Pau Who is watching you Llanes, my ideal portrait. I read my last words while looking at my eyes watching you away ... one hundred and four days ago I wrote a poem, was the heart of the first text I wrote for Arterapia Sentimental its axis, its pillars, its Aleph. It reads: POEM OF A TRAVELER
Paul Morand says the world is a book which
have not read anything but the first page
if you have not ever left the place where born. Travel
read the book in the world. Life is a journey. Travel
rather than a pleasure, is a must ...
Discovery a new city
surprise at an unknown landscape that moves us undoubtedly
modify the perception of the place before we come from.
Traveler
seems to only enjoy in the absence and distance ... remembering.
As in love ...
Like when you write a love poem ...
one hundred and four days have passed since then I have given one hundred and four invisible to imagine landscapes in which we find to share our respective reflections with us as loyal as our shadows ... I'll read, you read me, we wrote, we we read, we reflect on our words ... we want even absent and distance remind us even blind and intact ... - How generous ours, my love, as wasteful as spendthrifts with our time! - ... I hope I have been to you as promised in my frontispiece, homeopathic medicine, my pictures, my words curare-effective balm to ease your (our common) melancholy composition that sacred brew inviting you to take in front of my window to poison enough ... After you read this leave can go (when you can, whenever you want) to read my last story in the previous post . It is the second chapter of a Tuareg existential stories ... What begins with love, love must end ...
I know I have to say goodbye ... I had announced without saying-saying "in my text esoteric suicide Chronicle announced ..." a tale for bloggers ... (April 30). Yes, I confess: I was calling your attention, as the bomber as with its future. It is to invite you to save, you can not save the other from its destination, even himself from his own though I try, I just wanted you started to make sense of our immediate and safe separation, our enjoyment we these last days together to prepare your farewell breaking leisurely (though I'm the one who leaves and fade) ... I always wanted to say goodbye to my dead, or those who were once all or part of my life and probably never again to reconnect to share our stuff. I could never do, because they almost never know when death comes so jealous of their duties, or absence for good, it all seems limitless and possible ... If I could not do so far, at least today I say goodbye as God intended, because I know that delivery and it breaks my heart ...
The February 6 he wrote: " The mystery of the encounter between a man and a woman -or any of the possible pairs, of course (you know that I am heterosexual and politically incorrect, I speak as is) - is unsurpassed power of desire. A man and a woman love each other despite their circumstances, others, the threat of oblivion. A man and a woman are separated despite the narcotic power of their memories ... And although we know that a match is never forever, everything ends sooner or later ... do not stop wishing that this time last longer, perhaps forever If fate wants or so it was written "... It was not possible, and make sure you and wanted to try a duet, and was written and dictated my fate, so generous in life and relentless at the end of the game ... Only I ask you to remember to Pau Llanes till you drop, forget me when you play, either before or after I reread and remember when nostalgia climb down your throat and not stand in your eyes, no more no less ... no mourning for me, I love reading, or dispose of ashes on your head ... smile, laugh out loud if the body demands it, make love or fuck or fucking any literature behind me, that I have great, they are strong bring both beauty of a place to another ... "at your pleasure to read (me) found (confused) my pleasure to write (I) ... never know
Marco Antonio Montes de Oca, Mexican poet I admired how much they owe my life and my writing to that poem of his - The journey of the dying - which I first read when she was almost a child. All my life was like the story of the dying man who invented, it learned to live at close range, to enjoy the little things and make them great, to transform their values \u200b\u200bto the word, the magic of imagination, the breath of the sacred in a spirit of beauty, love ... it is fair to end this trip with his words, I owe a memorable life (hopefully you are also my creatures, my own creative work, which I tried following your example and that of many others as I enjoyed it inspired me): ... "Life is already mysteriously transplanted in the word, / another life awaits me, / A thousand times life filtered through the sieve rotten tombs. / And when the five thousand years dead / I'm swept away by gophers / and turn my remains in the carousel worm / pit and my brothers, convinced that they will never come back / change each other letters in their epitaphs, / I know get up, die again, / again expose the truth of my kingdom "... Time will tell if reborn like a phoenix from my ashes or salt my grave if I die by not dying or alive and buried in your memories, if you die forever transformed at the peak of a peregrine falcon or a dorsal fin tuna in the Mediterranean, or will be the eighth color of your rainbow or eyebrow ñ tickles you while you read me ... - FILI TEMPORIS VERITAS (Truth is the daughter of time.)
do not know if you noticed, love my city-architecture is a mausoleum, a huge archipelago lakeside museum where memory lies (sweet and moist)-there are so many memories that rush, so dense and contiguous, the City breathes mist is sailing and reveals indolent, happily shrouded (I, it) between your lashes ... Like every museum has its motto "as an emblem of mine has the opening words of Finnegans Wake " riverrum, past Eve and Adam's "... - everything mausoleum should display his epitaph. A life led me to compose my own: " YES ... WHY NOT? "..." I hope you understand what it represents and contains the Aleph ... I confess that before writing this sentence, I was tempted to appropriate epitaph for all of that Marcel Duchamp wrote to his grave - D'ailleurs, c'est toujours les autres qui meurent (They are always the others who die) - which in turn "stole" his lover Maria Martins, perhaps to share with her after the death the same words, yes it is to love forever ... Everything is sea in the sea of \u200b\u200byour eyes and your name ...
wills:
Come when you want to visit my grave. I do not need to give away great thoughts and eloquent speeches. A single word I shall be healed ... Apréndeme little by little, give me time, please do not read me in passing ... I have so much to tell ...
If you want to remember my words or my original images in your house, make it known before my chelas, who transferred the rights to my children. They will tell you what to do ... Do not worry, they are of my kind, generous Tuaregs seeking travelers, children all of Tin-Hinan
... If you read my last words listening Traumerei (dream) by Schumann, played by Vladimir Horowitz or Martha Argerich, please, I hear where you are.
Never forget that Arterapia Sentimental is a biographical diptych hundred and four days, a diptych of mirrors facing each other, of course ... something like the invisible city of Valdrada of which I wrote near the beginning of this blog - do go to reread later, there are "goodies" of Zacatecas for your eyes. Pau Llanes was his character as narrator, the hinge that goes away here and now murmur ...
Drawing: Portrait Venetian ideal of Pau Llanes, Evelyn Castro, 2008
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