R18

Bloom
15 Step
Morning Mr Magpie
Staircase
The Gloaming
I Might Be Wrong
Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
Pyramid Song
Nude
Skirting on the Surface
Kid A
Lotus Flower
There There
Karma Police
Feral
Idioteque

Encore 1:
House of Cards
Separator
Reckoner
Everything in its Right Place (True Love Waits intro)

Encore 2:
Give Up the Ghost
Exit Music (for a Film)
Paranoid Android

R17

Bloom
15 Step
Airbag
Staircase
The Gloaming
Morning Mr Magpie
Supercollider
I Might Be Wrong
Nude
Reckoner
Identikit
Little by Little
Lotus Flower
There There
Feral
Idioteque

Encore 1:
You and Whose Army?
Kid A
Exit Music (for a Film)
Paranoid Android

Encore 2:
Give Up the Ghost
Planet Telex
Street Spirit (Fade Out)

ACG

La Asociación Cartelista del Golfo, grupo de reciente alcurnia, y constante donador de grandes sumas de dinero a caridades relacionadas con la desintoxicación de niños y adolescentes, se ha convertido en una de las potencias económicas mundiales. Habrá que aclarar que tal asociación, como toda que se precie de ser respetable, tiene un origen tan oscuro como el cuento del huevo y la gallina. El caso es que tal asociación, como toda que se precie de ser exitosa, tuvo que desafiar el status quo, mutar en lo impensable, y traspasar la barrera de un simple acto de prestidigitación local para convertirse en un mastodonte de la salud mundial; económicamente hablando, por supuesto. Hace muchos años, tantos que todos los altos ejecutivos de tal grupo que se han retirado apelan no recordar la edad que tenían cuando Osiel Cárdenas fue enviado a las sombras para algún día salir de ellas para ocupar un asiento al lado de Carlos Slim en la Cámara de Empresarios por un Bien Común, la ACG era una banda de traficantes de sustancias que en aquel entonces eran consideradas peligrosas para la salud. Claro, el alcohol y el tabaco han sido peligrosos desde siempre. Sin embargo, la hipócrita legalidad, con sus vaivenes y contraltos, creo una excusa poderosa para cualquier mal padre que achacara su mal actuar a cualquier factor externo: se les podía comprar en casi toda esquina de casi toda ciudad. Vaya, exclamaba cada uno de estos padres, si se pueden comprar en cualquier changarro, no pueden ser tan malos. Veintitrés años después de la convenientemente siempre mencionada Tarragona, y ante la baja afluencia de efectivo, aunada al descontrolado terror que impartía ya La Mano Con Ojos en los corazones de los traficantes de Latinoamérica, la organización que nos atañe sacrificó una cantidad considerable de sus miembros, sicarios sobre todo, invirtió fuertes cantidades en energías renovables, se puso al corriente con ciento séis años de impuestos atrasados, limpió sus finanzas, y comenzó un largo camino en la explotación de lo que "ser Tamaulipeco" quiere decir - pemoles y cueras de por medio. Aceptémoslo, cuando los políticos, incluso los de Estados Unidos, quienes se vieron altamente conmovidos por la ayuda que la ACG prestó a todos los indocumentados mexicanos para que volvieran a su hogar y rerecomenzaran sus vidas en un lugar lejos de los céspedes americanos, ven millones de dólares rozar las llemas de sus dedos, activan inconscientemente la oportuna cualidad de hacerce güeyes y ver para otro lado. Entonces, ojos al piso, manos extendidas, y saliva por los suelos, la memoria se les nubla, cual si bebiesen ajenjo, y perdonan a aquellos con suficientes méritos para transformarse en personas de bien. Además, habrá que mencionar que la en aquel entonces en proceso de convertirse en ACG prestó a aquellos pistoleros que no había aniquilado, al ejército para la caza de aquel antiguo brazo de los Beltrán Leyva, quienes lejos de respetar al pueblo como cualquier cártel de la epoca hacía, empezaron un escalada de violencia tan dantesca, que eliminaron al cuarenta y cinco por ciento de la población del estado de México. Tal ayuda no fue provista en vano ya que Osiel, aquel Osiel de tantos narcocorridos, al regresar a su país de origen fue recibido con el puesto máximo de responsabilidad en una asociación que nunca dudo en llamarse guardiana de las buenas costumbres.

El autor de este texto tiene dos puntos convenientes por tratar:
(1) Pedir a sus tan amados lectores se le perdone tanta exageración.
(2) El heredero de Osiel Cárdenas Guillén, ahora de setenta y trés años de edad, no ha sido decidido, y se tratará en posteriores publicaciones.

Id

Dream of a dream in the sole dream of a sole dreamer who rows hard against the deep waters of a stream of dream over which a sole dream could get lost and crushed and fed to the wolves and carried away in their blood stream, so it goes into their brains and make it work, so they prowl, so they taunt, so they haunt, so they hunt sheep, so they rip flesh, so they devour sins, so they cry and whisper to the voices in their heads, and their words are carried away while they sleep and dream, and the words reach the nearest shore to rest upon sand, where they could be drifted and reach a thousand rivers around the world to interweave with them, be their voices and froth and suds and fish and growls and laughter and dreams, be torn to particles, form silt form rocks form castles form men, lying men, walking men, running men, thinking men, dreaming men, decaying men, dying men, and hover to the promised land, where children will not stop laughing, where water is crystal and crystal is the mind of the ones who dared tame temptation to attain the utmost dreamt destination where a dream is reality and reality is the shape of their dreams.

Eau de Kung-Fu

El camino del hombre está inherentemente ligado a las brasas por las que muchas veces cruza. Solo el valiente olvida mirar con desdén el camino ante sí. La negación del dolor engendra más dolor. Cubrirse del sol mientras se camina sobre las ardientes brasas es tan absurdo como pedir perdón mientras se peca. El tonto se calza con sandalias de goma antes de cruzar las brasas, el cobarde baña sus pies en agua helada. Correr no quiere decir que se entiende la premura. Las brasas queman las plantas de los pies, el sol quema el rostro, la duda quema el corazón. Tirar piedras al camino ante uno sólo acrecenta el sentimiento de soledad. La soledad nunca es mala en sí misma; no saber como ser permeado por ella es el problema. Si la noche acecha el camino, habrá que tumbarse a dormir y soñar con la luz. El hombre, por más que trate de evitarlo, nunca dejará de andar.

