Uit: Dark Desires And The Others (Vertaald door Susan E. Clark)
“October 2, 1978
On the Eve of the Trip
You’ll think that I died, and something like that is indeed happening or has happened. You can’t tell anymore what’s alive and what’s dead, or rather, who’s going around these worlds, seemingly dying. Remembering is like being left hanging from something that you don’t have anymore — if you ever really had it — one reason to be more or less agglutinate, magnetic. Valid.
Remembering here and now, in my house in Buenos Aires, as if I were at the top of a mountain, and even further, as if I were lying at the bottom of the sea, which is where these things tend to happen. Sometimes yes and sometimes no. Sometimes the memories flow when it gets dark; they appear and they fade, they amaze us at the turn of a page and perhaps we should hurry to retain them. Perhaps we should offer more to memory, that form of madness.
I found a piece of paper. I found a writing pad — and I write and I write and I write. I’ll write until the ink runs out and there’s nothing left of what I care about to jot down.
Here there is order, calm. I don’t want to leave this house anymore. I don’t want to be distracted. I prefer to keep seeing objects that I’m fond of, encouraging the winds of inspiration, getting up early and sometimes running through the park to buy something to eat or more ink. Refill the cartridges. Cartridges of ink to write a bit, fire more shots, all made of words. And now — now that the phone isn’t working — how I long to stay here shut in between these caressing walls! I feel so good facing myself, facing mountains that look like water, but which are really wool, mountains woven stitch by stitch, only suggested. A small tapestry that will accompany me on my trip, though I no longer want to travel.
I’ll go all the same.
The house is beautiful, I like each and every thing, and the cats are playing in the middle of the room and tralala tralala. I keep on in my singsong and can’t get away from it. And again my doubts: “To go out or not to go out? To bathe or not to bathe?”
How I need the little securities of life, or should I say, how I’d like to have the larger ones! I would like not to have to take the plane or the boat, not to climb once more into that enormous floating belly, to float in that endless amniotic fluid, the ocean — and go sailing peacefully toward other latitudes, writing my novels. I have to learn how to write during this trip, an errant writer so to speak — a roving writer.”
Onafhankelijk van geboortedata
HET FLUITSIGNAAL VAN DE ENGEL
Wie ben jij in de spiegel van de zin? Begin of einde
weerkaatst op het blad van de vloed . . .
en wat als jij de spiegel was – wordt de bekleding van het vers dan gekeerd?
breekt dan de hel los?. . .
of zal het fluitsignaal van de engel uitstel geven tot de avondster zich spiegelt
in het water van de woordenzee voordat de vloed terugkeert als een zin
die in de lengte wordt gelezen (niet in de breedte) om het spel van spiegels te verlengen . . .
Maar wie ben jij in de spiegelingen op het oppervlak na het einde van de vloed?
Begin of einde – wie ben jij? Als de woordenkrokodil de kaken opent
om een ster te verslinden dan straalt de ster zoals sterren stralen . . .
enkele momenten of een eeuwigheid – maar je zult haar spiegeling niet zien
als de vloed zich in de zee van een nieuwe zin stort
Vertaald door Kees Nijland & Assad Jaber