desierto nocturno

en la granja
había un buhó
enorme y blanco
que no se movía

a veces soplaba
el desierto y lo
cubría todo de tierra

los coyotes aullaban
hasta sin luna
y las vacas bramaban
por sus becerros
que no verían
hasta el amanecer

las abejas
perseguían a los niños
hasta los canales

la miel se derritía
por las paredes
mientras los enjambres
se movían

se murió un viejo
de cancer
y hubo una reunión
con comida
y banda entre las
tumbas

a veces se llenaba
la tierra de salitre
y cavaban túneles
las lechuzas

y hacían cazería los hombres
al encontrar un cuero
de víbora

y esta noche
las estrellas
boca arriba

El autobús

Puso el pie derecho en el primer escalón de metal y cerró los ojos. Con algunos dedos se agarró de la barra vertical y al abrirlos ya estaba frente al chofer del autobús que se preocupaba por meter el clotch y echarle los perros a una dama que caminaba por la avenida.

Ella le dirigió la palabra primero.

- Disculpe, ¿me podría dar una chancita de repartir mis hojitas? Vengo a hacer el trabajo de Dios.

El chofer escuchó algunas de las palabras y le dijo que pasara con el movimiento de una mano y sin perder de vista a la muchacha que ya se escabullía por entre la gente de la mañana.

Se detuvo frente a los pasajeros y cerró los ojos de nuevo para recordar los episodios de la noche. Aquél sueño tenía un peso como pesadilla, pues recordaba a ese gigante como si lo hubiera conocido de toda la vida. Ella diminuta, en ese espacio profundo y negro.

- Te los tengo todos asustados. - decía.

Ella se levantó llorando, sintiéndose las sicatrices y los huesos triturados de la mano izquierda con la otra mano.

Ahora la mano sujetaba el verbo reflejado: triturado en citas reorganizadas para detallar una moraleja.

Abrió los ojos y dejó salir un respiro.

- Se lo doy, hermano. Es gratis.

Él le miró la mano primero y después se fijó en su cara y tomó el folleto sin hacer gesto. Disimuló leerlo y después se concentró en las imágenes que pasaban lentamente en la ventanilla.

- Se lo doy, hermana. Es gratis… pero, dígame: ¿tiene usted fe?

- ¡Claro que sí!

Ella también disimuló leer para después voltearse a ver el mundo de afuera.

Repartió quince folletos. Diez de los que los recibieron declararon tener fe. Ocho invocaron el mismo nombre de Cristo. Entre ellos, tres profesaron ser también hermanos.

Se bajó del autobús en la esquina de Brazil y Río Sinaloa. Cruzó la calle a la contraesquina y esperó diez minutos.

Al llegar el autobús se subió y pagó la cuota. Se sentó en el primer asiento vacío y se quedó mirando hacia afuera rumbo a la avenida Justo Sierra.

los aviones

escucho a veces a los jets deslizándose por esos rumbos abriéndose veredas entre las nubes y la métrica de la esfera. a algunas personas les cuento que es por ellos que no quiero ir ya más a los ángeles. pero es mentira.

los aviones, una vez me dijo ella, son cosa de la fantasía. no es lógico que toneladas y toneladas de metal se eleven así nomás.

le quise explicar la física. aquellos años de estudio frente a computadoras que me chupaban los ojos y me torcían los dedos bastaban para darme la razón aunque no supiera en realidad nada en absoluto sobre la propulsión espacial. sin embargo, algo me dio por elegir el silencio mientras la miraba a los ojos.

a ella no le pude mentir.

Breve historia del globalismo

Me siento a ver las filas, prendo el radio y me distraigo. Por un lado pasan columpiándose con el freno, el calor con rechinido, y los vendedores ambulantes entre carros, y entre carros los transeúntes minusválidos arrastrándose como trapos de chapopote y hule de llanta fumándose el tóxico desecho de los amortiguados. Con los pelos en punta, tiesos, y la mirada que atraviesa muros de realidades que no les pertenecen. Por otro lado pasan en fila india, como para despitar sus números detrás de una carroza negra hacia el Jardín de la esperanza a un lado del aeropuerto principal de Mexicali, a enterrar otro cadáver en la frontera.

