Status Updates From Agua viva

Os preguntaréis por qué puedo estar tardando tanto en leer un libro tan corto pero, a parte de que durante el puente no he leído nada, la escritura de esta mujer hay que analizarla y disfrutarla palabra por palabra. Es pura intensidad y existencialismo

—last night I dreamed that I was dreaming. Could it be like that after death? the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream?

My only salvation is joy. An atonal joy inside the essential it.I refuse to be sad.Let us be joyful. Whoever isn't afraid to be joyful& to experience even a single time the mad& profound joy will have the best part of our truth.I'm being joyful in this very instant because I refuse to be defeated:so I love.As an answer.Impersonal love,it love,is joy:even the love that doesn't work out, even the love that ends.

I am the one listening to the whistling in the dark. I who am sick with the human condition. I revolt: I no longer want to be a person. Who? who has mercy on us who know about life and death where an animal I envy profoundly—is unconscious of its condition? Who takes pity on us? Are we abandoned? given over to despair?

What am I in this instant? I am a typewriter making the dry keys echo in the dark and humid early hours. For a long time I haven't been people. They wanted me to be an object. I'm an object. An object dirty with blood. That creates other objects... But I don't obey totally: if I must be an object let it be an object that screams. There's a thing inside me that hurts. Ah how it hurts and how it screams for help.

The ring that you gave me was glass and it broke and the love ended. But sometimes in its place comes the beautiful hate of those who loved and devoured one another.

All this that I'm writing is as hot as a hot egg that you quickly toss from one hand to the other and then back to the first in order not to get burned—

Yes, what I'm writing you is nobody's. And this nobody's freedom is very dangerous. It is like the infinite that has the color of air.

I write to no one and a riff is being made that doesn't exist. I unglued myself from me.

But I want to have the freedom to say unconnected things as a deep way of touching you. Only the erring attracts me,...
But what can I do if you are not touched by my defects, whereas I loved yours. My candour was crushed underfoot by you. You didn't love me, only I know that.

You will have shared this first mute existence, you will have, as in the calm dream of a calm night, have run with the resin down the tree trunk. Afterwards you will say: I dreamt nothing. Will that be enough? It will. And especially in that primary existence there is a lack of error, and a tone of emotion of someone who could lie but doesn't. Is that enough? It is.

Dark strings that, when plucked, do not speak of other things, they don't change the topic—they are in and of themselves, they surrender just as they are, without lie or fantasy.

I walk in the shadow, in that place where so many things go on. Sometimes I drip down the wall, in a place never reached by the sun. My maturing of a theme would already be a cantabile aria—so let somebody else make another song—the song of the maturing of my quartet. This is before maturing.The melody would be the fact. But what fact has a night that happens entirely on a byway while we slept unaware of anything?

Each of us is a symbol that deals with symbols—everything a point of only reference to the real. We desperately try to find an identity of our own and the identity of the real. And if we understand ourselves through the symbol that is because we have the same symbols and the same experience of the thing itself: but reality has no synonyms.

No, it's not exactly calmness that you find there. There is a tough fight for the thing that though corroded remains standing. And in the denser colors there's the lividity of something crooked that nonetheless keeps on going. My crosses have been bent crooked by centuries of mortification. Their verdigris takes on a hue of something between life and death, an intensity of dusk.