Empty Words

by MARIO LEVRERO

  January 9

  A dream bursts into the empty discourse:

  I’m in a bed in a large room, accompanied by two women. One of them is Alicia, who’s lying on my left, her feet level with my head. On my right, the same way around as me, is X (whom I met many years ago, and who these days is an old woman, though in the dream she looked young). Fresh, joyous sexual desire flows between the three of us, although Alicia remains slightly apart. She doesn’t disapprove; instead she’s smiling, hoping her moment will come. The room, however, is very much open to onlookers, with a large window on the right and large glass doors on the left, and at one point Ignacio appears, stops outside the door, and tries to come in. I send him away and shut the door, and I also start closing the blinds and lowering the curtains to protect us from any observers, whether from the left side or the right. I go back to my place in the bed and X uncovers her breasts to be stroked. And now there’s a sudden change of scene: we’re on a beach and Alicia is shouting the name of a celebrity (someone who was popular some years ago but must be completely forgotten by now, a pop musician or a singer). I look up and see a man in sunglasses coming over to say hello. X and I are rather put out at this interruption, whereas Alicia seems to think it’s extremely important to have him there, if only to temporarily halt our games. Eventually X turns around; she has her back to me now and is looking forlorn, so I stop worrying about what’s going on around us and focus on fondling her breasts, pressing my body against hers. There the scene fades out, but more as if I’m sinking into a deeper slumber than waking up.

  In another of the dream’s story lines, my mother may not have been personally present, but it’s clear I was trying (literally) to “cut the cord.” I don’t know when or why, but I’d collected some very long ropes and made them into a single rope that reached across the street and into a building on the other side. This longer rope seemed to have served its purpose and it was time to cut it, so I was looking around for a knife (a serrated one, like a kitchen knife). When tying the ropes together, my need (for what exactly I don’t know) had been so great that I’d committed a kind of crime: I’d used a rope that had been hanging from a flagpole on a public building, perhaps a school. Now the sun’s coming up and I’m worried about getting caught, so I start rushing, fumbling nervously for the place where the two ropes meet so I can cut them in half. I don’t know if I manage to cut them or not, but regardless I move on to another section of the rope, the part that runs into the building. I go through a metal door and find myself inside what looks like a sports club. There’s Ignacio again, this time with some other children and teenagers, and an adult—a teacher—who’s addressing them reproachfully. Before opening the door and taking in the scene, I’d heard Ignacio mention my name: he’d been telling a story about me. When he sees me he starts telling a different, more inoffensive story, in such a way that it’s obvious to me what he’s doing. When the teacher speaks reproachfully, I emphasize what he says, backing him up.

  The end of the rope is in a child’s hand. I clearly give it quite a tug, because the child’s hand, which is actually a prosthesis, is pulled off. A stump is revealed, covered in leather, and a point like a screw where the hand fits on. The boy reproaches me for pulling his hand off, and I tell him I desperately need his end of the rope back. I stop worrying about his hand and try to undo the rope, which is tied tightly around his wrist, thinking vaguely that I can help him put his hand back on later.

  Exercises

  January 12

  I’m persevering with my attempts at self-discipline when it comes to things, like these exercises, that might give me some sort of structure in the pre-move chaos. But to be genuinely useful as discipline, these exercises need to be about forming the letters first and foremost, without me getting carried away by the contents of the discourse. My handwriting needs to become larger and, of course, perfectly legible. I breathe deeply in an attempt to calm my nerves, not thinking about all the things I have to do, but since really I can’t stop thinking about them, it doesn’t matter what I write. I need to pack up my books—put them all into neat piles, that is, and tie them with pieces of string. I also need to watch a considerable number of videos, some because they relate to work I’m doing, and some to make sure we get our money’s worth after renting the VCR. There are other move-related things I need to sort out as well. I don’t know exactly what they are, but I should. I’ll need to think about them, then, and make a list. I should also spend a bit of time officially entering 1991, bringing my schedule up to date, and I need to buy a diary for this year. Then I have to, or I ought to, get ready to publish, or to attempt to publish, a few books. But since it’s quite clear that I don’t have enough time, I choose to wash my hands of everything and play on the computer instead.

  January 13

  Yesterday’s handwriting exercises certainly helped me concentrate on the things I have to do, and I even managed to start organizing and tying up my books without despairing too much. Writing this is rather uncomfortable, though, because when I took the books off the shelves, they brought with them a shower of paint and plaster chippings from the wall, which had been building up on top of them for a considerable time. Many of these tiny specks are now underneath this piece of paper, getting on my nerves and making my work more difficult. I don’t know why I didn’t think to wipe the table top (I seem to remember it’s tabletop rather than table top). I don’t know why I don’t do it now. But I carry on writing.

  G G G G G G G G G G G G Great, I forgot how to do the G again. My problem is that I can never remember where to start, and if it doesn’t happen naturally then thinking about it gets me nowhere. There must be some knack to it, but I haven’t found it yet.

