Saturday, October 06, 2007

Dreaming to Dream

Is what follows an absurd exercise in mediocre existentialism, in automatic writing, in dream analysis, in delusional coercion, or in numerology? How about pure and simple rubbish? Certainly, and with all honesty, I do not know. I merely woke up and remembered having dreamt about a dream of a preceding night. There were dreams within the dream that elicited this written nonsense, a photograph I took to find distraction, and a realization that the coincidence of the two distracting events metaphorically complemented each other. Therefore, I now present both results, hoping to regret my actions in the future.

Dreaming to Dream

My grandmother and I are attempting to climb onto a terrace roof. She is 80 years old, but we have done this several times before with great agility because I am dreaming. I know the place very well because, even in a dream, I recognize it as the very same roof from whence my sister once tossed me off in an attempt to kill me. The problem in this oneiric effort is that, tired of running away from that amorphous thing that hounds us, I no longer have any strength to lift my leg high enough to secure our safety. As much as I try, my body simply does not respond. I tell my grandma that everything will be fine, that all I need to do is shift my position in order to grasp a better hold on the edge of the roof and that after this miraculous move I will be able to pull her into safety. My grandma believes me and as I try to move again nothing happens. Intermittently, I become aware that I am dreaming, but I never seem to discard the fear that fills my distorted consciousness, as I have done in other dreams. Seeking redemption, I try to fly, like I have done very well before, but the attempt is laughable. My grandmother is not aware of what I am doing; she simply sees me with my eyes tightly closed as I flap my imaginary wings to no avail. I sense that, rather than pitying me, she loves me. I look at her and corroborate the thought. She then says that there is no time left and, shifting the roles, she heroically pushes me onto safety as she tells me that everything will be fine. After her rescue, I grab her hand and try to pull her, but my muscles fail. I try with unimaginable force to move, but nothing happens. She gives me an endearing look and says that she is OK, that everything will be fine; that all I have to do is release her hand so that she can have more freedom to climb, but I do not believe her. An insidious foreknowledge of her impending fall assails me, one even more terrible because I feel that such is the result that she desires. I try to think that I am only dreaming, but the terror that invades me feels so real that I can no longer discern between dream and reality. And so, as my grandmother smiles just as her hand is slipping from mine, I open my eyes.

Under normal circumstances, I should have felt relieved. On many occasions, I have tried to force myself out of a nightmare without any success and now, half sleep, I think I should be grateful for this providential awakening. However, I convince myself that things cannot be normal after this dream. I look at the clock: 4:44 am. I immediately try to go back to sleep, convinced that if I continue having the same dream I would be able to save my grandma. As waking minutes accumulate, a sinister sense of anxiety stirs my entrails and, at 5:07 am, I have to accept the reality that I will not be able to fall sleep again.


My head is filled with discrepant homunculi whose orders I always defy even though I greatly value their opinion. Exceptionally, however, they all assent this morning and collude against me, unanimously suggesting what I should think. I yield for a second, but the house is a mess and I finally chose to do the cleaning and organizing I have procrastinated for weeks. Water stains on a mirror or dust on a shelf never seemed to be the revelations that now appear before me as I render their essence, in my current state of consciousness, out of existence. In fact, all annihilation of filth throughout the house relieves me. As the house progressively becomes and unrecognizable place, I develop plans to maintain it clean forever. Minimalism, out of necessity because I lack the money to furnish the place, is on my side. This austerity, however, also seems to be my enemy, for it is 7:23 in the morning and, unless I grab a toothbrush to scrub every observable crevice, the place is practically spotless.

I walk into the kitchen precisely when Homunculus 5.7 begins to mock me. Its twin, the evil one, remains silent, but I know it too well to realize its tacit agreement with the good twin. I pay no attention to them and ignore the rest just as well. I had planned to call in sick today, but, under the circumstances, that would amount to mental suicide. I prepare a very strong carafe of coffee hoping to overdose all these stupid thoughts into oblivion. Four cups and 12 minutes into the homicidal exercise, nothing seems to have changed. Ungrateful and stubborn homunculi viciously drill my head, but they seem to forget that it is because of me that they posses those qualities. As such, I win—finding unpaid bills, unreturned messages, unwashed clothes, unexplored reasons and excuses that keep me occupied until the time for work comes and a new sense of relief arrives.

The minutia of work, however intellectual it may be, is a dubious palliative to my waking nightmare that deserves no effort in mentioning it at all. Let us say that for ten prolonged hours, which seemed rather short as I experienced them, I basically did not think about the dream. For a moment I thought I should have written it down, as I always intend to record every lucid dream just in case I forget it, but it was 3:45 in the afternoon and I still could smell the fear that caused my premature awakening.

I have not done much since I returned home from work, other than constantly think about today’s events, if that is anything at all. It must be 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning. I am not afraid to go back to sleep. To be honest, I would not mind going to sleep at all. The problem is that, whether in dreams or in actuality, I never cease to be the coward unable to confront his reality, for which I only have myself to blame.

