"Conato de Celos" de Marina Tsvietáieva

Durante una noche blanca en Píter (San Petersburgo, Rusia), escuché a un trovador cantar una melancólica interpretación junto a la Iglesia del Salvador. Mi corazón se desgarró al escucharlo mientras observaba su reflejo desvanecerse en el canal adyacente. Pensé que era una canción de amor y deseé confinarla a la memoria. Los amigos Rusos quienes me acompañaban me dijeron que la canción no era más que una versión de "Conato de Celos" de Marina Tsvietáieva, un poema que me gustaba y ya habíamos compartido antes. Sentí pena, porque la versión traducida de Nicanor Parra que había leído sonaba cruel, nada similar a la versión triste y gutural del trovador. Se lo comenté a Sergei y a Valya. "No te preocupes," me dijeron. "La versión original es aún más cruel, aunque intraducible." Horas después, tuvimos un debate bebiendo té y Baltika 6, comparando varias versiones traducidas al Inglés, al Español y al Francés. Llegamos a la conclusión de que el traductor, sin duda, es un traidor.

Es por eso de que ahora presento mi propia traición. He utilizado las notas que tomé junto a Sergei, Valya, Katya, Luba, Dima, Vika, Yulia, Olya y muchos otros. También he recurrido al diccionario y a la vieja versión de Nicanor Parra que siempre me encantó. Incluyo el poema aquí porque es un mensaje que hoy resuena en mi mente, una profecía que nunca debió de cumplirse; un mensaje, a la inversa, que no merece enviarse.

Conato de Celos

¿Cómo le va con otra mujer?
¿Más fácil? ¡Un golpe de remo!
Por la línea de la costa
pronto se apartó el recuerdo

De la isla flotante que soy yo,
(¡En el cielo, no en el mar!).
¡Almas, almas! ¡Serán ustedes hermanas,
pero no amantes—eso es lo que serán!

¿Cómo le va con una mujer ordinaria?
Después de destronar a la reina
(Y de abandonar el trono usted mismo).
¿Sin divinidades?

¿Cómo es la vida—el intento—
escalofríos? ¿Levantarse—cómo es?
¿Cómo se las arregla para pagar el impuesto
de la vulgaridad inmortal, pobre hombre?

"¡De las convulsiones y sobresaltos es suficiente!
Arrendaré casa; lo he hecho".
¿Qué tal le va con cualquier mujer, elegido mío?

¿Más adecuada y comestible—
la comida? ¿Aburrido?—No proteste. . .
¿Cómo le va con una imitación—
usted quien ascendió al Sinaí? ¿Un agobio?

¿Se vive bien con una extraña,
con un alma mundana? Diga: ¿le ama?
Como el látigo de Dios desde los cielos,
¿acaso la vergüenza no le azota la frente?

¿Cómo le va, cómo está su salud?
¿Qué tal? ¿Todo bien?
¿No le supura la úlcera
de la conciencia inmortal, pobre hombre?

¿Cómo le va con la compra comercializable?
El precio, ¿abrupto?
¿Qué le parece el desmigajado yeso de Paris
después de haber conocido el mármol de Carrara?

(De un bloque la Diosa fue esculpida—
y destruida totalmente).
¿Cómo lo van con la cien mil,
usted quien conoció a Lilit?

¿La compra comercializable satisface sus deseos?
Ahora la maravilla ha muerto.
¿Cómo le va la vida con una mujer mortal,
desprovista de sextos sentidos?

Vamos, sea franco: ¿es feliz?
¿No? Cuénteme, ¿cómo le va la vida
con un vacío sin profundidad? ¿Más difícil,
o lo mismo que a mí con otro hombre?
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Amanéceme

Amanéceme,
Amanéceteme.

Lienzo

A Manera de Presentación

. . .mas su mitad de amor
se negó a ser mitad;
y de pronto él sintió
que sin ella sus brazos estaban tan vacíos,
que sin ella sus ojos no tenían qué mirar,
que sin ella su cuerpo de ningún modo era
la otra copa del brindis. . .

Fragmento de "La otra Copa del Brindis."
Mario Benedetti.

Lienzo

Conservo tu próspero paisaje
como el último bello recuerdo que me queda.
Puedes, como ahora,
robarte tú misma de la imagen,
negarme la alegría de ver tus ojos
encontrándome en alboradas diáfanas,
esconderte de la pasión urgente
que hoy conlleva a separarnos.
Sin embargo,
tu paisaje que nítido conservo en toda el alma,
en la memoria del cuerpo,
en la vida en que haces tanta falta,
es materia onírica
y los seguiremos pintando entre los sueños.
Tu paisaje en el que tu corazón aún vibra
por el pincel y sus sensibles trazos en su lienzo,
tu paisaje apasionante y venidero,
aún reclama que le pintemos un mañana.

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Ayer

Anochecí perseguido por fantasmas reales y ficticios, aceptando que escribir el dolor es una tarea imposible, y a pesar de que dejé las puertas y ventanas abiertas, Satanás nunca llegó para aliviarme con un poco de su ironía.

Tal vez esa haya sido su manera de decirme que siempre estuvo conmigo, pero no lo acepto porque estoy cansado de ausencias. La vida, sobretodo en circunstancias como estas, se vive sólo por inercia. Digamos que es una obligación del cuerpo a la naturaleza. El aire entra en los pulmones, pero lejos de oxigenar, pesa. La luz entra por los ojos y las imágenes se proyectan en retinas, pero el cerebro las confunde. Quizá debería creerle a Camus y aceptar la felicidad breve, pero eterna, que Sísifo experimenta justo al llegar a la cima de la montaña antes de que el peñasco caiga y su castigo se repita indefinidamente.

Anochecí sin darme cuenta, perseguido por fantasmas reales y ficticios, y comencé a soñar para darme cuenta que el dolor no puede escribirse de manera convincente, pero que, atrozmente, el alma lo experimenta.

