Monthly Archives: May 2015

T

http://www.tomwaits.com/songs/


o

o camera goala si curata ca un mormint ca un mormint de cuvinte ca un mormint gol ca un mormint indragit, cu un corp care m-a incalzit, m-a imbratisat, demult legatura mea cu acest corp e ciudata; cum pot fi legata de o absenta sau cum pot fi legata de ceva ce nu e aici ce sint eu, atunci, si ceva de aici si ceva din alta parte? ce inseamna ca iubesti ceva la fel de mult ca altul? Poate nimic in particular; ci doar ca acel ceva e demn de iubit si, ca atare, te stingi si tu aproape de el, ii dedici ultime ode tacute, ultime gesturi, cuvinte, totul ii dedici ca sa nu mai fii tu cel despre care e vorba; sa fie el, ea, sa fie acela, aceea, sa fie altul – cu dedicatie. Cu o dragoste devenita corp intreg. Corpul ei m-a locuit inainte de cuvintele ei; de aceea, cind incerc sa vorbesc, regasesc in intentia vorbirii gesturile ei, care imi preced vorbirea; e ca si cum as sti dinainte tot ce as vrea sa spun, si n-as putea sa spun, pentru ca vreau mai intii sa fac; pentru ca vreau mai intii sa arat. Vorbirea este foarte frumoasa – daca stii sa stai locului si sa sari in sus; daca stii sa te misti. Vorbim, dansam – altfel, deloc nu ne putem intelege.


A room empty and clean, tomb-like –
A tomb of words,
An empty tomb,
Like a dear tomb,
Like a body that gave me warmth and embrace, long ago.

It’s weird how I relate to this body of time, of space, how I relate with an absence.

How can I relate with something which is not here?

What am I, then, both something here and somewhere else?

What does it mean to love something as much as another loves it? Perhaps

nothing in particular; perhaps only that something is worth loving, and you choose to die near it, dedicating to it last quiet odes, last gestures and words, everything that you have so that it ceases to be about you; let the subject be him, be her, be that – let it be another one, with dedication,

with a love that became a body as a whole.

Her body lived inside me before her words did.

That is why, whenever I try to speak, I discover her gestures beneath my intention to articulate; as if I knew everything I want to say before any saying of mine and I couldn’t pronounce anything because I would first want to do or to indicate something.

The act of addressing is a beautiful act.

One must know how to stay and how to jump, one must be able to move.

We speak, we dance. It is our only way.

We cannot understand otherwise any saying of ours.


kind of


ph g


goya

http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/gallery/2015/jan/21/goya-order-disorder/


whispered words


end


notesandcounter notes

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