  I know my handwriting’s awful today. I’m writing very quickly and anxiously; the buildup of tension and worry about the move is huge. I need to keep tying my books into packages, and there are lots of other things to do as well. I don’t feel like doing any of it. I don’t want to move. I’m sick of moves and changes. But it has to be done, because the powers that be have decreed it.

  January 15

  Although these exercises seem like a somewhat inappropriate task under the circumstances, I immerse myself in them, looking for my center—which by the way I’m not going to find, though I can at least try to get close. I notice I’ve had big handwriting from the get-go today, and although it’s not exactly beautiful, it’s not ugly either. This could be thanks to the small amount of wine I had at lunchtime. I also notice that I never get the x right; I can’t seem to master it, perhaps because of the problem of drawing the second line without lifting the pen. Let’s see: for example, for example, for example … that’s how it should be, and I think it’s possible only if you draw the second line after you write the whole word, like the dot of an i or the cross of a t, going back and checking the word after you’ve finished writing it to see what extra bits are missing. It’s a serious flaw in the handwritten script of our language that it can’t be written without lifting the pen, though maybe in other languages it’s even worse. But let’s go back to the x: if I try to write the word in a single movement of the pen, the next thing I know the whole thing’s a mess. I also need to remember to relax and save drawing the second line until the end. And now I’m reaching the end of this sheet of paper without having found my center or anything like it, though at least my writing is large and easy to read.

  February 4

  I’m trying to get back into a good habit, which is almost as hard as getting out of a bad one. And I’m still paralyzed, in many respects, because of the move and everything that came with it. In the chaos of recent days, in the constant frantic struggle to find and attempt to secure a little order, I’ve had neither the space, the time, nor the mental capacity for any other kind of work. Things still aren’t in their final places, and there’s a lot, and I mean a lot, to be done in the new house, but some kind of system has been restored, at least in terms of space. Time is still messy and unstructured, and
I suspect this lack of structure in my time is leading to a similar lack of structure in my conscious self. It’s hard to feel connected to myself, not just in the profound sense, but in small ways and small everyday actions. You are yourself, but you’re also your environment; the self is extended and projected into its surroundings, and any disruption there disrupts the whole psyche.

  I’m trying, then, to go back to my old handwriting work as a way of recovering my lost self more fully. I imagine that this habit, more than any of the other good habits I’ll try to adopt over the coming days, will give me a rhythm, a guide, a base on which to construct a way of life in this new house, and in this new time she and I are beginning together.

  Part Three: Exercises

  February 18, 1991

  I’m returning to these exercises today in a vain attempt to gather up the floating pieces of myself. But this isn’t the right kind of pen for this paper. The ink’s running. I pick up the ballpoint instead, and these departures from my routine are a clear sign of fragmentation. So many—so many—things need tidying up (or, more accurately, sorting out) in the new house, and in myself and the people around me, that it’s quite overwhelming. And there’s the imminent journey to Montevideo, and probably from there to Maldonado, which is making everything feel much more chaotic. My position is that I simply cannot, and should not, make the journey, that the cost (psychologically speaking) would be too great. There’s no way out of it, though, and the cost of not going would be even greater. It’s the sort of situation that makes you schizophrenic, and which Laing calls a “position of checkmate.” (And there’s no one like a mother for creating these situations. She says, and believes, that she broke her hip because a gust of wind knocked her over. I, however, am convinced the wind came from her unconscious: a final, desperate effort to bring me to her side.) These days, my misfortunes weigh on me more heavily than ever before. My lack of freedom is total and I can feel time racing by at full tilt, dispiriting and fruitless. The anxiety building inside me is impossible to control. I’m putting on weight; my body’s getting more bloated by the day. And I smoke without stopping—and without enjoying it.

  I have no idea how to deal with all this, and all the while my desk is spilling over with things to do. There are things, too, that I have to do for myself, for pleasure, or to remind myself who I am, to subsist and existand I can’t do them. I can’t even create the necessary conditions in which to do them.

  March 15

  Today’s exercises are like a branch I’m clinging onto after falling off a cliff. I’ve never been in such a desperate situation as this, though I’ve had plenty of difficult times over the years. At least before, there was a deep-down, “magical” confidence that kept me going, a secret, mysterious presence within me like a kind of guardian angel. Beneath everything else, I had a hidden and convoluted confidence in myself, and an even more hidden and convoluted confidence in God. And that confidence always sustained me. Now it’s as if I’ve lost my footing completely; my mind is fragmented and I’m in the grip of a psychological paralysis that, little by little, is becoming physical as well. Nothing about the present looks like happiness, not for a moment; there’s no peace or respite, no dreams to remember—my spirit’s like an arid pasture, a desert. And there’s not the slightest glimmer of a future, of any desirable future whatsoever. The whole thing feels like I’m hurling myself vertiginously downward through days, weeks, months, and years that pass without a trace, completely empty of content, toward death, the only certainty. Every day, for too long now, all I’ve been able to do is passively observe the progress of my ruin.

  This is all very abstract, I know. It’s not that I can’t be more specific, but I’m tired of being more specific, and I don’t want to repeat myself. After all, this is just a handwriting exercise. There’s no point worrying about making its contents more concrete. It’s just filling a sheet of paper with my writing.

