farewell and goodnight
Gracias a Billy, por darme el nombre.
January 18, 2015
March 21, 2014
Busco a Cósimo, el hombre imaginario
Cósimo tiene el don de vivir su vida como si fuera una película que él dirige, y de disfrutar cosas pequeñas, del realismo mágico que habita el día a día. Le gusta comer golosinas a escondidas y siempre cuenta historias. Ama el sonido de palabras como "témpano", "cónclave", "gótico", y cree (equivocadamente) que la palabra "alcachofa" es fea. Se sabe de memoria el diálogo de sus películas favoritas y colecciona anécdotas, refranes, párrafos de libros. Tengo la certeza de que es un muy buen padre.
Ocho años atrás, Cósimo fue mi hermano imaginario. Una vez le hice un monumento. Muchas veces pensé en él. Si alguno de ustedes lo conoce, o sabe algo que me ayude a encontrarlo... quisiera volver a escribirle... quisiera volver a leerlo.
April 05, 2012
November 16, 2011
Mostrar una cara que no es la realidad.
Esconderse en eufemismos, en maquillaje, en tacos altos.
La verdad es que aunque camine derechita, me duelen las rodillas, se sale la verdadera yo por los tobillos.
Falsear la identidad.
Ponerse esas máscaras anónimas, genéricas, volcarse en la masa.
Pero mientras escribo, pienso en temas, almuerzo en la cafetería,
se me sale por los poros la verdadera yo,
aunque aguante la respiración me brota de los ojos la intención de libertad,
las ganas de calle, de justicia, de independencia.
Falsear la identidad pero no,
usar máscaras que se vuelven transparentes
hologramas de quien sí soy inundan y permean el personaje conformado
conformista
en su zona de confort.
La identidad.
Dice Echeverría que somos nuestros actos, que el lenguaje crea realidad.
Yo me reinvento en un personaje que no soy.
Me socializo en un lugar que no me representa
que no me identifica
la libertad me cosquillea el vientre.
January 07, 2010
May 02, 2009
April 25, 2009
April 11, 2009
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow."
Bob Dylan
March 24, 2009
Respirar. Respirar.
El viento me revuelve el pelo, tambalea la bicicleta, pega fuerte en mis oídos.
Los gansos se cruzan, siento que sí, que estamos bajo el nivel del mar. De pronto algunos rayos de sol, una nueva luz que ilumina la vereda. El pasto verde, húmedo. De nuevo lluvia, intensa, desordenada. La falsa primavera, Hemingway y los recuerdos de Paris. Cinco kilómetros más. Pienso en ellos, pienso en él. En él y su violín. Su arrogancia, su silencio, la belleza de su música apasionada. Sus ojos, su tormento, su forma de observarme en la distancia. Mis ganas adolescentes de ser parte del colectivo. De actuar, protestar, rebelarme. Rebelarnos.
Esta tarde hay cena y una charla. Tengo cosas que hacer... (Y si entonces nos desencontramos? Si se olvida de mis ojos, de mi forma de observarlo en la distancia?)
No estaré ya en lo que viene. Hace años sí lo hice, la dejé sola por estar allá y no tenía sentido. Prometí no volver a hacerlo. No estaré ya en lo que viene.
Respirar. Respirar.
Traer la mente a casa.
February 16, 2009
No escribo para ti, así que no importa. Por fin ya no importa.
Llueve. Llueve como sólo puede llover en el norte de Europa. Tomo un vino barato, tinto, chileno. Vivo en un contenedor industrial, en una pieza que parece pasillo, con vista al contenedor de al frente, con cortinas moradas que no dejan entrar la luz. Vivo lejos y toso. Los pulmones reclaman, el pecho se me cierra. En otro barrio mis amigos cenan y andan de bares, juntos, viven en comunidad.
Hoy pensé que iba a poder hacer como si nada. Que me iba a poder tomar el vino, cenar, leer el libro para escribir el ensayo, hablar con ellos y luego dormir. Pero no. Mi cabeza no me deja, los ojos se llenan de lágrimas una y otra vez, y otra y otra. No sé cómo sacarme esto de la mente, no sé cómo desahogarme. Habrá que llorar hasta quedar seca? Por qué, cómo, no entiendo los motivos.
