Non mortale quod opto 4
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*
(In a dark lake, surrounded by white sand, not far from the lawn of Sabrina's beach house, the moon metallicized the waters. K and Beatriz couldn't wait, and before they even saw the sandy shores, full of dwarf palm trees, they began to mutter, muttering, whether any of them, deep down, belonged to Sabrina's subversive band or to a mere complicity with a strange night, where the foliage hid the moon and no one could see what they were doing or thinking. The obsidian mirror of the lake, at that hour, gave them back an unusual image of themselves: Beatriz was unexpectedly disheveled, feeling like a pirate, and seeing lights that flickered on and off in the sand and also on the dark water of the lake, while thinking in those ancient words of an Argentine writer: "THERE ARE IN THE LAGOON REFLECTIONS OF THE MOON, QUIETNESSES THAT ONLY KNOW THEM. OBSIDIAN’’)
K
(thinking: "She asks me silent questions with her eyes and participates a little in what I say mentally, not listening to my answers, watching me drain the moonlight in a surprising emptiness where I am never completely clean to be loved. She herself is a frightened bubble, not feeling like she can exist for long in these conditions, like in a bathtub dirty with strangers where one would have to undress and make abrupt contact.")
BEATRIZ
(thinking: THE CONCLUSION IS ALWAYS PESSIMITIC, FREELY EXTRACTED FROM THE CIRCUMSTANCES, LIKE A TOOTH. A PAINFUL IMAGINATION, THEN, AND HE REMAINS SILENT. THEY, MINUTE BELIEVERS. THIS PETRIFIES ME IN A SOLIDITY WITHOUT ANY ACCESS. DO THEY KEEP LOOKING AT ME THROUGH THE CAMERAS?. PRETENDED ASSUMPTIONS UNFLATE, TERRIBLY TRUE. A VIBRATING AND AWKWARD SUFFERING. EMPATHETIC WORK, EVERYTHING ARRANGABLE HANGING ON REVISIONS, INSTRUCTED IN THEIR OWN LIE, SHIVERING SURVIVALS THAT ONLY INCREASE THE SUDDENNESS OF EVERYTHING REMEMBERED)
K
ResponderExcluir(only for the fear that it will dissolve into the frustrated space of before, without filling the course of a better mixture with faint hopes)
Does each moment become a future? A certain frivolity manifesting itself in giving importance to the foam of life, its loose meanings casting a shadow where nothing can be reinvigorated, so much so that people waste themselves pointlessly. Eyes like large drops floating on the mirrored coming of mute speech. And an awakening of the will. Then: tranquility. Life a vibrating of something, a capacity, recommending a quiet manner, summarizing itself, breathing, recapitulating itself. Somewhat behind in time, a state of a perfume of my de-self, the past. Besides, isn't it true that the more one loves, the more one understands --- the opacity of the other, whether in love or in politics, is not at all the screen of a secret, but a kind of evidence, in which the play of appearances experiences a mystical movement of "licking one's own feet." Not being able to undo the entire enigma there, let it be said straight away.
BEATRIZ
(muttering)
ABRUPTLY SILENT, having thus laid out the essential?
K
ResponderExcluir(giving the impression he was being stung by a---)
An enthusiasm for appearances that is pure specter, in what lies between the walls, in an empty room, of the happenings of a table, of windows, of the possibility of a bathroom, a kitchen, a sofa, of sleeping among pillows, casting a drowsy glance at the shelves, where the possibilities of books, of crypts typed for centuries awaiting the entry of untrained eyes, and also of an empty scene, behind which the invisible, like a brain, whispers unconscious actions, involuntary, minimal movements, of slightly uncrossed legs, bending knees, sliding a finger on a cell phone.
BEATRIZ
Don't you think something's missing, K?
K
ResponderExcluirThere's always something left behind, indeed. Recapitulation is a never-ending exercise. However, by reliving the unconscious events of the past and assimilating them into the living force of our vital machinery, we must avoid the morbid sensation of the "winter wind in the abandoned castle," the "daydream of what never returns," and the "weariness of the accomplished fact, the pain brought on by the interruption of all habitual movement, the abrupt cessation of a prolonged vibration" (to use Flaubert), because this is merely psychoanalysis, not nagualism.