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Hoy

Amanecí por necesidad fisiológica—porque a la noche la faltan horas para seguir durmiendo—mientras un ave etérea entonaba un canto reconocible muy cerca de mi ventana. Deseé ferozmente que mi despertar fuese aún parte de algún sueño, el mejor de la noche, pero el reloj y la radiante luz de la mañana me obligaron onerosamente a aceptar la realidad. Para sobrevivir los últimos tres días habité la irrealidad de una novela que jugaba con el umbral de la ficción y la verdad, pero la lectura de 668 páginas dura un tiempo definido, incluso cuando se posterga intencionalmente. Usualmente, el prospecto del trabajo me ilusiona porque es una tarea que me distrae, pero hoy hubiese preferido reportarme enfermo. Ciertas escenas de mi último sueño comenzaron a inundar mi mente: un café, una ciudad que era el crisol de todas las ciudades que he visitado en mi vida, un rostro irreconocible que era muy familiar a mi existencia. La nitidez de las imágenes soñadas me sorprendió. Al estar despierto y consciente, intenté reconocer el rostro del sueño, pero aún así me eludía. Creí que eran sugestiones de la novela, pero nada de lo que soñé correspondía a la narrativa. Blasfemé la novela de Fowles por no haberme liberado y acaricié a Sócrates, el perro que me tiene de mascota, antes de levantarme.

Se puede argüir que en el trabajo desempeñé mi papel de tergiversador de realidades el porcentaje necesario que las ciencias sociales sugieren. Sin embargo, a mis clientes más astutos, aquellos más alejados de la realidad, no se les puede engañar. Acostumbrados a interpretar su medio ambiente a través emociones básicas, ellos me descifraron antes de que pudiera ocultarlo. Hoy no lo negué, aunque me haya rehusado a dar explicaciones que ellos ya sabían. “Te entiendo,” me dijeron mientras Coltrane se escuchaba en el fondo. Supe que me entendían, a pesar de que las fuentes de nuestros respectivos dolores fuesen diferentes.

En algún momento del día sentí la urgencia de tomar el teléfono y hacer una llamada que reprocharía por el resto de mi vida. Opté por la música para encontrar catarsis y la canción de un amigo casi me pone a llorar. Es decir, no lloré porque temí que alguien me escuchara.

Mi madre y yo a veces nos proveemos de apoyo moral de una manera absurda, aunque común y eficaz: ella sabe lo que siento, yo deseo contárselo, pero nunca hablamos al respecto y simplemente nos acompañamos. La visité, quizá, para no regresar a mi (i)realidad. Compartiendo junto a ella parte de la tarde frente al televisor todas las emociones del día me llegaron de golpe. Y lo peor de todo es que la caída fue propiciada por una telenovela.

“¿Estás llorando?” preguntó mi madre.

“Bostecé,” dije. “Tengo sueño.”

Porque me entiende, mi madre cayó, pero ambos sabíamos que la canción de la telenovela fue la causante de mi llanto (Mañana es para Siempre, Alejandro Fernández).

Y, también, que el rostro irreconocible que me perseguía en mi sueño es la cara del amor que nunca volveré a ver.

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Cuando tu Cuerpo

Tus Labios

Charles Bukowski: Dinosauria, We

Rosario Castellanos: En el Filo del Gozo

Nuestra Historia Permanece Destinada

A Manera de Presentación

Ne me quitte pas.
Il faut oublier
tout peut s'oublier
qui s'enfuit déjà.
Oublier le temps,
de malentendus
et le temps perdu
a savoir comment
oublier ces heures
qui tuaient parfois
a coups de pourquoi
le cœur du bonheur.

Ne me quitte pas.
Ne me quitte pas.
Ne me quitte pas.

Jacques Brel
Fragmento de "Ne me quitte pas."

Vete sin mí.
Márchate ahora que el tiempo lo permite.
Húyeme de la complacencia del perdón
y marca tu paso ajeno por las sendas del olvido.
Vete sin mí,
no esperes.
Marcha sin mí ahora,
siempre,
porque aunque huérfano del esplendor de tu mirada
sigo siendo tan tuyo como en el éxtasis del beso
en nuestras mañanas claras,
porque aún después de los caprichos
nuestra historia permanece destinada.
Vete sin mí, ahora, siempre.
Huye de inmemoriales presagios
y desdeña la verdad de la cual has venido huyendo.
Vete sin mí,
porque cuando llegues a donde deseas ir
yo te estaré esperando.
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Mi Vocación de Amarte

A Manera de Introducción

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied.
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss [her] in the weeping of the rain;
I want [her] at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side;
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane. . .

Edna St. Vincent Millay
Fragmento de "Time does not bring relief; you all have lied."

Edénica tú,
en todo espacio y empeño
acometido por mis besos.
Sí.
Edénica.
Y epónima como la esperanza
que impregnas en mis sueños,
porque mañana, si amanece,
tu nombre seguirá erigiendo
todos mis sentidos.
Edénica tú
en mi sangre terrenal
y en mi etérea esencia
que bebes desde lejos.
Edénica e hipónima sólo tú,
porque tu nombre clarifica el significado
de esta vereda iluminada con el feraz ardor de tu mirada.
Edénica como tu nombre, tu sonrisa
y todos los planes que no hemos realizado.
Edénica y homónima tú,
con mi vocación de amarte,
a pesar de tu endémico abandono.
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Regreso

A Manera de Presentación

Vasallo de la sombra que pasó por allí,
leyéndome canciones
en la página rubia del crepúsculo,
no puedo ya pensar en otras huellas,
y al perseguir las suyas,
doy vueltas en redondo.

Jaime García Terrés
Fragmento de "Trasiego."

Férrica te has ido
en todo intento de abandono,
pero la valencia de tu corazón de hierro
cede a la densidad de la memoria.
Entonces feérica regresarás
en la canícula corpórea,
con el apogeo del entusiasmo,
entre el ardor de todos los recuerdos;
y después de innúmeros convictos
yo comeré de ti en nuestra permanente hoguera,
yo habitaré tu piel acariciando rincones deliciosos,
yo segregaré de ti ignotos licores de tu esencia
y mojaré tus labios con la espuma de mis sueños postergados.
Masticando suavemente nuestros nombres hablaremos al unísono,
mutuamente navegándonos,
en la amorosa condición de todos nuestros mares.
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Cenizas

A Manera de Introducción

Ya sólo soy un poco de nostalgia que canta.
Y a tus puertas estoy,
como una piedra gris,
en el lujo nítido de un prado.

. . .Abre tus puertas
y ciega con la vista mis dos ojos.
Mátame de belleza, ya alcanzando
el gran callar hacia donde navega
el bajel [barco] de nostalgia que es mi llanto.

Margarita Michelena
Fragmentos de "A las puertas de Sión"

Hablo entonces también del alba
y su lento palpitar entre los sueños,
pero como amarga pesadilla que me espera.
Y de la rosa inerte y seductora hablo también:
montado en su desgarradora espina.

