Friday, December 3
VI BLACK EYES
I'm very realistic, but I think the reality has cracks through which one can slip into another reality. Last night, tired of not sleeping, near and in the morning, I went for a walk. Walking at a rapid pace, to ward off cold, the park of San Julián de los Prados, which is next to my house when I was struck a light in the grass near one of the benches, as if someone had left a flashlight on the floor. It was a kind of trap door open by descending a ladder into a brightly lit interior. I did not think twice and began to descend. The spiral staircase and round spinning around itself. Seemed endless, as if stretching out as I descended. When it was decided to withdraw and start the arduous climb, before me appeared a garden. Not an underground garden: on our laurels and orange trees opened the bluest sky I've ever seen. In a bank very similar to the one above, where the ladder began, I found an open book and turned upside down, as if any readers have had to hurriedly leave it there. It was a volume in the Southern that I knew very well: arabigoandaluces Poems translated by Emilio Garcia Gomez. I sat down and started to reread those verses that, in many cases, I almost knew by heart: "When the day was dying away the night full of youth. " Then, do not know why, I remembered the end of a sonnet by Borges: "I also think that partner / I expected and maybe I expected."
He was good there. "Why do to be happy / you must not know?" Asked Pessoa. I've learned to be aware of the happiness in the present. I was happy in that garden so close to my house, in another world. I closed my eyes for a moment and, when opened, had my hand an elderly woman who had approached me without my noticing. He wore black skirts, white cap, like old stories, and his face I was vaguely familiar. "Would you please return my book?" He said. "It's my grandson, who is always reading. End insane, like Don Quixote. " "I have not finished crazy, grandma," I reply. He walked away with the book in their hands, smiling, and I followed in the midst of a strange silence could not be heard or the chirping of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the water in the marble source was in the middle of a roundabout. I do not know how I lost sight of. She and garden. I was in a dimly lit basement, in a corner, a wet staircase led up lost in the dark. I went for it, wearily, seemed that there was never finished. A memory came a note from Marilyn Monroe in his secret notebooks: "When all I want is to die." I lifted the hatch. He had begun to dawn. The skyline, with the tower of the cathedral at the top, was outlined in a milky sky. A dog started barking early riser. At the end of the string that held it was a soothing smile and very black eyes. Manuel Machado remembered: "Black eyes saw and from then the world / all black for me." "Too early to walk without a dog," he said. And I thought: "Too late for you to see for the first time." Leaving the dog at home and went to mine. I told him where he came from. He looked at me smiling, showing no surprise. "Nor do I know if you're for real or not," he said. Since then nothing in the world is black to me.
Saturday, December 4
BUT NEVER SAY
Among the phrases that I repeat always, are a few verses of Rafael Montesinos "I'm dying because I want / But I'll never tell." To me, however, I want matters little to me, I'm content with that, who I love, is left wanting.
Sunday, December 5
GOOD DISCIPLE
agree on the Sunday coffee and Fontan Cristian López-Vega. Martin, while handing me the last book of the editorial handling, broken glass, and I talk about its many multilingual projects, take the opportunity to disagree with everything I say. Cristian, however, listen to me as if I were the literature in person. "Have you read your paper today," he says. I see you follow the same formula: first consider what someone tells you you're on the train or in the library of Avilés, then quotes a few paragraphs of the book you are reading and later leveraged to mess with a friend or the Gamoneda shift. Thus any written ten books a year! How the Renaissance anthology includes new poems? Although I fear not differ much from previous ones. Are not you tired and formulilla of dramatic monologue? ".