Indeed, this sub-imagined block of the past you refer to is structural, and has remained untouched until now because it is the period in which most of my latest books were written, from the end of 2017 until now. When a certain epiphany occurred.
BEATRIZ
Epiphany?
K
Exactly, EPIPHANY. Returning to the bars and clubs of Rio Vermelho.
BEATRIZ
Oh, I suspected as much.
K
ResponderExcluirThat's when I returned to live in the same apartment, in the same room I lived in in Rio Vermelho, in that condominium, twenty years ago (1997-2017). The table was in the same position where I read, highlighting Nietzsche's books, and made lists of words to look up in the dictionary, while reading Baudelaire's The Flowers of Evil --- and all this after lunch, between school and afternoon swimming practice at the Athletic Association in Barra. So, there I was again: now there was a punching bag in the room, and I, after a long time, had swapped cigarettes for a pipe, which gave me extra breathing space while I organized my poems for publication. One night, however, I was overcome by a mad urge to go out, after five years of writing in near seclusion at my grandparents' house in Ondina. I only went out to beaches and restaurants, with my cousins and uncles. I wandered ridiculously through shopping malls, searching for bookstores.
As soon as I set foot on the street, on my way to Praça da Dinha, I realized I had forgotten "how to do it" (laughs). Imagine: me, the greatest "soloist" of the Juiz de Fora nightlife for five years running! My first impression was that my assemblage point had moved to an excessively introspective and dejected position, due to smoking and writing in recent years; and despite continuing to train hard, I no longer had the "crazy powers" --- the elemental powers ---, family life, well-behaved entertainment and daily contact with the media had operated a severe resocialization in me, to the point that I no longer remember my own behavior (or should I say performance?) from five or six years ago, when I would burst in with an icy naturalness and ease among the groups of girls and playboys at Privillége, Cultural Bar JF and Bar da Fábrica, in JF, and "caused" in a few minutes of "performance", I would become the telepathic center of the alcoholic night, advancing and retreating according to the music, and moving towards me entire blocks of hotties available for scorching flirtations.
ExcluirSure enough, I lit a cigarette (I'd decided to smoke only on the street, to calm myself) and continued, with a hesitant step, unsure of where I was going. I had a few beers in Praça da Dinha, but it wasn't what I was looking for, nor was it what was making me anxious. Perhaps I'd left home too early, and the trendy bars were still empty. The sun had blurred the early evening horizon, and at the table, surrounded by beer drinkers from various states and countries, I was vaguely delirious, calculating the composition of the alcoholic substances being ingested everywhere, the atmospheric events taking place at that moment, the quality of the nearby properties and their rent, the muscular build of some girls sitting far away or passing quickly by me, and the lice-ridden capillarity of the beggars selling filthy twisted wires on the square's ground. In short, a state almost of existential coma immobilized me at that table, narrowing the perspectives of the lonely night to such an extent that, twice, I got up to leave, and when the waiter approached with the bill, I simply said that I wanted to go to the bathroom.
ExcluirFor another two hours, I remember sinking into myself, in a state of attention that inflamed my consciousness as all that acute sensoriality around me filled my nerve centers with indications of the immediate energetic improvements I needed to advance my endeavors. Already (despite all my recent dilapidation) a consummate Toltek, I attributed all that paralysis to the presence of the inorganic beings that had "aided" me in the political-literary adventure of recent years, thinking they wouldn't help me now, in an adventure of such a radically different nature that it would deprive them of my energy. The energy compacted in the texts now had to be compacted back into my body so I could "act" again, which would break that "pact." An urgent "stalking shock" was necessary at that moment. It was precisely when I believed I had suddenly activated within myself an entire block of experiences from the past, and illuminated a series of luminous filaments within my energetic egg, because the silent certainty of what I should do immediately annihilated in one fell swoop all my torpor of hours at that dead table, and I soon felt my nervous system "accelerate" crazily ---
Excluira non-discursive clarity injected an unexpected self-propulsion into my limbs, and those strange sensations of heaviness and paralysis that had accumulated within me began to explode, filling me with an uncontrollable urge to laugh. The years-old practice made itself felt, and I realized I was still energetically very malleable. It wasn't long before that voice inside my head appeared: "LET'S START BOLDLY, TO SKIP SOME STEPS." The next thing I knew, I was standing in the doorway of a nearby Hawaiian bar-restaurant, where a surf band had attracted a small, young crowd thirsty for gin and basil. So many pretty, young girls, dressed up for a party! I don't remember what time it was, nor did it matter. At the table, I only realized the miracle I had performed when the gin led me to examine in detail the "political part" of the adventure --- because otherwise it was not possible to experience it, except as an adventure (although it is something relatively simple, going into a bar and sitting at a table, the truth is that doing this alone for a long time, in a bustling bar, is often difficult, if not impossible, for the vast majority of people.