Así pues, se divide mi casa en la Avenida Argentina, a una calle de aquél país y al borde de éste que se pierde en nubes de polvo y sol. No es el borde ideal de la transnacionalización, más sí la del comercio, la del billete más que nada, y más que nada la del poder de la corrupción tanto como la de la corrupción del poder. Sí se puede, todo va, y una niña chamagosa me hace ojitos con sus brazos colgándose a la puerta del carro. Me extiende la mano automáticamente y me dice que acá la bolsa de valores se nota en el precio de los DVDs piratas. Nueva York está en todas partes, y en algunas huele más a mierda.

Más al sur, los caballos se cuentan cada vez menos, y los caballeros. Los ranchos se transforman en operaciones clandestinas o cubitos de cemento a un lado de maquilas. Cenizas y esmog. Basura, y una cuadra de rejas multicolores.

Según la historia, Flores Magón organizó una revolución anárquica hace años. Lo siguieron unos cuarenta. La mayoría ni se dio cuenta. Hoy hay una calle y un nombre como otro en el cruze de México y Colón, comida china y puestecitos de hot dogs.

-¿Qué trae de México?- Me pregunta.

Y yo le digo,

-Nada.

Carta abierta a Noé Jitrík

Querido Noé,[1]

Cuando primero te conocí, fui tu estudiante, guía turístico, y de vez en cuando, chofer. Eso fue hace diez años, más o menos. Aparte del tiempo, eso también fue hace muchos libros. De los que hemos compartido, recuerdo tres textos que leímos en clase: Sombras suele vestir de José Bianco, Morirás lejos de José Emilio Pacheco, y La vida del ahorcado de Pablo Palacio. Los tres fueron de lo más extraños para mí. Hoy puedo presumir ser propietario de la Obra Completa de Palacio, aunque mi tomo está un poco dañado por un accidente de ex-novia y de lluvia. ¿Tienes algún cuento favorito de ese autor? El mío es “La doble y única mujer”. Es que el personaje me lleva; esa doble mujer, con cuatro brazos y cuatro piernas, con dos cabezas muy a lo Jano, mirando hacia atrás y hacia enfrente o viceversa, o en el tiempo, o viceversa en el tiempo, con dos cerebros y dos historias compartidas en el mismo espacio pero no sentidas de la misma forma, dos memorias grabadas en antipoesía testimonial, siempre en la presencia de la otra, unidas por la columna vertical, y que se enamoran, las pobres, del mismo hombre, hasta no llegar una a conquistar a la otra, me lleva. Pero no te escribo para contarte de mis cuentos favoritos. Te escribo para contarte que si antes no te endendía cuando me hablabas de leer a través del texto, ahora he descubierto, quizás, el motivo.

Me remonto, de principio, a confesar que he leído tus Notas sobre la vanguardia latinoamericana de las cuales he sacado injustas conclusiones, pues temo que las he hecho sin ayuda y sin cuidado alguno, pues me dejé llevar por el espíritu de la vanguardia a inventar formas de entender y de leer, pues te he leído hacia atrás y hacia adelante, cada otra palabra, cada renglón tres veces cada palabra dos, una y otra vez, y, quizás, mucho más injustificablemente aún, sin dejar de lado a Lacan—y algunos dirían que ni a Borges. Pretendo por lo menos prescindir de la incoherencia aunque no de la automaticidad de mi palabra y de pensamiento.

Con esto en mente, te comento, por ejemplo, que me causó mucha curiosidad tu contención “cultural” en cuanto a la vanguardia. Noté, diríamos, sólo por darle nombre a esa “forma”, una cierta dependencia marxista. De la misma manera se podría también concluir que hay cierta tensión con el psicoanálisis que tanto se ha pretendido labrar como trasfondo crítico, por no decir elemental, de varios de los autores, por ende, canonizadores de sus respectivos creacionismos. En tus Notas se puede leer esa intención de creer—¿o crear?—la intencionalidad anarquísticamente política de un arte de ruptura a la misma vez que una abogación por entender al dicho autor de vanguardia, o vanguardista, como el trabajador de vanguardismo. Te preguntas tú, “¿cuál es, históricamente, la relación que existió y existe entre el vanguardismo, en sus diferentes manifestaciones, y la política?” Concluyes que el vanguardismo, a la misma vez que establece un nexo, diríamos, inconsientemente “natural”, también es “manifestación de conciencia” que “posee una época”. Mantienes que ese “cruce entre producción y naturaleza”, ya sea causa o intencionalidad del movimiento de vanguardia, tiene efectos históricos, sin duda, inegables, aunque bien apuntas que hay por ahí algunos vanguardismos que no emergen de una “crisis” sino de la “bonanza” cultural de época.