Hablo de la sangre ardiente
enardeciendo dichas que se apagan
o de insomnios inconclusos, pero eternos,
buscando miradas reflejadas.
Hablo de tu ausencia como muerte
y del silencio como llanto que clama tu regreso.

Hablo de la voz, como tu voz,
ensordeciendo mi zozobra.
Y hablo también de todo lo palpable y admisible,
de lo absurdo y de lo incierto,
porque callando,
callando asiento las cenizas.
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Sufro

A Manera de Presentación

Si tu cuerpo,
si tu risa,
si ese tiempo pudiese volver.
Si tu cuerpo, si tu risa, los pudiese tener otra vez,
pero todo se termina,
como ese cuentos de niños que sé.
Y mañana,
mañana,
no sé lo que pasará,
porque mañana yo te necesitaré.
Porque mañana tu cuerpo deseo tener.

Sufro.

Sufro mi desolado asolamiento con este aciago llanto
retorciéndome hasta el mismo dolor de donde emana.

Sufro.

Y en esta burda tempestad de vida,
intento recoger de los escombros
alguna migaja de esperanza.

Sufro.

Y entiendo que todo será inútil,
que quizá mañana cuando todo el polvo se acomode,
cuando absorta muera el ave ubérrima dentro del nido,
la última hoja caerá del árbol contiguo a tu ventana.

Mi llanto es, sin embargo,
tan necio como toda tu renuencia,
y clama desde los recónditos abismos
a la bestia que alguna vez conjuró todo el encanto.

Y grita inconsolable en su rincón eterno
nutriendo con su delirante angustia
los fértiles recuerdos con que intentas olvidarnos.
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He de Morir

A Manera de Introducción

Muero de ti, amor, de amor de ti,
de urgencia mía de mi piel de ti,
de mi alma de ti y de mi boca
y del insoportable que yo soy sin ti.

Muero de ti y de mí, muero de ambos,
de nosotros, de ese,
desgarrado, partido,
me muero, te muero, lo morimos.

Jaime Sabines
Fragmento de "No es que muera de amor..."

He de morir.
He de morir todas mis muertes
porque tu designio así lo ha destinado.

He de morir la muerte oculta
que acecha todos mis segundos
y todas las muertes que nunca he imaginado.

He de morir.

He de morir la muerte exacta de la angustia,
desgajándome el alma con su cuchillo carnicero
mientras habito umbrales infinitos e infernales.

He de morir.

He de morir padeciendo el suplicio total de la amargura,
morir,
morir viviendo la lenta muerte de tu escarnio.
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La Despedida

A Manera de Presentación:

Mi angustia, en horizontes liberada,
corporiza en tu azul de transparencia
el verde que persigue la mirada;
y en el color que brota de la esencia
de gozarte en ritmo de llegada:
yo sufro la pena de tu ausencia.

Elías Nandino
Fragmento de "El azul es el verde que se aleja."

Mi pupila hambrienta de esperanza
descubrió su indefirente rostro en el espejo.
Entonces yo advertí severamente que regresaría a mi nada.
El dolor se fundió en mí como un abismo
mientras mi despojo se apagaba en su recuerdo.
Sin embargo, yo me negué a vivir el infortunio
y regresé con el afán voraz de un pordiosero.
Regresé porque morir lejos de ella
hubiese sido más cobarde que mi forzada huída.
Regresé porque cuando el dolor descarga su espada traicionera
la vida se transforma en delirante averno.
Regresé porque el antídoto del amor es el amor
y yo le amo con locura.
Regresé,
pero ella celebraba ya la despedida.

Efectos

A Manera de Introducción

Desautorizo mi ternura.
Vuélvanse mis ojos turbulencia.
Pido castigo ejemplar a mis palabras.
Al alba quito la escalera
para que ninguna luz suba a las ventanas.
Que sea como un perro mi bondad.
Que en los charcos
sean glorificados mis instintos.
Que la vida tropiece
y su pie herido sea mutilado.
Desautorizo a mi sangre y a mi sexo.
Y para mis oídos:
toda voz, toda vez, toda sombra, todo siglo.
Sea mi espalda una sábana árida.
La ausencia es una unión definitiva.
Todo tengo prohibido:
incluso la amargura.

“Perversidad de la Separación”
Juan Bañuelos

Tengo fiebre.
Tengo fiebre de desquicio
buscando equilibrio en vida de despojo.
Tengo una fiebre impoluta de esperanza
entre pesadillas que claman tu regreso.
Tengo fiebre.
Me contorsiono en doloroso fervor
ante la inequívoca evidencia
de tu felicidad hirviendo en otros brazos.
Tengo fiebre.
Tengo una fiebre maldita
de encontrar nuestra realidad tergiversada,
de que en mi delirio,
considere compartirte
antes que sentirme desolado.
Tengo una fiebre mordaz
que habita el repleto rincón
de mi desdén vapuleado.
Tengo fiebre.
Tengo fiebre de ojos y de brazos en espera,
del recuerdo de candentes bríos transfigurados
en nocturnal satisfacción de esencia.
Tengo fiebre.
Tengo una fiebre infecta de febriles estupores
en esta prolongada espera.

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Final(es)

A Manera de Presentación

Llegaste en busca de reposo
y tus ojos hallaron un espejo,
entre ellos y la imagen:
la deriva.


Elva Macías
Fragmento de “Estancias”

El final es un comienzo indecoroso,
reprochable,
malditamente abrumador desde su principio
y cruelmente insatisfecho después de su embestida.
El final es el principio del relato:
una inenarrable historia vacía de color
y repleta de estentóreo duelo.
El final es repositorio gélido de fracasados sueños,
sórdido recordatorio de una realidad fallida,
flagelador preámbulo de soledad eterna.
El final es una soga de insidiosas dudas
incapaz de ahorcarnos entre plegarias justas,
la cruel burla de un maleable destino,
la más tierna esperanza de un optimismo delirante.
El final es siempre renacimiento para algunos
en la búsqueda de todos sus placeres,
pero,
invariablemente,
es lenta muerte para ingenuos
después de su oneroso adviento.

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Naufrago

A Manera de Introducción

Bajo tu tacto tiemblo
como un arco en tensión palpitante de flechas
y de agudos silbidos inminentes.

Mi sangre se enardece igual que una jauría,
olfateando la presa y el estrago,
pero bajo tu voz mi corazón se rinde
en palomas devotas y sumidas.

Rosario Castellanos
Fragmento de “En el Filo del Gozo.”