ExcluirFrom what I've observed over the years, anyone who places themselves in public in a blatant situation of social isolation immediately experiences various types of psychological pressure, both internal and external. Apparently, the initial ominous uneasiness is entirely due to the scrutiny of the surrounding eyes on their intimately insecure and frightened "presentation," for the first collective thought about a loner is that they've been "abandoned by everyone." Very well, if this initial impact is not absorbed and transmuted immediately, with all those shamanic charm tricks, two things usually happen: either the ominous restlessness grows so deep within that the person gets up and leaves dejected, or the feeling of being hung on a cross, into which the public drives a new nail with every glance, takes hold permanently, like a cancer, penetrating the solitary soul like auger, and desperately accelerating the consumption of alcohol, until their pupils disappear into the erased sclera and they are no longer able to face the scene, which begins to grow in their head like a monster of social hallucination. Wouldn't it have been better to leave?).
ExcluirContinue in one minute
ExcluirHow my soul breathed a sigh of relief then, throughout that night of drunken Hawaiian turbulence—not so much because of the erotic quality of the night itself (a successful party, like those at several other spots in Rio Vermelho), but rather because of the very fact of liberation through the bohemian restart (which we understand here technically as a profound movement of the assemblage point—of perception). I didn't perform any epic feat there, beyond the amusing lingering as a participant observer until three in the morning; however, with each passing minute, the magical feeling of the avenue of possibilities I had courageously reopened for myself, blocked as it had been for so long, after a hellish sequence of traumas and dangers, since the time of the investigation, the mining, the escape, deepened within me. How the Rio Vermelho neighborhood had transformed since I had left in 1998.
ExcluirThe main block, in my adolescence, was limited to the bars of Praça da Dinha, and the street lighting was poor. We wandered in hordes of troubled playboys, always with a bottle of tequila under our arms and cigarettes and joints in our pockets. The girls were always the same, the ones from our own street, the ones from school. There weren't a few, but they were always the same, already somewhat stigmatized for having dated this or that guy for a while. And now: THIS! About forty restaurants, dozens of bars and clubs open all night, and a nonstop Carnival-like flow through the streets, Monday to Monday. "Sade, we've never had anything like it! Lautreamont, we've never had anything so good!"
ExcluirBEATRIZ
ResponderExcluir(Now, leaning on the arm of a beach chair, which K had brought from Sabrina's house --- thinking perhaps more than listening --- the sound of the sea, the shape of her lips, her face like a magic mirror, in which K saw reflected the scenes he remembered --- nights of irresistible attraction)
I remember that in Amy Wallace's book (always her, how charming!) she puts in Castaneda's mouth a revealing confusion about the relationship between tantra and dreams: "Carlos led a group of readers to follow his first 'dreaming' exercise, to find their hands while they slept. ("Actually," Carlos told me, "it was my penis that Don Juan asked me to find, but my publisher wouldn't let me publish it.")
Perhaps you would do better, in trying to explain or recap this period, by telling us about dreams, premonitions, direct intuition and psychomagnetism, and the whole range of “silent virtues” that Toltek practice provides to the hardened seeker of mental powers.
