I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. (Virginia Woolf) We become ourselves through others, and the self is a porous thing, not a sealed container (Siri Hustvedt) En vez de mirarme en mi espejo quiero que mi espejo se mire en mí (Alejandra Pizarnik)
Read, re-read, re-re-read and do not listen to it.
Re-re-re-read it until you can’t read it anymore,
but you can,
it’s a miracle!
And it makes you sick you can
dig its hole
until you do not recognise your text
It now has a strange face, perhaps a mask,
and no eyes, a single lip,
a thousand layers above its heart.
Correct it, re-correct it, re-re-correct it
and change its effect, its texture, its depth,
its core, size and intention.
Feel high and low, high and low again and again.
Attention: you are walking foreign mountains,
you are alone, dirty, tired,
you can’t stop walking and talking all over.
Chronometer, so loud,
go out of bed,
you won’t let it sleep. Psssssssssss
You are mean.
You spoil the tension between language and idea
abstraction and detail,
time and space.
You think you are God
and you are
You create and re-create, re-re-create it again and again.
But Oh! It isn’t breathing anymore.
you’ve killed it at last
(so you were God?).
And then you expect everyone to attend
its Big day while you pretend it just died.
But why do you complain?
It was so good,
it’s a shame, it’s a tragedy.
What have I done?
You cry: it used to be mine
and now it’s yours or his. Perhaps.