Martín

Todo empezó en Tarragona. La crisis debida al liberalismo falaz que pobló la tierra por más de doscientos años, aunada a la insalubre idiotez de los políticos de aquel entonces, llevó a un grupo de consumidores de cannabis en Cataluña a rentar tierra en el otro extremo de España para producir su tan adorado ocio. Lo cual, obviamente, alegró a los tarragoneses al inyectar cierta cantidad de dinero en su comunidad para tratar de saciar su nada encomiable déficit, a la vez de que los bañaba con el fantasma de ser una autonomía de avanzada. Lo cual, obviamente, hizo que los chiflados conservadores pusieran el grito en el cielo, y agitaran las banderas en contra del supuesto narcotráfico que se promovía por aquellas regiones. Lo cual, obviamente, animó a la izquierda a gritar que la vida era vida por el libre albedrío. Lo cual, obviamente, hizo que mi abuelo, determinista de hueso colorado, le dijera a quien quisiera oírlo que esa cualidad de la vida, supuestamente dada a los hombres por un dios maquiavélico, era una mera ilusión, y de las feas. El debate se alargó por años, brincando de cumbres de la Organización Mundial de la Salud, a cumbres acerca de soluciones judiciales y sociales para con el tráfico de drogas, tanto legales como ilegales. Nadie se ponía de acuerdo, mientras el cártel del Golfo se colocaba como la quinta economía más poderosa del mundo, detrás de China, Wal*Mart, Alemania, y el estado de California. Quince años después de aquel evento en la costa oeste de España, muchos de los extremistas religiosos de aquellos días, entiéndase católicos, mormones, judíos, evangelistas, pentecostales, cristianos y musulmanes, se suicidaron después de malentender un extraño fenómeno astrológico. Todos ellos, los extremistas católicos, mormones, judíos, evangelistas, pentecostales, cristianos y musulmanes, estaban tan resolutamente opuestos a la legalización del consumo de ciertas sustancias, y el resto del mundo estaba tan consternado por su estúpido suicidio, que después de su ignota partida, la legalización de la producción, distribución, y consumo de ciertas drogas entró con apenas algo de ruido en la vida de los más de siete mil millones de habitantes de este planeta. Esto es, los religiosos de cualquier ala moderada entendieron, o quisieron entender, que la prohibición de aquello con lo que uno no está de acuerdo por el simple hecho de prohibir aquello con lo que uno no está de acuerdo proviene de la misma zona oscura del cerebro donde se aloja la idea de suicidarse en masa. Por tanto, cayeron en dedicarse a instruir a la gente en el consumo de espiritualidad para evitar la espiral caída al mundo pernicioso de las drogas. El caso es que, ante la existencia del tráfico legal de todo lo que solían monopolizar, los narcos y cárteles y sicarios no tuvieron más remedio que dedicarse a la exportación de comida y productos tradicionales de sus correspondientes países de origen, sobre todo por la amnistía ofrecida por los gobiernos, amnistía dientes para afuera porque, y esto es un rumor solamente, tales gobiernos se relamían los bigotes ante la rebanada de pastel que les tocaría, legalmente por supuesto, si los narcotraficantes legalizaban sus negocios y cuentas. El consumo de drogas, más que acrecentarse, se dispersó por todo estrato social, alentando el establecimiento de cafés para el consumo de casi lo que fuese, cannabis y hachís principalmente. Los más afectados fueron los ejecutivos de cualquier compañía relacionada con la producción de alcohol ya que, vaya, lo que al principio fue considerado como la irremediable moda de ponerse pacheco, se convirtió en la tradición de ponerse pacheco, y así, esas grandes corporaciones se fueron lentamente hacia la bancarrota. Cadenciosamente, la industria creció, creció, creció y creció a tal grado que se puede asegurar que el consumo legal salvó a la economía mundial.

Dato curioso: el consumo de la Coca-Cola está penado hoy día con un mes de cárcel, dos meses obligatorios de desintoxicación, dos meses opcionales de servicio social, los cuales se pueden saltar si uno tiene cierta cantidad de conexiones en Atlanta, Georgia, y una multa de dos mil créditos. La Coca-Cola se convirtió en un producto ilegal cuando el consumo de tal líquido bajo a cantidades risibles cuando la gente dejo de preparar tragos con ella. Ante tal motivo, The Coca-Cola Company comenzó a lanzar escasísimas cantidades de latas de su refresco, todas diseñadas por artistas de vanguardia, las cuales llegaron a valer tanto como una casa en la Rivera Cortés, un Lexus-Benz de primera generación, un hígado, o un bebé Remoliano. Los gobiernos del mundo, en complicidad con la ahora honorable ACG (Asociación Cartelista del Golfo), y Diageo, ahora productor del famoso Dragón Verde, reclamaron ante la OMCFMIBMBCMyA la pronta dispersión y el cese de actividades de The Coca-Cola Company por prácticas comerciales desleales. Ante la aparición de los bulldozers a las puertas de la única fábrica de Coca-Cola en el mundo, los accionistas mayoritarios desaparecieron con la todavía fórmula secreta del líquido y una cantidad increíble de costales de dinero, no sin antes jurar venganza por tal ofensa. La ahora exageradamente preciada gaseosa es producida en laboratorios clandestinos por todos los Estados Unidos, y exportada al resto del planeta, no sin cierta ironía ya que en la parte inferior de cada una de las latas se puede leer la palabra "vendetta".

Para más información acerca de qué es un bebé Remoliano, quién fué Johannes Remol, la historia de ACG, y qué es un Dragón Verde, consulte posteriores publicaciones.