Los movimientos vanguardistas, entonces, tienen compromisos políticos. Dices tú que “se entiende […] que toda vanguardia se [plantea] una estrategia, palabra con la cual […] más que implicar una disrupción, se quiere señalar que se prepara una planificación con una finalidad, con una disposición de medios, con una evaluación de recursos y un tiempo de empleo”. También mencionas, muy inteligentemente, que todos aquellos movimientos de ruptura llegan, con el tiempo, a formar parte del “stablisment”, o a acoplar un nuevo entendimiento político forjado en la fricción que se produce por la crisis. En ese forcejeo, el lenguaje “sufre dos tipos de operaciones”: la “des-trucción, prosódica, sintáctica y semántica” y el “des-cubrimiento de lo que está tapado, adulterado por la cultura contra la que se lucha”. Hay un juego entre “intuición” y “análisis” pues todo intento de inovación tiene por concreto un lazo con su historia tanto con su lingüística. Por esto, “la ruptura a que se consagra la vanguardia […] no es nunca o casi nunca solamente ruptura de un sistema poético; es más, quizás ni siquiera en los que se proponen tal cosa llegue a romper efectivamente el sistema poético contra el que combaten, pero la decisión de ruptura, que no se deja de formular, va más allá, alcanza a la cultura misma”. Ese lenguaje se remite a “re-des-cubrir núcleos semánticos originales”, a “parodiar” o a “extender” las “funciones” de palabras, pues las palabras siempre “arrastran” y “determinan” su implacable energía semántica” “impidiendo el momento dialéctico de la creación pura”. De esta manera el vanguardista también es revolucionario, pues se dedica a recuperar los sentidos—¿significados?—negados por la cultura. Ese plan, es lo que tú llamas “el problema principal del vanguardismo” o la “ ‘articulación del deseo’ que, a su vez, no puede aparecer como tal sino como metáfora”. A la misma vez, la pluralidad de metáforas, esa “riqueza” vanguardista, manifiesta esa insatisfacción con el propósito mismo de la vanguardia, el deseo de llenar el vacío; el acto poético vanguardista, entonces, es a la vez inovación y vínculo “dialéctico” con el pasado tanto como con el presente.

De allí, nos brincamos al surrealismo, como si este fuera una piscina, y el lenguaje un trampolín. En cuanto a la vanguardia, dices que existe un “conflicto” “entre automatismo verbal—liberado—y control verbal—regulado”. También mencionas, en mi opinión, muy precipitadamente, “que existe en ese movimiento”, tanto como en el psicoanálisis, “una conciencia clara de la existencia del inconsciente cuyas manifestaciones se trata de comprender y expresar y, por añadidura, convertir en materia estética y verdad”. En realidad, no entiendo que tenga que ver todo esto con la “distribución entre lo ‘lírico’ y lo ‘geométrico’”, pero difiero de tu análisis pues no puedo llegar a pensar que el lenguaje tenga esa función “discursiva” que dices se remite a crear una “producción específica y precisa”, pues el lenguaje, por su mera inconsistencia y encarnación inconsciente, aunque aspire a crear—¿o creer?—una verdad, siempre se queda ralo en su intento. El psicoanálisis, por otro lado, nunca trata de crear o descubrir “verdades”, ni siquiera de producir “estética”, sino más bien de entender el lenguaje en el que se comunica cierto trauma tanto como la comunicación que desplaza para entender la sujetividad. Si la poesía no puede “prescindir del discuro”, o sea de la función general del lenguaje, el psicoanálisis no puede prescindir de esa noción de que “la verdad” o “lo verdadero”—si en realidad existe—es el vínculo directo con la estructura del sujeto, y no el sujeto mismo. En Lacan, no hay “regreso” al origen sino a través de la psicosis o el jouissance femenino, pero, tal vez por eso lo dejaste “de lado”.

