Status Updates From Água Viva

Así es Clarice tienes todo tu boca llena de razón y tus pensamientos claros y decisivos

So I dreamed something I’ll try to reproduce. It was about a film I was watching. There was a man imitating a movie star. And everything this man did was in turn imitated by others and others. The slightest gesture. And there was the advert for a drink called Zerbino. The man took the bottle of Zerbino and lifted it to his lips. So everyone took a bottle of Zerbino and lifted it to their lips.

Tonight the moon is full. Through the window the moon covers my bed and turns everything a milky bluish white. The moon is gauche. It’s to your left as you go in. So I escape by closing my eyes. Because the full moon is light insomnia: numb and drowsy like after love. And I had decided to go to sleep so I could dream, I was missing the news that comes in the dream.

Does what I cannot see not exist? What moves me the most is that what I cannot see nonetheless exists. For then I have at my feet a whole unknown world that exists entire and full of rich saliva. The truth is somewhere: but no use thinking. I shall not discover it and yet I live from it.

I don’t like when they drip lemon upon my depths and make me contort all over. Are the facts of life lemon on the oyster? Does the oyster sleep?

I’ll stop for a bit because I know that the God is the world. He is whatever exists. I pray to whatever exists? It’s not dangerous to approach whatever exists. Profound prayer is a meditation upon the nothing. It’s the dry and electrical contact with oneself, an impersonal oneself.

The transcendence inside me is the living and soft “it” and has the thought that an oyster has. Could the oyster when torn from its root feel anxiety? It is disturbed in its life without eyes. I used to drip lemon juice onto the living oyster and watched in horror and fascination as it contorted all over. And I was eating the living it. The living it is the God.

I’m speaking of the force of body in the waters of the world. Read the energy that is in my silence. Ah I fear God and his silence.

I’m being antimelodic. I take pleasure in the difficult harmony of the harsh opposites. Where am I going? and the answer is: I’m going.
And so when I die, I’ll never have been born and lived: death washes away the traces of the sea-foam on the beach.

...life is supernatural. I walk holding an open umbrella upon a tightrope. I walk to the limit of my great dream. I see the fury of the visceral impulses: tortured viscera guide me. I don’t like what I just wrote— but I’m duty-bound to accept the whole section because it happened to me. And I have much respect for what I happen to myself. My essence is unconscious of itself and that’s why I obey myself blindly.

In truth I’m still not quite seeing properly the thread of what I’m writing you. I think I never shall—but I acknowledge the dark in which the two eyes of the soft panther shine. Darkness is my hothouse. Enchanted darkness. I’ll keep talking to you and taking the risk of disconnection: I am subterraneously unreachable by my knowledge.

As you see, it’s impossible for me to deepen and take possession of life, which is aerial, is my light breath. But I do know what I want here: I want the inconclusive. I want the profound organic disorder that nevertheless hints at an underlying order. The great potency of potentiality.