Narciso
A's see, I tell myself as I climb the stairs in my house while under the stairs to the street, to see see, I say to sit in this writing table, opening a new or old book. Ah, that old bacteria or eukaryotic cell that, so far away and yet right here after a few million years of evolution and let me do it better, muto, I adapt to the environment, and I affirm and complicate me. And now look at the eye from the retina composed of calcite trilobites to fly: Baroque cathedral in the center of a delightful dance grain of sugar. And they say it is just to live, complexities of the gene to maintain their élan so no matter who you weigh, but Bach and the time Proust regained literary sub specie ... Let's see, I say as I close my eyes and fall into the arms of the first girl in the Paleolithic. To see this afternoon in which I choose not to do anything but laugh at the Buddha, Socrates, Christ, of progress and nostalgia, Sunday mornings of Franco, of the books I've collected like eternity to pieces, knowing that eternity is the opposite of time, which is living. And then I suffer for the bird that sits on my balcony, and the fragment which I have eaten beef for lunch, and the hunger of the hungry animals and man. One day the trees were tired of our sidewalks and asphalt, we drown, not conspired to produce oxygen that we breathe detritus lungs. Trees and plants suspended for a while his old job of photosynthesis, and finally left alone, without the animals, sure, no man, bright green chlorophyll in the end, occupying the niches that we have previously exploited. Some flowers will miss the insect, mouth swallowing and defecating where again sprouting, but instead are spread throughout the planet, and no traffic, no noise, no lawn mowers. A's see, I think. But I sympathize, while under the street to get a bottle of wine and some ham, I pity because the genes were determined to provide us with a lower larynx, hyoid bone funny bone with that in order for us to talk and so of each other, we spend the information, subject to memory and error, the languages \u200b\u200band mutations, corrections, notes, footnotes, dialogues and comments ergotism, iambic verse, the minstrel, the silly admiration of the concepts, recreates the music and love, energy equals mass times the square of the speed of light, time dilation, in order: do you know the gene with a certain organization of matter and language, with our two pairs of twenty-three chromosomes, are being considered in the flowing waters of time? Ah, how late so melancholy. Δ
near or far, always been the same waters, rumor at the borders, memory of rain in the excitement of the night, calm between kingdoms at odds. Never was there another day, always is this that brings waves, spirals, tubes of time, streets teeming desire coniferous forest. It is a bow that opening closed, tiny or huge space in the vertical now.
never been another sea.
Everything could collapse and yet everything is held about nothing. Music sounds, inside, outside, are seven-thirty in the afternoon of June 1st. Nothing that I thought furious wind battered the windows. The sun made his way through fleeting clouds.
Now I write, I say that now is the time when I write. It's just a key, a small door in itself inane. Proa marked by wind drift.
Because chance is the monarch of the republic than is necessary, I could be another: the one who dies of hunger and thirst in this moment, in Moscow or Delhi, which articulates the law or the breach, perhaps both , he who strives with determination and devotion in alleviating the burden of others believe that brotherhood comes from the top, or the identity or species, that speaks. But make or break what is or could have been, I'm not history, but an archipelago of memory.
But no tribe who would be memory, who desire, who the letter and read that? The look that crosses city, recalls, and recalls the young man in a corner of the absolute bar to discover unknown, that which always already, as a voice back, he invented his identity and unsuspected pronounce your real name.
There was only a sea
future in a present waiting for waves that do not pass, a language open moments of broken glass. At its extreme, in his own wound that desire becomes an arc, we are only fiction in the chain of events: strings of causes and effects. But that is a stone against the cosmic numbers, we are the hurt and joy, the eye is looking at night, are a bit of time to burn.
My watch, my body consumed with curiosity in the futile hope the other side unaware that the seas are the sea that surrounds me and I say driving while pleasure or release. Canopy in which the body incline push rows of foam blowing, voices singing the story, for everything, for nothing.
Malpartida J uan (Marbella, 1956) is a poet, novelist and literary critic. He has published, among other works, Poetry. 1986-1996 (Ediciones nameless, Mexico, 1996) and favor of time. poetry anthology (foreword by J. Twelve FCE, 2009), novels afternoon drifting (Galaxia Gutenberg, Barcelona, \u200b\u200b2001), Wind Watch (Sage, 2008) and the test books Perfection helpless. Essays on twentieth-century Hispanic literature (FCE, 1998) and The Faces of Time (Sage, 2007).