Estoy lejos. Cierro los ojos y ruego que las cosas tengan sentido. Que pueda llegar una tarde de septiembre, abrazarte, reconocerte, reirnos y discutir como tantas veces. Es que te siento vulnerable y me duele en mi propio cuerpo. Te siento débil y todas mis imágenes de ti se rebelan ante este exceso de realidad. Dime que no es verdad. Que me llamarás el viernes y me dirás que no fue nada, que vuelva a dormir, que vuelva a preocuparme de mi tos y mi contenedor-pasillo. Que no piense en Chile, que no piense en la distancia. Que no piense en lo que pasa mientras cae esta lluvia en tu verano interrumpido.
November 10, 2008
from Bob Dylan
(Sent to the Emergency Civil Liberties Committee
after he received the Tom Paine Award at the
Bill of Rights dinner on December 13, 1963.)
to anybody it may concern...
clark?
mairi?
phillip?
edith?
mr lamont?
countless faces I do not know
an all fighters for good things that I can not see
when I speak of bald heads, I mean bald minds
when I speak of the seashore, I mean the restin shore
I dont know why I mentioned either of them
my life runs in a series of moods
in private an in personal ways, sometimes,
I, myself, can change the mood I'm in t the
mood I'd like t be in. when I walked thru the
doors of the americana hotel, I needed to change
my mood... for reasons inside myself.
I am a restless soul
hungry
perhaps wretched
it is hard to hear someone you dont know, say
"this is what he meant t say" about something
you just said
for no one can say what I meant t say
absolutely no one
at times I even cant
that was one of those times
my life is lived out daily in the places I feel
most confortable in. these places are places where
I am unknown an unstared at. I perform rarely, an
when I do, there is a constant commotion burnin
at my body an at my mind because of the attention
aimed at me. instincts fight my emotions an fears
fight my instincts...
I do not claim t be smart by the standards set up
I dont even claim to be normal by the standards
set up
an I do not claim to know any kind of truth
but like an artist who puts his painting (after
he's painted it) in front of thousands of unknown
eyes, I also put my song there that way
(after I've made it)
it is as easy an as simple as that
I can not speak. I can not talk
I can only write an I can only sing
perhaps I should've sung a song
but that wouldn't a been right either
for I was given an award not to sing
but rather on what I have sung
no what I should've said was
"thank you very much ladies an gentlemen"
yes that is what I should've said
but unfortunatly... I didn't
an I didn't because I did not know
I thought something else was expected of me
other than just sayin "thank you"
an I did not know what it was
it is a fierce heavy feeling
thinkin something is expected of you
but you dont know what exactly it is...
it brings forth a wierd form of guilt
I should've remembered
"I am BOB DYLAN an I dont have t speak
I dont have t say nothin if I dont wanna"
but
I didn't remember
I constantly asked myself while eatin supper
"what should I say? what should I tell 'm?
everybody else is gonna tell 'm something"
but I could not answer myself
I even asked someone who was sittin nex t me
an he couldn't tell me neither. my mind blew
up an needless t say I had t get it back in its
rightful shape (whatever that might be) an so
I escaped from the big room... only t hear my
name being shouted an the words "git in here
git in here" overlappin with the findin of my
hand being pulled across hundreds of tables
with the lights turned on strong... guidin me
back t where I tried t escape from
"what should I say? what should I say?"
over an over again
oh God, I'd a given anything not t be there
"shut the lights off at least"
people were coughin an my head was poundin
an the sounds of mumble jumble sank deep in
my skull from all sides of the room
until I tore everything loose from my mind
an said "just be honest, dylan, just be honest"
an so I found myself in front of the plank
like I found myself once in the path of a car
an I jumped...
jumped with all my bloody might
just tryin t get out a the way
but first screamin one last song
when I spoke of Lee Oswald, I was speakin of the times
I was not speakin of his deed if it was his deed.
the deed speaks for itself
but I am sick
so sick
at hearin "we all share the blame" for every
church bombing, gun battle, mine disaster,
poverty explosion, an president killing that
comes about.
it is so easy t say "we" an bow our heads together
I must say "I" alone an bow my head alone
for it is I alone who is livin my life
I have beloved companions but they do not
eat nor sleep for me
an even they must say "I"
yes if there's violence in the times then
there must be violence in me
I am not a perfect mute.
