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cherry valley forever
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Three Goblin Art
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YOU ARE THE REASON
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@biridian
Unforgettable Havana
Havana, I know because I lived there for more than a year, more than a city it is a state of the spirit. It is the corner of San Rafael and Galiano, but it is also the cha-cha-chá, the wind licking from the Malecón to Calle 23. And also, the early morning perfumed by the fresh bread from the oven and the roar of that antediluvian artifact of collective transport that people, by its form, have…
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Sometimes I realize that I should never have seen so many movies. They have hurt me a lot. I have believed too much in what I saw. Many of the intellectuals with whom I usually meet assure that they have not yet lost their political and social enthusiasm. I am fed up with those writers who say “I reject sadness and ask for hope”, but they lie and what they really want is to win an important…
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Summer in Trieste
For Allison Marie Conway, with gratitude.
JUNE
There is no repentant sex on every corner, nor the tiny trophy of kisses that the time has abandoned in white alabaster chapels.
This way, history
creates lovers who live in coldness and oblivion.
Silences
that open worlds to the lonely devotee. A scaffold of rumors the river raises in its praised restoration of bodies who still rock the instinct to…
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Sad Night in Tijuana
Sad Night in Tijuana
Time stands still, and it is perfect and round, and it is also luminous now. Probably this morning you have dressed black organza with white polka dots. How beautiful is your mistake relative to time, Suzanne, and yet, your time is now Tijuana and a cantina that reeks of cheap tequila, and you go there because it is late afternoon and you must restart the cycle that locks you up like the border…
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Alexandria
“Alexandria nights,” by Amir Mahmoud
When night falls, only the sound of the sea inhabits Alexandria. The murmur of the Mediterranean and the whisper of algae that goes from the jetty to the rooftops to spread among the chimneys. It would seem that it is Alexandria like Laudomia, home of the unborn, covered by shadows and dressed in shadows. This city is beautiful, it drinks the song of the…
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The cop who read Wittgenstein
The cop who read Wittgenstein
For Beck, with all my affection
Following the realistic worldview theory that Wittgenstein taught me, I was able to adopt an idealistic stance in my life and became a policeman. It was the only way to get rid of that nasty job I had at an ad agency by creating pointless slogans for cars and luxury perfumes. It was a good way to put thought before facts in my new job.
When I arrived at the…
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I know running on Sundays is a great exercise I started running when I observed the presence of that gunman. Just then I felt a bullet hitting my left forearm with a single blow.
Suzanne only pays attention to the important things
Suzanne only pays attention to the important things
We had sat for dinner and were almost alone in the long, dining-room of the Hôtel l’Amirauté, at Brest, the capital of the French Bretagne. A dim light illuminated Suzanne’s face, a decadent pink on her cheekbones, the violet velvet of the chair in which she was sitting, the great moon with which she awoke dark night circles, strands of hair fleeting towards the nape, bitter mouth as a result of…
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Glorious nights
We drank until the second bottle was emptied, and the third one, because the night is long, long is the recovery of my favorite things. We have to go beyond our own eyes until we slide towards the closed eyelid, or the unshakable door, or the crying, and I can wake up with her head on my shoulder: coming from an impossible word, or from a herb, or from a sidereal journey. She is the source of…
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Gertrud Kolmar, a poet facing destiny
Gertrud Kolmar, a poet facing destiny
Gertrud Kolmar (1894 – 1943)
Questioning what it means to be human may seem an incomprehensible, exhausting, and openly philosophical task, but Gertrud Karl tackled the very concept of humanity through her poetry. In a letter of July 1941, Gertrud Kolmar writes to her sister Hilde: “I am a poet, yes, that much I know; but I never want to be a writer.” The German-Jewish author considered poetry a…
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The blonde in the alley
The blonde in the alley
“Do you have a cigarette for me, stranger?” –she told me.
The blonde girl was sitting on the first steps of a dark alley staircase. Her hair falls untied on both sides of her face, the skirt reveals her legs. She has a face that proclaims her sensuality, a ray in the eyes, an avid mouth, a provocative look. The abandoned hands of the typical indolent girl. There is the lucidity of sleep on her…
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Fierce morning reviews and sweet midnights caresses
Fierce morning reviews and sweet midnights caresses
My dear Jay,
I am torn between the knowledge that you are badly in need of a firm criticism and the fear of discouraging you, and if my attempted blend is unsuccessful write me down as a cantankerous fool woman whose judgment has been spoilt by too much reading of rotten books.
As to the general construction (and spirit) of your last novel, I will say very little. I am afraid that from the…
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Unfinished Story
I will never write that word, the last one, a word as old as death, which hangs swinging in my windpipe with a premonition, as a resource. However, under the bark of my book, I must see it illuminated, in intimate incandescence, feeding on the hopeless melancholy to which I return today. Returning now to this contemplation is forgetting all the dead time that surrounds me, now timeless, without…
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“Hopscotch” (Rayuela) / Chapter 7 by Julio Cortázar I touch your mouth with a finger touch the edge of your mouth, I draw as if out of my hand as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and I just close my eyes to undo it and I create each time I want to mouth, mouth to my hand chooses and sketches on the face, a mouth chosen from all, with sovereign freedom of choice for me to draw with my hand on your face, and that by some chance that seek not to understand exactly matches your smiling mouth underneath which I draw my hand.
If I were the woman of my life
If I were the woman of my life
To all women who dwell in me, to all women that I inhabit, friends and enemies, real and imaginary …
Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene by Simeon Solomon
I would like to be the virgin-prostitute of the Bible and tie my hair like the lesbian serpents of the Apocalypse did. Only then I dare to outline the brackish arch of your pubis with my tongue, sow your hips or fall asleep in…
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Finnish writer Kristina Häkkänen: In and outside of society
Finnish writer Kristina Häkkänen: In and outside of society
Books are bought or stolen, not loaned or given away. Ignoring this universal rule, my friend Yvonne –after our wonderful yoga session– surprised me with a cute present: a book titled “Shâhnameh”, an excellent short-stories selection written by her girlfriend, the Finnish author Kristina Häkkänen.
Finnish author Kristina Häkkänen
It is true that in Southern European countries we know little and…
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When you leave I become a poet
When you leave I become a poet
It’s been three hours since you left. The night is filling with bittersweet shades, like a sea of unforgiving roots, slowly advancing toward the grief of distant lights. And it opens into horizons like swords, wounding my seconds, filling them with silent deaths, without light nor motives. The afternoon is almost dead. The sun, which was flashing a few hours ago (hundred and eighty minutes since…
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