The world is an idiot, a box of broken teeth, and my molar that aches so, so much, the cripple cried, and ran, the tide of the wine cask ran. I’m the horn of plenty. Look at my shorts. Your mitt is lovely. It doesn’t kill flies. But it does scare them away. There is a musketeer. But where are the other two? King Lear moans, moans, moans. The sun will come out amidst the storm. There must be a light, something that brightens it up. No, no, no, no, why should a fly have life. And you, Cordelia, no breath at all. What happened? The lion ate the mice. And the cat went wild. And the child who walked naked amidst the storm moaned. It’s grief. The procession. The carnival. It’s a concert. An orchestra. A fire. It’s the Apocalypse of the Proverbs. It’s the Psalm. It’s the Book of Job. Without a beginning. There’s an intermission. No, and no, and no. It can’t be. Yes, it is. It can’t be. She is dead. Dead. Dead. Cried King Lear. King Lear cried. Cried. Cried. Blind. Blind. Blind. Amidst the storm. Amidst the trumpet. Of the jubilation. Of the court. Of the world. Of the sovereign. Of the powerful. Of this tragedy. He cried. King Lear cried. Cried. Cried. Dead. Dead. Dead.
This is not a book. I did not read it. I lived it. I lived it from road to road. I came across the fortune-teller on the way. And the magician too. And I found a door closed. And gates. And guards. And cowards and killers. And street spectacles. And New York City. And the moon. And the sun. And thunder. And love. And death. And trains. And visionaries. And war. And the atomic bomb. And I found my ears. And I found my soul. My self. My poet. My stars. My comets. And I wrote. And I got drunk. And I loved. Loved most of all the mills and lions of Cervantes. And I loved César Vallejo. And I lived in Paris, Rome, and Madrid. And I locked myself in a room to write. And I also ate. And I was hungry and cold. And I fell in love. And forgot. And I’m ready to do it again. And I’m determined to finish this book with another life. With another affirmation of life. With another great, big Yes. Throwing junk on the ground again. And exploding. Let it explode. Yell. Jump. Let them out. Let them out of these pages. Let them get drunk. Let them love. Live. Sleep. And love. And rot too. And above all, die.
3. Pastoral; or, The Inquisition of Memories
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
—Shakespeare, As You Like It
Just a moment, please. If you wish, ladies and gentlemen. And shepherds and shepherdesses. If you wish, idiots and drunkards and buffoons, to laugh or lament, it’s worth your while to buy me. My name is Giannina. If you wish to sneeze or blink. Or if you wish to feel happy. Or if you wish to whistle. Or if you wish to see a show. Or play gin or poker. Or get drunk or cry. Read Profane Comedy. If you wish to become shepherds. And true shepherds. If you wish to find your way. Or if you wish to get lost. Or if you wish to return home. And find your soul. Read Pastoral of Profane Comedy. If you wish to complicate your life. And if you wish to calm down. Read me. Read me. Love me. Love me. If you still believe in childhood. If you’re still five years old. Or if you have grown up. And you still have dreams and hopes. Call me by name. Call me Giannina. My phone number is 5-4-3-2-1. My address is New York. This is an ad. An ad turned into a book. A book turned into a character. Like the quenepa. And the nispero. Like the soul. Like the dream.
5-4-3-2-1. Hello! Hello! Giannina. Yes, it’s me. Who is speaking? Hello! Hello! Yes, it’s me. Giannina. And I’m furious. How dare you mention my name in the ad for Profane Comedy? And to give my phone number. I am already speaking to lawyers. You are facing a lawsuit. You have used me. Now just a minute, Giannina. Listen, what will my colleagues say? What will clowns, buffoons, and drunkards say? Let them say whatever they please. You and I know very well that you are not Giannina. You are Giannina. You are a fortune-teller. You are a drunkard. You are a buffoon. You are not Giannina. You are a shepherd.
