Count the present days until today arrives (ANONYMOUS DISEMBARKATION)
Michel Foucault,
Peeking at the Coming Day
in "Dits et Écrits I
""Proust led his story to the moment it begins, with the liberation of regressed time, which allows it to be narrated. Thus, the absence of the work, inscribed in a void throughout the text, charges it with everything that makes it possible and already makes it live and die in the pure moment in which it is born."
(we had left the enormous book territory of Spain, where - after 'Quijote' had revealed its soul, inducing it to Promethean self-immolation in the fire of the mad and passionate idealism of freedoms before the excessive Reason of State to plead for its resurrection in the world of symbols, it made the real world evaporate from life in the FOG of the continued metaphor of madness -, ah, where people continued to read and write more than in France, to respond to an illustrious invitation (although I suspect I was invited by mistake) from the great Argentine writer E. Gallego Morell, to gather in the supposedly null (or neutral, so as not to seem boring) space of the second edition of that exotic International Literary Festival which, appealing to a landscape of paradisiacal beaches and world surfing championships, followed by pleasant happy hours in colorful streets of bars and hotels, strove by the strength of talking hairstyles for a circuit of cultured conversations capable of improvising, who knows, an attractive comedy of self-promotional flirtations whose consent, tacitly summarized, comprised the entire seduction of those who, having turned reading into a constant passion, had compacted into the writing of their sellable books a whole world of dynamic, profitable, mobile, lively appearances --- a whole airport clamor radiated from the banners and billboards, scattered along the road of coconut trees and beaches to the center of the small town, in a surfing Indian language that invited secret complicity with the colors and loves of the local rite of life --- The next day, a gray morning woke me and, sitting on the veranda of the house, with my newly published book of poetry open on my lap, I wondered with each sip of coffee, while the caffeine illuminated my eyes with the brightness of the sea beyond, if each reader of my book of poems was also a poet --- from Public Relations to Intimate Relationships, what was influence and what was confluence? --- "Here is the shapeless territory where the syncopated spirit tries to climb God and the stone", the journalists, the second-hand bookstore, the stands selling books and colloquiums; later and prolonged tourist bohemia there where the reduced matter of the verses still compressed a certain fantastical intensity of consciousness, manifesting the machine of lyrical pain over the already rarefied pain of the street rejoicing at night in the dresses fluttering in the wind ---
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--- In me, still at that moment a modest fire of sanity, of habits of mild expectation, absolutely in possession of my own domain, the one from which my poems always emerged ready, from which initial phrases that weren't even poetic emerged transfigured, apt for themselves, the last survivors of an absurd and perishable world --- Body and Star, in parallel, receiving the space of the small tropical city and its vision in the form of an incognito daily life of a mystery --- sometimes, to write, I would dedicate an extra hour of the morning to fried eggs, to a cheese frittata, something like that; lucid, cruel, healthy always --- and then I would replace the first coffee with a glass of wine, as soon as the sun rose over the sea --- I would look at myself in the mirror: "How do I look?, very worn?, dark circles under my eyes?" --- the writer friend (one of them, I knew) never used all his honesty with me, when asked directly; did he see me perhaps as jealous? , predisposed to ridiculous little social revenges? ---
ResponderExcluir---- If he knew better than anyone what I liked and disliked in life, especially in public, he could very well, with a minimum of effort, light up my face with tact, tell me about a table at the bistro reserved for two, after the first night of conversations, recall some success of mine as worthy of pontificating in a rich and long conversation --- In fact, proudly, I decided I didn't need any of that to light up a little more in the mirror before my own eyes, before going out for a walk with my travel friends, thinking about that evening meeting at Larimer (the bar village in the city's hotel center), full of foreign tourists chatting in that monumental space of life, with the movement of expensive cars and elitist tropical charm ---
ResponderExcluir--- My book came there with me, carried by the wind of destiny, intimately conversing with me about thousands of things: the future, love, the subtle and instant happiness sought with the simple sight of it in the mornings, every morning, with or without morning exercises or cigarettes, all the accumulated wear and tear of the soul threatening to be undone by a sudden internal movement of complicity with life and its defects --- because I was already tired of living invoking all the things of life together, I could no longer bear to sleep and wake up with the impression of an indissoluble and emotionally secure Whole, breathing the characteristic smell of an exemplary library where, through a slow and heavy gait...)
ResponderExcluirEnd here!
ResponderExcluir