Excluir(Here, Beatriz narrowed her eyes to breathe better --- K was watching her closely, intently, and could almost make out, behind her eyelids, the small golden rays surrounding her pupils, which she seemed to be "feeding" on at that moment)
Undoubtedly, one can only say that there is tantra from the moment the city of dreams begins to produce semi-conscious and/or lucid nocturnal erections during sleep --- it is the sign that the emotional body has been extinguished and its chaotic energies reabsorbed by the volitional center, which now commands actions at all levels. Therefore, nothing is more pertinent than the man who sits at a bar table and "sleeps," since moving the assemblage point, whether with eyes open or closed, lying down or standing, speaking or mute, is "being asleep."
The phantasmagoria prolonged on one plane invades the other, and so naturally that the most striking and improbable "coincidences" sound like a perfectly acceptable dynamic of reality. Everything blurs beyond a certain point, like passing clouds---the "wind of the nagual" is triggered like swirling desires in a subtle wave of electricity that spreads through the senses, rushing like a wild animal over all the reckless empiricism of everyday reality.
ExcluirK
ResponderExcluir(running his left hand over his face, as if pinched)
Continuing then: the old and now-defunct Tropos bar, on the way to Praça da Dinha, served as an outpost for me into the open sea of Rio Vermelho's all-young clubs --- it was there that, for the first time, I had the first glimpse that perhaps I was a "public persona"; that I (unfortunately for me, who loves anonymity and discretion) was no longer a mere "facebook celebrity" locked in my room, and that a good portion of people, at night, realized that everything I wrote and posted on the internet was immediately "considered" in a wave that went from the White House and the Pentagon to the world's largest stock exchanges and governments and celebrities around the world, including those at the local level, since participant observation of street police and other motorized public services was already permanent and, often, incisive (I am even grateful to some of them, because of past events).
All this (however) contributed to my feeling of being immersed in a world of souls tormented by political and financial hallucinations that were essentially advertising-based, that is, empty, filled with a morbid imagination for every pose that signified gain or social advantage --- from New York and Washington to Salvador and Juiz de Fora, a kind of global provincial mediocrity, derived from the furrows of self-reflection and self-expression of the internet and the media, seduced and exasperated at the same time every scene in the streets and bars, in any public place, and even in private, revealing in its entirety a collective existence of nervous and emotional clashes in which the illusions lost by the minute were ruminated in chats suddenly improvised to try to save the minimum of appearances, reduced, by the bubbling of a blood poisoned by disidence and wounded pride, to a thin skin about to crumble in the empty air of the night.
ExcluirAnd it's with difficulty that I return to the nights at Tropos here—almost across from the Hawaiian restaurant where it all began. The Argentine waiter, a River Plate fan, had a beard and wore glasses, and directed his black colleague's movements from a distance, yelling at him constantly to "just mind your own business," as the bar had been getting very crowded in recent weeks. The Tropos crowd was anything but young: the occasional UFBA studio apartment noblewoman would come there to spoil her mixed-race youth by smoking one straw cigarette after another, and sometimes they'd threaten our ears with an out-of-tune guitar and Gilberto Gil choruses. I must have gone and stayed at Tropos until late at night six weekends in a row, watching the pretty girls pass by, until I plucked up the courage to brave the hard-core club at Bar-bitúrico, where they usually went. And I would have wasted even more time, if on my last night there I hadn't had a complete "stalking shock": I had been training harder and harder at home, and suddenly my physique became so sculpted that, I don't know, from one moment to the next I got up from the table and went to smoke and drink shirtless, in front of the entire bar, which was packed again.
ExcluirSoon, the atmosphere became almost unbearably tense, as my depiction that at any moment a car or motorcycle would pass by, spewing bullets in my (our) direction was distressing and terribly convincing. I crouched behind parked cars, turned sharply in every direction, insinuated with my eyes that the short circuits in streetlights were caused by my mental powers, stared at bad actors passing by drunk or high—it was absolutely impossible to stop looking at me, and it wasn't for ten or fifteen minutes, but for two or three hours straight that I gave myself over to it (I was no longer able to break character). On an inconceivably larger scale, during the 2020 Carnival, this performance would be repeated, in front of Camarote Salvador, with the entire media present.