Desemboca en mi memoria
el impetuoso caudal de tu recuerdo,
e impregnado de ti,
mi férvida locura invoca
el hechizo de tu núbil cuerpo
engendrando evocaciones que me matan.
Empapado de ti,
mi ansia desgarrante suplica ardiente
por el erótido vergel de tus promesas,
por la recóndita lluvia de tu ambrosia
mojando mis labios encendidos,
por la balsámica caricia de tus besos
saciándose en mi enardecida cúspide,
por tus ebúrneos muslos encarnándose
en mi cuerpo con su escultórica danza de deseo.
Empapado y atormentado de ti,
del vertiginoso raudal de tu abandono,
mi férvida locura deriva,
simplemente,
en los umbrales de la vida.
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Indómita Mujer

A Manera de Presentación:

Duro decir:
Te Amo.
Mira cuánto tiempo, distancia y pretensión
he puesto ante el horror de esa palabra,
esa palabra como serpiente que viene sin hacer ruido, ronda
y se niega una, dos, tres, cuatro, muchas veces,
ahuyentándola como un mal pensamiento,
una debilidad,
un desliz,
algo que no podemos permitirnos. . .

Gioconda Belli
“Permanencia”

Indómita mujer de indefinidas dimensiones
E indescriptible condición,
Musa de la sacra poesía profana
Y del sucinto y reacio erotismo,
Entre complicidades tácitas
Y falsas negaciones,
Y por encima y debajo de banales
Proscripciones de la sociedad,
Os digo que yo sería perfectamente capaz
De beber de tu sangre,
De libar de tus jugos,
De comer de tus labios,
De salvajemente acariciar
Tus enardecidos senos
Antes de encallar en el intersticio
Pasional de tu cuerpo;
De reeducar mis sentidos
Experimentando cada gajo
Del onírico deseo.
Yo sería capaz de todo
Lo que se puede hacer e imaginar
Viviendo alrededor de tu sexo:
Exorcizar las penas,
Orgasmar el gozo,
Borrar memorias estériles
O exonerar fértiles pecados.
Incluso sería capaz de cometer
La mayor falta que puede realizar un amante
Y me enamoraría de ti.
Pero ese sería mi problema
Porque, jamas, con mi amor,
Pondría título de propiedad
A tu albedrío,

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Para Alcanzarte

A Manera de Presentación:

Cuando me sobrevenga el cansancio del fin,
me iré, como la grulla del refrán,
a mi pueblo, a arrodillarme
entre las rosas de la plaza,
los aros de los niños
y los flecos de seda de los tápalos.

Ramón López Velarde
“Humildemente. . .”

Hace algunos días
que aprendí a caminar,
pero llevaba tantos años corriendo
que he perdido el equilibrio.
Hace algunos días
que aprendí a caminar,
a justamente ponderar
sobre las cosas bellas de la vida,
a darme cuenta,
finalmente,
que mis prisas no eran más
que una absurda ansiedad
de llegar a ningún lado.
Hace algunos días
que por vez primera caminé,
cayéndoseme todo miedo de la espalda,
y finalmente fui conciente de mi andar.
Hace algunos días
que camino a paso propio
y que me veo tal cual soy:
Libre,
esclavizado,
paradójico,
absorto ante una esperanza
e inequívoco ante mi reflejo.
Hace algunos días
que aprendí a caminar,
pero me urge volver a correr
para alcanzarte.

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Vida (en)sueño

A manera de introducción:

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
d'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime
et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même
ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend.

Paul Verlaine
“Mon rêve familier”

Amanezco a veces
con el sabor de tu boca
entre mis labios,
con la cadencia de tu voz
susurrándome al oído,
con el contorno de tu cara
ciñéndose en mi pecho,
con la obstinada certeza
de que hoy no me equivoco,
pero todo sigue siendo el residuo del sueño.
Amanezco entonces
porque a la noche le faltan
horas para seguir durmiendo,
porque a mi alma le sobran
razones para seguir buscándote,
porque aunque nunca os encuentre
a mí no se me acaba la esperanza.
Mi destino es entonces anhelar
en la pasividad del sueño,
en la torpeza de todas mis acciones,
en el sincretismo del significado
y todos sus antónimos:
Anhelar con ahínco y desespero
durante la consciente pesadilla
hasta el milagro de nuestra vida (en)sueño.

Podrás Negarme Alguna Vez

Sin introducción y sin fotografía adjunta para romper el esquema, aunque esto puede ser una imagen introductoria o una introducción trópica, pero me da igual.

Podrás negarme alguna vez
quizá toda mi existencia.
Podrás negarme incluso
a mí como memoria inútil
o negar,
tal vez,
todo pasado mutuo.
Podrás negarme alguna vez,
pero mi recuerdo tuyo es mío
y lo conservo siempre
hasta el final de todo sueño,
entre negaciones vanas
y realidades ficticias,
sin ti a pesar de ti,
contigo aún cuando me niegues.
Podrás negarme alguna vez
no sólo porque es justo:
La necesidad siempre ha venido
echándonoslo en cara.
Sin embargo,
la ocasión precisa es un pretexto,
el olvido una ilusoria condición
porque no puede negarse
aquello borrado del recuerdo.
Podrás negarme alguna vez
en tus intentos de olvido;
y cuando olvides plenamente,
alguna vez entre plácidos sueños,
negarás todo tu olvido.

Recordando

Para olvidar, he venido utilizando marañas de toda índole sin nece-
sariamente encontrar el resultado deseado. Una de ellas ha sido ocupar mi tiempo en distracciones menos nocivas que las usuales, como el arte. De esta forma, impulsivamente salí a comprar unos lienzos, un par de pinceles y varias pinturas de aceite para intentar plasmar el recuerdo en un medio que no fuesen palabras. Mi esfuerzo sólo se materializó en dos pinturas, la primera de ellas acompañando esta introducción. Por razones obvias, los materiales que compré ahora acumulan polvo, como mis recuerdos. Escribir para olvidar conlleva a relatar el dolor de ahora y me rehúso a metamorfosear en agonía la gracia de lo que alguna vez fue bello. Es por eso que incluyo el escrito que prosigue, dibujado durante la intensidad del amor difícil de olvidar que le originó.

Concupiscentes tus ojos de carrizo oscuro

y tu sombra náufraga reclamándome la esencia.

