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Des(encanta)miento

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Tha Arcade Fire Windowsill Down To Earth Repair

Anyway.

I know you're writing a letter to me right now. I know it probably won't be that revealing. But hey, I should know by now, times are changing fast and we like to feel more innocent than we really are. We'd like to fly, but we choose unwisely. We protect ourselves and deal with time as if 40 years had passed. We're not impermeable. I know I can't be. I haven't been. But will I?

Should I? Should I really work on a nice letter? Words? By the time we met, times had already changed, babe. Shouldn't we find another way to get our names signed? Probably not. But the truth is: life is changing faster, don't know what's pure and what's not, don't know what my true heart calls for, and if words can suit him still, knowing they never really did.

We Used To Wait

I used to write, I used to write letters I used to sign my name, I used to sleep at night, Before the flashing lights settled deep in my brain But by the time we met By the time we met the times had already changed So I never wrote a letter I never took my true heart I never wrote it down So when the lights cut out I was left standing in the wilderness downtown Now our lives are changing fast Now our lives are changing fast Hope that something pure can last Hope that something pure can last It seems strange How we used to wait for letters to arrive But what's stranger still Is how something so small can keep you alive We used to wait We used to waste hours just walking around We used to wait All those wasted lives in the wilderness downtown Oh we used to wait Oh we used to wait Oh we used to wait Sometimes it never came (Oh we used to wait) Sometimes it never came (Oh we used to wait) Still moving through the pain (Oh) I'm gonna write a letter to my true love I'm gonna sign my name Like a patient on a table I wanna walk again gonna move through the pain Now our lives are changing fast Now our lives are changing fast Hope that something pure can last Hope that something pure can last Oh we used to wait Oh we used to wait Oh we used to wait Sometimes it never came (Oh we used to wait) Sometimes it never came (Oh we used to wait) Still moving through the pain We used to wait for it We used to wait for it Now we're screaming sing the chorus again We used to wait for it We used to wait for it Now we're screaming sing the chorus again I used to wait for it I used to wait for it Hear my voice screaming sing the chorus again

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Dejo de saber cómo se siente ese cuerpo transformado en consistencia, en materia firme y flexible. Dejo de saber cómo se siente la apertura cuando te encuentro y vuelvo y llega el deber. Por hoy quiero dejar de deber. Hoy quiero tener qué atravesar de astillitas, diferencias, consistencias Otras y Otras mías. Hoy quiero mi cuerpo consistente.

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Yo me pregunto:

¿Cómo se llama esa película del niño que no puede comer pizza en toda la película hasta que al final le dan los dos últimos pedazos gratis antes de cerrar el almacén? Bellos colores, la trama no gira en torno a eso, pero un poco sí, claro la pizza representa todo lo demás. El actor una mezcla seguro muy hipster entre Michael Cera y el hermanito de Malcolm. Bonita conversación con el padre en la última escena en el carro sobre la adultez. Pizzas grasosas. Cuál será.

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Para recordar (?)

Que no por delirante debe descartarse el delirio que pretende hacer que la naturaleza se comporte de tal o cual manera. Sino saber, mejor, que los hombres delirantes, todos los hombres, estarán sometidos a la naturaleza de sus delirios.

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Ahora, que de ahí se elija... duda.

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Momento de subte No. 4

Estación de Carranza, 7:00 pm aprox. Saludé al hombre que vende los tiquetes en el subte, Hola, y me saludó de vuelta, Hola, subiendo por un segundo la mirada y sonriendo, alegrado, de vuelta, mientras se concentraba en no perder la idea de lo que tenía que hacer y sus manos se movían rápidamente. Luego me dio el vuelto para un billete de $2 y no de $5. Ay no, momentito, ya te estaba dando mal. Tardó un momento en encontrar la cuenta de lo que hacía falta, pasó las monedas por el puente hueco del vidrio y mientras sonreía nerviosamente, con la cabeza ladeada, ¡¡¡Mi segundo día!!!, con el dedo índice y el corazón arriba, expuestos en el vidrio.

