El abismo y yo


Temblando, solo a veces

     puede sentarme a escribir

y contar un peregrinaje olvidado

      montar una ola de recuerdos

rescatar entre los escombros algunas noches

             nombrar escasos momentos

solo a veces, puedo dejar el desierto

 el pálido reflejo de un sol vacío;

        ante tantos misterios y miedos

solo salgo de una profusa intoxicación

        cuando me dices “respira, estás vivo” 

no es que se me olvidaba existir, solo que la vida y la muerte

     se mezclan incesantemente

el vacío y el éctasis son uno mismo

    y la mayoría del tiempo

        parece que solo existimos yo y el abismo

el pequeño yo 

      y el inabarcable absurdo.



  Las calles torpes de Antigua,  

       los volcanes fantasmagóricos de Nicaragua,

mi cuerpo desnudo en la arenas de Oaxaca…

     un romance con la arquitectura Bohemia

el profundo silencio de la nieve escandinava

        un viento sin voz en las alturas patagónicas



sin nunca preguntar, por qué 

    andar de una sombra a otra

deshacerme lentamente sobre este rincón galáctico 

       tirar frases sin sentido al atravesar los días

flotar sin resistencia entre torbellinos 

      y un día tararear mientras mi sangre se detiene  

     desistir las calles, los volcanes, los cuerpos, el amor y el silencio 

             y dejar correr como el viento todo lo que tiene que suceder

 estando yo aquí o no.

The day the universe was reborn

Why keep writing in linear and logical fashion?
Writing is the outgrowth of thinking.
It should reflect the features of the human mind, with its desultory and fluctuating discourse.

When the scope of the possible has been exhausted you may turn left where a gigantic mountain separates the desert from the snow. Haven’t you felt all along that lurking behind every monotonous experience an explosive energy awaits to come forth? It is as if a powerful surge of lightning remains dormant in a recondite quarter of our consciousness; behind every yawn of boredom a rapacious thunder of delight seeks an entrance into our deaf lives.
Follow the rain into the heart of the storm. Then you will be ready for the revival of the new, the rediscovery of surprise.  As long as there is room for the unknown, as long as red-headed ants surprise you with wonder and interrupt the tyrannical flow of thoughts — there is hope.
I had begun walking in search of meaning and not far down the road I stumbled across an insurmountable obstacle: mortality. All labors are in vain if they seek permanence. This did not stop me, if I should live in a world where impermanence governs every particle of matter then my actions had to resign any sort of structure, my words had to abandon order. I had to accept the chaos of uncertainty and resume the search. No longer looking for a perennial philosophy but merely for temporary wisdom. For the most profound questions I never looked in books; I was lucky to experience them in other more fundamental objects: in direct contact with the phantasmagorical landscapes of nature or the silent dark of outer space.
Sinking in rocky jaws
Patagonian mountains
Lakes as seas
near heaven’s azure
the universe reborn
million lights at night
transform every thing
     Living in constant disbelief I could but interpret life as total dream, the whole of existence appeared equally inconstant as the contents of any bizarre dream. Yet I am sure that defining the cosmos by the anthropocentric analogy of dream doesn’t come close to what is really happening — reality is much wilder and exuberant than our speculations. Here and there I found evidence to believe that the hardest task is change: inner transformation. We are never the Archimedean unmovable point around which all things change and evolve — we are similarly watery being flowing from one state to another. Allowing things to change within you, permitting things to grow and decay inside was surely difficult. Getting used to this internal impermanence requires great courage. The reward is priceless: the art of transformation had become the real art of living.
     At night things settle down. The pure transparency of water is swallowed by the black of night and slowly above a blurry streak of light convinces us of the utter strangeness of our condition. The Milky Way, our home galaxy, becomes the symbol of our astonishment.  In those prolonged moments of silence things are perceived differently, we are free to just be as rocks are silently existing at the bottom of a blue lake.
Is it so necessary to formulate our wonder and our wishes?
Immobile (time)
Serene (space)
a rock for ages
deep below
in abysmal Zen
Sometimes I refuse to endure the recurrent agony of dreaming my death. In times like those:
Deserts become too desolate
Mountains intimidating monsters
Cities caging of beasts
Oceans too restless
Home insipid
My grave a terrifying
I can only live and die
within my despair
My daemon: despair. My savior: wonder. My meditation: inking a few random words. My sleep: sweet forgetfulness as the rock that rests unperturbed.
I have to ask, is The Search a consequence of despair, or despair a consequence of The Search?