Nocturnal dissonance. Overture. Overtour.
Shine on, you crazy diamond.
Are these paroxysmal manifestations of sensitivity, where awareness of the proximity of the shadow world produces a stream of fears based on the primacy of Night?
All these familiar figures. All of them. Without detracting from their previous forms. Without favoring today’s forms, because yesterday’s forms also count.
There are more people here, inside me, inside my head, hiding between the walls of my mind. I hear them. I hear their voices. They know I can hear them. And then they speak. Sometimes they make noise. Sometimes they just whisper. But they never, or almost never, fall silent. They try to impose themselves on each other, they shout, they fight for supremacy. They fight for the logos and the extreme qualification of signs.
No, I don’t see myself surrounded by neon lights. I don’t see myself reading poems on stage, or with a guitar, or in front of a bunch of affectionate strangers. My friends know.
A spectral and mournful voice, at night, in the night, or at the entrance to the night, but with the sunlight still fighting against the indigo of the darkness. The lamp remains lit next to my bed as the specter approaches, with great strides, down the street, not yet reaching its destination.
Here begins the labyrinth of machinations and deceit of the one in whose blood lives the impractical idea of renouncing what he never had. Here begins the hardship, the decline, the deprivation. Conspiracies and tricks against the living night, against the resistant, gallant, long-lived loneliness.
Fanfare for the Common Man, Aaron Copland, 1942. Fanfare for the Common Man, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Works, vol. 1, 1977.
Why does he say that matter and the real world are nothing more than a residual manifestation of the emotional mind? What a pompous gentleman…
There is a black cube moving in the warm air of a deserted street. The cube rotates very slowly and sometimes swings. It is 50 cm above the ground. It is made of obsidian, or onyx, or perhaps plastic. From where I stand, about 20 meters away from the cube, it is impossible for me to form any useful idea about its constitution.
Mass bird deaths.
In the desert, you can’t remember your name.
I have the video where Belladonna has anal sex for the first time, at age 18. But I also have an unused clip from Angel Heart, specifically a fragment where Lisa Bonet drenches her body in water to escape the heat, and her nipples show through her blouse. The only difference from what you see in Angel Heart is that there the camera is, like the bucket, 50 cm above the ground (as if it were Ozu’s camera), while in the unused clip the same camera is raised 2 meters, like the gaze of some thirsty demon.
The power of the dead over the living. The power of the dead over what is considered alive. The inaccurate notion of life linked to the organic.
I don’t know if the bucket I’m referring to is a Platonic solid.
In every fig there is a sacred seed. If you bite it, reality changes. Eating dried Persian figs. Eating the fig of a young Persian girl. Nighttime pollution. Sleep. Eating the young Persian girl’s flickering pussy in your sleep, and then she whispers verses by Omar Khayyam to you.
Although it’s nothing to write home about.
There is a Korean film in which a very young woman asks a stranger, after reading his diaries, if he has continued to see ants. She tells him that lonely people hallucinate about ants. The woman is a cook and has dared to take the stranger to her own home for two very simple and powerful reasons: she finds him mysterious and is physically attracted to him.
The viewer would fall into an apparent, trivial ecstasy and experience a vague (but at times offensive) uneasiness because of the gaze of the others. They would be warned by them and alerted by the traces of an endless coming and going, with dark eyes, licked by opacity, perhaps blind. And this would put them in a bad situation. They would no longer be a trustworthy subject. They would have to remain there, behind their desk, with the lights off, on the floor, giving up their comfortable chair.
Who is whispering? What?
Excerpt from the book Unplugged (fanfarria por un hombre común), forthcoming from Editorial Casa Vacía.
Image: Alberto Garrandés.
