Sed is Spanish for thirst. Cyrano de Bergerac sat one day to write his tragedy, La Mort d’ Agrippine, for reasons no one will ever know or understand. He wrote, perhaps before midnight:
Ces beaux riens qu’on adore et sans savoir pourquoi….
Beautiful nothings that we adore without knowing why. He was referring to the gods. So there is thirst for absolutes, some people sense it and yet die athirst. For centuries mankind has looked for this totality through a window they’ve called the soul, which is rather unfortunate that today it has been reduced to myth. Not because the soul is an actuality, but because we need the image of the cosmic window. Alma is soul in Spanish. But I don’t want to say, tengo sed de alma (I am thirsty of soul). It is peculiar that in Spanish “to be thirsty” is expressed literally “to have thirst”, as if thirst were a possession, an accretion to one’s being. For this reason I prefer to express myself in a double language: I am sed of soul. That is to say that I AM the thirst of soul, I am the empty dark room desirous of an aperture, of the link between my personal darkness and total illumination; I am the emptiness craving a flood of light that will inundate the cavity of my cavernous being.
In the same play, Cyrano wrote:
Une heure après la mort, notre âme évanouie sera ce qu’elle était une heure avant la vie.
One hour after death our vanished soul will be that which it was an hour before life.
That is to say, the window will soon be shattered.
What I employ
is not language
but the vivid shade
of movement and instinct
I have to be asleep
murmuring like a wide surface
of sea froth
twilight before the birth of pain;
my eyes expiring like new moons
in the obscure tingling of selfhood
in that reflection
the hairs of the galaxies
sway like dark music,
the pupils expand
in one big womb of memory;
the place where the soul
used to be.
I let go of the beard
and eyelids of God.
It will rain, the eyes of the earth
will go blind, white breathless turmoil.
A boy with books and grand prophesies,
composing the sadness of the final silence.
An epoch to remember what I wanted.
The river of visions carries skin and mirror,
a noise of nowhere and nobody’s scent.
What beastly ache to be a fleeting universe
with no country except the island of thought.
I have no beard and the nausea of mountains;
I have in my mouth the salty meat of the soul.
Most of the time
I cannot write
of what I see
I feel but I do not seek
subjectively I am indeterminism
within a fatalistic mechanism of the soul
I observe, even participate
in the sacrificed logic
pale metaphysical tears
because the longer I live
so much more has gathered
about the edge
as more days go by
I begin to recognize
the happy truth
that I was
here at all
oh in what manner
these playthings of the
sculpting in torn blindness
the mode of the self
like a damp cloud
over the empire of uncertainty
am i this wisp
twisting and turning
painfully philosophically inadvertently
from the wreckage
The world is my excuse
things, events, voices, phenomena
expand before me
like leaves from a budding green
new and virgin patterns
buried in the dot
under the nose of my own consumption
untouchable heavens as the purity of my soul
the small lesser ground
that I call:
and my world.