Status Updates From Água Viva

I am savoring whatever exists. Hushed, aerial, inside my great dream. I reach the real through the dream. I invent you, reality. And hear you like remote bells deafly drowned in the water pealing palpitating.

...the light of the fainting dawn, cold blue steel and with the tang and tart sharp taste of the day being born from the dark. And that emerges upon on the surface of time, I livid too, I being born from the shadows, impersonal, I who am it.

We will meet this afternoon. And I won't even talk to you about this that I'm writing and which contains what I am and which I give to you.You will never read what I'm writing. And when I've noted down my secret of being—I shall throw it away as if into the sea. I'm writing you because you can't accept what I am.When I destroy my notes on the instants, will I return to my nothing from which I extracted an everything?

I know that I'm scared of the moments in which I don't use thought and that's a momentary state that is difficult to reach, and which, entirely secret, no longer uses the words with which thoughts are produced. Is not using words to lose your identity? is it getting lost in the harmful essential shadows?

I am well aware that there is a slight detachment between things, they almost collide, there is a detachment among the beings that lose one other amongst words that almost don't say anything more. But we almost understand one other in this light discord, in this almost that is the only way to stand full life, since a sudden face-to-face encounter with it would frighten us, scare off its delicate spider's web threads.

To live this life is more an indirect remembering than a direct living.

Only a few people chosen by the inevitability of chance have tasted the aloof and delicate freedom of life. It's like knowing how to arrange flowers in a vase: almost useless knowledge. That fleeting freedom of life must never be forgotten: it should be present like a fragrance.

And I also know a way of life that is gentle pride, grace in movements, slight and continuous frustration, with a skill in avoidance that comes from a long and ancient history. As a sign of revolt only a weightless and eccentric irony. There's a side to life that is like drinking coffee on a terrace in the coldness of winter and wrapped in wool.

Upon this unusually crooked life I have placed my heavy paw, causing existence to wither in its most oblique and fortuitous and yet at the same time subtly fatal aspects. I understood the inevitability of hap-penstance and that is no contradiction.

How can I explain it to you? I'll try. It's that I'm perceiving a crooked reality. Seen through an oblique cut. Only now have I sensed the oblique of life. I used to only see through straight and parallel cuts. I didn't notice the sly crooked line. Now I sense that life is other.That living is not only unwinding rough feelings—it's something more bewitching and gracile, without losing its fine animal vigor for that.

In this dense jungle of words that thickly wrap around whatever I feel and think and live and transform everything I am into something of mine that nonetheless remains entirely outside me.

I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers. I'm a fruit eaten away by a worm. And I await the orgasmic apocalypse. A dissonant throng of insects surrounds me, light of an oil lamp that I am. I then go too far in order to be. I'm in a trance. I penetrate the surrounding air. What a fever: I can't stop living.

The sole guarantee is that I was born. You are a form of being I, and I a form of being you: those are the limits of my possibility.