Concupiscente y feraz todo silencio,

cada palabra,

nimios ejercicios de prematuro olvido;

confrontaciones feroces y feraces

en la fecundidad de tu concupiscencia.

Cómplices de augurio fértil sobre-entendimientos,

marañas, verdades, mentiras,

expectaciones formales que sobreviven

la exuberancia carnal del beso.

Concupiscentes tus labios

como intersticios ignotos,

(descritos),

de tu cuerpo.

Salvaje tu lengua voraz

como dócil reflejo de tu alma.

Irrefragables tus alas plenas y todo el peso de amor

que cargan en su vuelo.

Concupiscente y casta vos:

La única mujer que abriga toda su esencia.

Minutos despues de mi cumpleaños

¡Zzz!

Minutos antes de mi Cumpleaños

¡Zzz!

Crossroads

As certain of the subtler emotions seem to become more sporadic in my life, I have progressively adjusted to seeing the world without color, the reason for which the photograph to the left is in black and white. Ironically, given that hope remains faithful, I am still able to see color in the darkest shades of gray and thus regard the image as beautiful and promising. In a sense, its content represents my perception of things about the subject of the following reflection now and twenty years before.

Crossroads

Throughout my existence, I have maintained the delusional belief of having the ability to remember with unequivocal exactitude the specific time and date of memorable life events. This idea has itself been based on another delusion: Regarding my memory as above average; nothing exceptional, but simply above average. Such ability to process, record, and recall information, indeed, has allowed me to gather a few academic honors, as well as the respect of several friends, but its is far from extraordinary, especially considering that those honors have not withstood the test of time. I sure can recall every detail I experienced during the 1985 Mexico City earthquake, relive the pain when I broke my forearm in 1986, or even re-experience the surge of ineffable heat during my first kiss in 1981, but since those events pertain to flashbulb memories, as I try to recall more commonplace events, the effects of age or information overload have forced me to accept my memory as nothing more than normal. Twenty years ago I would have tried to rationalize my current deficiencies as a lack of interest or mere inattention, but after progressing through certain stages of life and after having poorly resolved their conflicts, I no longer have interest in favorably deceiving myself as a way to deceive others.

This sophomoric and almost infantile form of self-exploration, about my memory and about my self, stems from the situation of suddenly remembering that this Memorial Day weekend marks the twentieth anniversary of my arrival to this country, but I had to delve into my diaries in order to corroborate facts and dates that I had considered unforgettable. To my credit, I remember exactly when I left my natal city: September 2^nd, 1988 at 7:45 in the morning. I used to remember the flight number and the airline that I used, but since I do not recall where I placed the boarding pass that I have carelessly saved for posterity, there is no way to include that information here. As I write and search for experiences in my memory, things increasingly become clearer. The outcomes, however, are the result of inductions leading to a conclusion that, although true, would have been easier to derive if I had remembered everything correctly. As a footnote, I would like to mention that the timeline of this particular event is obfuscated by a few variables—those related to inconspicuously attempting to cross a massive body of water in the middle of the night, which, by the way, are the subject of another essay I have written and consulted for this piece. The important thing about the current matter lies, ironically, in my inquiry about its significance.

Why does this seem so important now, apart from my inadequacy at accepting my normal memory abilities? Yes, why now if in the aforementioned essay I have described my experience in California during the ensuing years since my arrival as nothing but normal living? We humans like to categorize things into orderly, although arbitrary, compartments, and it may very well be the case that the end of my second decade here is providing an excuse to futile musings. However, life sometimes becomes as interesting as fiction and twenty years to the date and time of my arrival to this country, exactly, I will be starting a new job. This coincidence, apparently, has stirred emotional fibers I had considered long forgotten.

(Or suppressed, but that is the subject of another sophomoric, and long, form of self-exploration.)

Alguna Vez Te Ame

Hoy es la segunda vez que incluyo poesía en este esporádico ejercicio de catarsis cibernética. Es posible que ya no tenga nada que decir y que simplemente lo sienta. ¿Qué más da? Cuando tomé la foto adjunta, me regocijé en su belleza como testimonio de la lindura después de la muerte. Jamás creí que pudiera relacionarla a mi vida más allá de la coincidencia durante un paseo por el Bosque de Chapultepec. Sin embargo, la vida a veces se empeña en burlarse de uno. De cierta forma, el intento de poema que prosigue refleja lo que el muerto árbol pudo haber dicho, o lo que mi subconsciente entendió y plenamente siento en carne propia.

Alguna Vez Te Ame

Alguna vez te ame,

Inhóspita mujer

De irreconciliables horizontes,

Con el ingenuo fervor

De un idiota esperanzado.

Alguna vez te ame

Hurgando territorios clandestinos,

Y se me reptó furtivamente

Un arrebato primigenio,

Y se me escapó candente

La cordura por los labios,

Y corrí hacía ti como un iluso,

Y te ame íntegramente

En metáforas de espacio,

En símiles de tiempo

Y en tergiversaciones libres

De todo lo prohibido.

Alguna vez te ame

En blanco y negro

Hasta que llegaron los colores

Con tus besos,

Y habitando los ígneos

Rincones de tu alma,

Comencé a creer en el amor

Como un gran milagro inusitado.

Alguna vez te ame,

Pródiga mujer de todos mis anhelos,

Y tengo que escribirlo ahora

Porque ya no estás aquí para contártelo.

De entre tus labios

De entre tus labios turbios

De frondosidad indescifrable

Han salido todas las mentiras y todas las verdades

Aptas de forjar toda esperanza.

Incapaz me hallo de impugnarlos hoy,

Aún en la mejor de mis derrotas.

No puedo siquiera huirles,

A pesar de que el mortífero desdén aceche

Desde todos los rincones.

Sigo creyendo en su sabor a magia,

En su redentora condición

Y en sus dúctiles cualidades de remanso.

Por eso así,

Aunque no pida clemencia ahora

O exija la capitulación total que surge

De pasiones derramadas,

Imploro a las deidades de un futuro indefinible

Que a pesar de todo y después de mí,

Tus labios me besen como antes.

Something about Fidel

Now that Fidel Castro has resigned to his position, I believed it would be timely to present this journal entry that I wrote a few months ago. It is not related to the current situation, although it pertains to him, in a sense. History has yet to absolve him. In my case, this little story will, perhaps, condemn me.

