5 jun. 2010

Recuerdos de un viaje

Cada sonrisa es un lago y cada sabor un mar, cada cambio de ropa y cosita de casa un hermoso ancla bien colocado en este exótico lugar. La mariguana ebulle de la tierra, se siente cómoda en este aire. Se desliza en mi pensamiento como una sombra de mar helado reconfortante. Hace las paces con el calor y lo tiñe todo de encanto. Lo entumece todo a un teatro. Los vínculos se aprietan al alejarse los extermos de la cuerda del nudo. El descanso es simultáneo a la aventura.

I don't want to know what home is. It really is socks under the kitchen talbe. It really is falling asleep watching TV on the leather couch. It really is nobody but yourself. I want to drive these circles faster to convince myself that life is bigger. That someone is out there, ready to make it small and delicious. But it is neither big nor small nor delicious. It trembles in a state of being nothing but staleness.

And in a flash of encapsuled experience (energy of past centuries) life brushes into the house; tranquility, indifference, strength in being sturdy. Loving myself to be loved later, healthy and like a spark. I can wander and wonder and am safe and have no concerns but for my own soft, precious skin of my moment.

Death and ghosts we drag around could ruin it all for me. Life is so filled with death. Time is so filled with deserts. Silence is the loudest companion. What is subtle and boisterous becomes the same. The pen feels broken in some places. The only pleasure in this world is in filling voids, in lighting up dark libraries. Fear and little, little pieces of carpet and bottle and blanket occupy a room that needs little else to be forgotten.

No. Mejor díganme ustedes. Presúmanme. Susurren secretos. Véanme. No hay nada más que yo en esto; y en ustedes, consciencia de blanco fluyendo. Condensación de no color, enseñanza de todo horizonte. Encapsuled vessel from no time and no place.

Uno lo mira. El otro vacila. Hay papelitos en el viento, arena opaca y mucho sol. Adentro hay túneles y selva. Hay cinco cabecitas y una pipa enre ramas y agua... "Hay también vacas voladoras, colores de todo tipo. Un rinoceronte parado en una pata sobre un árbol, los pájaros alrededor cantando, (silbando), jugando el juego del amor. Una guitarra nace de la tierra y Cape empieza a tocarla. Pato se malviaja y vuelve a enterrar la guitarra. Desesperado por su porro, Pol corre a la fogata de los muros. Adriana lee esto. Melisa lo imagina..."

El hombre que se columpia se caerá de la hamaca. Sus sueños no lo duermen más. Esta mañana, será difícil despertar para ver el amanecer.

We fill the tops of the cieling with smoke. Do you want to ride in the canoe? It's been a while since I took it out. The wood may be a bit discolored.

If I want, I can cry only a little. I'm every day more myself. With every curve of the highway.

I don't know if that old child is me. Every day, I think I am more and more like the river, never the same water, running always away from its origin towards a suicidal colectiveness of ocean. On the nights I cannot sleep, am I not like the forgotten river?

By only blinking, the world has created itself. And I.

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