Aquella noche

La historia es olvidada. La historia olvida. El olvido es historia. Pedro, no. Mi desayuno, las balas en el Cerro de las Cruces, las lágrimas de Margarita, el mal cine mexicano, los cortes de Tino. Toda aparente nimiedad forma parte de un todo histórico. Hasta los palurdos. Hasta Pedro. Él, tan perdido en el tiempo, tan atiborradamente agarrado de un a veces tiempo mejor, sufre como nadie la insaciabilidad de tiempo que no hace nada, según él, más que correr. La gente, dice él, se baña en su mala memoria todos los lunes por la mañana. Y lo dice mientras blande un imaginario rifle y dispara a los imaginarios conservadores que lo aturden desde el pasado que él a veces puede recordar. Mi querido Benito, dice, mi mal logrado Benito. Pero llegará el día en que tú ocupes el lugar que te corresponde, y los gaznápiros que te ignoraron, y que todavía te ignoran, caerán bajo el peso de tu resolución. Olvidar es no ser humano, dice. Olvidar es morir, creo yo. Dar un paso hacia la orilla del mundo sin recordar dónde más has pisado es terrible. Sólo el presente existe, se podrá argüir. Sin embargo, en el pasado están todos aquellos eventos que nos han llevado al punto en el espacio dónde estamos. Y no se me hable de existencialismos y determinismos y objetos y de sueños álgidos, que no se pueden imaginar billones y billones de años de eventos que aún podemos observar. Si no, pregúntenle a los físicos y biólogos y teoretistas de la evolución y demás, dice. Dios mismo es una conexión mnemónica; la divinidad de la que medio pinche mundo presume es un pedazo, un recuerdo, de aquel tiempo en que el Señor tomó arcilla y modeló a cada uno de los seres por poblar la tierra, carajo... La memoria duele, exclama, y duele aun más cuando el hombre resuelve en rascar su cabeza cuando aquello que arde es su corazón.

Sobre un hombre eternamente retrasado

Todo ocurre por alguna razón. Los edificios pueden caer de un momento a otro y aniquilar a un puñado de gente inmersa en lo inerte de una mañana cualquiera, completamente abstraídos del hado que los acecha. Yo ya no corro, no importando la imperatividad de quien me espera. Paso a paso, cual reflejo de nube cruzando los cristales de cualquier cara de cualquier construcción, me acerco al pedazo de raciocinio al que me dirijo por tal o cual motivo sin urgencia. El tiempo me contrae y me expande, roza mi piel, me susurra o me canta o simplemente me grita, dependiendo de su humor, que corra, que qué desconsiderado, que ella espera, que él mira su reloj como a punto de soltarle un "para por favor" a la manecilla larga. Yo no hago nada. No soy la tierra con su aparentemente parsimonioso andar a pesar de su frenesí por girar sobre sí y alrededor del sol, dando tumbos por un curvo universo; yo, alérgico a la prisa y y al desboque, dubitativo del provecho de la zancada larga, temeroso de soñar a bordo de un bólido tornado, ando lento. Y si acaso la torpeza del día por avalanzarse contra el reloj hace mella en mí, simplemente me planto en algún lugar, desarmo mi cuerpo hasta los átomos, y olvido el momento. Yo no morí aquella vez. Todo pasa por algo. Y tal vez será porque mi tardanza es la cúspide de mi existencia.

Corpus

Todos me miran, de forma peculiar, mas me miran. El Señor posa sus manos sobre mí, sobre mis hombros, asiento a su mandato, miro al cielo, y riego sobre los hombres que me miran su palabra. La noche cae, los ojos de la gente caen abatidos por el tic-toc de un día cansado, de un día adusto, árido, falto de pertenencia. Pero mi voz surge como el trino de un pájaro que se atreve a cantar primero cada mañana. Mi voz, honesta, ardiente, se alza ante el silencio y las cabezas gachas. El Señor se cierne sobre ustedes a través de mi carne y sangre. La compasión y el amor están tan a su alcance que podrían nunca darse cuenta que acaban de ser salvados. La salvación no es ir de rodillas por el mundo, autoflagelándose sin miramiento, arrastrando las penas sobre calles pavimentadas con sal y arena. Escuchen al Señor en la tímida voz de su rebaño y encontrarán el portal que une al cielo con la tierra, voz que los llevará lejos de la inconcordia y el dolor, la falsedad y la idolatría. Me miran, mas no me observan. Si lo hicieran, si en verdad buscasen entender su alrededor, sabrían del peso que llevo en mi arrugado rostro, envejecido por la contemplación, dilapidado por las penas del pasado, sangrante por el rasposo porvenir, inverso y decadente por lo frágil de mi alma. Pero no lloro porque sé que Él me acogerá y me guardará lejos del pasar del tiempo. Seré un rayo de sol abrigando a las ovejas que aún pastan esperando su turno para convertirse en nubes adornando el firmamento donde la vida es gozo, y poder dejar atrás lo mundano en la estadía que es estar vivo.

Alabado sea el Señor.
Amén.

El humo de su cigarrillo se extiende infinitamente. Hace bucles eternos. Llena el espacio. Desplaza materia a su paso. El humo de su cigarrillo es en parte su aliento. Es en parte su voz. Es en parte una entidad que susurra mi nombre.

rant

I am sick - sick of love, sick of her and you, sick in the throat, sick cause I ain't seeen you.
One a many puff of smoke rising to the white ceiling, while I hear she is the sun and moon and stars.
I shall count the hours cause there is nothing else to do, you understand.
There is no bike, no rant, just me wishing to hear a bird passs by.
I write and pretend to be I am where I am.
Whisper her name to the crickets and they will sing you back a lullaby.
The world is yours and you are hers alright.
Cursing the rain which drove you mad on a Sunday night.

Life is a full-fleged irony...

