courageous decision concerning My! Finally, the way to Go!. It got done when I attached my stuff to the steering bar of the father's bike, when I jumped on the seat, when I turned the key in the starter and when I kicked that.The engine has blown the Wharrrraaa! Of the eighty eight wild horses in power and enjoyed yelling and whistling of hundred of apaches and dakotas. I gripped with my hands the handlebars of the commands and I pushed the machine on to my road.

Finally alone.

The book from Father's offering as a memory, a souvenir of himself was only briefly touched by my hands when I found it in the bottom of my travel leather bag. I didn't want to open it.

It was lying on my right hand large opened and it was caressed with the fingers of the left hand. It was carved with the delicate letters giving me the first word to know and to learn.

With the virgin receptors of the fingers' skin, with the eyes watching in the fathers eyes, the word to learn...Rimbaud... I have read it with my fingers...

The letters pressed in the leather of the cover kept the entrance to one young poets grave.

I didn't open this book. I needed to get a taste of my own absolut freedom, from now on!

The book will be for later, for one day, when after loving a beauty I would feel bored of pleasure and felt on one post colonial coach and the sun will be heavy red like beware of the war explosion.

Was Father a rebel?

Mother was always laughing when she was talking about him. But it was a joyful laugh.

She was in love with him no matter how much she loved herself.

No, Father wasn't a rebel. All he was doing was to concern about himself.

His meditations, his spontaneous creations which were the products resulting from his permanent en going process of his imagination. His sweet craziness dancing on the clown face he was wearing to make me smile. All about him was distant and secretly bright.My Father beloved the fire, it was his best friend. They were talking all nights. Father was opening one bottle of very good wine and the fire was making the size to stay all night. Father was seated on the mattress, drinking slowly from the bottle and hypnotizing the flames.

I was observing their conversations from my camp bed. The flames were softly rising while my fathers eyes were transforming their shapes.Sometimes these eyes were becoming extremely shiny and the flames in the exciting trans were approaching them like if they needed to get consumed. Suddenly father had begun to touch the flames softly with his hands.

The flames seamed to be pleased playing with the fathers fingers caresses.

I've never try to understand what my father was saying to the fire. He was pronouncing words very different from those he used to exchange with me.

We have spent many, many nights sleeping somewhere in the desert or in the mountains or on the beaches. We were looking to stay far from the "civilisations". Father wasn't really teaching me any specific education, he was sharing with me all what he needed to share.

It meant that all his experience was to my disposition.

He was passing to me the books he finished reading. The books… father was finding them in every interesting city we were visiting - invading or in the rolling bookshops or in personal collections of his friends and the riches owners of the palaces of marble, which my father was carving with maestry and no mercy. These were ones of our fantastic missions, to find a good book and to get involved in a crazy party. He never asked about my impressions concerning the content of the books we were sharing in reading. We were only talking. Talking about everything and about everything he was showing to me.He was launching the fire using two dry sticks. He was making the cactus and the trees leaking water to drink. And we were baking in the campfire ashes the simplest bread made out from the wild corn flour which father knew where to collect and how to grind them between two stones. He showed me how to fix the hidden mechanisms of his bike's engine. The fact is, this engine never needed to get fixed, but father was like a kid with the shiny tools in the hands saying to me with a doctor Jackyl smile " Let's check out how it works?!".

Everything this man was doing was vibrating the milliards of the thoughts creation.

Mother's life was much more calm, even if similarly to father's one it was a constant journey through the experiencing of consciousness. Mother wasn't drinking any wine. Her way to light the fire was much calmer and softer, when father exhaled a sadistic pleasure in breaking the thick dry branches.

With mother I was laughing all about with joy, but father was a cruel joker. He was able to bark like a little funny dog in rage, to anyone who had a fatal idea to displease him. He was a genius in driving the cops into the exclusive performances of idiocracy.

I loved every one of the fire camps I have spent with him. I have never drunk from his wine. And I was watching him carving in the stone along the days. He didn't like to be observed while creating, so I had to hide myself in the proximity and lying behind any big rock ,in the bushes or on one huge branch, I was keeping one eye on him.

