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domingo, 21 de agosto de 2016

The words will come (Fragment) CR, VocalesV



I turned to him and said:
People love diversity especially when it asserts their superiority.
He said that in that case it is not diverse,
And I said that language does not reach our intentions
so we shouldn't deposit our hopes in its honesty.
It was too hot to have that philosophical debate
so we just decided to watch the passers-by and play the game of
“finding one beautiful thing on each of them.”
We were sitting at Harvard Square
and it was the year of the hottest Summer,
It was also the year of transformation,
of making love in a tiny room like teenagers,
with a poster of Burroughs looking at us straight in the eyes
on top of the fridge: "smash the control machine."
It was the year of counting every penny, every quarter, every dollar,
the year of nostalgia for the mirage
of a life that we had left behind,
with the promise of going back,
just to give ourselves some peace of mind
we did not say goodbye.
But we knew that going back to a place that one has already abandoned
is just a different way to lie,
and we were tired of lying.
It was the year of tears and uncertainty,
of afternoons spent at the Widener Library, in silence,
devouring books and thoughts, drinking free water and coffee,
writing, reading, digesting.
A sweet year of punishment and redemption.
And we sat there on a bench across the book store
And he opened the Kundera he had just bought for 4 dollars
And found a receipt for 5 that read “city lights bookshop”
Issued in 1995
And we took it as a sign and as an answer
As if the spirit of Ferlinghetti announced itself with a howl
To tell us that everything was going to be alright even if we felt lost
And in the brink of an emotional collapse.
So we took de Beauvoir, and Miller, and Kundera, and Carpentier
Back to the library that was to become our refuge, and
We climbed the beautiful stairway
and I shut my eyes trying to transport myself to 1915 when it opened
to smell the fresh smell of a new place in such an old year,
but we found the doors locked and we had to find refuge in a different place,
it looked like a sad Sunday, even though everyone seemed to have found joy under the trees.
A big group of Asians passed us by with their cameras
All of them were wearing Harvard sweaters under the inclement sun
He looked at me and mentioned something about mass produced culture
I found it interesting … it reminded me of Foucault
so I made a note on my yellow notebook that read: “mass produced culture = mass incarceration”
And I felt smart about it.
Then he read some pages of Carpentier out loud,
That wonderful Cuban writer that I discovered so late thanks to him
And to my great embarrassment,
And I buried my head in the blank pages of my notebook.
The words will come one day,
Because I’m not too keen of silence.
The words will come, I repeated to myself.
Silent are the dead because death knows no language
But you’re not dead, the words will come someday.



 CR - VocalesV 


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