Domingo 8 de enero del 2012

Llegué a la esquina de Reforma y Río Tíber esta mañana después de una larga caminata. Me senté, coloqué mi botella de agua y mi copia de La Vida en Llamas de Carlos Pellicer sobre la banca que escogí, debo decir, sin razón particular alguna. Tomé un cigarro de mi bolsillo, el cual cayó al piso ante mi distracción por ver al hombre que andaba en bicicleta disfrazado de alebrije. Me agaché para recogerlo y ahí estaba la hoja que contra toda naturaleza mía decidí tomar. Ésta decía:

y que todo hombre y mujer posibles y que todo hombre y mujer imposibles rieguen la tierra y puedan sentir como sube el vapor de agua en un día de verano, mientras el pasto crece impasiblemente lento, tan lento que es eterno su ascender al cielo, donde habitan cada uno de los seres pasados y futuros, quienes miran con curiosidad la simpleza del andar errante de cada uno de los seres que habitan la tierra, andar errante de tres pasos a la izquierda, dos a la derecha, cinco hacia atrás, mas casi ninguno hacia delante ya que la visión terrenal, imperfecta y arrogante, no descifra que el aparente muro que se cierne sobre el hombre es solo un espejismo colocado por el leve reflejo del cielo sobre la tierra, y ay de aquellos hombres que ufanamente caigan en la vacuidad de tal reflejo, y ay de aquellos hombres quienes osen atravesarlo porque la soledad será la niebla que nublará su vista, y odiarán tal niebla, y la maldecirán, harán pociones para contrarrestarla, tratarán de llamar a sus hermanos, mas será en vano, y al final, entendiendo que todo artilugio en su contra es irrelevante, la abrazarán y morirán sonrientes, encontrándose a sí mismos, pero estarán solos, y el vacío que ha invadido el corazón de cada ser en la tierra crecerá hasta consumirlos, y a pesar de que sus nombres serán reconocidos por el resto del mundo, todo hombre y mujer posibles, y todo hombre y mujer imposibles andarán tratando de sentir como el vapor de agua se desprende del pasto eterno y les llena el alma de sueños de sal y de arena y de sangre y de sudor y de lágrimas y de lava y de agua de mar, a la par que el creador sonríe mientras cavila en el motivo por el cual le ha dado el aliento de la vida a un manojo de figuras de barro quienes habitan una roca en un lejano rincón del universo mientras yo rezo por sus almas y anhelo la redención y la sumisión y que todo ser que habita en aquel rincón del universo se abra a mí y yo me abra a ellos

Llevé la hoja a mi casa y la coloqué debajo de mi almohada. Siento un deseo ardiente de dormir con ella entre mis brazos y soñar que la leo una y otra vez. No me atrevo ya que mi miedo es más grande que mi curiosidad. También quisiera arrugarla y tirarla por el balcón para que mañana el viento se la lleve lejos.

Of a bottle of wine...

I am not Joel Rojas. A waste of chemicals under the tag of happiness has taken over the mind, the thoughts and the hands God granted me on a summer day. The music in the distance is a mere beat. My heart dances, my body dances, my hope dances, while the walls turn red, while the expectation for a morning in which I could discover what I am meant for grows gargantuan. I have no control over these words. I have no control over when the sun sets. I have no control over when the earth will tremble at each of my steps. I, as infinite as a single person can be, sit by the arms of je ne se pas, c'est la vie, carpe diem, and the like, to have chats of the taste of red wine. I see the world through my dirty glasses, through the eyes of a drunken man. These keys are soft, this world seems soft, this slight feeling of nude joy feels soft. Hot Chip, hot drinks, hot words, hot plans, hot winter, hot sex, hot love. I wonder. I wonder how much of my self has gone on a boat. The music next to me is the beat of my heart. I am nothing without music. Music is nothing without me. Why? You know what? I know I am more than a pile of salt, yet... yet that is exactly how I feel. If the rain, I would melt, and who would I fool? You are the soul for which my soul has become a pure pile of salt awaiting to become a sea which can give you comfort on a day like this...

I am sold for the whims of a woman who owns me in a most despicable way. Do not misunderstand me: it is just that I have found a woman who rocks my world...

Funny, isn't it?

Interlude b

The sun came crawling up the wall and through the window,
Reached my eyes, lit the old house I was dreaming of,
Shone upon the books resting next to my bed,
Books of verse and prose and science and hope,
His countless fingers touched the back of my head,
His swift voice made for my ears and said, Welcome home.

Interlude a

She.
She has given us a sip of hope.
She knocks on our window,
She encourages us to come up,
To feast on cotton candy,
While the song her words are,
Makes us grin,
Our dreams claim their place,
So we slumber,
So she slumbers,
Then,
Then we start over the morning after,
When she knocks on our window,
The wind whispers, Good morning,
We get to our feet,
And so on.

Interlude

In spite of the rain, the mud, the solace,
Of how lost you feel, in mud, in solace,
Her name is the harbour to make for tonight.

The assorted path

I

How sunny can an autumn morning be? I wasn’t planning to get up for another hour, yet this burning sunlight won’t let me catch the slightest sleep. What is it I got to do today? Bank, picking up the suit at the tailor’s, checking up the pre-orders for the Chinese manufacturers, perhaps having a coffee at that new place Pierce talks about much. Dinner at my parents’ isn’t an option. Not today. Not in the mood for my dad babbling about how stupid of me it was to crash the bike. Cold water. Bullshit to whatever they say: cold showers are for mental people. No shaving. How I hate this guy’s voice! It’s like he got trapped in a water tank and had to deliver news to the world through a cardboard pipe while the batteries of his voice are running low, the bastard. Hadn’t noticed the lawn was in such good shape. Carlos is always complaining the cold has come early and has begun to dry up the grass. Why do I ever listen to him if his voice is so bothersome? Apricot Boulevard, then the Roxy street, then 42nd St. I thought they had already finished. Those public works never heal, do they? It’s as if they’ve re-opened the whole thing and done it again all together. Move it, can’t you see? Gee… Some people aren’t meant to go out their houses, but they won’t listen. Closed?! How come?! I… Fuck… I would have noticed... Teller told me, Come on Monday to pick it up. Keep moving. Underneath this burly tree, This is where she brought me, This is where she bound me, Nobody found me. Good morning, how do you do today? Awfully fine, mister. Is Tino around? I’m afraid he’s left for his mother’s town. She is terribly ill and, between you and me, I don’t believe there is much to do about the poor lady, if you know what I mean. Thought she had already passed. Either way, I brought a suit for repair last week, and Tino said it would be ready today. What colour? I assume he didn’t give you a receipt. Nope. Blue. Navy blue. Hold on. I really thought she had. You sure he said Monday. A hundred. He must’ve misplaced it. Can’t figure where he could have put it since the man is peculiar about where to place things in his business. Alright… When is he coming back? I’m afraid I couldn’t say due to his mother’s condition. Right. Thanks anyway. Drop by next Wednesday; I’m sure I’ll have news about your suit. Ok, good day. Likewise, sir. I could swear she had a seizure earlier this year. Well, people are always breaking down.