And I was listening to the sound of the hammer hitting the stone through the hardest point of the chisel. The song of his hummer was a song about our roots grown from the earth. This rhythm was tacting my thoughts which were gliding in to the extravagant abstractions. The only what my father took care to help me to develop, in reality, was my dreaming. " Never stop dreaming, never..." he used to say.I was lying on one thick branch, the sun's favorite fragrance was a raisin of the pine apples and I was watching him using the line markers on the polished surface of the hard and shiny magma black stone. After that, he was going to design with one chromium chisel the letters, the words, the sentences, the concepts, the meanings, the metaphors and the truths... a poetry chiseled in the marble. And I was preparing my own to dreaming the next episodes of the creation of my universe, called by my Father " the grate I don't know..." And when the dry metallic sound of encounter with the hard stone had materialized in the regular rhythm of "tok, tok, tok"..."tok, tok, tok" my reverie seance had beginning to glow from the large screen of the blue sky.

an Asian face was boosting with the wax the tank of the chopper of Vassylevskey, I wouldn't ever touch with one nail the layers of the dust covering the tank of my father's bike.

Vassylevskey needed to see his reflection permanently, so his tank black pearl had to be constantly polished to keep the black mirror effect. The garage was lost somewhere in the dry herbs of the pampas. Vassyl was cleaning two pistols. He said "there are four types of the humans, like the main casts... the ones believe them the gods, and they behave this way till some iron hits their skulls... others believe they are the owners of the earth, they occupy all grands territories, they put the fences and the walls everywhere, and they make a show till some bombs destroy their holidays villas... They have always the problems with another kind of humanity who is travelling from the centuries, from always actually, like hypnotized these travelers are following the sun, and they must strongly use their brains to manage the limitations of the occupants, who administrate all the roads in the fucking world...schaisse! "... I agreed fully" the next ones are the rebels, they are born like this, born to be against something, nobody actually knows against what the rebels are, but they are..."...he putted a pistol on the table and has thrown one laser look over the ocean of the dry herbs..." however, there's one type more, which is common to all precedent types... These are the robbers. The pirates."

Vassylevskey never used the silver pistols to shut down any life or to do the holes in someone's skin to persuade a kind of ultimate souvenir. Vassyl didn't eat meat, nor any alimentation product of animal origin, he was vegan.Nevertheless, Vassyl did learn to maintain the silver pistols in such a way in his hands that anyone who tried to look for a war with Vassyl was getting peaceful very fast.Vassylevskey was imperturbable while shooting with the real silver balls around the head of suddenly meeting with "enemy". The bullets were whistling in the air and blowing all kinds of totally unnecessary objects. All to do a lot of noise and to do a show of Vassyls precision of shooting. Besides, every gangster from the north of the continent till the south of the southern continent had heard about the eccentric son of the coke baron. And Vassyl had no difficulties to go around with the very active thieves, smugglers, dealers, bandits, Hells Angels, killers and pimps. He felt on him one cold scientist's attraction to this part of humanity which was evolving in the darkness of the natural laws. What to say in this case about his own ancestors, who by the laws of the overwhelming god conspiring with the tsars created one long line sequencedwith the next generations of descendants , successful till one communist, had a pleasure immense to shut down the giant bells of the religions focusing on the image of one imaginary god who was the universal advisor to the long line of more or less prominent tsars. The revolutionary youngsters had knocked with the rifles  

on the massive goldener doors of Vassylevskey grandpa palace. So grandpa did a very blitz conference with other parasites from the tsars' galaxy, after which he ordered his servants to pack on high speed all his BDSM stuff to one big coffer and to send it as fast as possible in the direction of Switzerland. It was a very expensive excursion , but successful. Who were they? Who would mention them how?

For the masses of the people they were the parasites, for other mass of the folk they were chosen by universal power to protect the simply naked and "lost" in the nature a humble paysan or one bourgeois who was negotiating with the goods of life with others bourgeois in the interests of the fatherlands.

For those who couldn't find their legitimate place in the "natural" composition of the order, one total wilderness of the forests and the mountains was the only alternative. They didn't die even in the rough, deadly, freezing winters of Siberia. They came back and with the power of lungs restructured by violent real nature they had to shout to the ears of the nation "kill the parasite!!!". And they managed. After what they took the places of the precedent parasites and they pushed themillions of the paysans in the fascinating, crazy toboggans of progress. Vassyl had a wild, savage pleasure to participate in the animal beuveries of the gangs. He was penetrating in the realm of the creation of the God advisor of his ancestors via the medium tsar. He was smelling with the finest perversion the fragrances of the testosterone, of blood, of sperm, of the sweat, of the sine and holly endorphin. All this chemistry was a reason for life, even out of the zones of human life by the human rights and laws protected. Life is a machine which we can not blow up, more you're going to struggle it, more it will fuck! Vassylevskey discovered one night going away from his mind, while penetrating with his aristocrat profile into the boundaries of the luxurious brothels of the "anti humans" devoted to life till death comes on, how Everything had become a mass of the implosing matter, real orgasm of the instantly following them creations, consumptions and explosions, to rebirth and to rebirth, and to rebirth. Everything is so only now...Vassyl was whispering in to the ears of one glamorous little rock star, while his aristocratic profile was shaping her heaven.