Si la propuesta misma de literatura automática sujeta o encadena al producto literario a cierto mecanismo—por no decir estructura—de producción, creando a la vez “nuevos significados” o “funciones lingüísticas o gramaticales”, también se presupone que el lenguaje está jugando dentro de una matriz específica del saber—ya sea cultural, económico, político, geográfico, ecológico, psicológico, lingüístico, o “epocalógico” o cualquier otra combinación—que puede conjeturar ideas o formas de nuevos pensamientos, es decir, de nuevas palabras, o entendimientos de ellas. Pero todo el lenguaje es así, el origen, de nuevo, ese primer fonema es inalcanzable. Todo, se podría decir—por lo menos en el lenguaje que produce diálogo y comunicación, tanto como (des)entendimiento y/o (dis)locación—ha sido antes de ser por primera vez en el lenguaje del sujeto. El lenguaje es aún precedido por la necesidad de ello, por lo que Lacan llamaría el “deseo del otro”. No creo, que el discurso marxista se pueda separar del psicoanalítico en esta contienda. La historia, el espacio cultural, político, social, y ecológico contribuyen al lenguaje del entendimiento psicológico del sujeto en su contexto—tanto como en el contexto del analisante.

Pero, después de todo, Lacan es sólo un telescopio apuntando a ciertas regiones del espacio. El leer “a través” es, de esta manera, también un telescopio y la doble y única mujer es la metáfora de la vanguardia.

Con mucho extrañamiento de tus lecturas,

Fabio Chee

Irvine

Marzo, 2008

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[1] En Austin, un lugar que llegué a conocer desde el interior de la bestia, me enseñó un poeta gordo y barbudo, pero muy buena onda, a decir “querido”, pues “estimado”, decía él, era una forma de huír.

How I Learned to Read or the Life of My Character

I learned from don Quixote to forget about “what they might say”; to become the center of interpretation, because language is always metaphor. Perhaps Cervantes made me believe that I was learning this from the don when I was in fact being instructed by him, but that is precisely the point of the lesson. They wanted me to understand that in language there is no reality, but that which is made in the act of reading, or interpreting metaphor. But they were not alone. Unamuno also dipped his pen into the magic ink to question the levels of authority in story-telling when he presented us with Augusto Pérez, the character who plotted to rebel, and whom, in the end, had to succumb to the fate prescribed him by the author. And later it was Borges, re-instilling in us that the reader is the writer; that reality is what we read-it-as, how we believe in the act of reading; that dying in a fantasy could very well be the real end. In our current literary context we have been prevy to the theories that disregarded the author altogether, only to be countered by postcolonialist’s re-evaluations of histories. Deconstruction vs. Anthropology. Both the Neo-barroque and psychoanalysis have sought to understand how language slides between the whole and the nothing, the Real and the Symbolic, the sun and the empty focus of our eliptical solar roation, to propose that the subject is fragmented, expanding in definition like the forces of the Big Bang. But, they are all just theories in the end, some appealing to the scientific method and empiricism, others to philosophy and the culture of language.

I tell you all of this, because for me, growing-up has been to learn new ways of reading, of making sense of the world and its signs. To tell you who I am would be to describe you how I see everything. But we all know how that hyperbolic absolute is an imposibility as much for the reader as for the writer. The aleph is out of reach. So, instead, I chose to tell you about my teachers: Cervantes, Unamuno, and Borges are but three of many. My grandparents, and my mother are another handful.They have all had their way with my weltaanschaung at one time or another, but to submit their lessons to chronology would be to involucrate you in a false narrative of who I am, because though every lesson had its beginning, some were not completely learned until much later in life in context with other readings and lessons learned.