Something about Fidel

Fidel Castro has arisen from his deathbed, apparently to show the world that the Cuban health care system fulfills state-determined expectations or, in the most likely case, that he may have inherited the genes allowing his grandfather to have lived over one hundred years. Evidence of his vitality—or what some argue is a propagandistic resurrection—emanates from a recent video recording that has circulated global media. The certainty of Castro’s longevity, the video contends, is unequivocal, although this medium may give a sense of artificiality to the assertion. After all, as opponents argue, Castro could already be dead and the image campaign may very well be his last megalomaniacal effort to rule Cuba from the underworld.

Whether fabricated or real, this video caused me to experience a rather strange double sense of déjà vu. On the one hand, it forced me to recall a Julio Córtazar article about a faint and anonymous cough overhead during a Beethoven concert Furtwängler directed in 1947. Concerned about the fantastic side of reality, Córtazar ponders more about the identity of the interrupter than about the historical concert itself, a recording of which was discovered 30 years after the event. Was his acknowledgement of the cough a bridge between two different eras? Was it an extension of the life of the person who could not withhold a cough during an important event? On the other hand, and in conjunction with Córtazar’s contemplations, the video in question reminded me that there may be a recording out there, yet to be discovered, capturing my clumsiness when I interrupted Castro himself during a speech in 2001.

Castro’s vitality plays a crucial role in this exercise of reminiscence because my impression of the man, as he directly faced me from his seat in the Cuban Palace of Conventions, was that of a confused and senile man connected to a wireless life support system ready to drop dead at any moment. Minutes earlier, however, his arrival to the place had been vigorous. It occurred during the closing ceremony of a Youth Exchange between Cuban and the U.S.—which I attended under a licensed trip, just in case anyone would like to turn me in for having violated the Trading with the Enemy Act. I left the auditorium on my first trip to the bathroom that day, for I had drunk over two liters of green tea, as Perez Roque, the Cuban foreign minister, was at the podium. In the hall, when the voice of the minister became more audible as the regular city noise receded, I started to think that something big was about to happen. For some reason, although hurricanes are nature’s preferred method of weather inclemency in Cuba, I thought that a tornado would hit the city. I looked outside a nearby window expecting to see gloomy clouds and chirping birds announcing the tornado’s arrival, but what I saw was a caravan of modern vehicles entering the facility. “Fidel has arrived,” I thought. Although organizers had informed us that there was a very slight possibility that Castro would make a special visit, which was not at all certain because “El Comandante” had a very busy schedule, I was convinced he would arrive. How could he miss the opportunity to certify the sovereignty of the Cuban Revolution in front of American youth? I searched for clues. The atmosphere in the place had evidently been altered, but, although perplexed, every person I asked did not venture to share their knowledge or hypotheses about the change. A burly Afro-Cuban man, who I later learned was a secret service agent, confirmed Fidel’s arrival: He ordered my immediate return to the auditorium and no amount of supplication persuaded him to allow me to finish my trip to the urinals. On my way back, I noticed that all action in the hall had stopped. Even Cuban filmmakers working on a documentary about the Youth Exchange, in which I was supposed to participate upon my return from the bathroom, had begun packing their equipment. After hundreds of assassination attempts, it did not seem surprising, however exaggerated, for Castro to take his precautions.

Back in the auditorium, Perez Roque continued to speak even though it was evident that he had lost the attention of over half of the audience. In the few moments after my return, the murmuring filling the place resonated in my head like the chirping of birds I had expected earlier. “Fidel has arrived,” I told Maribel, one of the Cuban student volunteers serving as guide to my group.

-How do you know?

-I don’t know it for certain, but I feel it.

-I have never seen El Comandante.

Maribel uttered her remark with a contrite tone that touched me. She had proven to be an incomparable pragmatist during our conversations, almost to the point of cynicism, but as she desperately turned in all directions attempting to corroborate what everyone was murmuring about, she revealed a passionate side, for whatever reasons, that I had never expected. When Fidel finally entered the room, the audience received him with a full standing ovation. He was surrounded by an entourage of tall secret service men with muscular torsos draped in white guayaberas who, more than protecting him, revealed the head of a taller Fidel Castro dressed in full military regalia—except for his new pair of blue adidas tennis shoes, which El Comandante, for medical reasons, had recently replaced for his signature boots. I cannot deny that I felt some excitement, perhaps for historical reasons. The year before I had had seen the Pope and had chatted with Ralph Nader and Gore Vidal. At that point, I was even willing to meet Bush, for historical reasons, if only to nag about his dubious election.

Fidel waved his arms and the audience roared. With a vigorous sense of determination, he wavered his way to the podium. Perhaps out of custom, the fact that he may have forgotten about the event, the possibility that he may have not been informed at all, or out of sheer megalomania, he was ready to take over, but a dignitary intercepted him and whispered something in his ear. Fidel looked bewildered, almost infantile, revealing a sense of vulnerability inconsistent with the image of the man some of us had expected to see. Like a parent leading a child, the dignitary directed Fidel to an empty seat located precisely in front of my first-row seat. Forgetting my own sense of puzzlement at the scene I had witnessed moments earlier, I grinned like a monkey. The amateurish photographer within me crawled out and I, his master, was about to exploit him until death in socialist Cuba, right in front of Fidel and using his image for that purpose. I checked my camera: Almost out of film. Video Camera: Almost out of battery. Mini Disc audio recorder: Plenty of battery, but only one Mini Disc left. “What a lousy luck!” I thought. Maribel saw me in despair and laughed: She had warned me about the excessive use of my trinkets in recording the Cuban experience. “I told you so,” she said while I asked for socialist support, but no one had extra supplies or did not care to share them. I longed for room service, but that was out of the question. Where the hell is capitalism when you need it? I looked at Fidel, right in front of me, and, unwilling to loose the opportunity for a decent photograph with my meager point-and-shoot camera, readied myself for the first shot, but my inner photographer gave way to my inner voyeur: The man started nodding off. As Perez Roque was providing what seemed like an unrehearsed introduction to his chief—or perhaps because of it—Fidel appeared to be sound asleep. I also noticed that his body was trembling, which, in my mind, reeked of Parkinson’s disease. For all practical purposes, I thought, the old man would die there very soon. “Should I become a tabloid photographer?” I thought. Like Thurber’s Walter Mitty, I began to imagine the many ways in which I, a nonentity, would suddenly become somebody after revealing to the world that Fidel Castro suffered from such illness. My sense of delusion had already reached the point of rebutting official Cuban complaints about my discovery on Spanish television when another round of applause extracted me, as well as Fidel, from my waking dreams: Perez Roque had finished his introduction speech and Castro was next in line. Fidel lifted his body from the chair and firmly walked to the podium. “Shit!” I thought. Fidel had moved and I, succumbed in my stupid dreams, had not taken a decent confrontational photograph, in the etymological sense, from the position we had shared for a few minutes. Also, my bladder was about to explode.