II

Rosewood St. Turn left at Persimmon. Three blocks he told me. Turn right at Oak. Hmm. That is odd. Goddamn… Duplicate and triplicate. One more time. I love you, but enough is enough. Lewis’, that’s what he said. Welcome to our new café. Thanks. We have a wide variety of imported coffees, and... You have Wi-Fi access' right? Yes, it`s open, so you won’t need a password. Ok. I’ll take that table, and would you get me a large latté, doppio, and a house sandwich, please. Right away. Bet he mentioned this opened a couple of months ago. Hmm, Duke Ellington. Where did I leave that cd Isra gave me last Xmas? Coltrane is a good name for a boy. I don’t know what in heavens she is talking about when she says he wouldn’t like it. It’s different. It’s not like it is his father’s name, for Christ's sake. I’m not gonna name a dog Coltrane. So. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? Had the mail yesterday. Maybe if… I had the mail yesterday. Perhaps… Nah, I’m not that stupid! Could he? But I got it late at night. So… I forwarded it to Pierce. It gotta be there. Where the fuck is it? Here’s your coffee, some sugar and some cinnamon. The sandwich will be ready in a jiff. Great. 555-3825… The number you have tried to reach is out of service. Please… This can’t be. I knew I shouldn’t have taken the week off. Could you hurry up with the sandwich, please. I feel like thrashing this… Listen. Listen to Duke. Ok. Dear Mr Sanders, I seem to have misplaced the e-mail you sent me regarding the pre-orders for our Chinese manufacturers you have me asked to review. Would it be possible for you to send the pre-orders once more? My reply will be in your inbox this afternoon without delay. Thanks in advance. Regards, Joe Jennings. Aw, fuck. I won’t see the end of it this Friday. How long does it take to make a goddamn sandwich? Pop. Guess what, son? The bike just came in. Hope you can come to check it this afternoon after work. Luv. Wait… Wait a fucking minute.

III

Here it is, I’m sorry for having you wait. The bike. The bike should be in my garage, completely screwed. I crashed against that tree last week after Camille’s. Is everything alright? Yes, thanks. Dad, what are you talking about?! He’s pulling my leg. Is it ok if I leave my stuff here while I… No worry, I’ll keep an eye on it. I’m not here, this isn’t happening, Strobe lights and blown speakers, Fireworks and Hurricanes. Refreshing. Rough. The bike I bought on eBay got here this morning, sleepyhead. You still in bed? Please come today and I’ll let you ride it. I don’t… I don’t get it. Tasty. But… It was home. It is home. No… Could you wrap it to go? How much is it? Twenty dollars, sir. Thanks. This is sickening. He could have gone home. But, why… Odd. Thanks. Have a good afternoon. Let’s see. Shit. Where are my mother’s messages? Where is Sara’s? July 25th. You gotta be… Now, move a little to the left. Go fast or you’ll lose it. Are you out of your mind? Oh my god, it’s so hot, Oh my god, it’s so low, Oh my god, I’m so messed up, I don’t know which way to go. Green. Don’t mess my holiday. Don’t mess my holiday. Ok. Go. This has gotta solve it. Open I tell you. What the hell? I… Ian came yesterday to see it. He gave me an estimate, he said it would be three hundred dollars, he said he could take it as soon as this coming Thursday. I’m calling him. Hold on. Nope. I picked it up and threw it to the couch. Here. July 25th… The Oslo murderer charges on Zapatero. Demonstrations continue in Tahrir Square. Iran blames the US and Israel for scientist’s death. Gaddafi’s forces capture Katrun. This is hilarious, you know that? It’s like when I woke up in the middle of the night, ran downstairs to open my Christmas presents, but the tree was gone. There was only an empty space in the right corner of the room. Someone burgled the house! Mom! Dad! The tree is gone! The presents are gone! What?! Someone came in and took our things! Joseph, stay where you are! I was on the floor, kneeling, crying. Stay in your room! Are you ok, Joe? Dad! Stay in your room, I’m fucking telling you! Joe, are you ok? Yeah… Why are you crying? The presents… What? The presents! They took our presents. So my dad came downstairs with a baseball bat in his right hand and a torch in the left. Are you in the living room? Yeah. I heard his steps and his breathing, completely syncopated. Joe? Are you alright? No! They took our tree and presents. They’ve ruined Christmas! Joe… We’re in the middle of the summer. No! Last night we had turkey and… Joe, come here. Think about it. Concentrate. Didn’t you have two bowls of cereal because you spilt half the first on your brother? Didn’t we have a good laugh? I had been dreaming. I could have sworn I had seen my presents gleaming under the tree.

IV

How can it be? Dreams are made of bits of reality, so they feel real, someone once told me. But, wouldn’t it be that I couldn’t be thinking of this if I were actually dreaming? Oh god… Could you tell me what date it is today? No way have I dreamt four months. Dreams are made of bits of reality. Sara. She’s real. The sunny afternoon. The coffee and the cigarettes. I was there. Her reflection in the bistro dark window. Autumn leaves. Trees paying courtesy to our steps, shedding leaves, shedding light, bending in the wind. We strolled as if we danced, and we danced as if we strolled. Your company makes me feel alive. Smile. Staring at the floor. Smile, once again. This is… an… elcome to anot… Killing me softly w… War thrives in Libya as General Gaddafi and his forces have taken the city of Katrun. International NGO’s keep calling on world leaders to take any sort of action to prevent a massacre. The Security Council of th… Miles Davis play Blue Haze. July 25th. Is everything ok? You don’t pray. You don’t go pray. In madness no one listens. And even if this isn’t madness, do not think someone would get up and show how much of a macabre prank this is. Sara. Answer. Answer, please. No. Oh, Sara. Sara, would you tell me if you are there? Woul... The weirdest thing has happened. Is it? Tell me. I have discovered time travel. Have you not? Indeed. Now, I can see dinosaurs. Do you want to come along? Dreams are made of bits of reality. How can you know this is not a dream? Because I can tell when dinosaur skin is real and when not. Sure you don’t want to see dinosaurs? Nope. Can we travel to October 17th? Why so? I need to see she is real.