Now I wish to speak to you from the bottom of my soul. I wish to speak to you of water jugs. And shepherds. I wish to speak to you of pipes and flutes. And flocks. And the gathering of sheep in my soul. I wish to speak to you of fountains. And wells. And water. There is so much water in the world. And there are so many meadows and valleys. And so many forts. And frontiers. I wish to speak to you of the lover. And his lover. And the question put to creatures. And green pastures. And pomegranate juice. And countrysides. And mountain. And the wine cellar. And the bed of lions. And the flowers of St. Francis. I wish to return home. I wish to arrive at the dwelling of my soul. And I wish to raise the diapers of dawn. And I wish to return to every sunrise. To turn on the lights. So they shine. And fountains return to water. There is a maiden. And there is a deer. And a stag. And morning is rising. And shepherds are leaving at the break of day. And night shepherds are singing. And baby birds are singing. Nightingales are singing. And snails are singing. And there is sea. And land. And mountain. Now I wish to speak to you at the break of day.
I just got up. Just after the break of day. When the sun starts burning the memories of the hours. When hours have ceased existing. When there is no time. When seasons no longer follow one another. When there is no spring or hell or heaven. When it’s night and when it’s still day. When it’s day and already night. And it’s three a.m. I am pure. I am a splash of light. I am lifting the ball of the sun. I am dawning with light. I am full of fire and heat. I am alone. Light is the edge of water. The frontier of day. There are beasts pissing on the beach. There are socks splashed with water. There is a white shore. And a ball of fire playing with the shore. There is a naked boy swimming in the water. There is a violet sunset streaked with silver. There is a jagged rock. There is a cavern of hermit crabs. And some tracks. And some shoes. Red ones.
I am the shepherd of water. The shepherd boy of dawn. I have a golden beetle. And I have a snail. Oh woe, woe’s me! Music has invaded my beaches. Flooded my banks. Surrounded all my infinities with water. My sheep have run off. Have fled from the flock. Have left the earthquake of my home. And left me alone. Left me painted in the landscape of memories. But I have returned to my soul. Barefoot and hidden. Like a duende I have returned. Like an elf I have returned. Running. Fleeing. From the lie of love and memory. In the vineyard. In the wine cellar of the river. In the bottle of wine. Devouring nuts and collecting cards and stamps and albums. And dreaming. And remembering. And gathering seeds. And crossing forts and frontiers. Besieging time, which is Shepherd and Shepherd and Shepherd. And melancholy. Melancholy. Melancholy. And memories are. Still. Still. Still. I was shipwrecked. But I saved myself. And I sang epigrams and eclogues and odes and sonnets. And I’m still singing to sirens. And hearing their song. And writing the symphony of water. Of earthquake. Of storm. Of peace. My hell. My shepherd. My torture. My treasure. My sun. My sun. My do-re-mi. And my fa. And my soul. And my love.
On the top floor of the Empire State a shepherd has stood up to sing and dance. What a wonderful thing. That New York City has been invaded by so many shepherds. That work has stopped and there is only singing and dancing. And that the newspapers—the New York Times, in headlines, and the Daily News—call out: New York. New York. New York. Listen to it. Hear it on the radio. And on television. Listen to the loudspeakers. Listen to it. The buffoons have died. And the little lead soldier. Shepherds have invaded New York. They have conquered New York. They have colonized New York. The special of the day in New York’s most expensive restaurant is golden acorn. It’s an egg. It’s an apple. It’s a bird. Fish. Melody. Poetry. And epigram. Now there is only song. Now there is only dance. Now we do whatever we please. Whatever we please. Whatever we damn well please.
I’m really sorry, folks, but the shepherds are also farting in New York. I’m sorry. But they’re disgusting. And the cops are pigs too. And they’re farting too. And they’re competing to see who can fart the loudest. So there’s fart traffic. And burps. Traffic of bulls and cows and ambrosia and water. And bulls are pissing on bui
ldings. And cows are shitting in shops. And all the shops are filled with shepherds. And all the mannequins are shepherds. I’m really sorry, folks, but the shepherds are disgusting. Filth. Filth. Everything is filthy. Everything is disgusting. Everything is full of caca. Cow caca. Worm caca. Lizard caca. Santa Claus caca. Vulture caca. Beetle caca. The streets are full of caca. And the food too. I’m sorry, folks, but New York is a filthy pig. A filthy, stinking pig.
I just got back from a trip to New York. I just got home. And I have seen the greatest thing. The finest thing on earth. I have seen the eyes of the most beautiful city in the world. I have seen the eyes of my city. I saw her sleeping. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I ran off in a panic through the streets. I got to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and rang the bells. I have seen the eyes of my city with my own eyes. I ran all the way to the Empire State, went up to the top floor, grabbed a loudspeaker, and yelled to the people of New York City. I have seen with my own eyes the finest city in the world. I have seen the city I love. What should I do? What should I do? Except run. Run until I’m tired of running. Until I’m tired of running and running and running. And now she is getting closer. And closer. And I feel the eyes of my city. And I feel she’s still near. I have seen the eyes of my city with my own eyes.