So, without much further ado, let me begin by telling you that I am not solely who I tell you I am, because I am but a part of me. I believe I learned this lesson before all the literary criticism made it to my reading list, perhaps even before El Quixote was ever written. You see, I am atemporal, because when I learned to read I learned to travel in time. I am but a part of me because how I read has displaced me. It has done so, because reading automatically puts me in contrast with my illiterate grandmother and with my semi-literate grandfather. Although they both encouraged me to go to school, I found it increadibly difficult to share what I learned with them.To say there were no books in the farm where I spent most of my childhood would be misleading, there were some instructional books lying around that belonged to my uncles and aunts before they left the farm, like the 1969 reprinting of Salvador Mundi’s La memoria perfecta: cómo lograrla. El principito, however, was as weird as gringo rock n’ roll to my grandparents. My grandparents’ concept of story-telling revolved around the oral tradition of informing the rest about what happened to Juanito or to Luisito even though they might have already heard the story a couple of times before. Often, it made my grandparents happier to see me come back home with a star stickered on my forehead, than to hear about what I read. So, when I began school I also began to separate from the world I had know as was instilled by my family and to a new one as instilled by the nation. It was then that I began to place time into context beyond night and day, and yesterday, today, and tomorrow, beyond my birthday and Christmas. It was also then, that I took the time to idealize who I was based on a history that according to my textbook dated hundreds of years back before the conquest, to the totonacas and the olmecas.

But histories were split along the path of the reading spirit. In the Fall of 1990, the child that grew up reading about la revolución and los niños héroes dying for the Mexican country was to be confronted with English and Spelling class. When I moved to the U.S. with my mother and brother, control of the new lengua was difficult, and I often found myself pretending I understood what I read out of embarrassment. It was one very long year of E.S.L. with a teacher that the Kennedy gang nicknamed, “la Pelona”. She was good, though. Her approach was to make us read, and read, and read. So I read, and read, and read. When I got to The Island of the Blue Dolphins, the language began to make sense. I remember I was so happy I began buying books that dealt with ocean themes, from castaways to sharks. And so, in the middle of the Imperial Valley desert of California, English came to me book by book, like a wave on my tongue.

If reading Spanish was dislocatory, reading in another language was even more so. One of the first things that I noticed about English is how it, unlike Spanish, had the magic to hide its pronounciation outside the word. To read English was to discover secrets. And they were secrets that only I knew and that my family could never know. Moreover, learning English coincided with my becoming a teenager, and with the stage of grunge and heavy metal. I became a consumer of the new literature, of the quick-stop magazine-stealing-gang, and I read everything they put in front of me. I was now a fan of Curt Kobain, and my mother hated me for it. Ni se le entiende a esa música del demonio, she would say outloud before I would close the door to the room. And althought she tried many times, English was something she could never quite grasp. My new language was cacaphonous and evil.

By the time I left the desert for college, I was quite far from the olmecas. At that time I had also just finished reading El Quixote in my English class. I was beginning to think that I could write, because I had understood the magic of fiction. This was a key moment in my time travels. It was then that fiction began to blur in with reality, it was the time when the sahuaros began to transform into giants holding up the sky and the time when a cigarrette on my lips began to give me the sensation that I had once been a dragon. My mother’s only reprimand was that smoking along with growing my hair and a beard made me look like my father, that shadow of a figure that had been mentioned outloud by my mother only twice before. Unfortunately, the intial homesickness turned into depression and the drinking made the memories of my first year of college blend together. My writing went up in flames along with my grades and my scholarship. The time machine was broken.

In my second year of college I experimented by crossing over to the foreign language departments. I took classes in German, and Spanish, I was desperate to stay in school and wanted to avoid coming home with my tail between my legs. Suddenly everything was making sense again, and what I read was filling me up. In my German courses I read Brecht, Freud, and Kafka, while in the first Spanish course I was introduced to Chicano literature. Nothing would be the same after that.

The summer after my second year in college, I came home with news about a literature that talked about people like us. My grandfather dismissed me at the sound of the word “Chicano”, he said “Chicano” was what the gringos would call all good-for-nothing-Mexicans. My grandmother only said that it was muy interesante, before patting me in the head in front of my cousins as she added, “¡aprendan ustedes!”. My mother feigned interest, and then asked me if I was getting well-fed. I acknowledged I was by looking down at the belly growing underneath my neck and raising my hands to shoulder level as if saying, ¿y tú que crees?

It was then that I realized that reading had displaced me. The more I learned, the less they really understood where I was going. When graduation came, I told them that I would continue school the following Fall in Austin, Texas. This was perplexing news for my grandmother, who had just seen me graduate and did not understand why I wouldn’t find a job right away, “¿más escuela? ¿no te cansas?” When I told my grandmother I was going to graduate school for my doctorate, she thought I was going to be a medical doctor, “entonces podrás curarnos”, she said. I explained to her I would be a doctor of letters, and that just went over her head and merely drew the negative comment, “entonces no vas a curar a nadie.”