V

Hello? Is everything alright? I think so. Why are you asking? Just curious. What are you doing? I just woke up. It’s nine o’clock. Are you on medication? I mean, that shit sometimes makes you sleepy. I… I just had a hard morning, that’s all. I haven’t been able to think clearly all day long. Listen, your mum says you outta come and help me with the bike. Is i… Fuck! Son? Is everything alright? Joseph? Cut it out, Joseph! Joseph?! Luke said you can’t read shit. The present story takes place on a rainy day, nowhere in particular since the city where it occurs can be mistaken for any other due to the intrisic and regular characteristics of any given city nowadays. The person we shall now talk about has neither an odd, nor a rare characteristic that could make you turn around… No no no no no no no no no… no no no! Shut the fuck up! Sara, where are you? It is so quiet… Why don’t I hear voices? Why doesn’t anyone tell me to burn my house down? Don’t answer the phone… Don’t answer the phone… It… It was so normal, so normal when you got out of bed this morning. Shut thefuck up! Just go upstairs, just go upstairs… Everything will be the same tomorrow morning. Just get in bed. Just do. Quiet. Quiet… What are you doing here? I came to comfort you from your dreams. Isn’t that what you wanted? Yes…

-ARV

My father is a man of brown hair, pale skin, and deep-blue eyes. He visits the spirit of my grandfather, who lurks in the park downtown in the middle of the autumn, every November 2nd. He sets up an altar as well - he buys cigarettes, the November 2nd local newspaper, sugar candy skulls, sugar cane, dried apricots, Legal instant coffee, china paper ornaments and a mid-sized candle, and places them around a picture of Alfredo Valenzuela, my grandfather, who would drive a tank for my country´s army. My father, a man of 61, quiet and self-absorbed, is barely a shadow of my mother, a breeze on Ash Wednesday, or the smell of Stout beer. To him, the afternoon is long, made to slumber, lullabied by the images of devastation from the second war shown on the television screen. Only can the smell of butter cookies awake him from the unknown. The unknown, my mother calls his dreams, for he has never shared a single particle of one of them. It's only dreams, says he while smiling.

'Tis twenty-two years time

Long has it been since we last met. His fingers tapping the table, then combing his beard, then reaching for my hand to feel the scar in my index finger. He talked of hummingbirds and the fruit of the summer, while he looked into his cup of tea for pieces of undissolved sugar. He grabbed his teaspoon with just two fingers so he stirred the Earl Grey as swiftly as the breeze swings a girl’s hair. I’m immortal, I said throughout the conversation. His face made for mine, his freckled lips almost touching my ear lobe, and he said, You’re right, the low sound of it ricocheting in me. We had strolled in an endless spiral before the smell of cherry and cinnamon bent our will and made us sit in that crowded café. At times he seemed absent, staring at the pattern that decorated the table, speaking abscondedly to everyone and no one, but not to himself. He made a pause in his speech, blinked, laid his eyes on me, and smiled as if I were the only light in a dark night, giving me chills, getting my blood to irrigate every vessel in my face. I could only say, Gotta go to the restroom, before I got up and walked away while feeling myself burst. There can’t have been enough water coming out the faucet to quench my excitement. I splashed myself three, four, five times before I left. When I came out, when I saw him taking small sips as though he could defeat eternity with a cup of tea, when I took my first step towards him, time froze - the air in my lungs, the girl with the balloon, the steam from the coffee machine, the rose on the floor, the old couple arm-in-arm, the fly by the window, everyone, everything, became a pile of salt, still at first, then spilling slowly across the floor, eventually reaching the edges of the other spilling piles, merging, mutating, evolving, melting into a sea. While I turned to salt, while my essence became that of the Lord, I saw him stirring his cup of Earl Grey while adding a couple of sugar cubes. I knew he wouldn’t get off that chair till I came back to grant him my ears and my eyes once more.

Twenty-two years later a quiet sea still surrounds the one being which hasn’t dissolved. He’s sitting, sipping, stirring, adding cubes of sugar, tapping the coffee table. Once in a while he takes a peek around to utter, You’re right, and the sea becomes agitated. He smiles, and goes back to savouring his tea.

First Surrealist Manifesto

From Le Manifeste du Surréalisme, 1924

ANDRÉ BRETON

We are still living under the reign of logic, but the logical processes of our time apply only to the solution of problems of secondary interest. The absolute rationalism which remains in fashion allows for the consideration of only those facts narrowly relevant to our experience. Logical conclusions, on the other hand, escape us. Needless to say, boundaries have been assigned even to ex- perience. It revolves in a cage from which release is becoming increasingly difficult. It too depends upon immediate utility and is guarded by common sense. In the guise of civilization, under the pretext of progress, we have suc- ceeded in dismissing from our minds anything that, rightly or wrongly, could be regarded as superstition or myth; and we have proscribed every way of seeking the truth which does not conform to convention. It would appear that it is by sheer chance that an aspect of intellectual life - and by far the most important in my opinion — about which no one was supposed to be concerned any longer has, recently, been brought back to light. Credit for this must go to Freud. On the evidence of his discoveries a current of opinion is at last developing which will enable the explorer of the human mind to extend his investigations, since he will be empowered to deal with more than merely summary realities. Perhaps the imagination is on the verge of recovering its rights. If the depths of our minds conceal strange forces capable of augmenting or conquering those on the surface, it is in our greatest interest to capture them; first to capture them and later to submit them, should the occasion arise, to the control of reason. The analysts themselves can only gain by this. But it is im- portant to note that there is no method fixed a priori for the execution of this enterprise, that until the new order it can be considered the province of poets as well as scholars, and that its success does not depend upon the more or less capricious routes which will be followed.

