One day I took a look and there was a place. In that black density a lace began to arrange memory like a bow around every name that I remember, back then, throwing outside, out there, like small smooth stones. I craved to eat the clouds in the mud of my imagination; I was a child in rags (how many clouds had transpired) before I learnt a world was a word capable of eclipsing all the things of the world. So I craved to forget every flavor of sound to rediscover suddenly the purple of music under the noon of my eye. (Always I’ve been making things so real and why is there only an ugly street, this very instant). I remember softening the sky and making a drum in unison with horizon. I won’t claim here that I’ve invented the universe just because I’ve made giant centuries sleep in my mad silence. I’ve only borrowed infant atoms of late. Perhaps I’ve always been alone preexisting like a submarine below the surface of time. I’ve been waiting like a peculiar magnet unnoticed in the abyss. Perhaps this here is not an ugly street but a vein carrying the fatality of the dream to a new pulsation. Perhaps this reverie is not a quick line scrawled on another page of earth. I see now that the poet has started to unearth his own visions beneath the thirst of trees. I see him proudly unintelligible against all the violence of thought. I see now that the poet still craves the flesh of the clouds and has made brightness a bridge across a boundless place.
The Character – A short monologic play
The character’s colleague
A café in Copenhagen. 1pm on a Thursday. Pablo sits on a vintage sofa next to his wife. Across them sit a pair of colleagues that discuss, in a profound tone, the “science of marketing”.
[The Character gets up, apologizes to his colleague for taking up two hours of her time. Begins to put on his coat and scarf on.]
Pablo: [addressing his wife] What a character, that guy.
The Character: What did you just say?
Pablo: [impassive] That you’re quite a character.
The Character: What the hell is the problem with you?
Pablo: What? Me? What are you talking about? What do you know about my world, my conception of the world, my inner drama, my subjective constructs? Do you have any idea what I mean by the word ‘character’ and could you have suspected that I see the world as a stage where we are all characters that pretend to be this or that, and some of us are better at it, and some are portraying so bizarrely absurd roles, that they deserve being pointed out and addressed as “one-of-a-kind characters”? I am conscious that saying out loud, “what a character” may connote a derogatory sense to the word. I am aware that we pretend to be immersed in a kind of social nebula, where things appear the same to all members of the community. But I’m sorry to say, that is not the case, we don’t all share the same monotonous perceptual paradigm and I’ll keep calling you and everybody else characters, yes characters in…
[The Character and colleague exit café]
Pablo: … in the absurd drama of the earth.
what it is to crave a glass of water
or to sip a kiss;
to be so reckless as to flood
the heart because it is a crater of chalk
and you’re tired of its empty dusty frame.
I don’t remember what
kind of day it was.
Full of sun with
musky winds, dark with
impalpable clouds, perhaps
flat and drunk in sapphire.
I don’t care what kind of day
it was; a day to forget like all
the rest had I not begun to count
the breaths I’ve taken in despair.
I began stooping like an imbecile twig
that bends with every paddle of the wind
as if an essence had broken into milliard
tiny mirrors on the sidewalk, and I had
to count and sew them back into a remembrance.
I plead for the pallid crust of light that envelopes me
like a bulky perfume to melt into a song of shadow
or even for a single mindless mote of dust
to land catastrophically on me and pierce
this ferrous mold, I want to watch my holy skin
fall away and leave a naked and unwashed soul
standing erect like a pagan odalisque.
But don’t show her mercy, kick her out
of this world drama, let her run barefoot
back to her incomprehensible origin.
It could have been a year ago, while getting on
a bus that I conceived of grabbing silence
by its throat and squeezing out a peep;
I had been so innocently prone to believing
that the world was a gigantic bird suffocating
me with its kaleidoscopic feathers but
now I feel at home because suffering
sets as a sun behind the panorama of knowledge
and even if it is reborn every day I dream
at night of being a thin echo of fiction.
