Sunday, February 08, 2015

UN PARPADEO



Quedan mil pasos más por dar sobre un pavimento suburbano, frío, anónimo, inundado por la lluvia, pero estoy cerca del helador final. Estoy viejo. Me quedo quieto. Sigo quieto. Mis lágrimas resisten la congelación, tan sólo sirven para recordar a mis ojos el frío exterior.

Veo mil ventanas, quizá más, pero para todas y cada uno de ellas me he vuelto invisible. Tus ojos miran a través de las cortinas. Tus ojos miran a través de los cristales empañados. Tus ojos recorren la calle oscura. Tus ojos vagan por el bosque helado, por las nieves del Kilimanjaro. Tus ojos miran a través de curvas universales. Tus ojos ....

Tus ojos desolados buscan a través de vapores de sodio a aquel que jamás frena su marcha. Muchos podrían perfectamente haber susurrado en tu oído, sin embargo nunca el único a quien tanto te gustaría escuchar. Muchos podrían perfectamente haber observado tu mirada, sin embargo nunca el único que tanto te honraría con la suya. Muchos podrían perfectamente haber tocado tu pálida piel, sin embargo nunca  el único que tanto te honraría con su delicado tacto.






Una risa amarga y distante resuena en el ambiente. Llueve, un triste grado separa lo que es lluvia de la nieve. Un frío intenso más allá del contorno de mi abrigo. Un frío intenso más allá de mi sombrero. Mis dedos estarían morados de frío de no haberse recogido, dos puños dentro de los bolsillos. Me siento aún más viejo. Débiles ecos de ladridos, banda sonora para consideraciones en  solitario. Conozco el calor fantasmal de tu persona tras un millar de ventanas a media luz.

Tus ojos miran a través de unas cortinas que suavemente apartas, cual fragante cámara lenta. Una fragancia, un falso recuerdo de tus aromas de almizcle, de jabones de hierbas, lociones y ungüentos revolotea por un instante y se desvanece, disipada por una repentina risa lejana y maliciosa que escucho en mi cabeza y que dice: "¡Qué lamentable espécimen! ¡En qué estado tan lamentable se encuentra! "Es justo entonces cuando soy bendecido con un parpadeo. Un parpadeo construido sobre las ruinas de mi imaginación.

Las ruinas de mi imaginación sustentadas sobre las ruinas de mi memoria.

Un millón de cortinas vuelven a caer, cerrándose como si nunca hubieran osado separase, quedando así el fugaz éxtasis extinguido, un silencio absoluto me atenaza  Me siento años más viejo e inexorablemente  abocado hacia lo sentimental. Cada decisión un paso menos que dar, pero no hay porqué alarmarse, estoy cerca del final, cada decisión una incisión que me agota, una amarga invención que no ofrece salvación ni posible redención.

Querida mía, jamás estuviste aquí, pero el pestañeo de tus párpados sacudió los precarios cimientos de mi invisibilidad. Sigo quieto. De pie, con dificultad, sobre las ruinas de mi imaginación.

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

THE ARUM LILY, PRELUDE TO A THOUGHT



The detritus of a night’s drinking and eating, talk, bad jokes and good laughs, are spilt across the black tablecloth. The music in the background and the guests have long since vanished, taking with them all their noise, their words, their good philosophies, and all their better explanations.  The curtains, blood red velvet, are drawn. Three wine glasses stand together in a little family group, for we were the last to let them rest. Dregs in two, each one is clouded with fingerprints just to prove to me that it all really turned out so marvellously well.


Both of you retired to your bed I do not know how many eons ago, but I am too overtired to sleep so instead I am gazing into nowhere and toying with all those clever retorts that as usual always occur to me too late to be used. I am toying with memories of when there was more future than past in my life, and I know there are thoughts I can escape from, that I can re-educate, and thoughts that will return with exquisite stubbornness. These of this particular moment, I realise, are simply the same as ever they were, but pondered with more pompous vocabulary, a reflection of the company we keep, but I am thinking in words, the prelude to a thought.


A beam of light from some other universe, outside, over there, which I do not wish to investigate, shines at a slight angle through one of the claret stained glasses and throws a dash of sepia tinted infinity across the dark tablecloth, a galaxy for a thought. This is the thought. I am out of myself; I might even be out of body. What then, am I a spectator to?





He is mesmerized but a little sad and at a loss for words. That moment is when the images come. The Arum lily dances here and it dances there. The images are charged with content, contradictory content, juxtapositions of beauty and the not so beautiful, they flow in and out of each other, they are intimate with each other and he appears to be living in a film, or some obscure novel, in a dark corner, in the dark shadows of a stale, empty room, a room that has become a cell delineating the limits of his particular imagination. There are, of course, intrusions from outside, visions, perspectives from outside, from the other side of the drawn curtain, but they are processed inside that skull, his skull, in that dark corner, in that dark cell.

So he understands that this particular instant of imagination is charged with symbols. Simple symbols these, which need no encyclopaedia of symbolism to be interpreted. Simple symbols these, which do not dictate an interpretation such as Freud’s symbolism tended to do. Give the poor man Jung’s free association, simple symbols that fade in and out of understanding as one scene in a film fades into another, as one word is born into a sentence and dies into the paragraph to be assimilated into vague memories of an obscure, half-forgotten novel, a novel born again as a script for this incoherent film of a slice of life.


I am myself again, of course and, of course, nothing is quite as complicated as simple things, simple thoughts. It is impossible to explain beauty, you simply point it out. Beauty seems simple. Beauty might well be different for each and every viewer, but, to each and every one of them it is beautiful. The reasons behind the drive to destruction, the desire to sully beauty, are seemingly complicated. Reams of treatises have been dedicated to finding an explanation, to finding an excuse to excuse humanity its irrevocable attraction towards destruction. Behind every drawn curtain, mine, yours, a hundred, millions, under every burning light bulb, mine, yours, a hundred, millions, there is beauty, but the beast has hidden itself in the shadows, just to afford beauty the delicacy it needs to become sublime.

In the blink of an eye.