Todos los días del mundo algo hermoso termina. Jaroslav Seifert
Duélete: como a una vieja estrella fatigada te ha dejado la luz. Y la criatura que iluminabas (y que iluminaba tus ojos ciegos a las nimias cosas del mundo) ha vuelto a ser mortal. Todo recobra su densidad, su peso, su volumen, ese pobre equilibrio que sostiene tu nuevo invierno. Alégrate. Tus vísceras ahora son otra vez tus vísceras y no crudo alimento de zozobras. Ya no eres ese dios ebrio e incierto que te fue dado ser. Muerde el hueso que dan, llega a su médula, recoge las migajas que deja la memoria.
Every day of the world something beautiful ends. Jaroslav Seifert
Suffer: as if you were an old, tired star, light has left you. And the creature you lighted (and who lighted your eyes, blind to the world’s trivial things) is now mortal again. Everything recovers its density, its weight, its volume, the poor balance that supports your new winter. Be glad. Your entrails are now again your entrails and not coarse food of anxiety. You’re no longer that drunk and uncertain god that you turned out to be. Bite the bone they give you, down to the marrow, pick up the crumbs memory leaves behind.
Standing at fearful attention, we’re grateful to fear, which keeps us from going mad. Decision and courage are bad for our health; life without living is safer.
Adventurers whose adventures are history, standing in fear we struggle against ironic ghosts in our ongoing quest for what we never were and won’t be.
Standing in fear with no voice of our own, our heart ground up by our teeth, we are the madmen, we’re our own ghosts.
A flock of sheep pursued by fear, we live so together and so alone that life’s meaning has disappeared.
Alexandre O’Neill (1962) , Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
Perfilados de medo, agradecemos o medo que nos salva da loucura. Decisão e coragem valem menos e a vida sem viver é mais segura.
Aventureiros já sem aventura, perfilados de medo combatemos irónicos fantasmas à procura do que fomos, do que não seremos.
Perfilados de medo, sem mais voz, o coração nos dentes oprimido, os loucos, os fantasmas somos nós.
Rebanho pelo medo perseguido, já vivemos tão juntos e tão sós que da vida perdemos o sentido . . .
…of a Chevrolet on the road to Sintra, Through moonlight and dreams, on the deserted road, I drive alone, drive almost slowly, and it almost Seems to me, or I almost force myself to think it seems, That I’m going down another road, another dream, another world, That I’m going on without having left Lisbon, without Sintra to go to, That I’m going on, and what is there to going on except not stopping, but going on?
I’ll spend the night in Sintra because I can’t spend it in Lisbon, But, when I get to Sintra, I’ll be sorry I didn’t stay in Lisbon. Always this groundless worry, no purpose, no consequence, Always, always, always, This excessive anguish for nothing at all, On the road to Sintra, on the road to dreams, on the road tolife…
Alert to my subconscious movements at the wheel, Around me, with me, leaps the car I borrowed. I smile at the symbol, at thinking of it, and at turning right. In how many borrowed things do I move through the world? How many borrowed things do I drive as if they were mine? How many borrowed things — oh God — am I myself?
To my left, ahovel— yes, ahovel— by the roadside. To my right an open field, the moon far off. The car, which seemed just now to give me freedom, Is now something I’m shut up in, That I can only drive shut up in, That I can only tame if I includeit,if it includes me.
To my left, back there, that modest, that more thanmodesthovel. Life must be happy there: it’s not mine. If someone saw me from the window, they’d think: Now that guy’s happy.
Maybe a child spying at the upstairs window Would see me, in my borrowed car, as a dream, a fairy tale come true. Maybe, for the girl who watched me, hearing my motor out the kitchen window, On packed earth, I’m some kind of prince of girls’ hearts, And she’ll watch me sideways, out the window, past this curve where I lose myself. Will I leave dreams behind me? Will the car? I, the borrowed-car-driver, or the borrowed car I drive?
On the road to Sintra in moonlight, in sadness, before the fields and night, Forlornly driving the borrowed Chevy, I lose myself on the future road, I disappear in the distance I reach.
And in a terrible, sudden, violent, inconceivable desire I speed up, But my heart stayed back on a pile of rocks I veered from, seeing without seeing it, At the door of the hovel — My empty heart, My dissatisfied heart, My heart more human than me, more exact than life.