I saw a sun today
it was like a specter
belonging to unsolvable fiction,
it had a wide abyss
as a mouth
made of the purest light;
the naked trees
as deadly as knives
daggers defending the earth
from the intrusion of the sky,
it was worship
in the eyes, veiled by sight, bathed in perception,
drenched in mind;
it was like my whole life
was meant to be scorched
by this sun
and I would fail at everything
except this rhapsody of
run by a strength
gathering in every bouquet of fire
that my lungs take in
in the crushed earth of my heart
with the noisy smoke of the blood
running stronger still
digesting the night as the sweetest charcoal
drunk with fire, hot demise
swimming in the lurid steam of desire
making love under the encroaching moon of suffering
the hand sloughing the disease of touch
the temptation to feel,
the strength that has gathered
spewing boulders as wild bullets of despair
impossible to even begin telling
about the layers and the failed anchors,
is a miracle of the body
an outcome of the rocks and veins
a mistake of the mind;
nothing can be revoked
you, me and them
now dance in the criminal perplexity of death
I don’t want to state the obvious
but you are so obvious
my brain feels like the word: bacteria
almost an etcetera but never like a cafeteria
time hopped onto future’s back and left me back there
with the orphan past
I said, the century missed a beat
now we sleep listening to the lullaby of underwater winds
but chaos is a wonderful planetmaid
in the last days of last decade
I held my feet up high, pretending to be a bat
that could sleep and digest while clutching the sky
she loved to watch things grow – she was a true prophet
is it a sin father to make life a pillow and all events fiction
since the century ran over us without saying goodbye
can I sleep for the rest of this
A: (clasping hands in triumphal display) And that’s how it will all end…
B: (in pensive mood) All theory is interpretive. All facts are theory-laden. There is no pure objective world out there that we can measure and explain. The act of measuring itself is a creative process. We define reality as we go along. After a while, our own creations become idols, so that a law of physics is merely a cognitive habit. What is interesting to see is that every age in history has presumed possession of Absolute Truth. What will be revealing is that meta-narratives are relative to the epoch’s climate, ideals, unconscious motives, and so forth. Today’s theory will become tomorrow’s mythology.
A: (visibly offended) My god!
B: (smiling and sympathetic) But I’m likely to be wrong…
Abandon, ever so vague
a name entirely unpronounceable
a thought, utterly worthless
then a feeling without face
a touch without my skin
I’m too old to restart this engine
I must move on, abandon
what once was light now is shadow
what was once purpose is now fiction
there is a pure moment
no matter what I think
it’s not my call to make
there is only a pure moment
I might pretend to stir this vessel
but it’s really not my doing
there is apparently something ancient
something beyond measure
I don’t sense it, life is cold as cement
The waves are coming down on me
I can only laugh
sometimes I feel like expanding indefinitely
but a cage made of ribs
keeps my insides in their place
The next step is here… it’s too late
to look back.
(photo by Ryan Moss)
A modern hero
We can watch him quietly chewing his dinner. His gaze is imperturbable and his thoughts invariably these:
The nothingness that exists in all forms, and the nothingness that is yet to be born.
The modern hero awaits (and this waiting period is interminable) for a fatal threat. This threat is anticipated throughout the cycles of the clock. It is always approaching, never disappearing.
What can he do?
Nothing. Resisting the menace of existence is a futile and wearisome illusion. He will initially find himself in hypertension, guarded against an invisible enemy. Since there is no defence against his opponent, rebellion would represent a defeating madness. Acceptance must be learned and practiced. However, salvation is not achieved solely by the acceptance of one’s own precarious situation. He has no escape, he must sacrifice a distracted and unexamined life in order to become bearer of a strange suffering. He will be the hated antagonist of any unfounded human optimism.
To cure himself of a malady that is not only his own but also a dormant illness that all conscious beings carry within.
What relieves him?
From the perspective of the world he has secluded himself in an abstract and spurious discourse; from the perspective of his own condition he has renounced his faith in a world of form and substance, he has lost trust in the socially approved states of consciousness. He lives in a mythological world, albeit, his myth has not yet been written nor can it be. He is dispersed in a flux of perception that not necessarily implies an objective external world. His experience cannot be communicated, it does not have the logical structure of a normal human situation.
Is there a light at the end of his tunnel?
From the standpoint of the all-too-human, suicide may appear as the last desperate, but effective, act of liberation, but this won’t be his course. He has selected an ambitious journey: The transmutation of consciousness. An intuition convinces him that the reality we live in is only one of many possible creations; and in the sober creation of less restricted states of consciousness he will achieve his ultimate objective: inner peace.