The guys from "out of the law" honestly liked and accepted Vassylevskey as a kind of angelic student imperturbable in the experiencing of the human soul. Vassyl was for them a kind of the smile of the gods. " I am deeply persuaded, that all of you gangsters...! " Vassylevskey was performing over a table designed with the guns, rifles, long lines of cocaine, covers of the

Rock records, golden rings and diamonds, the robbers and the killers all full of amphetamines and LSD were focusing on Vassylevskeys mouth. " I am deeply persuaded that all of you, like you are here guys, and even in a few next generations of yours similar, you wouldn't be able to still so much and to kill so many as like my ancestors were able to do...." Vassyl was an intellectual, fervent with all of his heart to give justice of to be to every human on the planet. They were attentioned with him. He was talking. " And the memories of these motherfuckers are floating in my blood, they are a consistency of myself... They are my matter." Vassyl was enthusiastic, purely devoted to life, that's why he learned how to use the pistols with one incredible precision. He didn't kill, but he rubbed.

The gangsters respected Vassyls robberies and allowed them even on their particular territories. Why? Simply because of the eccentric style with which Vassylevskey was committing them.This beautiful genuinely Russian slim guy was performing the reality shows for one shady public, and the cops were the chickens. Vassyl didn't buy a black pearl chopper, it was offered to him from the Hells. They loved the attack of Vassyls pigeons on one police station. The pigeons were fed before with one immensity of the oats and apples, after which they were sent to the police station roof where Vassyl stuck a red flag, a sign of recognition for trained animals. The birds by the hundreds colonized the roof of the building and did such a big shit all around that every cop had to clean his uniform. In such a confusion, one of the actuals arrested found an opportunity to escape and to join his Hells Angels. "Oh! I just helped him, he is a cool guy, we had a few girls together..." explained Vassyl to the bikers' president when this one asked the explanation of his actions. After what the Hells Angels offered to Vassyl one black pearl full ride on the trip chopper.

He was appearing suddenly in the suburbs streets of the towns,  and  caught by the eye from behind the kitchen window the image of his silhouette passing by in the street activated a message instantly  transmitted from mouth to the ears, and the message was faster than the walk of the guy... And imagine that suddenly,  when he was  in the quarter of the town,  the crossing by citizens, workers, travelers were saluting him, some guy who didn't have any pretension to get respected.But, finally, someone asked him a question... naturally and curiously a question didn't concern an ordinary guy who was probably hanging around the globe. And who's name nobody known...!? A question was about the trouble that someone, also totally anonymous , was carrying on him. "What should I do? " he asked. The ordinary guy had an anonymous person in front of him. A face without any name. He watched that face for an instant after what he asked to approach so close that he could whisper to the ear. When he finished, the other guy just moved away saying only "Thank you". Many people did come to the ordinary guy, without oppressing him, with no any rush, everyone Had his time to ask " what should I do? ". When the first did ask and got a whispering in his ear, his friends interrogated him about what happened,  and his answer was very simply " he said to me a poem ". Many people had listened to the poems whispered to their ears. The thing was, and the thing is, because this ordinary guy is walking still around somewhere there in the world, that everyone who asked about what to do, who did got a whispered poem in to the ear, everyone soon or a later did leave a life he or she had driven till some crucial understanding moment. After that everyone who had listened to the poem of the ordinary guy had made his or her dreams become a reality. And the ordinary guy was disappearing from the streets of the towns and villages, like a ghost. He walked away and nobody ever asked about his name, or anything concerning his person. ... 

Father did open a little marble box where he got out one cigarette and had fired it up while sitting on the stone. The quantity of the stories he told me, was just like a never ending torrent of beautiful words, meanings and emotions. All of them cristaline clears excited my imagination, activating images I've never seen before. I couldn't see them before, because I did them instantly while listening to the words of my father.