Omega

Las hierbas.
Yo me cortaré la mano derecha.
Espera.
Las hierbas.
Tengo un guante de mercurio y otro de seda.
Espera.
¡Las hierbas!
No solloces. Silencio, que no nos sientan.
Espera.
¡Las hierbas!
Se cayeron las estatuas
al abrirse la gran puerta.
¡¡Las hierbaaas!!




Federico García Lorca

Altamar

Desde aquí no puedo ver

ni orillas, ni arena,

ni puerto al que volver.

Quise yo echar ancla

lejos y esconder

a mi corazón la pena

del querer, perder.

Trilema de Münchhausen

Es imposible estar seguro de algo sin ofrecer una justificación a todo desde el principio de los tiempos, lo cual incluye (¿en último término?) la visión imparcial, externa y absoluta sobre tu propia justificación. Lo cual es imposible.

 

Me retracto de lo nunca dicho y me declaro dependiente de una tautología. Existe un determinado estado mental orgánico a prueba de toda conciencia, asesino de todo proceso que aspire a ser lógico antes siquiera de su propia fundación, inevitablemente humano como el puro instinto de supervivencia, suspensión arbitraria del principio de razón suficiente, axioma justificable y causa sui.

Existe, porque la pienso, la comunicación esencial, recíproca, de mutua aprehensión plena, simbiótica desde los estados íntimos de la materia, inequívoca en su composición y necesaria para la vida. Es imposible exagerar la importancia del gran misterio. Entre los infinitamente reproducidos espacios en blanco y orbitales incompletos llenos de autoengaño y fe, a veces se da un sistema: de partes indistinguibles pero sinérgicas hasta el extremo, cerrado y aislado, jamás contradictorio y siempre concluyente, como principio, como fin y como elemento privativo del sentido de estos conceptos. Si todo tiene una razón (comprensible o no), la ausencia de razón debe ser justificable por sí misma. Existe, porque tiene que existir, la salida de la lógica por la puerta de atrás. Todo lo demás acabará por hacer daño.

(Es como cuando al principio de All Down the Line entra Charlie Watts.) Cohibidos todos los métodos de alcanzar el lapsus de clarividencia, se captan las auténticas revelaciones. En ese momento sabes que una cosa ha sido creada para la otra, que han nacido inevitablemente ligadas, que son una verdad. Entonces el universo se expande, tus pequeños pulmones llenos de nicotina dejan de caberte en el pecho, el saldo es positivo para el resto de los tiempos y vivir es una obligación incuestionable. Ya no eres uno de esos personajes de Kerouac locos por hablar, locos por ser salvados, deseosos de todo al mismo tiempo, aquellos que nunca bostezan ni caen en un lugar común. O eres precisamente eso. En cualquier caso, no te preocupa. No te interesa ser interesante, ni siquiera ser bueno. Estás ocupado.

Estoy enamorado.

Ensayo sobre la lógica

                                       
       
           
           

                                                     a  =  a  ?







                                         

Querido y remoto muchacho...

Fragmento de "Abbadón el Exterminador" de Ernesto Sábato


 

Anabelle Lee

 It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me
Yes! that was the reason
(as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe

Asco

    "Even though it was so late, old Ernie's was jam-packed. Mostly with prep school jerks and college jerks. Almost every damn school in the world gets out earlier for Christmas vacation than schools I go to. You could hardly check your coat, it was so crowded. It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano. It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat down at the piano. Nobody's that good. About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played. He had a big damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his face while he played. You couldn't see his fingers while he played - just his big old face. Big deal. I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished. You would've puked. They went mad. They were exactly the same morons that laugh like hyenas in the movies at stuff that isn't funny. I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet. Anyway, when he was finished, and everybody was clapping their heads off, old Ernie turned around on his stool and gave this very phony, humble bow. Like as if he was a helluva humble guy, besides being a terrific piano player. It was very phony - I mean him being such a big snob and all. In a funny way, though, I felt sort of sorry for him when he was finished. I don't even think he knows any more when he's playing right or not. It isn't all his fault. I partly blame all those dopes that clap their heads off - they'd foul up anybody, if you gave them a chance. Anyway, it made me feel depressed and lousy again, and I damn near got my coat back and went back to the hotel, but it was too early and I didn't feel much like being all alone."

 The Catcher in the Rye