On the road to Sintra, near midnight, in moonlight, at the wheel, On the road to Sintra, oh my weary imagination, On the road to Sintra, ever nearer to Sintra, On the road to Sintra, ever farther from me…
In The Collected Poems of Álvaro de CamposVol. 2 (1928–1935) .translated by Chris Daniels
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra,
Ao luar e ao sonho, na estrada deserta,
Sozinho guio, guio quase devagar, e um pouco
Me parece, ou me forço um pouco para que me pareça,
Que sigo por outra estrada, por outro sonho, por outro mundo,
Que sigo sem haver Lisboa deixada ou Sintra a que ir ter,
Que sigo, e que mais haverá em seguir senão não parar mas seguir?
Vou passar a noite a Sintra por não poder passá-la em Lisboa,
Mas, quando chegar a Sintra, terei pena de não ter ficado em Lisboa.
Sempre esta inquietação sem propósito, sem nexo, sem consequência,
Sempre, sempre, sempre,
Esta angústia excessiva do espírito por coisa nenhuma,
Na estrada de Sintra, ou na estrada do sonho, ou na estrada da vida…
Maleável aos meus movimentos subconscientes do volante,
Galga sob mim comigo o automóvel que me emprestaram.
Sorrio do símbolo, ao pensar nele, e ao virar à direita.
Em quantas coisas que me emprestaram guio como minhas!
Quanto me emprestaram, ai de mim!, eu próprio sou!
À esquerda o casebre — sim, o casebre — à beira da estrada.
À direita o campo aberto, com a lua ao longe.
O automóvel, que parecia há pouco dar-me liberdade,
É agora uma coisa onde estou fechado,
Que só posso conduzir se nele estiver fechado,
Que só domino se me incluir nele, se ele me incluir a mim.
À esquerda lá para trás o casebre modesto, mais que modesto.
A vida ali deve ser feliz, só porque não é a minha.
Se alguém me viu da janela do casebre, sonhará: Aquele é que é feliz.
Talvez à criança espreitando pelos vidros da janela do andar que está em cima
Fiquei (com o automóvel emprestado) como um sonho, uma fada real.
Talvez à rapariga que olhou, ouvindo o motor, pela janela da cozinha
No pavimento térreo,
Sou qualquer coisa do príncipe de todo o coração de rapariga,
E ela me olhará de esguelha, pelos vidros, até à curva em que me perdi.
Deixarei sonhos atrás de mim, ou é o automóvel que os deixa?
Eu, guiador do automóvel emprestado, ou o automóvel emprestado que eu guio?
Na estrada de Sintra ao luar, na tristeza, ante os campos e a noite,
Guiando o Chevrolet emprestado desconsoladamente,
Perco-me na estrada futura, sumo-me na distância que alcanço,
E, num desejo terrível, súbito, violento, inconcebível,
Acelero…
Mas o meu coração ficou no monte de pedras, de que me desviei ao vê-lo sem vê-lo,
À porta do casebre,
O meu coração vazio,
O meu coração insatisfeito,
O meu coração mais humano do que eu, mais exacto que a vida.
Na estrada de Sintra, perto da meia-noite, ao luar, ao volante,
Na estrada de Sintra, que cansaço da própria imaginação,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez mais perto de Sintra,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez menos perto de mim…
11-5-1928
Poesias de Álvaro de Campos. Fernando Pessoa. Lisboa: Ática, 1944 (imp. 1993).- 37
I chose part of this poem to say goodbye to someone today. I did not go the funeral. “Do you want me to go?”, I asked. He didn’t. I didn’t know his father, I have never met him, I heard stories of beautiful cars and saw fading photos of a once happy life.
Photo: Not really a Chevrolet at Bastelicaccia, Corsica, August 2018
Homens que são como lugares mal situados
Homens que são como casas saqueadas
Que são como sítios fora dos mapas
Como pedras fora do chão
Como crianças órfãs
Homens sem fuso horário
Homens agitados sem bússola onde repousem
Homens que são como fronteiras invadidas
Que são como caminhos barricados
Homens que querem passar pelos atalhos sufocados
Homens sulfatados por todos os destinos
Desempregados das suas vidas
Homens que são como a negação das estratégias
Que são como os esconderijos dos contrabandistas
Homens encarcerados abrindo-se com facas
Homens que são como danos irreparáveis
Homens que são sobreviventes vivos
Homens que são como sítios desviados
Do lugar
Men who are like places in the wrong place Men who are like plundered houses Like locations not on maps Like stones not on the ground Like orphaned children Men without a time zone Agitated men with no compass to rest on
Men who are like violated borders Like barricaded roads Men who are drawn to choked pathways Men spattered by all destinies Laid off from their lives
Men who are like the negation of strategies Like the hiding-places of smugglers Incarcerated men opening themselves with knives
Men who are like irreparable damage Men who are barely living survivors Men who are like places wrenched Out of place
Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!