Sonrisa, sonrisa, no hay problema, sonrisa, Adiós. Se me quedaron como en la lengua las palabras: "Buena suerte". Estaba demasiado concentrada comprobando que seguía siendo alguien, que era su segundo día.

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The imagination can transform all sorts of personal insanity into elements of self-invention, and you need to make use of this.

Karl Lagerfeld

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Me encontré con la doble de la Estrella

al abrirse hacia los lados la puerta del ascensor

y yo salía

y ella entraba

a las cuatro de la madrugada

y vi que estaba absolutamente pirada

le pregunté qué había tomado

dijo 6 Valium y Vino Blanco

porque hoy era el último día de rodaje

y le pareció que había que celebrarlo

jodiendo con algún tío del equipo

y colocándose

porque éste era su pueblo

y ella iba a quedarse

mientras nosotros nos íbamos

y la tortura de no ser más que una doble

dejada atrás

en un pueblo en el que le dolía haber nacido

estaba destrozándola ahora

de verdad

y eso hizo que volviera a avergonzarme

de trabajar como actor en una película

y provocar ilusiones tan estúpidas

de modo que me la llevé a mi habitación

sin planes respecto a su cuerpo

y ella se sintió desesperadamente decepcionada

intentó arrojarse por la ventana

y le dije que no valía la pena

no es más que una película estúpida

no tan estúpida, dijo ella, como la vida

1/11/81

Seattle, Wa.

Sam Shepard

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"Such an attractive verb. I must've fallen asleep"

That's for the time I used to be a catholic. The punishment. I used to be a catholic. Now I feel guilty.

Joke.

This pattern recognition in which I'm the surviver constant has ceased to be a small victory. And I'm not talking about death.

Meanwhile, the man sleeps next to me. In the middle there's a cat. (Light of the plasma screens at night: the force between when sunlight is arising la la la.)

There's a pattern—Is there really a pattern?—

Are these —always— going to be the best words ever written?

Horrid mashup between survival and retreat. Addictive when nothing else, I suppose.

The One and Only.

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Anxiety is part of creativity, the need to get something out, the need to be rid of something or to get in touch with something within. —David Duchovny

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Sometimes I feel as if I had to create lots and lots of faces so that I can move on. So that I can fall in love again. Or something like that. As if I couldn't speak about Roberta with anyone else, as if she weren't mine anymore but a public book, something I already gave away. And in a way it is. I don't want to own her, that's her spark, that's what makes her special, she's not me, she's a joke, she's an ironic ambulatory thing. She's mine and she is me. But her joy is to feel aside, different, permitted to use whatever she needs to be happy. But then she is already a topic on love. It's her sense of humor which makes us fall in love. And I wonder as if I were a fashionable object, what I'm I supposed to come up with next? when there's no Barry or Faustus. That personality thing, which was in a beginning a strategy to revive myself for myself only (more or less), would be now tainted, stained. As an abandonment object. And then I worry about depending, always: I think she wouldn't had been absolutely able to come out without a response, without someone who would get her. So that thing about dependence or independence is relative as dependence itself. Too relative.

But the thing is: Why the hell I'm I thinking and wondering, tired, in such an absolutely exhausted way that I don't have any more moves left? Was she a product of that too? I worry also with the thought that Roberta will be one heavy memory one day. How I'm I supposed to have her inside my repertoire when since now I'm trying to solve what I'll do when love passes away. So sad. So sad to think about it everyday in such worried terms. Maybe It'll just change but won't pass away. I don't want it to end. I don't want my people to end. I don't want to exhaust them out either, neither by expanding them to unthinkable spares of time, nor to choke them when they're just fine. Just fine.

Then, I remember the other reason why I don't write these things anymore (besides a bit of embarrassement): you feel as if you've solved it when it's over. And it's not.

Pain.




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It's morning. Loud city doesn't knock. Such a weightless promise, crawls up the walls screaming the watering of cans, the shouting of the scream, the barking of the dogs... are they reasons to remain?
Ash-Wednesday and a cigarette thirst sticks to my throat.
Such a heavy night.

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