*

"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.

*

*

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

*

*

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.




*

*

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.

*

*

4:30 am.


Quiero pasta. O no. Quiero una situación de pasta. Quiero preparar pasta. Quiero estar cocinando. Quiero que sea una hora decente para cocinar. No importa la comida. Lo que quiero es que sea otra hora. Quiero una situación y una cocina. Quiero teletransporte.

*

Todo porque habló de pasta.
Esto me llevó al piso 12 desde donde comíamos pasta. Con vino. La cara roja. Hace años. También me lleva a la pasta de esa cocina desde donde se veían los campos de golf y probamos el linguini. Mis pies no alcanzaban el piso.

*

Qué raro querer tanto un escenario tan específico. Siempre querer estar en otro lugar. Y que ni siquiera sea por la pasta.

*

*

“You know that in all tombs there is always a false door?”
Renisenb stared. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, people are like that too. They create a false door—to deceive. If they are conscious of weakness, of inefficiency, they make an imposing door of self-assertion, of bluster, of overwhelming authority—and, after a time, they get to believe in it themselves. They think, and everybody thinks, that they are like that. But behind that door, Renisenb, is a bare rock..And so when reality comes and touches them with the feather of truth—their true self reasserts itself.”

-Agatha Christie

*

Buenos Aires, el pasto y las manzanas;
la gravedad mientras nada pasa.
¿Qué pasará?
________________________

Hoy no he hecho nada.
Pero muchas cosas se hicieron en mí.

Pájaros que no existen
encontraron su nido.
Sombras que tal vez existan
hallaron sus cuerpos.
Palabras que existen
recobraron su silencio.

No hacer nada
salva a veces el equilibrio del mundo,
al lograr que también algo pese
en el platillo vacío de la balanza.

Roberto Juarroz

Se me ocurre preguntar cómo es posible escribir tanto sin decir “dolor”,”vida”,o “angustia”. Aborrezco esa estúpida deshumanización. Ese actuar sin raíz. Ese horroroso desprendimiento de lo más vital e importante.

…casi lloro porque sentí que también yo había entrado en el engranaje absurdo del trabajo y de los papeles y que me habían robado mi tiempo. Porque después de todo mi tiempo es mío y yo debiera ser dueña de gastarlo y malgastarlo según mis ganas. Quiero decir: me pasé la mañana buscando papeles justificativos para que me dejen robarme el tiempo en paz. La verdad: trabajar para vivir es más idiota aún que vivir. Me pregunto quién inventó la expresión “ganarse la vida” como sinónimo de “trabajar”. En dónde está ese idiota.

…me duele funestamente el corazón. Tanta soledad tanto deseo. Y la familia rondándome, pesándome con su horrible carga de problemas cotidianos. Pero no los veo. Es como si no existieran. Siento, cuando se me acercan, una aproximación de sombras fastidiosas. En verdad, casi todos los seres me fastidian. Quiero llorar. Lo hago. Lloro porque no hay seres mágicos. Mi ser no tiembla ante ningín nombre ni ninguna mirada. Todo es posible y sin sentido.

Ni siquiera ganas de suicidarse sino de dormir y nunca más despertar.

Alejandra Pizarnik

*

"La literatura se parece mucho a la pelea de los samurais, pero un samurai no pelea contra otro samurai: pelea contra un monstruo. Generalmente sabe, además, que va a ser derrotado. Tener el valor, sabiendo previamente que vas a ser derrotado, y salir a pelear: eso es la literatura”.

—Roberto Bolaño

*

*

lamusique y las palabras que no puedo oír, ¿las guardo? ¿se vuelven a archivar hasta la fecha necesaria? 8:47 PM Nov 5th, 2008 from web

*

Aufhebung Aufhebung f

a (=Abschaffung) abolition
[+von Gesetz auch] repeal, rescinding
[+von Vertrag] cancellation, annulment, revocation
[+von Urteil] reversal, quashing
[+von Verlobung] breaking off

b (=Beendigung) [+von Blockade etc] raising, lifting
[+von Beschränkung] removal
[+von Sitzung] closing
[+von Parlament] dissolving

c [+von Widerspruch] resolving, resolution
[+von Schwerkraft] neutralization, cancelling out

d obs (=Festnahme) capture, seizure

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

Neil Gaiman