Status Updates From Água Viva

Much needed re-read. Bless me, Clarice.

I have seen wild horses in the meadows where at night the white horse-king of nature-cast into the high air its long neigh of glory. I have had perfect relations with them. I remember standing with the same haughtiness as the horse and running my hand through its naked fur. Through its wild mane. I felt like this: the woman and the horse.

Holding a little bird in the half-closed cup of your hand is terrible, like having the trembling instants inside your hand. The frightened little bird chaotically beats thousands of wings and suddenly you have in your half-closed hand the thin wings struggling and suddenly you can't bear it and quickly open your hand to free the light prisoner.

Animals don't laugh. Though sometimes dogs laugh. Besides their panting mouths their smile is transmitted by eyes that start to shine and become more sensual, while their tails wag in joyous expectation. But cats never laugh. A "he" I know wants nothing more to do with cats.

Animals fantasticate me. They are time that does not measure itself. I seem to have a certain horror for the living creature that is not human and that has my own instincts though free and indomitable. The animal never substitutes one thing for another.

From the words of this chant, chant which is mine and yours, a halo arises that transcends the phrases, do you feel it? The halo is more important than the things and the words. The halo is dizzying. I plunge the word into the deserted emptiness: it's a word like a slim monolithic block that gives off shadow. And it's a heralding trumpet.

...the most profound thought is a beating heart.

Beyond thought — even further beyond it — is the ceiling I looked at when I was an infant. Suddenly I was crying. It was already love.

I deepened myself in myself and found that I want bloody life, and the occult meaning has an intensity that has light. It is the secret light of a knowledge of fatality: the cornerstone of the earth.

Nature in choral canticle and I dying. What does nature sing? the last word itself that is never again I. The centuries will fall upon me. But for now a fierceness of body and soul that shows itself in the rich scalding of heavy words that trample one another—and something wild,primary and enervated rises from my swamps, the accursed plant that is about to surrender to God.The more accursed,the nearer toward the God.

I am about to die and construct new compositions. I'm expressing myself very badly and the right words escape me. My internal form has been carefully purified and yet my bond with the world has the naked crudity of free dreams and of great realities. I do not know prohibition. And my own strength frees me, that full life that overflows me. And I plan nothing in my intuitive work of living: I work with the indirect,

Qué intensidad por dios

“No haber nacido animal es mi secreta nostalgia.”