I hear the thunder an I cant avoid hearin it
once this is straight between us, it's then an
only then that we can say "we" an really mean
it... an go on from there t do something about
it
When I spoke of Negroes
I was speakin of my Negro friends
from harlem
an Jackson
selma an birmingham
atlanta pittsburg, an all points east
west, north, south an wherever else they
might happen t be.
in rat filled rooms
an dirt land farms
schools, dimestores, factories
pool halls an street corners
the ones that dont own ties
but know proudly they dont have to
not one little bit
they dont have t be like they naturally aint
t get what they naturally own no more 'n anybody
else does
it only gets things complicated
an leads people into thinkin the wrong things
black skin is black skin
It cant be covered by clothes an made t seem
acceptable, well liked an respectable...
t teach that or t think that just tends the
flames of another monster myth...
it is naked black skin an nothin else
if a Negro has t wear a tie t be a Negro
then I must cut off all ties with who he has
t do it for.
I do not know why I wanted t say this that
nite.
perhaps it was just one of the many things
in my mind
born from the confusion of my times
when I spoke about the people that went t Cuba
I was speakin of the free right t travel
I am not afraid t see things
I challenge seein things
I am insulted t the depths of my soul
when someone I dont know commands that I
cant see this an gives me mysterious reasons
why I'll get hurt if I do see it... tellin me
at the same time about goodness an badness in
people that again I dont know...
I've been told about people all my life
about niggers, kikes, wops, bohunks, spicks, chinks,
an I been told how they eat, dress, walk, talk,
steal, rob, an kill but nobody tells me how any
of 'm feels... nobody tells me how any of 'm cries
or laughs or kisses. I'm fed up with most newspapers,
radios, tv an movies an the like t tell me. I want
now t see an know for myself...
an I accepted that award for all others like me
who want t see for themselves... an who dont want
that God-given right taken away
stolen away
or snuck out from beneath them
yes a travel ban in the south would protect
Americans more, I'm sure, than the one t Cuba
but in all honesty I would want t crash that
one too
do you understand?
do you really understand?
I mean I want t see. I want t see all I can
everyplace there is t see it
my life carries eyes
an they're there for one reason
the reason t see thru them
my country is the Minnesota-North Dakota territory
that's where I was born an learned how t walk an
it's where I was raised an went t school... my
youth was spent wildly among the snowy hills an
sky blue lakes, willow fields an abandoned open
pit mines. contrary t rumors, I am very proud of
where I'm from an also of the many blood streams that
run in my roots. but I would not be doing what
I'm doing today if I hadn't come t New York. I was
given my direction from new york. I was fed in
new york. I was beaten down by new york an I was
picked up by new york. I was made t keep going on
by new york. I'm speakin now of the people I've met
who were strugglin for their lives an other peoples'
lives in the thirties an forties an the fifties
an I look t their times
I reach out t their times
an, in a sense, am jealous of their times
t think I have no use for "old" people is a betrayin thought
those that know me know otherwise
those that dont, probably're baffled
like a friend of mine, jack elliott, who says he
was reborn in Oklahoma, I say I was reborn in
New York...
there is no age limit stuck on it
an no one is more conscious of it than I
yes it is a fierce feeling, knowin something you
dont know about's expected of you. but it's worse
if you blindly try t follow with explodin words
(for that's all they can do is explode)
an the explodin words're misunderstood
I've heard I was misunderstood
I do not apologize for myself nor my fears
I do not apologize for any statement which led
some t believe "oh my God! I think he's the one
that really shot the president"
I am a writer an a singer of the words I write
I am no speaker nor any politician
an my songs speak for me because I write them
in the confinement of my own mind an have t cope
with no one except my own self. I dont have t face
anyone with them until long after they're done
no I do not apologize for being me nor any part of me
but I can return what is rightfully yours at any
given time. I have stared at it for a long while
now. it is a beautiful award. there is a kindness
t Mr Paine's face an there is almost a sadness in
his smile. his trials show thru his eyes. I know
really not much about him but somehow I would like
t sing for him. there is a gentleness t his way.