ExcluirAt home, later, lying in bed, I laughed nonstop, convulsively, telling myself I'd never have the courage to go back to Tropos. And I certainly didn't: the following week, I started the night a few blocks away, at a bar called Fronteira, on Largo da Mariquita. From there, I went straight to Bar-bitúrico, which by eleven was already packed, and I was drunk, which soothed my nervousness that I easily blended in among all those hotties. However, to my astonishment, I realized that there in that environment I was, if not completely anonymous and unknown, at least secret and rarely discussed. At that moment of the night, the vaporous, stale air of all that youth had induced me to gaze vaguely at everything, until I found the "lady of the night" in whom my desires for voluptuousness would coalesce to revive, in a still contraction of my entire being, my warm blood.
ExcluirThe Bar-bitúrico was really crowded on the ground floor, and only an hour later, standing with a beer in hand, dazed by the flow of hotties appearing and disappearing instantly, did I notice a dance floor on the second floor, where a kind of sonic earthquake was happening. The music, I realized with some effort, was basically funk or something called brega-funk in Bahia. And until that moment, everything had still been reduced to a practically indiscernible mass of faces and bodies passing by and being replaced by others, which made everything very unfunctional for me --- I felt a bit rusty with this new dynamic of interaction, if there even was one. Sweating profusely, I lost myself in conjecture, considering that tantra was fruitless in such a depersonalized and noisy environment, where the girls seemed to have no soul and what mattered to a guy was to throw himself into their midst and "pick up everyone", indiscriminately, like "Who's alone? I'm alone!", which gave me a nauseating feeling of something repetitive and endless---there, no particular interest was fixed for more than a minute, and no sexual fire could be cultivated with imagination and eroticism.
ExcluirThen, finally, after making, unmaking, and remaking the statue of the lady in the crystal of courtly procrastination dozens of times, the first SHE appeared, the first SHE capable of lasting long enough before me to dispel the indiscernible fog in my head: I immediately began to repel the appeal of the others in order to concentrate on stimulating my sense of unique opportunity, since the girl's thoughts, at that moment at least, seemed to come to me continuously. SHE was tall, blonde, with recently cut shoulder-length hair, exceedingly white, a pretty face, a beauty mark on the side of her mouth, toned calves, and above all, she had the air of someone who had been a regular at the bar for a long time and saw in me a strange kind of "newness."
ResponderExcluirAn absolutely repulsive series of flirtatious phrases came to mind, which, with some effort of sobriety, I mentally discarded, one by one, until HER friend—they seemed to be talking off the record about me, there three steps away—came up to me to borrow my lighter and asked if I was alone. She was perfectly friendly, and we chatted for a bit while savoring the first drags of her cigarette—I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, as I couldn't take my eyes off HER, who was patiently waiting for her friend. SHE didn't come over to us, as I expected, and just before she returned, I ended up letting slip a fragment of one of those damned flirtatious phrases: I asked about HER, said SHE was "very hot," or an "exotic babe," some nonsense like that, and her friend kind of grimaced, then laughed at me and left; minutes later, the two of them went up to the dance floor—I had no choice, I went up too after giving them a few minutes' head start.
ResponderExcluirThe staircase was pitch-black, graffitied with colorful phosphorescence, at the end of which a filigreed plastic curtain swayed. I passed through the curtain and found myself in a different crowd than on the ground floor. People were scattered in circles of four or five, smoking and dancing, barely flirting with one another. The comparison came to me as a clarity of immediate sensations, in the extended perspective that this kind of order gave to the girls' bodies and faces. Lights flickered on the ceiling, emanating from the mirrored globes, and my feelings grew more impure by the minute. I wasn't even yet busy searching for HER, and I felt predestined to a silent and reserved vocation of ecstatic absorption of sensoriality, a classificatory voluptuousness of carnal qualities.