Thursday, August 16, 2007

La Duda

La narrativa que se presenta después de esta inadmisible presentación puede que sea más absurda. Su génesis se remonta a un evento igualmente estúpido. Invadido por mi innegable y repetitiva condición, alguien asumió papel de redentor (o redentora) y pontificó clichés que sin duda creyó tendrían poderes paliativos. No pude vomitar porque llevaba un ayuno de dos días. Su ecolalia plagiada de libros de auto-ayuda y su delirante suposición de que podría salvarme me obligaron a recordar el intercambio que alguna vez leí existió entre Diógenes de Sinope y Alejandro Magno. De esta forma, le pedí a tal persona que se apartara de mis tinieblas porque obstruía el espacio en que podría llegar la verdadera iluminación. Finalmente, me dejó solo, blasfemando mientras yo pensaba barbaries, y esto es lo que se me ocurrió. La conexión se da entre lo que vemos, lo que creemos ver, y lo que somos capaces de ver. Es un dilema filosófico que aún no se ha resuelto. Y, qué dicha, porque si no, todo sería perfectamente previsible.


Es extraordinario que todo lo que ocurre detrás de las paredes sea perfectamente describible. Cuando niño, a pesar de que el abuelo me haya atribuido dones y que mi corazón me decía que la lógica del viejo era más exacta que la de mi madre, yo me convencí que la fantasía de mi mente pueril me obligaba a inventar cosas que al paso de los años se me olvidarían. Incluso, hasta hace poco, creí que todo no era más que una superstición, una absurda coincidencia basada en expectativas y observaciones previas. Sin embargo, muchos confirman, invariablemente, que todo lo que observo es exacto. Como esa creciente comezón en la pierna izquierda que el lector siente mientras lee lo que ahora escribo, o la aseveración de que, al descubrir el hormigueo, tal reacción no sea más que una sugestión mental manipulada por mis palabras. Sin duda, este ejercicio puede considerarse como un juego psicológico. No obstante, también sugiere la complejidad y la condición paradójica de la coincidencia inexplicable de manera lógica que usualmente reconciliamos a través de la ilógica superstición. En efecto, aquellos fenómenos de la mente que evaden los límites del paradigma en turno inequívocamente se relegan a la metafísica, que no explica nada a menos de que se le considere ciencia y que, en caso de que tal privilegio se le otorgue, se le desacreditaría rápidamente por las ciencias establecidas porque sólo explicaría la posibilidad de probar lo inexplicable. Sin embargo, es posible que el razonamiento psicológico pueda que también sea víctima de las supersticiones. Por eso, de un tiempo a la fecha, tal vez muy cercano, he dejado de creer en supersticiones y explicaciones lógicas. Acepto, quizá con el apoyo del abuelo, la fácil habilidad de describir lo indescriptible que se confecciona detrás de las paredes.

En la casa contigua, por ejemplo, una pareja fornica salvajemente. Eso se comprueba fácilmente por los gritos de satisfacción que ambos emanan. A todos los vecinos se nos ha obligado escuchar ese vulgar despliegue de emociones por lo menos dos veces durante cualquier semana. Sin embargo, él nunca ha sabido que ella finge, porque un hombre es incapaz de fingir un orgasmo y no sabe de esos métodos que las mujeres, sobretodo ella, han perfeccionado. Yo lo sé porque la he visto, extraordinariamente, a través de las paredes, con sus gestos de fastidio mientras él mantiene los ojos cerrados en su egocéntrico éxtasis. Y, la verdad, la desgana nada tiene que ver el hecho de que ella haya experimentado múltiples orgasmos con su amante horas antes del simulacro. Nunca ha estado tan fatigada como para no sentir porque, cuando él duerme, ella siempre se masturba pensando en el amante y hallando lo que nunca encontró con el marido minutos antes.

Tristemente, yo me doy cuenta de esto y otras cosas, como el caso de la niña que no puede dormir porque es asediada por fantasmas que sus padres le aseguran que no existen, pero que ella y yo vemos desde nuestro respectivo punto de referencia. O como aquel del anciano que aceptándose abandonado por sus hijos intenta suicidarse todas las noches con el flagelante cuchillo del coñac, pero despierta todas las mañanas, llorando la pena de no haber muerto alcoholizado, y se reprocha la obscenidad de haberle temido a la furia de un cuchillo verdadero. También observo las manipuladas dichas entre alcohólicos pederastas o entre exitosos hombres de negocios que festejan sus embustes creyendo que no han comprado sus conquistas. Incluso, muy de vez en cuando, también observo la intensa felicidad de madres abrazando hijos, de enamorados que libran todo obstáculo, o de artistas explotando en su nirvana durante la síntesis de una obra maestra. Lo extraordinariamente raro es que, ponderando en mi existencia y sabiéndome como objeto posicionado frente a un espejo que debe reflejarme, no he podido ni puedo ver nada de mí durante todos los años y toda la vida que he extinguido. Y así, todos los niños, todos los hombres falsos, todas las mujeres felices o infelices, todos los alcohólicos o pederastas—todas las imágenes—se concentran dentro y fuera de mi mente provocando un mareo que el abuelo trata de curar cuando me repite, incansablemente, que me ama, que debo de creer en mí, que debí de tener esperanza.

Y yo le creo al abuelo, mientras él, tristemente, me amortaja.