The extensive duration of Fidel’s introductory remarks, in which he vigorously pounded at the podium with his right index finger, gave me a sense of entitlement after he opened the floor for questions. I lifted my hand with the intention of exercising that assumed right, which he acknowledged, but before I could mutter anything about my wonderings of the political criticisms to his government and his reactions to it, someone yelled out a question about drug use in Cuba. Fidel’s reply—a 45-minute soliloquy packed with historical data and elucidation of contemporary difficulties in Cuban drug control—overwhelmed me. It was not the content, but its lengthiness. My ADHD tendencies kicked in and I became distracted and hyperactive. Mostly, I wanted to forget about my full bladder. I moved around impatiently, not paying complete attention to the reply. After all, I was recording it on audio and was certain that the transcripts of the conference would become available the following day. Maribel increasingly became annoyed at my fidgeting. When I finally did the unthinkable—dropping my pen—she angrily reprimanded me: “Please, show some respect.”

I showed respect for as long as I remembered that I was supposed to show respect, which is never enough time when carrying an ADHD condition with a full bladder. Although I should have been thinking that by that time it was permissible to go to the bathroom, I mainly worried about the fact of having lost the privileged location I had to photograph Fidel from the comfort of my seat. At the podium, he was well beyond the reach of my camera for a decent shot. Concerned about this, I lost the opportunity to ask my question when he finally completed the first reply. Before growing inpatient with what I expected to be an even lengthier second response, I left my seat in search of a better place to take my pictures. Maribel looked at me disapprovingly. I pointed to the official photographer, who was freely moving around the place, but Maribel frowned. “It’s OK,” I said. “Nothing will happen.” She looked away.

I found a vacant place in front of the podium. Carefully reclining the seat in order to prevent any noise and distraction, I sat for a few moments pretending to listen and then started shooting. Seconds later, I ran out of film, causing the camera to activate the self-rewind mechanism. I embraced it to shield the noise, which worked well with the audience, except with Maribel, who fired a lacerating look. My sense of remorse lasted enough to take my digital video camera out of the bag. With a digital zoom, it proved to be a better option than my film camera. I took several shots and, in a state of complete flow, I got up in search of a better angle. The reclining seat sprung up and the pounding noise startled the audience. Fidel turned to me without stopping his speech. I began to sweat. We made eye contact for a few seconds and, just as he scantily acknowledged me with the interruption, he easily disregarded me when turning away to continue his speech. I remained frozen in place, nevertheless, thinking about the best option to get out of the embarrassing situation, which I was certain Maribel would never forgive. Ultimately, I decided that there would be no better moment to finally go to the bathroom. On my way out, I heard a few recriminating comments. Maribel’s scorching eyes followed me all the way, but I refused to acknowledge her wrath.

Three hours later, when Fidel decided to stop, a third of the audience was all over him, pleading for a handshake. I was hoping to take a more decent photograph, but this never materialized. On his way out, Fidel acknowledged my presence again, looked at my camera, lifted his arms with a childish demeanor, and smiled.

If there is a recording out there of the event, more than anything, this is the moment I would have liked Córtazar to have written about.

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.

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.


LA DUDA

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.

Before any type of precipitous and offensive condemnations assail the following commentary, allow me to say that, on the average, I admire and respect beauty for its essential and aesthetic reason alone, as this photograph testifies. This does not preclude me from forming an opinion about my experience after having been exposed to such beauty, especially since taste, and experience itself, are nothing but subjective matters. Such an opinion cannot be molded in a social vacuum, however. What I present is nothing but a perspective having been sculpted by the reality of my social experience, or, at least, what I felt during my observations of such beauty and at the time I wrote the piece. As I write this now, I am convinced that there is something more fulfilling, something more real than what I saw. Had I experienced it, the bulk of the commentary would have become nothing but a simple footnote.

It is also important to point out that, because of its political connotations, the following commentary is not an example in liberty of opinion, but an exercise in exposing the double standards that plague society. I am neither advocating for nor presenting a solution. What I do is simply present an observation; completely subjective, somewhat subversive, and perhaps a subtle example of subliminal perception. Please, allow yourself to be the judge.

A Trip

Two weeks of a badly planned trip to Western and Eastern Europe amounted, most of the time, to the mediocre sightseeing (for which I only have myself to blame) of some of the most ostentatious architectural structures ever created, ranging from imperial castles and small noble quarters to imposing cathedrals purporting to represent the greatness of god. I photographed some of them for historical and archeological reasons. Of the meager and vulnerable contemporary quarters of the common people, if they ever existed, I photographed nothing, because no map or summary in tourist travel guides suggested that they ever did. Yet, their descendants begging on the street for a few coins, even during the redemptive era of capitalist opportunity, remain faithful historians. God, I suppose, refuses to provide shelter to these people or remains busy guarding the flamboyant castles and churches after millennia of upper class abduction. Perhaps it was god herself begging on the street, a constant and paradoxical reminder that one has to look beyond the obvious and touristy to gather a better understanding of a country’s culture.

When majestic buildings were destroyed during war or communistic oppression, some were rebuilt to a larger than life reality of their previous existence. For purposes redemptive of such past, communist statues in Budapest should have been destroyed, or, better yet, as such action would have rendered all the significance of occupation as meaningless, they should have found their way into a museum with the solid intention of reminding potential deniers that the country indeed suffered a so-called occupation. These statues, however, were not destroyed after liberation, but simply removed from the city and re-edified, not in a museum, but in a remote park à la Disneyland where curious vacationers paying the touristy entrance fee of 2500 Hungarian Forints can satiate their thirst of first hand knowledge—while also having the opportunity to buy a T-shirt mocking the three tenors, or the other way around, if one is to succumb to the marketing campaign depicting Lenin, Stalin and Mao as the “Three Terrors.” The seductive qualities of capitalism with their respective marketing schemes have been more powerful and redemptive than the educated amusement—and education—that a museum can provide, I suppose.