yes thru all my flounderin wildness, I am, when it
comes down to it, very proud that you have given this
t me. I would hang it high, an let my friends see in
it what I see, but I also would give it back if
you wish. There is no sense in keepin it if you've
made a mistake in givin it. for it means more'n any
store bought thing an it'd only be cheatin t keep it
also I did not know that the dinner was a donation
dinner. I did not know you were gonna ask anyone
for money. an I understand you lost money on the
masterful way I expressed myself... then I am in debt t you
not a money debt but rather a moral debt
if you'd a sold me something, then it'd be a money debt
but you sold nothin, so it is a moral debt
an moral debts're worse 'n money debts
for they have t be paid back in whatever is missin
an in this case, it's money
please send me my bill
an I shall pay it
no matter what the sum
I have a hatred of debts an want t be even in
the best way I can
you needn't think about this, for money means
very little t me
so then
I'll return once again t the road
I cant tell you why other people write, but I
write in order to keep from going insane.
my head, I expect'd turn inside out if my hands
were t leave me.
but I hardly ever talk about why I write. an I
scarcely ever think about it. the thought of it is
too alarmin
an I never ever talk about why I speak
but that's because I never do it. this is the
first time I am talkin about it... an I pray
the last
the thought of doing it again is too scary
ha! it's a scary world
but only once in a while huh?
I love you all up there an the ones I dont love,
it's only because I do not know them an have not
seen them... God it's so hard hatin. it's so
tiresome... an after hatin something to death,
it's never worth the bother an trouble
out! out! brief candle
life's but an open window
an I must jump back thru it now
see yuh
respectfully an unrespectfully
(sgd) bob dylan
in http://www.corliss-lamont.org/dylan.htm
October 19, 2008
October 15, 2008
October 06, 2008
October 03, 2008
September 30, 2008
September 22, 2008
September 19, 2008
No Direction Home.
Me quedo con la identidad. Con lo auténtico. Con el brillo de los ojos. Con la consecuencia y el cambio. Con la honestidad. Con la lealtad con uno mismo. Con el valor y el coraje. Con la libertad. Con la capacidad de reirse del mundo. De reirse también de uno mismo.
Me quedo con Dylan. Latiendo aquí adentro. Llenando mi cabeza de lecciones, emociones, frases que hacen sentido. Me quedo con Bob en los oídos. Con su brillo en mis ojos, con su fuego en mis palabras.
Let me forget about today until tomorrow...
September 07, 2008
Pienso que estos tiempos ya no son tan agitados, que las injusticias son menos evidentes, la represión y el abuso de derechos humanos no forma parte de mi realidad. Y luego no. Me retracto. Me desmiento. Abro los ojos y miro el mundo. Cómo puedo ser tan ignorante. Tantas cosas por hacer. Tanta violencia. Tanta injusticia. Tanta hambre.
Y dónde estoy yo hoy? dónde está mi coraje???
September 06, 2008
La muerte que todo lo transforma. La muerte abrupta. Omnipotente.
La muerte y su silencio. El desgarro.
Tanta liviandad y luego su peso. Su peso y su tormento. Nunca seremos vencedores. Entonces temo. Imploro fe, convicción, esperanza. Pero en verdad temo. Cómo resignarse a esta soledad. A este vacío.
August 28, 2008
From Denmark
A mis ojos, ellos representan esa fuerza interior que todos llevamos dentro, en algún lugar...
Porque se pueden hacer cosas, porque los pequeños cambios tienen sentido...
Desde acá, vuelvo a soñar con transformar el mundo, me reencuentro conmigo en lo más profundo, e intento expandir y proyectar estas ganas enormes de aportar un granito de arena. De pronto, todo el camino recorrido empieza a tener sentido.
(Thanks Albana for sharing your knowledge and bringing back the inspiration)
August 15, 2008
Viajando al sur del continente. El atardecer celeste, naranjo. Los aromos en flor por la orilla del camino. Los cerros, coronados de pinos verdes. En los oídos, Kings of Convenience, Misread. Vengo de regreso. De despedida. Pienso en las conversaciones que tuve. Pienso en las conversaciones que dejé de tener. Respiro profundo, como tratando de limpiar los pulmones con este aire frío. Traigo las pupilas con nieve y montaña. Me acerco al río, al mar. Menos de siete noches y estaré volando al norte. De regreso también, a ese otro continente.