No. I was not going to make anyone feel better. Literature didn’t have that particular quality. What literature did do was to let me time travel. Reading took me outside and into space. It let me rediscover me in different times to remember memories lyrically. It helped me escape the concrete and the absolute as I wandered through the libraries of imagination. Every book has been a lesson. Every character a person. I have witnessed history as a reader, and as a creator in the act of reading. And I have lived in fiction. I have been a fly in trendy coffee houses as well as in the jail cells of revolutionaries. And though it has estranged me from family, what I have learned has served me to understand that other-me before the books is still here, because before I learned to read, I learned to imagine.

To this day, my mother has had two opinions on the issue of reading: first, if you read too much you will go blind, and second, you must read the Bible over and over to learn how you too can be saved and see the light. Perhaps physical blindness does equal spiritual foresight. Nevertheless, from her, I learned that one must find peace in contradiction as it is an essential tool for explaining the self. In the same spirit, I propose that you read my displacement through time as a coming together, rather than as a border; to let the narrative become part of an anachronical history of me, to let the text explain me to you, however you may wish to read me in it. Let it be known that the life of a character is such as it is written as how it’s read, that love is communication and that the offspring is a subject given life in words and meaning. In the end, that my grandparents will die not understanding why I read so much about so many doesn’t mean I have lost contact with them, nor that we love each other any less. The same goes for my mother who is contradictoraly wishing me well in my studies and anxiously awaiting the day to tell me “I told you so” when I go the rout of Borges and the less commonly mentioned blindmen. Perhaps, reading has brought me closer to them, by understanding the historical circumstances that have shaped their lives. More than anything, reading has made me aware of how unique my language has become, how it has adapted the ear to be wary of the paths of metaphor. The lessons learned through reading have displaced me because they have shaped my language in a different manner than my family, but it is in the constant movement between statements and understandings that meaning is found. Today, as it always has been and as it always will be, what I am is but a part of me; my language is another, traveling through history, myth, and fiction, communicating at some instances and keeping silent at others in awe and inspiration.

A few days ago I read a report about how the new gas prices will have to be understood as the "new normal". Meaning that they will not come down EVER again. (You could probably look this information up, it isn't fiction for once). I laughed when I read the article, thinking that "normal" is whatever the power source says it is. I also thought about how, dare I say "normal", it was for them to tell this news story in this way: it is not another increase, no, no, no! it is a "new normal", you see? Get used to it!

And then today, I read Dan Rather's report to the National Conference for Media Reform and got reinspired. We, the reader's have the power to tell it like it really is, that is, how it affects us, how it makes us think and react. This is why, as Rather says, the internet must remain free.Because here we connect against them.

The following is Dan Rather's Report:

I am grateful to be here and I am, most of all, gratified by the energy I have seen tonight and at this conference. It will take this kind of energy - and more - to sustain what is good in our news media... to improve what is deficient... and to push back against the forces and the trends that imperil journalism and that - by immediate extension - imperil democracy itself.

The Framers of our Constitution enshrined freedom of the press in the very first Amendment, up at the top of the Bill of Rights, not because they were great fans of journalists - like many politicians, then and now, they were not - but rather because they knew, as Thomas Jefferson put it, that, "If a nation expects to be ignorant and free... it expects what never was and never will be."

And it is because of this Constitutionally-protected role that I still prefer to use the word "press" over the word "media." If nothing else, it serves as a subtle reminder that - along with newspapers - radio, television, and, now, the Internet, carry the same Constitutional rights, mandates, and responsibilities that the founders guaranteed for those who plied their trade solely in print.

So when you hear me talk about the press, please know that I am talking about all the ways that news can be transmitted. And when you hear me criticize and critique the press, please know that I do not exempt myself from these criticisms.

In our efforts to take back the American press for the American people, we are blessed this weekend with the gift of good timing. For anyone who may have been inclined to ask if there really is a problem with the news media, or wonder if the task of media reform is, indeed, an urgent one... recent days have brought an inescapable answer, from a most unlikely source.