Moving to the west, in Bavaria, to be exact, one can find Neuschwanstein, a castle that enjoys fairy tale celebrity with the imprimatur of none other than Disney, which used it—paying the rights?—for the ubiquitous promotional that has so obsessed the infantile minds of children and adults who believe the disneyfied depiction of reality. From Sleeping Beauty to Cinderella to Disney itself, the exuberantly portrayed silhouette of this castle, in conjunction with astounding pyrotechnics and an enthusiastic musical score on the background, has been the representative image for this corporation. If one knew the history of the castle, all disneyfied meaning would be spoiled, but that is a matter of another piece.

On my way to Munich, before meeting face to face with Neuschwanstein, I encountered the fairy tale theme on the plane while watching an in-flight movie, not a film, about James Braddock, a lower class boxer who was nicknamed the Cinderella Man for vicariously representing Irish redemption during The Great Depression, given that he rose from pugilistic oblivion to defeat the heavy weight champion in America at the time: Max Baer. Braddock, the movie shows, was a simple and good man, honest, incorruptible, and perfectly capable to forgo food even during the night of the fight to a mercilessly depicted Baer in order to give it to his own children. After seeing all those castles in Europe, especially the Cinderella castle, I wondered if the house that Braddock bought in Jersey with the money he earned after the fight with Baer would ever become a tourist trap in 300 years.

I have to admit that as someone with strong inclinations towards the socio-historical context of reality, archeological sites provide fascination and a solid reference point. Rome, Egypt, and Mesoamerica are simply a few examples. Yet, during this trip, I became convinced that Braddock’s house in Jersey, although with the potential of becoming the subject of historians such as Howard Zinn or Eric Foner, would never get approval from the censors of fairy tale reality, even though imposing castles promise to forever remain the subject of reconstructed reality for generations to come. There might be hope for less deserving structures. After all, Bulgakov’s flat at the time he wrote Master and Marguerita became an informal museum in Moscow, even during communist rule, and it has now become a formal café and museum. Can we assume that MLK’s legacy, not his property, in these times of so-called democratic freedom would ever become monumental without so much arbitrary appropriation and co-option after his murder?

Archeological sites, I suppose, at some point become arcane. Most of the time, they seem to do it when their significance is too close in time with the reality of subjects who observe them. Not without reason, there have been several revolutionary attempts to destroy the significance that imperial structures represent, the actions of the Boston Tea Party being but simply one example. To whom does reality belong? To whom does historical knowledge?

In Moscow, I saw Lenin embalmed, not alone from 10am to 1pm, but lonely all the time in his mausoleum. He died in 1924, a mere 82 years ago, but some tourists argue that he has become arcane while they ponder on the magnificence of millennial edifices that surround him. “It’s ridiculous how much money they spend in preserving that body,” one furious tourist proclaimed, although he could not resist the lure of that ridiculously preserved body. “Hey, Honey!,” his wife responded. “Look at that church!” “Yeah! It’s beautiful,” he said. “Let’s go see it.” In no way do I intend to assert any comparison of significance or character between Lenin and Jesus, but I could not help wondering if this tourist would embrace the same feelings if the embalmed body of Jesus, expensively preserved, turned out somewhere in Lebanon after the Israeli bombing. Perhaps it takes more than 82 years, or royal extraction, to ensure the validity of a ridiculously expensive prefabricated posterity, as I surmised after visiting the St. Stephan catacombs in Vienna, which contain the tombs of Duke Rudolph the Founder and 14 other members of the Habsburg family, along with 56 urns preserving some of their royal organs. After an agitated dissertation about how great it was for such site to have been preserved because of the significance of the royal tombs, an infatuated tourist concluded: This is great history, you know? There was no mention of thousands of preserved bones belonging to the common people, which we had seen less than five minutes earlier, as this catacomb also served as a mass grave during the black plague. History, perhaps, remains a subjective matter.

Tired of castles, monuments and mausoleums, I embarked my unpreserved body back home, unable to reconcile my expectations about the trip with my experience, but already planning another trip to territories where perhaps the magnificence of undeveloped land would be the majestic attraction. A photo-essay depicting sand dunes that I saw in a Swiss Air magazine I found at the Munich airport seemed to serendipitously corroborate my belief that Africa should be my subsequent destination. Yet, memories of my unfinished trip still bothered me. The foreknowledge of several vacuous hours of flight worsened my frustration. I had to study for an upcoming make-up exam on research methods, but I could not gather the strength to go over research design, random sampling or ethical considerations when my experience had been arbitrarily skewed to see that which an artificial portrayal of history imposed on me. Hollywood movies such as Cinderella Man, 16 Blocks, Shaggy The Dog, and 8 Below were featured on that return flight. Not willing to concentrate, I watched some of them, running away from my reality, including that of studying, but mainly avoiding V for Vendetta, what I expected to be a movie with Die Hard tendencies in which an all-American hero turns vengeful to his own system after experiencing the reality of entrapment.

After a few minutes of 16 Blocks, I changed the channel because Bruce Willis was again playing himself, or one of his roles in the Die Hard series, which is basically the same. Flipping through channels, a female British voice seduced me: “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot. I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.” Serendipitously, I found the reconciliation to the frustration that had anguished me.

V for Vendetta is a film, not a movie, about an anarchical concept personified by V, who in turn personifies Guy Fawkes, one of several co-conspirators who attempted to blow up the British parliament on November 5, 1605. V, having been incarcerated and tortured in a dystopic British regime resembling the one of Nazi Germany, plans an exuberant revenge aiming at redeeming not only the Gunpowder Plot of Fawkes, but also the subjected population of his country. An anti-hero superceding the role of any antithesis, V succeeds, making elaborate use of beautiful pyrotechnics, music, and Shakespearean language (For those who may even dare argue that I am condoning terrorism, please see all the early reportage from the Los Angeles and New York times about the Iraq invasion in which photographs depict missile launchings and explosions as beautiful images and use the language of Shakespeare to condone the paradox).

As you can imagine, I loved the film, for its anarchical meaning and because it provided me with the reconciliation I was searching for. After this film, my trip became vindicated. At least vicariously, I was able to blow up all those structures that rendered my trip meaningless and whose arbitrary significance so troubled me—even with awesome fireworks and the great 1812 Overture by Tchaikovsky, which Disney would have probably approved of.

As reality is sinking in, however, I now have to develop the courage to see a film in which Yale frat boys blow up Mayan archeological sites in the name of national security.

Wait a minute! For that I need not wait for a lame screenplay, but simply tune in to reality and move the location from Mesoamerica to Mesopotamia, as such arbitrary imposition of reality is currently happening in Iraq.

(Does anyone want to argue about Terrorism?).