What’ll I do in this traffic of shepherds? I’ll blow my horn. I’ll carry a whip and lash my cows. They can’t get enough of grazing in the sidewalks. Can’t get enough of mooing in the newspapers. Can’t get enough of shitting. They’re grazing dreams in the middle of New York. In the middle of the sidewalk. Muttering and screaming. Damn you all. Go to hell. Every last one of you. I’m in the hurricane of New York Airport. To hell with the suitcases. And taxis. Damn the soul. Bodies. And hearts. And groans. Damn the seeds. And roots. And passports. Get the hell away from me. Let me graze poems and sonnets with my shepherds. Airplanes and airports, leave me alone. I have a cow. I have a flute. I create this Pastoral. Damn it. And you can go to hell. Every last one of you, damn it. To hell with you all.
Adoration. Veneration. Exclamation. All the children were gaping. Mama. I like the whistle. Buy me a whistle. I want a whistle. Mama. I don’t like this whistle. Mama. It doesn’t chirp like a birdie. Mama. I want a horn. Don’t you see I’m sad. Don’t you see the clouds. Don’t you see I want the sun. Mama. This whistle doesn’t work. Mama. What junk. Why don’t you buy me a whistle. Mama. I want another whistle. Buy me that one. That one. I don’t want it anymore. What junk. Mama. You’re a piece of junk. You look like a whistle. I want to get out of here. I’m fed up with hearing your whistle. Mama. I don’t like your whistle. You’re a nag. You look like a whistle. Get away. Mama. Look, your belly grew. And now you’re ugly. You look like a whistle. And you don’t know how to whistle.
I forgot to tell you something really important. I’m forgetful. And sometimes I’m lost. But I still have my eyes. And I still have my legs. And I don’t know what to do with so many eyes and so many legs. It is a never-ending tale. The concert ends. And the poem begins. Food runs out. And I’m still hungry. I just got up. And I’m still sleepy. And when I return I wish to be where I was. We already know this stuff. It’s a public affair. That’s why I still feel like thinking. And dreaming. And laughing. And crying. I am always back again and beginning anew. I told you before, I am an egg. And now that I am shaking I know everything is different. And I don’t want to return. Now that I’m about to come to the climax. Now that I’m made of mere tensions and mere tendons and pure dreams and pure color movies. Go ahead. Go ahead. The red light turns yellow and green. And from winters you subtract autumn and you add spring. And we are back in summer. It’s weird. I swear, everything seems so strange. And the weirdest part is that everything seems so weird to me. What do I know. That we are lightning. That we are only flashes of lightning. That later everything will be one more crayon in the infinite frame of lightning, painted and finished.
I could be awake or dreaming. We all could be. But everything has to do with everything. And see you soon. A cloud so red. Lightning so square. So profound. So ambiguous. It must have been an airport. Or a concert. Or a dinner. Or a theater. Maybe it was a fried egg. Or a raven. Or a vulture. Or a mystery. Or a secret. Maybe I was still groggy. But Giannina was mute. But Giannina was blind. But Giannina was an idiot. But Giannina was a beggar. And walked filthy from the streets and mud. Filthy from having gone through the world. And from having smelled all possible smells. The first thing I ask is that you open your eyes. The second is that you see. That you walk. That you run. And that you see. You’ll experience things you’ve never dreamed of. When you’ve returned from the other side of the world. When you’ve seen the light. When you’ve turned your back on sadness. I have planted poems in the saddest of the earth. I have painted Van Gogh. And I have been Zarathustra. I have descended the stairs. The sky is still far away. The sky is the seed. And the tree its harvest. And its history, the history of the stars. What could the infinite be. Stretch out your hand, blind, blind, blind. Stretch out your arms, Giannina. There’s something about it that still falls short. That still calls me. And reaches me. And seizes me. What can morning be? Or hope? What can it have? What does it have? And what will it have? And what did it have?