It was only fitting that Freud should appear with his critique on the dream. In fact, it is incredible that this important part of psychic activity has still attracted so little attention. (For, at least from man's birth to his death, thought presents no solution of continuity; the sum of dreaming moments - even taking into consideration pure dream alone, that of sleep - is from the point of view of time no less than the sum of moments of reality, which we shall confine to waking moments.) I have always been astounded by the extreme disproportion in the importance and seriousness assigned to events of the waking moments and to those of sleep by the ordinary observer. Man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all at the mercy of his memory, and the memory normally delights in feebly retracing the circumstance of the dream for him, depriving it of all actual consequence and obliterating the only determinant from the point at which he thinks he abandoned this constant hope, this anxiety, a few hours earlier. He has the illusion of continuing something worthwhile. The dream finds itself relegated to a parenthesis, like the night. And in general it gives no more counsel than the night. This singular state of affairs seems to invite a few reflections:

1. Within the limits to which its performance is restricted (or what passes for performance), the dream, according to all outward appearances, is continuous and bears traces of organization. Only memory claims the right to edit it, to suppress transitions and present us with a series of dreams rather than the dream. Similarly, at no given instant do we have more than a distinct representation of realities whose co-ordination is a matter of will.(1) It is important to note that nothing leads to a greater dissipation of the constituent elements of the dream. I regret discussing this according to a formula which in principle ex- cludes the dream. For how long, sleeping logicians, philosophers? I would like to sleep in order to enable myself to surrender to sleepers, as I surrender to those who read me with their eyes open, in order to stop the conscious rhythm of my thought from prevailing over this material. Perhaps my dream of last night was a continuation of the preceding night's, and will be continued tonight with an admirable precision. It could be, as they say. And as it is in no way proven that, in such a case, the 'reality' with which I am concerned even exists in the dream state, or that it does not sink into the immemorial, then why should I not concede to the dream what I sometimes refuse to reality - that weight of self-assurance which by its own terms is not exposed to my denial? Why should I not expect more of the dream sign than I do of a daily increasing degree of consciousness? Could not the dreams as well be applied to the solution of life's fundamental problems? Are these problems the same in one case as in the other, and do they already exist in the dream? Is the dream less oppressed by sanctions than the rest? I am growing old and, perhaps more than this reality to which I believe myself confined, it is the dream, and the detachment that I owe to it, which is ageing me.

2 I return to the waking state. I am obliged to retain it as a phenomenon of interference. Not only does the mind show a strange tendency to disorientation under these conditions (this is the clue to slips of the tongue and lapses of all kinds whose secret is just beginning to be surrendered to us), but when function- ing normally the mind still seems to obey none other than those suggestions which rise from that deep night I am commending. Sound as it may be, its equilibrium is relative. The mind hardly dares express itself and, when it does, is limited to stating that this idea or that woman has an effect on it. What effect it cannot say; thus it gives the measure of its subjectivism and nothing more. The idea, the woman, disturbs it, disposes it to less severity. Their role is to isolate one second of its discappearance and remove it to the sky in that glorious acceleration that it can be, that it is. Then, as a last resort, the mind invokes chance - a more obscure divinity than the others - to whom it attributes all its aberrations. Who says that the angle from which that idea is presented which affects the mind, as well as what the mind loves in that woman's eye, is not precisely the same thing that attracts the mind to its dream and reunites it with data lost through its own error? And if things were otherwise, of what might the mind not be capable? I should like to present it with the key to that passage.

3 The mind of the dreaming man is fully satisfied with whatever happens to it. The agonizing question of possibility does not arise. Kill, plunder more quickly, love as much as you wish. And if you die, are you not sure of being roused from the dead? Let yourself be led. Events will not tolerate deferment. You have no name. Everything Is inestimably easy.

What power, I wonder, what power so much more generous than others confers this natural aspect upon the dream and makes me welcome unreservedly a throng of episodes whose strangeness would overwhelm me if they were hap- pening as I write this? And yet I can believe it with my own eyes, my own ears. That great day has come, that beast has spoken.

If man's awakening is harsher, if he breaks the spell too well, it is because he has been led to form a poor idea of expiation.

4 When the time comes when we can submit the dream to a methodical examination, when by methods yet to be determined we succeed in realizing the dream in its entirety (and that implies a memory discipline measurable in generations, but we can still begin by recording salient facts), when the dream's curve is developed with an unequalled breadth and regularity, then we can hope that mysteries which are not really mysteries will give way to the great Mystery. I believe in the future resolution of these two states -- outwardly so contradic- tory -- which are dream and reality, into a sort of absolute reality, a surreality, so to speak, I am aiming for its conquest, certain that I myself shall not attain it, but too indifferent to my death not to calculate the joys of such possession.

They say that not long ago, just before he went to sleep, Saint-Pol-Roux placed a placard on the door of his manor at Camaret which read: THE POET WORKS.

There is still a great deal to say, but I did want to touch lightly, in passing, upon a subject which in itself would require a very long exposition with a dif- ferent precision. I shall return to it. For the time being my intention has been to see that justice was done to that hatred of the marvellous which rages in certain men, that ridicule under which they would like to crush it. Let us resolve, therefore: the Marvellous is always beautiful, everything marvellous is beautiful. Nothing but the Marvellous is beautiful.

... One night, before falling asleep, I became aware of a most bizarre sentence, clearly articulated to the point where it was impossible to change a word of it, but still separate from the sound of any voice. It came to me bearing no trace of the events with which I was involved at that time, at least to my conscious knowledge. It seemed to me a highly insistent sentence - a sentence, I might say, which knocked at the window. I quickly took note of it and was prepared to disregard it when something about its whole character held me back. The sentence truly astounded me. Unfortunately I still cannot remember the exact words to this day, but it was something like: 'A man is cut in half by the window'; but it can only suffer from ambiguity, accompanied as it was by the feeble visual representation of a walking man cut in half by a window perpendicular to the axis of his body. ^ It was probably a simple mat- ter of a man leaning on the window and then straightening up. But the window followed the movements of the man, and I realized that I was dealing with a very rare type of image. Immediately I had the idea of incorporating it into my poetic material, but no sooner had I invested it with poetic form than it went on to give way to a scarcely intermittent succession of sentences which surprised me no less than the first and gave me the impression of such a free gift that the control which I had had over myself up to that point seemed illusory and I no longer thought of anything but how to put an end to the interminable quarrel which was taking place within me.(3)

