In hospitals one sings and tells stories with a certain sadness and distance. As if it did not exist despite its existence. That's what being alive means: singing and telling yourself even if it's from afar. One sits in a dark blue armchair taciturn knowing everything about the silences and musings of human beings. And that chair becomes the universe with an astronomy that mixes slowness and vertigo with its days and nights without any distinctive meaning in essence. Like a capsule of time and space that captures you without concessions. And one is one and only one and one only. There is no room for collective concerns and passions. Rubén Darío affirmed that in literature sincerity is power. And today I really feel powerful. It is curious that an inanimate object as unloved as a hospital chair can take infinite captures of human pain without cutting-edge technology and invisible to the naked eye.
Sitting in that enveloping armchair there is a moment of complete abstraction which is extreme fatigue which turns the coming defeat into victory. What happens to you is what happens to Leonard Cohen's Joan of Arc who tired of fighting only wants a white CXB Directory dress a dress of peace to wear like a doctor's coat. You put on headphones and listen to the radio to escape for a few minutes and by chance Ticket to Heaven by Dire Straits instantly plays and you realize that in the hospitals the ticket offices are open twenty-four hours a day. The return ticket can only be purchased in the memory of the living. In a hospital room your intelligence sharpens. The father is breathing hard and his hands seem to be more wrinkled. They have been rehearsing their goodbye gesture for some time.
We are signs and symbols and in hospitals they multiply and become more acute. The great Achilles in the world of the dead cried out desperately for existence in its most insignificant expression. A clueless protozoan is enough to understand the prodigy that we are. García Márquez knew how to say it with colloquial presence: "dying is a big bitch." A society that despoils its elders is rudely educating its young people and will be condemned by destiny to selfishness and rootlessness. Misery is real naked life at ground level. A hospital is real life in pajamas floating in the air that blows stutteringly. Mythical life is childhood and the wild Eucharist with its sun. Only resistant homeland and dimension; “the static and unchanged eternity of childhood” in the words of Muñoz Molina . In real life the father has his eyes closed and is swollen. In mythical life closed eyes prepare you for dreams and the swelling is because your heart is growing throughout your body and is putting down roots that push upwards.
發表於 14:23:31