A source who decided to tell everyone, quote, "what happened."

I know I can't be the first person this weekend to reference the recent book by former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan, but, having interviewed him this past week, I think there are some very important points to be made from the things he says in his book, and the questions his statements raise.

I'm sure all of you took special notice of what he had to say about the role of the press corps, in the run-up to the war in Iraq. In the government's selling of the war, he said they were - or, I should say, we were "complicit enablers" and "overly deferential."

These are interesting statements, especially considering their source. As one tries to wrap one's mind around them, the phrase "cognitive dissonance" comes to mind.

The first reaction, a visceral one, is: Whatever his motives for saying these things, he's right - and we didn't need Scott McClellan to tell us so.

But the second reaction is: Wait a minute... I do remember at least some reporters, and some news organizations, asking tough questions - asking them of the president, of those in his administration, of White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer and - oh yes - of Scott McClellan himself, once he took over for Mr. Fleischer a few months after the invasion.

So how do we reconcile these competing reactions? Well, we need to pull back for what we in television call the wide shot.

If we look at the wide shot, we can see, in one corner of our screen, the White House briefing room filled with the White House press corps... and, filling the rest of the screen, the finite but disproportionately powerful universe that has become known as "mainstream media" - the newspapers and news programs, real and alleged, that employ these White House correspondents - the news organizations that are, in turn, owned by a shockingly few, much larger corporations, for which news is but a miniscule part of their overall business interests.

In the wake of 9/11 and in the run-up to Iraq, these news organizations made a decision - consciously or unconsciously, but unquestionably in a climate of fear - to accept the overall narrative frame given them by the White House, a narrative that went like this: Saddam Hussein, brutal dictator, harbored weapons of mass destruction and, because of his supposed links to al Qaeda, this could not be tolerated in a post-9/11 world.

In the news and on the news, one could, to be sure, find persons and views that did not agree with all or parts of this official narrative. Hans Blix, the former U.N. chief weapons inspector, comes to mind as an example. But the burden of proof, implicitly or explicitly, was put on these dissenting views and persons... the burden of proof was not put on an administration that was demonstrably moving towards a large-scale military action that would represent a break with American precedent and stated policy of how, when, and under what circumstances this nation goes to war.

So with this in mind, we look back to the corner of our screen where the White House Press Corps is asking their questions. I have been a White House correspondent myself, and I have worked with some of the best in the business. You have an incentive, when you are in that briefing room, to ask the good, tough questions: If nothing else, that is how you get in the paper, or on the air. There is more to it than that, and things have changed since I was a White House correspondent - something I want to talk about in a minute. But the correspondents - the really good ones - these correspondents ask their tough questions.

And these questions are met with what is now called, euphemistically and much too kindly, what is now called "message discipline."

Well, we used to have a better and more accurate term for "message discipline." We called it "stonewalling." Now, cut back to your evening news, or your daily newspaper... where that White House Correspondent dutifully repeats the question he asked of the president or his press secretary, and dutifully relates the answer he was given - the same non-answer we've already heard dozens of times, which amounts to a pitch for the administration's point of view, whether or NOT the answer had anything to do with the actual question that was asked.

And then: "Thank you Jack. In other news today... ."

And we're off on a whole new story.

In our news media, in our press, those who wield power were, in the lead-up to Iraq, given the opportunity to present their views as a coherent whole, to connect the dots, as they saw the dots and the connections... no matter how much these views may have flown in the face of precedent, established practice - or, indeed, the facts (as we are reminded, yet again, by the just-released Senate report on the administration's use of pre-war intelligence). The powerful are given this opportunity still, in ways big and small, despite what you may hear about the "post-Katrina" press.

But when a tough question is asked and not answered, when reputable people come before the public and say, "wait a minute, something's not right here," the press has treated them like voices crying in the wilderness. These views, though they might be given air time, become lone dots - dots that journalists don't dare connect, even if the connections are obvious, even if people on the Internet and in the independent press are making these very same connections. The mainstream press doesn't connect these dots because someone might then accuse them of editorializing, or of being the, quote, "liberal media."

But connecting these dots - making disparate facts make sense - is a big part of the real work of journalism.

So how does this happen? Why does this happen?

Let me say, by way of answering, that quality news of integrity starts with an owner who has guts.

