All language subtitles for Flux.Gourmet ruso

It wasn't meant
to end this way.

All the previous residencies
at this Institute went smoothly,

yet somehow
the cracks were showing

from the very beginning
with this month's collective.

My distance from the group was
more to do with gastric discomfort

rather than any pretense
of journalistic courtesy.

Standing as far back as possible
was simply out of a need

to relieve any trapped wind
without consequence.

Technical Assistant Wim didn't make
it any easier with his contempt

for me and anyone else
who set foot in the Institute.

For every fecal expulsion
I would have to flush simultaneously

in the hope that
the group wouldn't hear

in the guesthouse we shared
opposite the Institute.

The flatulence was relentless,
only it was seldom malodorous.

The constant effort of holding in
or disguising my farts

all began to feel like
a performance in itself.

The thinking walks in the grounds
of the Sonic Catering Institute

would last just under an hour:

a vital part of their process
that they wanted me to document.

No words were ever spoken

and the silence opened up
the doubts and fears

that could not be voiced
when I was interviewing them.

Dr. Glock's medicine
didn't relieve anything

and the extreme discomfort
of holding in wind

became a social nightmare.

I craved solitude

and if I couldn't find solitude,
I craved noise:

the noise of each culinary
collective in residence.

Noise that could cleanse,
that could purify

and make me forget

as well as make others
unable to hear my farts.

However, the greatest test
for my disruptive stomach

was to come during
the meet and greet

with the Institute's
board members

followed by the first of the so-called
after-dinner speeches.

Euripides.

Audience tributes were
my least favorite part

of a culinary
collective's residency.

Witnessing such flamboyant intimacy
was not an easy thing to write about,

especially after
an abattoir performance.

The torrid passion on display

was at least a distraction
from my discomfort

and the fear of my stomach
embarrassing me, undermining me,

turning against me
and destroying me.

Where does the endless wind

that blows my stomach up
like a balloon come from?

Why does it persist?

When I see joy and abandon,

my mind always reverts to this -

why can one stomach be so free
and another can't?

The nights were riddled with agony

as the trapped wind
took over my bowels and mind.

Every fart involved
plotting and worry:

a balancing act of tension,
guesswork and fear

with my buttocks pressed hard
against the mattress

in the hope that the noise would be
muffled enough

so as not to wake the others.

But the Lord is my portion,
saith my soul,

therefore will I hope in him.

Why did I agree to
a public gastroscopy?

Why couldn't I be more assertive?

Dr. Glock took a sample
of my small intestine for a biopsy.

Naturally, I feared the worst

and amidst the hedonism
in front of my eyes,

I could only see misery.

The night was hell:

cramps, bloating
and methane at its angriest.

The group's silence
during the thinking walks

soon changed from
convivial to hostile,

which made it even harder to endure.

There was nowhere to hide
in such an atmosphere

and the silence stifled
all thought or reverie.

The arguments between
Jan Stevens and the group

became increasingly fraught

and the escalating threat from
The Mangrove Snacks

only added to the general tension.

My energy was at an all-time low.

My bowels felt
as hard as rusty pipes

and I could feel it
all getting worse.

Tomorrow,
a long tube with lubricant

will be inserted
deep into my rectum

and gas will inflate my bowels.

Dr. Glock gave me a laxative,

which would imprison me in
the toilet for most of the night.

But before surrendering my body,

there was a stool sample
to prepare.

Behold, O Lord;
for I am in distress:

my bowels are troubled.

Mine heart is turned within me,

there is nothing to comfort me.

One

Two

Three

He visited me twice a year,

since he couldn't afford
such exotic punishments more regularly

on his income.

He'd take the day off work
when he arranged to visit me,

since our ritual depended
on the expansion of time.

After the obligatory small talk,
I ordered him to go into the room

where he should wait for me to arrive
in a formal outfit.

My manner would change

and I'd become a different person
that he paid me to be.

After making him rub my feet
for as long as I wanted,

I put him on a leash

and walked him to a special toilet

where his head could be placed in

with his hands handcuffed to the side.

There, he would fall under my spell

and stay for as long as I wanted.

The sound of my approaching footsteps
made him giddy

with a contradictory mixture
of fear and excitement,

and he'd often tell me
that the anticipation and threat

were far more potent
than his eventual punishment.

He claimed
that being left inside that box

cured him from all the stresses
of caring for his ill mother,

along with the impotent rage he suffered

at the hands of rude
and contemptuous customers

in the high-class restaurant
where he worked.

He found an inner peace
when left helpless under my control,

and when his punishment
eventually arrived

after several hours
of silent anticipation,

he underwent
the most profound catharsis.

He normally found such things
disgusting,

but when I sat above him
and used him as my toilet,

his whole being transformed
into something beyond ecstasy.

He regarded such rituals
as bordering on religious,

as if what came from my body

was a communion.

The moments after
his self-induced orgasm

were always a tenuous thing to navigate

once he realized how much
of a mess there was to clear up,

but these rituals always ended
on a cordial note

with a few passing words about the state
of the chrysanthemums on my balcony.

I was too scared to go
through with the colonoscopy,

but Elle made up for it with
her scatological performance,

which shocked the audience so much

that none of them ventured
backstage for sexual activity.

Whether I underwent the procedure
in front of an audience or not

made no difference by this stage.

Everything was becoming a blur.

Technical Assistant Wim
reported Elle to Jan Stevens

for deceiving the audience

with chocolate mousse
instead of my excrement,

which further ruined
the trust between them.

However,
more importantly,

the group were turning
against themselves

and all I could do was document
what I was hired to do.

A second attempt at a colonoscopy
was imminent,

which Elle naturally wanted to turn
into a performance.

Why I went along with her plans
is beyond me.

Was it her persuasion?

Was it finally a chance
to participate

in something
artistically viable

or was it just my
hopeless inability

to say no to people?

I took the laxative powder again
and this time there was no retreat

from the colon examination.

Since Dr. Glock
was the performer,

Lamina and Billy
allowed Elle to join them

and play with
the graphic equalizer

as long as
it was unplugged.

Elle became fascinated
by both the sonic

and performative potential
of my stomach,

but to reveal myself to
an audience was a mistake.

Something so private sacrificed
for the sake of art.

It was their final trip to the shops
and maybe mine, too.

Nine o'clock in the morning
was my appointment with Dr. Glock.

The diagnosis I was dreading
kept going through my head.

Nights such as these
might be something to savor

in case they are my last.

It was a daunting change of diet.

Even in foods
it was not supposed to be in,

gluten was there
through cross-contamination.

Then there was the social aspect
that nobody warned me about;

sighing and eye-rolling

from people who thought
I was being melodramatic or modish.

I also had to deal with defensive
reactions from a few waiters

who felt their integrity
was challenged

if I asked them about
cross-contamination.

However, the change of diet
returned my life to normal

and I was finally on the road
to feeling healthy again.

To inaugurate my diagnosis,

Jan Stevens announced
a less formal attire for the day

- jeans.

With Elle,
it was all about performance

and this was no different.

If anything,

this was what she spent her
whole life working towards

and I became too involved
to refuse a spoonful.

As for me,

I was finally
a part of something.