  March 17

  I need to establish some form of discipline, however hard that may be. These exercises are always the first step in my attempts to do that—attempts that normally never get anywhere. And yet I keep on beginning with these exercises, partly because they’re the simplest way to begin. All you need is a ballpoint and a sheet of paper, whereas everything elseeverything else I might want to domeans first carrying out a search for the necessary equipment, which puts me off before I’ve even started. Calligraphical exercises can also be done anywhere, though it’s still not easy to find an appropriate place for them in the new house, since all the possibilities have very serious potential drawbacks. For example, I’m now sitting at my desk in the room next to the first-floor bedroom; this spot can only be used on a day like today, when there’s a cool breeze. Otherwise, the temperature in here is unbearable at almost all hours of the day or night because of a zinc roof that’s lacking the proper insulation. It’s also very small, and there’s no space for my stuff; even as I write, papers and other bits and pieces on the desk are getting in my way, and I can’t put them anywhere else because there’s nowhere else for them and no suitable furniture. I can think of lots of reasons why my handwriting’s so bad today, among them the fact that I haven’t practiced much lately, but I’m also feeling unsettled and obstructed by the untidiness of the desk. Other simple tasks have become nightmarish, because to do them I have to go and get things from the back bedroom, where all the stuff is in precarious piles and the unpleasant climate is very off-putting.

  March 18

  At last, two days of exercises in a row. I’ve even managed to do a few odd jobs inside and outside the house. The major problem of having nowhere to work hasn’t gone away, though, and this morning the buzzing from the electricity substation next door reached extraordinary volumes. It woke me up and tortured me at great length, until finally I dragged myself out of bed; downstairs, the noise filled the whole house, with the exception of Ignacio’s room. There are no two ways about it: my only option is to move in there until somewhere else has been set up for me. Ignacio doesn’t like the idea, but he’ll have to accept it.

  Ignacio is getting more difficult by the day. I think there are a few reasons for this, among them his mother’s almost constant absence, the maid’s lack of authority over him, and the fact that he has a house key and a room that looks onto the street, meaning his friends are forever tempting him out. Today I threatened to make him move into the little room at the back of the house, which would keep him away from the lure of the street and allow us (or rather, me) to control him better. It would be a cruel step to take, since it’s extremely uncomfortable in there. But it’s something to bear in mind, in case things don’t improve and Ignacio turns out to be incapable of even a modicum of self-control. He’s still like a small animal with no moral code, always doing whatever he feels like doing and whatever he thinks is best for him. For a while his behavior was getting better, but since the move and the arrival of the new maid it’s gone downhill, and fast. I hope I can find a way to get him back on track, but I’m very tired.

  March 19

  Third consecutive day of calligraphical exercises. This is like a small light shining in the darkness (of my mind). I’m also pleased to see my handwriting looking more even. It’s still a bit small; I’ll try to make it bigger, but I don’t want to force things too much. It’s better to let my being express itself in whatever way it can, even if the actual handwriting and the desired therapeutic effects suffer as a result. The important thing for now is getting out of my catatonic state; it doesn’t matter whether I make an elegant exit. All I’m asking of myself, all I’ve begun asking, and even demanding, of myself, is action. It might be action like this—writing a modest couple of pages—or it might be venturing into the outside world, if only to walk a couple of blocks to buy cigarettes. I need to fight against my phobias, and against stasis and passivity, especially because this passivity is harboring a potent destructive force. It would be better to smash things up—to do anything else whatsoever—than to carry on in this
senseless limbo in which nothing will ever be fixed and I’ll just get angrier and more frustrated. My anger isn’t directed at anyone in particular by now, except, I think, myself. It’s true that my circumstances are a pileup of disasters and difficult situations, but it’s my own inadequate response to them—slow, clumsy, and uncertain—that makes them worse, and makes the possibility of solutions seem further and further away.

  March 20

  Fourth consecutive day of exercises. Although I’m sitting in the midst of the maddening buzz from the machines next door, I’m trying to follow the guidance Alicia gave me when I woke up. Strangely enough, this guidance is based on my own words, written as part of yesterday’s exercises, which she read before going to sleep, or maybe once she was already dozing off. I’d said I wasn’t responding to problems in the right way and that I needed to change that. Alicia said the same thing to me this morning, and added a few practical suggestions of her own. She must not have remembered what she read of my exercises last night.

  I have good intentions, but the problem of the buzzing, which aggravates or multiplies the suffering already caused by all the other post-move problems, such as the heat, the lack of defense against the heat, and the lack of space, gets more intolerable by the day. At this moment, the buzzing has reached an astounding intensity; it’s even competing with the noise from the street. And it’s right in the middle of where I’m sitting to work. It’s filling the space, getting louder and louder, and there’s no point closing the doors and windows: now I can feel it in the form of vibrations in the soles of my feet, which are resting—encased in their slippers—on the wooden floor. It’s like an infuriating vibromassage. My good intentions aren’t going to be enough. I’m desperate to get out of here; I’m writing as fast as I can in order to finish the page at once and make a run for it. HELP.