Totally involved as I was at the time with Freud, and familiar with his methods of examination which I had had some occasion to practise on the sick during the war, I resolved to obtain from myself what one seeks to obtain from a patient - a spoken monologue uttered as rapidly as possible, over which the critical faculty of the subject has no control, unencumbered by any reticence, which is spoken thought as far as such a thing is possible. It seemed to me, and still does - the manner in which the sentence about the man cut in two came to me proves it - that the speed of thought is no greater than that of words, and that it does not necessarily defy language or the moving pen. It was with this in mind that Philippe Soupault (with whom I had shared these first conclusions) and I undertook to cover some paper with writing, with a laudable contempt for what might result in terms of literature. The ease of realization did the rest. At the end of the first day we were able to read to each other around fifty pages obtained by this method, and began to compare our results. Altogether, those of Soupault and my own presented a remarkable similarity, even including the same faults in construction: in both cases there was the illusion of an extra- ordinary verve, a great deal of emotion, a considerable assortment of images of a quality such as we would never have been capable of achieving in ordinary writing, a very vivid graphic quality, and here and there an acutely comic passage. The only difference between our texts seemed to me essentially due to our respective natures (Soupault's is less static than mine) and, if I may hazard a slight criticism, due to the fact that he had made the mistake of distributing a few words in the way of titles at the head of certain pages — no doubt in the spirit of mystification. On the other hand, I must give him credit for maintaining his steadfast opposition to the slightest alteration in the course of any passage which seemed to me rather badly put. He was completely right on this point, of course.(4) In fact it is very difficult to appreciate the full value of the various elements when confronted by them. It can even be said to be impossible to appreciate them at the first reading. These elements are outwardly as strange to you who have written them as to anyone else, and you are naturally distrustful of them. Poetically speaking, they are especially endowed with a very high degree of immediate absurdity. The peculiarity of this absurdity, on closer examination, comes from their capitulation to everything — both inad- missible and legitimate - In the world, to produce a revelation of a certain number of premises and facts generally no less objective than any others.

In homage to Guillaume Apollinaire - who died recently, and who appears to have consistently obeyed a similar impulse to ours without ever really sacrificing mediocre literary means - Soupault and I used the name SURREALISM to designate the new mode of pure expression which we had at our disposal and with which we were anxious to benefit our friends. Today I do not believe anything more need be said about this word. The meaning which we have given it has generally prevailed over Apollinaire's meaning. With even more justification we could have used SUPERNATURALISM, employed by Gerard de Nerval in the dedication of Filles de Feu.(5) In fact, Nerval appears to have possessed to an admirable extent the spirit to which we refer. Apollinaire, on the other hand, possessed only the letter of surrealism (which was still imper- fect) and showed himself powerless to give it the theoretical insight that engages us. Here are two passages by Nerval which appear most significant in this regard:

'I will explain to you, my dear Dumas, the phenomenon of which you spoke above. As you know, there are certain story-tellers who cannot invent without identifying themselves with the characters from their imagination. You know with what conviction our old friend Nodier told how he had had the misfortune to be guillotined at the time of the Revolution; one became so convinced that one wondered how he had managed to stick his head back on.'

'... And since you have had the imprudence to cite one of the sonnets composed in this state of SUPERNATURALIST reverie, as the Germans v/ould say, you must hear all of them. You will find them at the end of the volume. They are hardly more obscure than Hegel's metaphysics or Swedenborg's MEMORABLES, and would lose their charm in explication, if such a thing were possible, so concede me at least the merit of their expression . . .'(6)

It would be dishonest to dispute our right to employ the word SURREALISM in the very particular sense in which we intend it, for it is clear that before we came along this word amounted to nothing. Thus I shall define it once and for all:

SURREALISM, noun, masc., Pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing, the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations.

ENCYCL. Philos. Surrealism is based on the belief in the superior reality of certain forms of association heretofore neglected, in the omnipotence of the dream, and in the disinterested play of thought. It leads to the permanent destruction of all other psychic mechanisms and to its substitution for them in the solution of the principal problems of life.

Patrick Waldberg, Surrealism (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1971), pp. 66-75.

Preludio

-Hace años que no escucho un disco de vinyl. No recuerdo cómo es el sonido, solo que al principio es como un suave silbido.
-Ese silbido, ese pequeño sonido de hojas rozándose en el viento, es la última bocanada de aire antes de zambullirse en el mar.
-¿Y después? ¿Solo el sonido del agua?
-El dulce canto del oleaje sacudiéndolo a uno, ora a la costa, ora al fondo del oceáno.

No corras, Joel; no corras, que el viento te desgasta.

Él abrió los ojos. Se encontraba en medio del bosque, de pie junto a los crujientes árboles y las parlanchinas lechuzas.

Los peces dormían, mientras la calma daba su primera ronda nocturna. Y ahí, en el vado del río, con los pies llenos de barro, descubrió que los ojos nacarados y las manos mortecinas que lo recorrían cada noche mientras miraba carreras de caballos en la televisión, eran resultado de su mal logrado amor por el viento y la luna.

Agua de espada

Yo qué voy a saber de metáforas y alegorías, mucho menos de parábolas, las cuales Juan Carlos Morales ama; o de lo que en realidad quiere decir tal o cual cosa, en un libro. Mis ojos recorren las palabras, las raspan, las degradan, mas nunca reparan en que tan doble o triple su significado pueda llegar a ser. Trato, yo solo trato, de dejarme llevar de A a B, y de ahí a la Z, pasando por J y la X, zigzagueando a través de los árboles, cruzando umbrales, ora en papel, ora en la vista, sin caer en lo límpido, lo falaz, lo vivo y lo muerto de aquellas palabras. Las metáforas y las alegorías, crueles señoras de la retórica, brican a mi paso, olas marinas perdidas en un río a la entrada de mi pueblo. ‘¡No sois de aquí, por tanto, os ignoro!’ les digo. ‘No seré sumergido en mi caudalosa ignominia. No más.’ Así que halo con todo de las bridas, frunzo el ceño, y galopo. Hago por mi hogar.

“…, cual agua de espada, manaba sin cesar…”