"Ten years ago, Martín López-Vega was like you, hopefully within ten years and it's you," I say then when we walk by Cristian Campillín. "I think that Lopez-Vega spoke in jest when he gets you," he says. "A little joke and something serious. When you return to the gathering always gives the impression that you want to be caliph instead of the caliph and, as it fails, we look a little over his shoulder. But I do not think bad of me to leave the case and is dedicated to rave on their own. Quite the contrary. Bad teacher who does not strive to get beyond his students. Of course I practice the double game: I do everything possible to get to where I am, but when they get there I try to stay one step further. Nor should we put it too easy. "
Monday, December 6 DEVOTIONS
Among the books in an editorial yesterday I went López-Vega is one of Clara Janes advertising, as a major complaint, including letters from Antonio Gamoneda. She indicated these poems are "the most irrational I've written." And the illustrious poet takes away his lucid theoretical vein: "Without full stop, urgently, I ask that you do not ever use the word 'irrational', awkwardly wedged in his day, Bousoño, I think. The antinomy 'rational-irrational' is strictly zoological. Another thing is the 'madness' that can be human and even divine. " so lucky Gamoneda the good that only irrational behavior has been detected in the animal kingdom, not between politicians or between lovers, even between drivers in a traffic jam or a discussion of traffic. The
Hidden Variables poems "says Clara Janes" are the type of text "I do to calm myself when I can not write and tell me: is for me, so whatever happens. Then, as now, there is someone who asks you a book. " Fortunately, that someone was not Martín López-Vega, but Jeannette L. Clariond (owner of the publishing house that he does not run at all, unfortunately), who once said, "I want to make you a special book, as he did with Juan Carlos Mestre Gamoneda." And here's that special book, "From the beloved friend and froze at night and the whiteness was not to appear" (end quote and the poem.)
Clara Janes To me I like best is the least cottony. The Paths of Romania , for example, recounts a trip mixing verse prose, in the manner of Basho and Trails Oku. The trouble is that this trip was funded by Ceausescu and not get lost in the sheer lyricism says in the introductory note that he used the reports "objective and scientific" that Romanian institutions gave him. Even recounts an encounter with the great leader, wonderful in its simplicity, and expressed his amazement at the Romanian Humanist "and the ease with which one lives in the country and is well suited to the peculiar idiosyncrasies of the people."
But there is nothing to reproach to the poet, neither is the only one who admired Ceausescu nor the only one cops to Gamoneda. Since I read your Romania Trails I have been in memory Zaharia Stancu verses: "In me a star wound on with sadness / and the sorrel neighs from the dark night."
Tuesday, December 7 DATING
What reason is my friend López-Vega. Story always the same, always repeat the same dates. When things go wrong, some poems of Vincent Gaos: "Life is hard / and there is no consolation. / Take the handkerchief / literature. " And when I repent of being alone, Ibsen, "The strongest man is the one most alone." O Gaston Baquer: "It seems I'm alone, but I carry a world of ghosts."
Wednesday, December 8
STATION IN
Before seeing for the first time he had often dreamed of you. I always happens. Nothing ever happens in my life, nothing worth living, who has not lived first in dreams.
Getting off the train at that station which had never been, I was filled with a strange peace, even though I've never liked unknown places and that I never do anything for the first time, if I can help.
No one had come to meet me, despite what I had been announced. The few travelers who came down there, which had not been one to wait, disappeared quickly (one of them looked at me again). I went to the bar, ask for the phone to call a taxi. But it was closed. As there was nobody to ask, I walked down a street of low houses looked like the decor of some old movie. Doors and windows were closed, no one stepped on the sidewalks. No need to ask, I found the hotel I had reserved room. To be the only hotel, or only a certain category. It was near the station and its facade was chipped caryatids and other signs of fanciful architecture of the early twentieth century. I said my name at the reception. Indeed, had booked room and hall of Doric columns and ornate lamps were some gentlemen waiting for me. I went over to say hello, surprised to find them there and not at the station. But there had been some misunderstanding. They thought it would come by car. Years ago the trains did not stop in that town that had seen better times. The station was closed. "Well I was not the only one who got out." Smiled. "Things poet "must have thought.
morning I read my poems, I sparse crowd applauded politely, and after a boring dinner, I went to sleep. "I should not have accepted the invitation," he said. I soon fell asleep. When I awoke, I realized I was not alone. I do not know how I guessed that he would never be alone, very lonely he was.
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