'Sur ta chevelure profonde
Aux âcres parfums
Mer odorante et vagabonde
Aux flots bleus et bruns'

Mi querida Raquel,

Perdona que te vuelva a escribir en estos tiempos tan lejanos. Sin duda, resulta trivial y bastante absurdo hacerlo hoy, pero he estado ocupado los últimos 20 años tratando de encontrar buenas preguntas.

En primer lugar quería darte de nuevo las gracias. Gracias por los momentos de excitación y de placer no consumados que tuve contigo. Me gustaría pensar que tuvimos, pero dudo de que sintieras lo mismo por mí. Esto último muy a mi pesar, pero no te dejabas fácilmente.

En segundo lugar, y esto es un reproche, lamento que fueras tan egoísta. Sé que improvisabas un juego diferente conmigo, pero cambiarme las reglas del partido en cada encuentro no era muy justo que digamos. En realidad no le doy ni le di mucha importancia, el tiempo me ha enseñado a reconocer las cosas valiosas de la vida, y haber corrido por los pasillos para tratar de fingir un encuentro casual contigo no lo era.

Respecto a esa carta… Gracias por el esfuerzo. Y qué mal he sabido perdonar durante toda mi vida… Te debo una profunda disculpa al no haber respondido a tu mensaje. Era quizás una llamada de auxilio, y no estuve a la altura.

Lo último que te quería decir es que no te culpo por nada de lo que ocurrió. Los dos éramos muy jóvenes y aún no habíamos aprendido a conseguir lo que queríamos. Nos escondíamos detrás de personajes ridículos que nos impedían ver y entender. Sé que no te entendí entonces. Buscaba en ti lo que tú no podías ofrecerme. Y tú buscabas en donde no podías encontrar, quizás porque huías de algo de tí misma, o quizás por alguna otra razón que nunca conoceré, si es que la había.

Por cierto, y ya que monologamos de todo un poco… No recuerdo habernos reído juntos nunca. Eso quizás sí que era sintomático, ¿verdad?

c. The book of the hidden chamber

        

        Amduat, 5th hour 

        

        'She, who guides

         in the midst of her bark' 

    'Winged serpent:

    

    What he has to do

    is to guard his image'

    http://www.lostchord.org/amduat5.html

    So, I do

xcix. Live oak, with moss

Calamus-Leaves.  Live Oak, with Moss.

           I. 

Not the heat flames up and consumes, 
Not the sea-waves hurry in and out, 
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of 
          the ripe summer, bears lightly along 
          white down-balls of myriads of seeds, 
          wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop 
          where they may, 
Not these—O none of these, more than the 
          flames of me, consuming, burning for 
          his love whom I love—O none, more 
          than I,  hurrying in and out; 
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and 
          never give up?—O I, the same, to
          seek my life-long lover; 
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
          rain-emitting clouds, are borne through
          the open air, more than my copious 
          soul is borne through the open air, 
          wafted in all directions, for friendship, 
          for love.—

II. I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,  All alone stood it, and the moss hung down            from the branches,  Without any companion it grew there,            glistening out with joyous leaves of            dark green,  And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made            me think of myself;  But I wondered how it could utter joyous            leaves, standing alone there without its            friend, its lover- -For I knew I could            not;  And I plucked a twig with a certain number            of leaves upon it, and twined around it            a little moss, and brought it  away —            And I have placed it in sight in my            room,

It is not needed to remind me as of my            friends, (for I believe lately I think of           little else than of them,)  Yet it remains to me a curious token - it             makes me think of manly love, I write         these              pieces and name them after it ;  For all that, and though the treelive oak            glistens there in Louisiana, solitary in a            wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves            all its life, without a friend, a lover,            near - I know very well I could not.           III. When I heard at the close of the day how I            had been praised in the Capitol, still it            was not a happy night for me that            followed;  And else Nor when I caroused — Or  —Nor^when my  ^favorite plans were            accomplished — it was I really happy,             was well enough — Still I was not            happy;  But the the theat^ thatday when whenI rose at           dawn from the bed of perfect health,            electric, inhaling sweet breath,  When I saw the full moon in the west grow            pale and disappear in the morning            light,  When I wandered alone over the beach, and            undressing, bathed, laughing with the            waters, and saw the sun rise,And when I thought how my friend, my lover,          was coming, then O^ I was happy;  O tThen eEach breath tasted sweeter—and            all that day my food nourished me            more—And the beautiful day passed            well,  And the next came with equal joy—And with           the next, at evening, came my friend,  And that night, while all was still, I heard the            waters roll slowly continually up the            shores  I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and            sands, as directed to me, whispering,            to congratulate me,—For the friend I            love lay sleeping by my side,  In the stillness his face was inclined towards            me, while the moon's clear beams            shone, And his arm lay lightly over my            breast—And that night I was happy.

[...]

http://www.whitmanarchive.org/manuscripts/liveoak.html

xcviii. Sweat pouring off her neck

'Doing what you like is freedom, liking what you do is happiness'

'I love dance battle'


Every time, Anne tried a little harder. She pushed once and again, straightening and stiffening her legs to work buttocks and hamstrings until fulfilling the complete series.

Then, panting, drenched in sweat, she sat up from the mat and walked down the hall, toward the pane, to look through the window, and, so, catch the blurred reflection of herself.

97. Inertia

Inertia sounds like the name of a newly privatised energy company. If it was, you wouldn't want to get your energy from them. In real life, inertia is what stops things happening and it's the driving force behind procrastination.

Procrastination is vertical gravity. It is a powerful force that prevent us getting on with things. This force is particularly evident in beds, armchairs and offices, where it can keep things not happening for hours if not days. Entry-level procrastination is when you put something today that you could quite easily do tomorrow. Advanced procrastination is when you put off the putting-off until tomorrow.

For every season to do something, there are six reasons not to do it. Trying to think of a seventh is the seventh. In the workplace, more than half the cups of tea and coffee consumed in the average day are made to avoid doing something more important. With meetings, roughly half are to avoid actual work. In fact, a good few jobs are there to avoid life itself being lived.

96. renacimiento

El mutismo no nos otorga la libertad.

Nuestros silencios sólo invocan la desesperada muerte.

Creo firmemente en la necesidad que surge desde el vértigo.

Esa necesidad que adquiere textura, que se vuelve grito.

Un grito es la grafía primera que adoptamos cuando nacemos.

Nuestro pensamiento es una sinfonía cacofónica

De vítores que se pierden en la longitud del tiempo…

Nuestras acciones perduran, pero son las palabras las que las completan.

La voz es la vida que se vuelve consciente.