Tell me why

Stendhal syndrome

It's the flavour of you inhabited by pain and longing. I'm still here, have not found you.  

Forever be true

Forever me

Forever thou

Forever true

Told secrets

And feeling surrounded by: this is what I missed, the entrenched confinement. The strands of voice (yours) that stretches and its warmth and tragedy, me hearing you and your singing entertaining this feeling was all I wished for and now it finally came along (with you). If you entrust me to say it all in this broken way (of mine). 

Fenced off by music in my own paradise which I share with you, that (forgotten) unrequited love lies in corners hidden from view, because at this time I rise up amongst the heroines and gods in these pampered bursts of vapor misted warmth and your natural hearted laugh all abundant around me. 

It was a stranded ride that brought me here. My baby was gone for a long time, but she is now back and I couldn't be happier. As we share written pages, printed papered cells and rabidly bright songs, the feeling of being lost is gone. I don't even need to make her mine again. 

Slow boot

Time goes on, it's an unlikely sphere of knowledge and ritual. There are many things that make sense in their own way, through the prism of their own thought, but it takes a while for me to envisage the meaning of it all, the entourage and crocheting that took stuff to settle and be. 

I keep on running on long hauls. Life is showing me slowly what I am about. 

Título de la entrada.

Me pregunto lo que es la escritura. ¿Es escribir un libro? No. ¿Es que te lean? No. ¿Es escribir todos los días? No. ¿Es pensar en escribir? No. 

Es tener en mente todo el tiempo que la vida es texto, el lenguaje (in)verso y el aire rítmico. 

Cartas

Pasan de mano en mano sin ser abiertas, hasta que llegan a ti. Cuando las tienes en tus manos están calientes como el algodón en rama asido a la tierra.

Pages matter

Pages matter, but words can stop at anytime. 

Insuperable: James Baldwin, Just above my head

The summer ended. Day by day, and taking its time, the summer ended. The noises in the street began to change, diminish, voices became fewer, the music sparse. 

Daily, blocks and blocks of children were spirited away. Grown Ups retreated from the streets, into the houses. 

Adolescents moved from the sidewalk to the stoop to the hallway to the stairs, and rooftops were abandoned. 

Such trees as there were allowed their leaves to fall - they feel unnoticed - seeming to promise, not without bitterness, to endure another year. 

At night, from a distance, the parks and playgrounds seemed inhabited by fireflies, and the night came sooner, inches in closer, fell with a greater weight. 

The sound of the alarm clock conquered the sound of the tambourine, the houses put on their winter faces. The houses stared down a bitter landscape, seeming, not without bitterness, to have resolved to endure another year.

Zeppelin

Without us thinkers this office would be clean and spotless.

The warm air that slips into the room teases the others like the shadows of a magic lantern, with its waves of images from the outside passing along and across the view. 

The wait at this office is endless, as if the day could do well with some clarity and then stretch fully to let us now that we are welcome. 

I don't want the ink to dry. 

Certain, special, lucid

To Essex Hemphill

I am reading you and I am wondering
What the verse does and when and how
You don't betray me with your words
They are piercing
And just a little uncomfortable 
(It's your non pacified rage that surmounts everything)

You wear the essence of frustration up your sleeve
It reminds me so much of James Baldwin
That ambition to reach over and win

You take home trophies and amorphous, gigantic bunches of gift flowers
And overwhelmed by emotion
by other people's searches and falls
collapse and rest by the side of the bed
which always awaits in return

The ambition for success which burns our insides
That quiet success that pacifies our spirits
that drives the mileage of cacophonies away
that works the soil and breaks away starchy weeds 
and allows new seeds to grow in the ploughed and rendering soil ...

New York, 3rd November 1994