ResponderExcluirIt wasn't difficult to relive the old days of Juiz de Fora, remaining as still and sphinx-like as a mirror, perhaps radiating an icy, discreet charm, with which I easily stood out from the tormented hustle and bustle of the bad boys who were the norm there. With almost invisible smiles at the corners of my mouth, I pleased and attracted some girls who seemed to be seeking more serene platforms to distill their vaguely danceable charm. Others there were certainly quivering with unsatisfied exhibitionist desires, furiously shaking and gyrating their sweaty bodies, angrily hiding a heart revolted by intimate torments that suddenly emerged in curses, grimaces, brusque gestures, and random antipathies toward those around me. And I must admit: these images delighted me too; these chaotic expanses that seemed to demand animalistic sex, and whose consolation was only the immersion in a mad dance. Yes, they looked incredible to me: for a long time I couldn't take my eyes off them.
ResponderExcluirBEATRIZ
ResponderExcluir(smiling --- thinking: ‘’Won’t he love someone?, who?, well, me!’’ --- looking first for the structure of perversion, the potential for hesitation in bodies)
A pure spirit huh?, how glorious!, on the way to “non-existent” entities. And how many mime-mimic dilemmas per minute, reflected in the postures and ambiguities of the bodies. According to Deleuze, In the Logic of Sense: ''Already in Des Forêts's novel, which placed a chatty voyer on the scene, SEEING designated a very special operation or contemplation: pure vision of reflections that multiply what they reflect and that give the voyer a more intense participation than if he experienced these passions directly, whose double or whose reflection on the countenances of others he now pursues''. Let’s say this was the level of ‘’abstract talent’’ that counted for you at that moment, right? So, tantra became the structure and raison d´être sine qua non of everything in his life.
K
ResponderExcluirPerhaps, but here I'm still dealing with the recreation of my universe through the bars and nightclubs of Rio Vermelho---the creation of "elective zones" in the neighborhood where I lived, in Salvador, as if Rio Vermelho were a large, spectral female body, a Venus, and the state of my sexual drives, which found in it a "source of energy." The object of each erogenous zone was still vaguely PROJECTED (a surface operation, with surface data), while the neighborhood's own erogenous zones (Venus-Rio Vermelho, or Yemanja-Aphrodite) were gradually CUT OUT on the surface of the city's moonlit body. To continue with Deleuze's Logic of Sense: "Each zone is the dynamic formation of a surface space around a singularity constituted by the 'orifice' and extendable in all directions until the vicinity of another zone", making up a 'serial development' capable of providing the sexual drive with the investment of the entire territory, converted into a tantric mechanism of the 'electrical connection' type.
That is why, in this brief introduction, I must only mention each erogenous zone in the Venus-Yemanjá, body-without-organs-of-Rio-Vermelho territory, to make visible the rapid serial chaining (of the type of chakras ignited by kundalini) that resulted in the horrible tantric nirvana that I want to describe here, this before the characters involved take the floor and begin to “denounce” each other to the “spirits” (inorganic allies), who for five long years presided over the dark ritual of my life there.
ResponderExcluirWell, there's no rush to recap the events. At Fonteira, where I started my evenings after Tropos, a thicket of neon tubes flickered on the ceiling and inside the bar with a kind of cheerful electricity, although I preferred to sit at the tables outside, where I could watch the Bahian soccer teams play and catch a glimpse of the female flow between the bars on Cira do Acarajé and those in Vila Caramuru, between which Fronteira was located. I still needed to drink before facing the clubs, because until I wet the bottle, the dryness caused by the tension in my trembling lips gave my face something stupid and supporting, and my back stiffened horribly, my neck too, it was irritating and uncomfortable --- just two or three bottles later, I became entirely capable of transforming the images of the street into partial objects equipped with VOICE and LOOK, into sudden apparitions whose noises and flashes gave me a depraved voluptuousness.
ResponderExcluirIt didn't take long for my presence at Fronteira to be noticed. And it's not always pleasant, when you realize you're already being expected there, in the same old spot: people set their faces with inquisitive and recriminatory expressions, even without knowing why, as if asking themselves: "So, what does he want this time?" or simply: "Again, huh? Look at him there!" and they begin to speculate about your bank account and your life outside of there, and soon your phone is hacked and your social media accounts snooped on daily. So, that's what happened to me, and it was the beginning of my strange reputation as a mystical writer and venomous political rhetorician at the local level, since, subliminally, the media and governments around the world had been following my online "activities" for at least five years. However, being famous in real life, within a real living space, where everything is talked about, replied to, questioned, offended, where everything moves abruptly and happens unpredictably, is much more complicated, and dangerous, than being a Che Guevara in an apartment.
