Sobre los trenes

Una vez me senté mirando a la estacion de tren, y vi los trenes pasar uno tras otro.
Me llamó la atención los pasajeros angustiados, apurados, más allá del frío y el calor.

Algunas personas, quizás por más ancianas o porque el tiempo les sobra, decidían no subirse a los trenes demasiado cargados.
Así que esperaban.

Esperaban viendo pasar frente a sus rostros a sus compañeros,
cuyas caras se transformaban con el correr de los metros, a medida que se alejaban del andén.

Algunas personas dejaban pasar un tren tras otro,
quién sabe por qué,
quizás el confort de la parada era demasiado,
pero no se daban cuenta
que algúnos trenes pasan más rápido que otros
y algúnos llegan una vez,
y nunca más.

Quizás no se subían por miedo a un accidente,
quizás temían el choque,
esa fusión inmanente del alma con el universo,
un beso furtivo, un nuevo negocio, la aventura.

Sin embargo imagino que hay otra clase de personas,
algúnas que se suben a un tren y no lo abandonan nunca.
Y pasan frente a ellos paradas, una tras otra,
y no deciden bajar jamás,
llegando hacia el no llegar.

También habrá otros, que suben y bajan,
y viajan,
miran y conocen y se mueven,
y besan,
y aman,
y tambien cojen.

Y acá estoy yo,
pensando, mirando,
en este anden por donde los trenes pasan,
como un laberinto de vidas y destinos,
un entramado de posibilidades,
en un universo donde el instante
puede ser el infinito mismo donde se decide todo.

Y creo que ya sé,
que no importa a que tren se suban,
ni importa a que camino les lleve,
o gracias a cuál suerte decidan.
Detrás de todo permanece algo,
y eso es que todos viajamos,
ya sea en nuestras mentes,
o acompañados.

Talking with Muses

                When are you going to get tired of writing other people’s stories and start writing your own?

                To jump the gap between knowing all of the nuances of someone’s life and the eternal grasp of controlling them, into the accidental despair of the uncertain and the infinite possible repercussions of the contingent?

                You must necessarily become the main character of your story, this is my advice. You must write your story, but not through words.

                There is a moment in literary writing in which words extend beyond paper. First, they become part of the imagination, the meaning of what they stand for is realized, and the sign is split from the significant, leaving all but an idea.

                This idea clots with many others and they merge through a constant burning, effervescent chaos within the thought. Your mind will then be constituted forming a dialectical understanding of the mental, and of the material things.

                Through this process you will become the main character of your life. For when words are merged with ideas, and they become inseparable from each other, there is no option for you but to become merged with words.

                Every action you take: the thrill of a new discovery, the applause of your partners after a great achievement, the look in her eyes when she knows that you want her… All of these events will be paralleled by a latent sensation of awareness.

                You will open up to the fortuity and be firm and brave to accept the immensity of the uncertain with the most pure and dreadful vulnerability.

Un nuevo par de anteojos.

Una caída controlada.
Un aterrizaje hacia otra ontología,
una percepción diferente,
más cercana a la del animal.

Los sentidos se mezclan
y la música es un ropaje antiguo,
el vino es una escultura
hecha de roble y cédro.

Es un descenso hacia lo más profundo,
una sensual amenaza de muerte.

Es una inmediatez que se produce en las miradas,
un túnel que precede a la existencia.

Es una grieta en el espacio y en el tiempo,
una salida,
un anticipo de libertad
a ese salto hacia el abismo eterno.

Es un paseo por una tierra nueva,
y luego,
el eterno e imposíble retorno.

Carta al Otro

Si puedo, voy a hablar desde un sector de mi alma.
Una tímida, imperfecta, oscura y vírgen antípoda...
Y te agradezco por adelantado,
porque es la luz de tu conciencia la que me abre un camino hacia este momento.

Pero me das más que la existencia,
me das perfección y fuerza,
porque las cosas son en su base perfectas y fuertes,
y son el olvido,
la confusión y la duda las que nublan la verdadera naturaleza de las cosas.

Por lo tanto,
es tu mirada en estas palabras, y tu mente en estos conceptos
lo que nos une,
lo que explora esta "antipoda",
lo que expulsa la tímida y oscura niebla de confusión y duda,
revelando la verdad que hay atrás de todas las cosas: perfección. 

Luno

En el cielo luno anochece
y el tenue azul del rio
es dividido por mis dedos descalzos.

Oliver

                “Hey you twat, stop droolin’ on me hat please”

            “Huh. What?” Oliver mumbled.

            “I said you to stop droolin’ on me hat!”

            Oliver stood up in shock.  He was sitting on a bench at a plaza and this homeless man was sitting beside him.

            “Where are we?”

            The bum smiled, while patting his hat and wiping from it small pieces of dirt (as if that was going to make it any cleaner).

            “We’re at the plaza my lad. Ye fell asleep all night in. We had some fun alright!”

            “What? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

            “Ha-ha! Just messing with ye! But you slept here alright, and drooled my hat, that’s a fact!” He put his hat on. “Don’t worry ‘bout your guitar, nobody has laid a hand on it, ‘ts below the bench”.

            Oliver looked below the hobo and saw the beauty. His always beloved acoustic guitar slept, and was starting to wake up. He took her on his hands. He hugged her, kissed her, several times, and told her “Oh! How could i forget you?”.

            The hobo started to laugh while he drank from a bottle covered in cardboard.

            Oliver continued to kiss the guitar “Shall i compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more temperate...”

            “My! My! Is that Shakespeare you are reciting?” Said abruptly the homeless man. “Cut the classics and get into some country music my lad”.

            Oliver stopped the kissing and looked straight at the hobo. “Well then”. He stood up and made a vow. “As you wish”.

            Then he played and both of them clapped and sung to an old country song called whiskey in the jar.

Mark

                8 o’ clock, time to wake up. He tore the sheets of his bed, like making his way out of a jungle. Six layers (or so it seemed like) of different textures of silk and wool, green and blue colours of striped shapes popped into his eyes as he stood up. Looking back at the bed he saw the naked legs of the lady he had taken home last night. Katrina was her name, or something of that hurricane-sort.

            But there was no time for remembrance. He had a dream, a beautiful dream, which could not be forgotten. He walked close to his piano, his coloured piano which reminded him of strange nights on acid, there he grabbed a blank book and opened around page 50, from there on, there were only pages drawn with empty pentagrams.

            With a lick on his pencil he threw the papers on the floor, along with his body and started to write. A symphonic melody passed before him, harmonies of dark semi-tones and white and clear octaves. Every note was a person, a feeling. Or was it not? Every time he struck this trance, this moment of euphoric writing of melodies, he could not stop  the dreamy state, the feeling that everything is connected, that in one low C there is that dark dancing hip movement, and that that high B holds a kiss, a champagne lip-fusion.

            When the draft was finished, he started to play. The piano sounded beautifully.

She woke up. Looked at him, with her beautiful oak eyes and said while smiling, with a soft voice: “Sounds like last night”.

            Mark stopped playing and looked at her straight: “It does”.