Tú sabes cómo es esto: si miro la luna de cristal, la rama roja del lento otoño en mi ventana, si toco junto al fuego la impalpable ceniza o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña, todo me lleva a ti, como si todo lo que existe, aromas, luz, metales, fueran pequeños barcos que navegan hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Ahora bien, si poco a poco dejas de quererme dejaré de quererte poco a poco.
Si de pronto me olvidas no me busques, que ya te habré olvidado.
Si consideras largo y loco el viento de banderas que pasa por mi vida y te decides a dejarme a la orilla del corazón en que tengo raíces, piensa que en ese día, a esa hora levantaré los brazos y saldrán mis raíces a buscar otra tierra.
Pero si cada día, cada hora sientes que a mí estás destinada con dulzura implacable. Si cada día sube una flor a tus labios a buscarme, ay amor mío, ay mía, en mí todo ese fuego se repite, en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida, mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada, y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos sin salir de los míos.
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were
I have spent the last couple of weeks trying to account for every month of 2017. I needed to go through all the photos in my phone to be able to do this. It seems that without them it would not have been possible for me to recall what I have lived. 2017 was not an easy year for me and for those around me. I broke someone’s heart and got badly bruised by someone else. Some sort of cosmic retribution I would say, if I was inclined to believe in a such thing.
I don’t remember much happening in January 2017. I remember that I did not celebrate New Years, I went to bed before midnight. For the past eleven years I lived with someone who did not “believe in that sort of thing” and accommodated. I do believe in starting over, either on January 1st or whenever there is a need to do so. The best of January 2017 was hoping for something better to come along during the rest of the eleven months ahead. Daydreaming has always seemed to me another form of making plans. I did play dress up at Fatima‘s which seems to be my favourite form of therapy and was happy to find my Mozambique travel diary.
Why, what’s the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
I particularly dislike the first three months of every year. They are normally cold and grey and wet and February does feel like paradoxically long most of the times, but this one I actually remember it as being a happy month, celebrating Futurism and Almada in the voice of talented friends and art exhibitions, going back to Fatima’s for a somewhat surreal fashion shoot, having my hair cut and feeling incredibly cool and authentic as a tomboy, getting on stage for Flamenco tangos and fandangos and being busy with costumes and make up backstage.
March was also surprisingly good: Filipe Catto doing Variações, finding the life of strangers inside second-hand books, commuting in Lisbon with people that have no end, as Almada would say, those are the best people; seeing friends’ dreams come to life, Anna Karenina remixed at TNSJ (How she dies) and finally gaining momentum to read it all, page after page, without spiking details, Olivier Saillard‘s manifesto, waiting around for friends who are always late, going back in time, Macbeth’s open rehearsal and being reminded of the absolute privilege of hearing António M. Feijó
April came and it was not the cruelest month. Going away, enjoying bad habits at cool smokers lounges, arriving in Sarajevo, the sun, the snow, the coffee, new Friends, their stories, the history, the drive to Mostar, long conversations on everything and nothing, swan lake reloaded, the beauty, hanging out over drinks and photos and dance, “come what sorrow can it cannot countervail the exchange of joy”. Sarajevo might not have changed my life but has changed something inside me forever in the way I am able to relate and feel immense love for other people and to the moments we shared. Realizing I live somewhere in musical schizophrenia, absolutely loving two of the best concerts of the year between Heavy Metal and Fado, and that this actually helps. Every day.
May walked backwards: going back to the roots that sometimes still clutch, being back in Siena in great company, getting lost in museums, being silly enough to play La Niña de Fuego, going back to the music that once made sense
June chasing angels and finding them: Loft living in DTLA, getting an education at Los Feliz, unexpected gifts, falling in love with a bookstore, the kind and dapper gentlemen at Clifton’s, old school partying, the Los Angeles Athletic Club, being back at the MOCA, stars that never fade, hanging out with some of the coolest Ladies I know, feeling in heaven at the Way we Wore, feeling at home at LACMA, “The city is named for the angels, And its angels are easy to find”, on Beauty and Consolation, Shakespeare, being called Hope and the freedom of learning by heart, feeling at peace in Porto, clowning around on stage.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.