ResponderExcluirAnd in terms of bars, Fronteira was where I first experienced this. The dynamic of apprehension there revealed itself to be a constant pattern, one that would be reproduced on an unimaginable scale after the 2020 pandemic --- it always began with and by the waiters, especially when the band was already playing, and they quickly realized that I often functioned as a completely apathetic and impassive center of attraction and seduction, working imperceptibly to attract the pretty girls at the party, yet never taking any concrete action, endlessly delighting in the growing illusory sensation of odalisques dancing and chatting around me, often "about me." Their reactions always varied greatly, ranging from confused and surprised empathy with what I was doing telepathically to silent revolt that twisted the nerves in their faces and forced them to utter, in an incredulous murmur, some obscene imprecations.
ResponderExcluir
ResponderExcluirI don't remember staying at the Fronteira past eleven o'clock even once, but I'm sure it happened at least two or three times---I must have just had too much to drink to remember. And if it did happen, it was certainly because the nightclub's band managed to produce in the clientele that rare nervous exaltation I always sought and only found in the nightclubs and bars with dance floors, three blocks away; in these, by the way, yes, obeying the impulse of a soul behind my consciousness, I would come to guide the series of successive dalliances with all the subconscious figures of desire and imagination, replacing the objects of desire I kept at a distance, there at the Fronteira, with partial objects introjected or projected, in close collaboration with my sexual drives. And by establishing myself solidly on this unquestionable basis of alcoholism (arriving at Fronteira at 7:00 p.m., and drinking non-stop until 11:00 p.m., I continued drinking even more at other events that night, until four or five in the morning), it was not a relationship of sensitive qualities with real objects of desire patiently formed by a stale Platonism, as is common,
what I privileged there was the instantaneous, ghostly channeling of desires for girls sitting nearby or an passant (the “pieces”) and the tantric and meditative totalization of my relationship with them --- this “truth” written by landscapes of memory and dream, visualization and clairvoyance, spectral hallucination and voices inside the head, from the immobile and meditative impassivity, from the purely abstract ideality of the “event” (the “waiting” for that which, according to Deleuze: “Is already in the process of resulting and which never finishes resulting”, and which is nothing more than a “luminous rudiment of art”, or of a “Beginning of art”, or even, according to Heidegger: “Just a poem beginning”).
ExcluirSomething that, without a doubt, through sparkling bursts of sensoriality and meaning, predisposed my entire being to the plenitude of aesthetic ideas that would emerge during the week, in my room, between my papers and coffees; recapitulation, dreaming, spontaneous resurrections of memory and tantra --- conducting elements integrated into the field of the alchemical "work" of art, the "taste of the Madeleine resurrecting Combray", etc.
ExcluirThe path between Fronteira and Hemodélico, just three blocks long, had for me, however, a flavor of “lasting decades,” since I had to pass in front of the street of my old school, ETA (Tomás de Aquino School), which is Canal Street --- there, mixed with all those dark emanations of a poorly made sewer, which a precarious public lighting somberly veils, the atmosphere was always charged with old adolescent ghosts of street fights, sexual disputes, drunkenness and drugs, which the miasmas and stench of the intersection in front soaked in the sticky heat under my clothes, in a trance of toxic marginal tropicalism whose sensation from decades ago resurfaced, in that interdimensional walk,
ResponderExcluirwith a mnemonic scintillation that flirted endlessly with the electrifying joy of a time not only rediscovered, but also reconquered, where, beyond every associative and comparative mechanism, I had come to settle with my body and directly revive with a nirvanic-orgiastic impetus several times greater than that of the past, even that of the being-in-itself-of-the-past (which, in a Proustian way, also appeared in that “always,” whose jívico-noetic rays will fill the next pages)
ExcluirContinue in other post!
ResponderExcluir