
Peaks
Lowlands
Life:
The impossible plateau

The world is brand new!
everything in it exists
they all exist
everything was born now
the green little moss between two round rocks
the small hairy fibers of dust
the orange flame from this candle
the smooth nail on this finger
everything is new
visiting for a first time
they all exist
violently
enthusiastically
I have just been born
how close is everything
everything has a glimmer

The last remnants of this bitterly afraid body, this ambiguous mind, this capsule in which the entire universe seems to exist – and outside, beyond the surface of this inexplicable skin, a blank void, a dark emptiness, a vicious silence. What in the end is the point of this unending preoccupation to make sense of what is finally unspeakable, to exist in a vast and profound space with miraculous shapes and forms, to breathe and beat a heart relentlessly while the plot of an unwritten play unravels — before these eyes full of wonder? However vainly the hours may pass, oblivious of the impending death of my surroundings, the death that will also come to this entity that strangely calls itself “I”; vain attempts to forget the inevitable, to resist the irrevocable. Had this self been able to escape permanently from the entanglements of disaster, had this ego renounced a borrowed language and survived brutally naked without philosophy, without history, without tales, without spoken love. Somewhere within the entrails of this phantasmagorical reality lies a reflection, a foundation upon which all things past, present and future are sustained, nurtured and consumed; it is a realm powerfully un-human, destitute of qualities and because of its effortless existence it remains sovereign above all things that strive. And maybe it is a joke, to conceive or imagine some sort of reality that will remain after all of us are gone, some sort of metaphysical ground by which our passing away seems less painful, less tragic. There might not be any foundation for the fear, the awe and the effort; every act, every thought, every failure is essentially groundless, and we are and will always be an unnamable race, an indefinable being.

Breathe, quite slowly…
as you caress the dim surface
follow the curves, the missing parts
again, were we incomplete
unfinished as anything in time
are you still living this minute?
I cannot blame you,
let’s wait a while… the rain may pass
it’s fine to be weak – fear is homely
that hour may come, later tonight
after so many things have torn us apart
let’s wait, cocoon life
we may soar imperfectly, rottenly
there is no choice;
live this fate
frailly fly soon
when the rain has stopped,
when the soil is dry
so we can take off … again

Mis labios se han quedado quietos
inermes criaturas
petrificados por el frío de la monotonía
conocían antes los ritmos del asombro
pronunciaban versos sobre el misterio
besaban con anhelo lo desconocido
pero hoy,
sobrios y aburridos
discípulos de la piedra
contentos de olvidar la pasión de un ineludible verso
duermen uno sobre el otro
en fotográfica posición
son reliquias – gusanos muertos
héroes olvidados
incapaces de retomar su profecía:

That the world is coming to a dramatic end, there is no doubt. The senseless habits that occupy our days and the recurrent suffering that strikes our hearts are nothing less than signs of an exhausted species, a moribund creature. We are hanging from a crystal thread that will snap as soon as we begin trembling too much; and it is bound to happen for panic and fear are the approaching certainties in our uncertain world. The feigned order we see in this world is accomplished only by the most ailing methods. The structure of our societies, politics and ideals are childish mirages that are sickening our marrow; from the hopeless effort to create a functioning world will sprout the most disastrous consequences. As long as we quietly consent to the monotony of capitalism, the guardian role of politicians and the greed of our material dreams, the monster inside will grow more impatient, more violent, more desperate and will soon rise to devastate the utopia of a frightened race.
The problem begins by avoidance. We have avoided very skillfully the mysterious circumstance of being flesh and blood machines wandering through a colossal void in uncharted space. We have avoided awareness in order to just act out a scheme that is blind and absurd. We are doubly cursed for being an animal that thinks. Animals are innocent of our sin because they have no prolonged awareness of their circumstances, they can only act and remain in their true state. Our role would have been the same if the spark of damned consciousness would not have arisen in us, making us slaves not only to action but also to unnecessary thinking. The problem as it stands nowadays is that we cannot escape our second function, and the need to think is something we cannot avoid but must bear it as a sickly appendage. As soon as we start thinking the world becomes complicated and conflictive. It is too late for us to return to the blissful ignorance of animals and plants; we must bear the seal of our punishment and fulfill it to the end.
The tension begins when we have to conjure up all the rational bits that create a human moment and its interpretation. Memory explains the present by that which we learned and saw in the past. Both in normal life and in intellectual activities the memory functions as the glue that unites pieces of the fluctuating flux, trying to create a rational and understandable structure. Memory is a kind of discourse, a narrative we must have at hand to make rational sense of the world. The frontiers of our mind and its ability to shape and transform the external world are limitless. The 21st century has inherited a vast wealth of experience and knowledge that has enabled any one member of our species to access any kind of information within seconds. What seemed like an advantage in the natural world has now become an omnipotent weapon, able to pierce history to the beginning of time and reach the slumbering interiors of molecules and atoms. That capacity is out there as we live our day to day and ignoring our potential will only feed the anarchy that is to be born. Yet this potential is unattainable and misleading because our tools are inadequate. We cannot grasp an irrational universe through the rational thought of a human being. This assertion is not meaningless; it is as accurate as saying that you cannot contain water inside a strainer. The world is water and our intellect is a punctured container. Some things are not meant to be. The paradox is clear: we act as blind uncaring weaklings but carry the rage of a powerful intellect inside. Our power overwhelms us, we succumb to its ferocity. It tells us that things are not right but we wish not listen to that prophetic voice.
We are speaking here of the dream of a coming apocalypse. Such a view should not be taken literally. Humans will live much longer but blood and despair will taint future’s sky. Look at the hysteria of our age. We have reached the utmost tension of this struggle. The mind has rebelled against the Herculean responsibility that was appointed to it: to maintain order in a disorderly world. At this very point, when centuries of illusion are challenged and we cannot no longer continue as hypocrites of a corrupt world; exactly when we give up on our young hopes and reveal the frailty of our fragile world, then we will cross the threshold of madness. That is to say, we will enter a perceptual world in which reasons and rules break down and only the spontaneity of the moment reigns. A deliberate jump into chaos— a word that will one day signify liberation, release, realization. To have renounced the artificial laws and codes, the shackles of money and possessions, the sterility of reason; a day in which freedom will be here but will reveal how atrocious and belligerent we really are. Strife and conflict will prevail in direct proportion to our greed and neurosis. Only when we have erased the inherited layers of insanity may we return to a harmonious relationship with nature. The approaching sorrows will serve as our Purgatory – a redemption that will only be possible, alas, as we journey through madness.