July “I believe I read most of it with my eyes shut” Spring’s Awakening, Summer sunsets, flamingo shoes, walking on sunshine, flirting with writing machines and getting no answers, seeing the fog clear; “life is a matter of taste”.
August getting older and none the wiser: Chance encounters have consequences too, birthday surprises, finally returning to Mérida and making it to the classical theater festival, between a rock and a hard place, checking works of art walk by, music does save your mortal soul (writing letters might not). Fátima moved to Braga and I almost did as well.
September “Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.” Going kitsch, Being hugged by strangers, getting closer, Rosalía e Raül Refree at Theatro Circo, Revisiting Viana and more talented friends, realizing that nothing lives there anymore, Lisbon stories por buleria, reconnecting with Luis after having met in Boston, Still writing letters (with a pen), Jazz with a view, bumping into Lola Lola, Book fairs and pulp fictions, Being somewhat afraid of Virginia Woolf, meta coincidences, Being teletransported to The Zap via Ian’s syndrome, Revisiting Mr. Vertigo’s last (together) space, Being disarmed by words, bedtime stories and playlists feeling like goodnight kisses, Between lived words and word games, Street poets on the verge of insanity. Facing the truth and having it added to my pillow book.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me
October “There is nothing in the dark that isn’t there when the lights are on.” A road trip through a black hole, Spiraling into someone else’s talent, Seeing George and Martha come to life, The apparent insight and kindness of strangers, Getting it wrong, learning where not to go, learning to let go, forgetting the door was open and letting chance walk right in (again), the Safety of favourite places and favourite people, Walls quoting Sartre, Lisbon stories, Healing noises, Wonder walks, wonder walls and the best guide in town, Black cats and English eccentrics, Bad concerts with cool friends, Reaching Point Omega, Making peace with Virginia Woolf through Orlando, “To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.” I have fallen in love with words. The ones I wanted to read, the one’s the poet on the other side knew were the right ones.
November “O bom é ser inteligente e não entender. É uma benção estranha, como ter loucura sem ser doida.” (The good thing is to be intelligent and not to understand. It’s a strange blessing, like having madness without being crazy.) In love with Josef Isräels‘ Mijmering, Stendhal syndrome episodes, Daydreaming and insomnia, Fictional love affairs through jet lag induced illusions – such is the power of words: they make you see things that aren’t there. Teenaging in Yichang, getting to know Frida who met at me at the airport wanting to know if my name really meant hope, hanging out with Cathy, Being a lucky charm, Getting Lost in translation and still feeling better than Charlotte, Tai Chi classes on airplanes, the sunset in Xangai and the sunrise in Amsterdam, Dark Porto, Lisbon stories on disappointment and being a spoiled brat, Life according to George Costanza, Flying solo, Getting it (so incredibly) wrong and trying to take the high road, Lisbon stories – the cold shoulder episode, saved by the happiness of strangers and a wise beyond her years long distance friend, Chasing walls, 3 a.m. dinners and the warmth of platonic love, Boots, Songs about boots, Good concerts with the same cool friends and some more, Drafting fictional memories, “For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing. ” Flying high and falling hard: Considering emotional exile, Soap bubbles as reality filter
December “São tudo fantasias que o cinema projectou no meu olhar” (They are all fantasies that the cinema projected in my gaze): Letting someone else’s clothes and music do the talking; Being called a pearl farmer and realizing that every once in a while casting pearls to swine is no big deal; I’ll still have plenty left. The circus, moments of pure joy, remembering my Grandparents, because they were the ones who used to take me when I was a kid, Sharing heartbreak stories during the storm with a name, pretending to be Mia Wallace and then dreaming of being Vivian Rutledge, better yet, Florence Carala (there was enough mist for that), If only I was Jackie Demaistre, Facing lost possibilities, Befriending misfits while drinking coffee and talking for an hour at gas stations, Going back to the classroom and considering that I might actually enjoy teaching, Midnight strolls during Sagittarius birthdays, Playing diva with the Diva, Holly Golightly gifts for breakfast, Christmas Day at the movies, making up gangster stories at Turkish restaurants, Bumping into Pedro from school and being 9 again, ivory colored letters in real envelopes with real stamps, feeling connected while trying to disconnect, Synthesizer freaks, being Alice but not in the city, time lapsing, picking up where we left off, So many ways to be (“no olvides que solo eres real cuando tocas y te tocan“), the Clear Insight, Incredible Patience, Undivided Attention and Unconditional Love of old Friends. Braga doing more for my sanity this year than any shrink could have ever done. “And the rest is rust and stardust.”
