THIS TEXT IS THE AUDIO OF THE ANIMATION "AT LEAST A SNAKE". PROJECT PRESENTED FIRST AT THE GOLDEN THREAD GALLERY IN BELFAST, 2012
Author: Bea Scaccia
year: 2011-2012
Title: At least a snake 
Main Character: Eve 
Voice over: Eugenia Caruso 
Soundtrack: Noah’s Ark 




VOICE OVER:
there were two crocodiles… what used to come after? Who came after? No, not the snakes…it was a plural and a single, a couple and a single… this I do remember. Therefore after the crocodiles there couldn’t be two snakes… (Eve singing to herself)
The smell of hay, of freshly cut grass, the welcoming hollow under the bed. When winter comes it always seems as if spring never happened. Every year, every fucking year the same revelation, with the same intensity. The homecomings, the colours…some smells are the same all over the world, this doesn’t help; sharp light from the windows, encrusted pans, the fire, burnt jumpers.

The texture and taste of an airbed in New York is like the florescent rubber 
fireflies she used to have as a child.

The golden eagle…yes the golden eagle comes after the crocodiles (Eve singing )

At times we remember the movements but not the words. The TV volume was really low, her father was a stranger without a beard, her mother’s skin was still smooth. For years she has been focusing so much on the thought of death that she forgot about old age. That one, oh that one is truly terrible, an everyday gesture which is no longer automatic, a constant pain in some bone or other, no sex drive, memory loss, jumpers with matted wool. We are always looking for cuddly objects because loneliness is the same all over the world, just like the smell of hospitals and the silence of certain telephones. Then there is also the taste of unprotected sex, the bed springs squeaking, maybe the stench of feet.

The mounds of mice burnt by her Gran like the smell of dead mice in the studio K.

Was there also an elephant? Who used to sing this? Who can I ask? No one is alive anymore? Who is still here? Who comes after the crocodiles? Who is looking through the window?(Eve singing)

Everyone remembers at least a dog or a cat, but… Eve has lost her ears, she kissed a 
young pierced tongue, she made love to you, a father, she let go of the orangutan and thescepter and the devil’s tail, and especially her long ears. She lay them to rest on her bosom and then she gave them to you, as a present to stop herself knowing anymore.
She kept the gag on the other hand in order not to hear herself any longer. She has savedher bag, a red phallus made of voile, empty and useless like a blown lamp bulb.

Everyone is here, everyone is here (Eve singing)

The disgusting wine served at some gallery openings in Chelsea like her virginity

When are the two snakes coming? I stopped waiting for the unicorns thirty years ago… the snakes however… when are the snakes coming? Those can be useful. (Eve singing)

She would like to enter inside some family photograph for a few hours, to lean over the smell of some face powder , to learn to smile in a relaxed way. To pose, to repose, layingamong the still and tonal colours of a family photo with a grandmother and shawls and thesmell of cake and orange peel. A father’s tears, the first hug, the weakness of the male gender which bows to pain only by traveling along frayed, suspicious and heartbreaking 
edges.

A piano not in tune in Astoria like the voice of the teacher of religious studies in the fourth year of primary school.

She misses the snow at Halloween, 29th of October, she misses the alcoholic reflection ofher red tail against the white of New York, the subway at 4 in the morning, her frozen feet. 8 days ago, 8 days have already gone by and the smell of new skin on her chapped fingertips has gone. If our face grew old like our fingertips, always smooth and round, maybewe could hope for some sort of eternity. 
For too many years she has thought about death without worrying about the path to it, thought of the moment of impact without thinking of the run up to it, she forgot about time and the stains on the skin, the clammy ears and the sloping floors of the warm house of agrandmother. She misses the man who was painting the standpipe on the 55th street, near her house. It was 14 days ago, Eve had bought a newspaper and was going back to her burrowand there he was, huge, sitting on a tiny folding chair, whistling, he was painting the 
standpipe red. She misses him like mad.

The texture of pecan pie like the pastry in a mum’s fridge

She misses weighing 47 kilos and being 1.57 mt tall. Here, in New York she is just 61 inches and 103 pounds; too short and too heavy.
The double doors have already appeared, they protect people from the cold. They are thin,see through doors that form some sort of hall where the wind can take a break and warm upThey have been put up by the Hudson in the 24-hours Delis with free delivery service. 
Here there is always wind. At times Eve forgets she has feet, she rests sitting down and forgets about her feet, as she forgets about her loves. Then she starts moving again and 
rediscovers them, the feet, in her shoes, tight and frozen, almost forgetful.
What use would we have for shoes if they weren’t so beautiful? 
Indeed…it is always indeed and never more, it is always indeed and never more… at least around these parts, in these small spaces with the shining ground.