Even though it is immeasurable
My prison is still tight as skin
but my horizons wide as silences
Although it is incomprehensible
The moment is clear as pain
but the mountain inside cold as ash
Since I have known only one
Many drops fall as from bloodshed
but the fragile division was born as orphan
Nonetheless I was lover of the loneliest desert
Counting the walls that serve as mistakes
but swallowed all the scriptures that read as noise
Thus, metaphorical speaking aside
The clouds raised thoughts as mothers
but motion now seems so still as bamboo

There they were, shattered
sidewalks murderous sidewalks
frozen in their disorder, fractured by black color
and had to reach down
and pain their unfeeling scars
but this is not about sidewalks,
it resembles that primordial awe
or the seven cold nights of tribesmen
it intimates with old necessity
and the heavy mist that kills without moving
because further down by the hollow blackness
of cracked sidewalks and rapid decay
desasosiego, was called once in Spanish
spontaneous hymns of indigent earth
shadowless religions with no clouds on their backs
noiseless disaster tamed by echoed habits
stepping beyond – further into hopeless air
and with it, the truth concealed
hidden encounters with the ultimate Inexplicable
certainly having probed the depths of terror
the animosity of rebellion and the flakes of solitude
in what seems like ages of torment and desasosiego
by the unknown light of trembling – hardened
frozen and broken like irrelevant sidewalks
forgiving the ancient errors of willing blindness
alone, amongst these detached blocks of cold cement
my finger slithered their gaps,
and call me mad, lost and nocturnal – again,
I was nowhere, in calm beauty:
my irrelevant isolation.

Entra un pensamiento
Su origen es incierto,
pero ha entrado al núcleo de este instante
y llena este irrevocable momento
con la substancia de una suspirada realidad.
Los ojos miran sin esfuerzo
Capturan el reflejo de una luz
despojan la sombra del vacío
y transforman este segundo en:
percepción.
se repite el sonido de cada pauta
un latido por cada descanso de la aguja
agrega un grano de polvo
la visita a un rincón casi olvidado
se hunden las puntas de cada nervio
penetras la nube de la memoria
el fantasma del ayer, vive sigilosamente;
Llegan las cosas y parten, se dividen
se separan en hilos que ya no alcanzamos
regresan gemelos de hábitos una vez desistidos,
nacen cambios para nuevas incógnitas.
Lenta, deslizante se forma la eternidad.
No excluye lo fútil, recoge todo,
cada migaja de sentimiento, colecciona
el aburrimiento, la soledad, el recuerdo,
se nutre con las vidas de insectos y humanos,
seduce todo a tomar una pequeña porción
de su,
inmensidad.
For english version click here: http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a246/outoforbit/Eternitys.jpg
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