I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past
I think this is the first time I try to write some kind of “memory”. I am not very good at describing events, everything that has happened seems to have only a translation in how places, books, movies, plays, poems, music, little details, events, actions and the words of others have made me feel. And, in 2017, most of them have hurt me deeply. This year, I celebrated New Year, for two whole days. On December 30 I went to a punk rock show and decided not to move away from the mosh pit as some sort of “shock therapy” and it felt good. I spent New Years Eve with my best friend and his family and even though we had not thought of going out, we did and danced the night away until morning. And all this might not solve anything, but just giving myself away to music makes me feel both hugged by the world and ready to restart.
The appeal of inebriating oneself.
The appeal of the dance and of the shout,
the appeal of the colorful ball,
the appeal of Kant and of poetry,
all of them . . . and none of them resolves things
Today (January 1st) I went back to the circus and felt like crying during Duo eMotion‘s act. Real life is never this perfect. Or beautiful. And then, sometimes it happens. I went for coffee at my favorite place in Porto and wished by favorite waiter a Happy New Year and he just called me my love and kissed me. These little details end up, in a way, making up for a lot of the mistakes and disappointments of the previous year.
Unspoken feelings are unforgettable
If you set them free by writing unnecessarily long posts they might just go away.
References:
Vladimir Nabokov, Marcel Proust, William Shakespeare, Clarice Lispector, Virginia Woolf Anais Nin, Samuel Beckett, Carlos Drummod de Andrade, Andre Tarkovsky, António Variações, The Twilight Zone
My world is not like the world of other people, I want much more, I demand much more, there is inside me a thirst for the infinite, a constant anxiety that I do not even understand, because I am far from being a pessimist; first I am an exalted one, with an intense soul, violent, tormented, a soul that does not feel well where it is, that misses… I do not know what!
In Lijiang, the sign outside your hostel
glares: Ride alone, ride alone, ride
alone – it taunts you for the mileage
of your solitude, must be past
thousands, for you rode this plane
alone, this train alone, you’ll ride
this bus alone well into the summer night,
well into the next hamlet, town,
city, the next century, as the trees twitch
and the clouds wane and the tides
quiver and the galaxies tilt and the sun
spins us another lonely cycle, you’ll
wonder if this compass will ever change.
The sun doesn’t need more heat,
so why should you? The trees don’t need
to be close, so why should you?
How have I laboured? How have I not laboured To bring her soul to birth, To give these elements a name and a centre! She is beautiful as the sunlight, and as fluid. She has no name, and no place. How have I laboured to bring her soul into separation; To give her a name and her being!
Surely you are bound and entwined, You are mingled with the elements unborn; I have loved a stream and a shadow. I beseech you enter your life. I beseech you learn to say ‘I’ When I question you; For you are no part, but a whole, No portion, but a being.
Ezra Pound, Ortus in The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917
Life While-You-Wait. Performance without rehearsal. Body without alterations. Head without premeditation.
I know nothing of the role I play. I only know it’s mine. I can’t exchange it.
I have to guess on the spot just what this play’s all about.
Ill-prepared for the privilege of living, I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands. I improvise, although I loathe improvisation. I trip at every step over my own ignorance. I can’t conceal my hayseed manners. My instincts are for happy histrionics. Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more. Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.
Words and impulses you can’t take back, stars you’ll never get counted, your character like a raincoat you button on the run ? the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.
If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance, or repeat a single Thursday that has passed! But here comes Friday with a script I haven’t seen. Is it fair, I ask (my voice a little hoarse, since I couldn’t even clear my throat offstage).
You’d be wrong to think that it’s just a slapdash quiz taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no. I’m standing on the set and I see how strong it is. The props are surprisingly precise. The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer. The farthest galaxies have been turned on. Oh no, there’s no question, this must be the premiere. And whatever I do will become forever what I’ve done.
Wislawa Szymborska, Poems New and Collected 1957-1997, trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh
Stories from A Closet of Errors 