Set your mind at ease. Breathe. And set the world on fire. So the whole city burns down. So all is created. Make yourself at ease, Giannina. Make yourself at home. In your memory. Don’t burn its silence. Or the door. Go beyond the brink. And watch out. Sound out. Search. But don’t make its life miserable. Don’t take away its smile. Don’t take its mouth. Or its word. Don’t take its hat. Or its coat-rack. Don’t take its purse, its shadow or mystery. Let it have a bite in peace. Let it take a nap in peace. So it doesn’t have to burst. It already burst. Now it must relax. Every day off. Every holiday. Every day I do whatever I damn well please. Then the pinch. Or the tickle. Or the very chickpea that bursts. Or the very explosion that melts down. And goes home. As always. And opens its eyes. And sees. Sees everything. Retains everything. Focuses everything. Calm down, Giannina. Make yourself at ease on your rug. Your night spot. Your beehive. Let the watchman of the eye awaken from sleep. Awaken from death. Let him give the manuscript back to the earth. And let his mother in a carriage give back her son. And raise the earth. Nourish it. Amuse it. Entertain it. And leave it in peace. In peace until death. Leave it in front of the sea. Let it come face to face with itself. Without having to tell the truth. Without having to lie. Let it, let it, let it, finally live in peace. Let it. Let it die in peace.
I make the affirmation. I make the exclamation. I am the inquisition of memories. And I am bored by semicolons. I am bored by doubt. And above all, by memory. I am bored by memories and have reached the top of the world to burn them. My memories are in this book. Listen to me, ladies and gentlemen. This is the funeral of memories. This is their cemetery. This is their service. I don’t worship them or respect them in any way. They belong to no one. They don’t belong to the grave. They don’t even belong to memory. You’ve all seen the red chimeras and the black chimeras. And you’ve seen the drunkenness and the banquets. And then the remains of memories came and cleared away life. Death is called memory. And so is time. And so are the damned garbage collectors. I mean the shepherds of memory. And memories are shadows. And memories are death. I am not a memory. I am not an arsenal of epithets or metaphors. I am the star, and the star shines. I am affirmation. And I do not want concepts. I do not want abstractions. No, no, no, and no. I am not a semicolon. I want a period and a paragraph. I want to end it all, once and for all. Without any regrets. Without memory.
Listen to me, ladies and gentlemen. Listen to the sermon of memories and sorrows. Listen to hell. Why didn’t I do what I should have done. I repent. I have sinned. I have memories. And torments. I am burning in the flames of memories. Why didn’t I keep quiet? Why did I do that? I repent a thousand times. Why did I betray you, and why do I remember you? Oh woe, woe’s me! Oh, and I left you standing in the street. Listen to memories.
Listen to them again. Why did I betray you? Why did you leave and forget me? And I grieve and remember you. And the worst were my tears. And the worst was remembering you. Listen to the soap opera and listen to memory. Oh! Now what’s left for me! Just monologues, soliloquies, and memories. I’m left with shadows. I’m left with memories. I don’t want monologues or sorrows or soliloquies. I am a singing bird. I am a child. I am the nightingale. What does winter or autumn or spring or summer know of memory? They know nothing of memory. They know that seasons pass and return. They know that they are seasons. That they are time. And they know how to affirm themselves. And they know how to impose themselves. And they know how to maintain themselves. What does autumn know of summer? What sorrows do seasons have? None hate. None love. They just pass.
Sermon of memories and sorrows. Sermon of everything negative. Sermon against senechism and hedonism. Sermon in favor of Bacchus and Faustus. Affirmation of the horror of the void. Of the horror of memories. And of the horror of silence. And the panic I feel every time I hear that all my memories have died. And I walk through the streets of New York alone. Without memories. And Giannina has burned the memories of the world. Burned the books of memories. Burned their mediocrity. Burned their memories. Burned their negations. So everything is said. So everything is said. So nothing is left inside. So spirit doesn’t surpass matter. So summer doesn’t outdo autumn. So nostalgia becomes impossible. Burial of melancholy. Poor thing. It died on Third Street. And I didn’t care. I didn’t grieve. Oh, woe, woe’s me! Memories died. And I’m not mourning them. And I am a shepherd. How strange. This is the first shepherd that isn’t grieving. Listen to her. She is a shepherd. And she is happy that her memories die. Happy that grief dies. Happy. Happy. And feels as happy as bells and stars. And she is a shepherd. And feels absolutely no grief at all.
Empire of Dreams Page 6