In a news organization with an owner who has guts, there is an incentive to ask the tough questions, and there is an incentive to pull together the facts - to connect the dots - in a way that makes coherent sense to the news audience.

I mentioned a moment ago that things have changed since I was a White House correspondent. Yes, presidential administrations have become more adept at holding "access" over the heads of reporters - ask too tough a question, or too many of them, so the implicit threat goes, and you're not going to get any more interviews with high-ranking members of the administration, let alone the president. But I was covering Presidents Johnson and Nixon - men not exactly known as pushovers. No, what has changed, even more than the nature of the presidency, is the character of news ownership. I only found out years after the fact, for example, about the pressure that the Nixon White House put on my then-bosses, during Watergate - pressure to cut down my pieces, to call me off the story, and so on... because, back then, my bosses took the heat, so I didn't have to. They did this so the story could get told, and so the public could be informed.

But it is rare, now, to find a major news organization owned by an individual, someone who can say, in effect, "The buck stops here." The more likely motto now is: "The news stops... with making bucks."

America's biggest, most important news organizations have, over the past 25 years, fallen prey to merger after merger, acquisition after acquisition... to the point where they are, now, tiny parts of immeasurably larger corporate entities - entities whose primary business often has nothing to do with news. Entities that may, at any given time, have literally hundreds of regulatory issues before multiple arms of the government concerning a vast array of business interests.

These are entities that, as publicly-held and traded corporations, have as their overall, reigning mandate: Provide a return on shareholder value. Increase profits. And not over time, not over the long haul, but quarterly.

One might ask just where the news fits into this model. And if you really need an answer, you can turn on your television, where you will see the following:

Political analysis reduced to in-studio shouting matches between partisans armed with little more than the day's talking points.

Precious time and resources wasted on so-called human-interest stories, celebrity fluff, sensationalist trials, and gossip.

A proliferation of "news you can use" that amounts to thinly-disguised press releases for the latest consumer products.

And, though this doesn't get said enough, local news, which is where most Americans get their news, that seems not to change no matter what town or what city you're in... so slavish is its adherence to the "happy talk" formula and the dictum that, "If it bleeds, it leads."

I could continue for hours, cataloging journalistic sins of which I know you are all too aware. But, as the time grows late, let me say that almost all of these failings come down to this: In the current model of corporate news ownership, the incentive to produce good and valuable news is simply not there.

Good news, quality news of integrity, requires resources and it requires talent. These things are expensive, these things eat away at the bottom line.

Years ago, in the eighties and the nineties, when the implications of these cost-trimming measures were becoming impossible to ignore, and the quality of the news was clearly threatened, I spoke out against this cutting of news operations to the bone and beyond. Even then, though, I couldn't have imagined that the cost-cutting imperatives would go as far as they have today - deep into the marrow of what was once considered a public trust.

But since the financial resources always seem to be available for entertainment, promotion, and - last but not least - for lobbying... perhaps there is an even more important reason why the incentive to produce quality news is absent, and that is: quality news of integrity, by its very nature, is sure to rock the boat now and then. Good, responsible news worthy of its Constitutional protections will, in that famous phrase, afflict the powerful and comfort the afflicted.

And that, when one feels the need to deliver shareholder value above all, means that good news... may not always mean good business - or so goes the fear, a fear that filters down into just about every big newsroom in this country.

Now, I have spent my entire life in for-profit news, and I happen to think that it does not have to be this way. I have worked for news owners who, while they may have regarded their news divisions as an occasional irritant, chose to turn that irritant into a pearl of public trust. But today, sadly, it seems that the conglomerates that have control over some of the biggest pieces of this public trust would just as soon spit that irritant out.

So what does this mean for us tonight, and what is to be done?

It means that we need to be on the alert for where, when, and how our news media bows to undue government influence. And you need to let news organizations know, in no uncertain terms, that you won't stand for it... that you, as news consumers, are capable of exerting pressure of your own.

It means that we need to continue to let our government know that, when it comes to media consolidation, enough is enough. Too few voices are dominating, homogenizing, and marginalizing the news. We need to demand that the American people get something in exchange for the use of airwaves that belong, after all, to the people.

It means that we need to ensure that the Internet, where free speech reigns and where journalism does not have to pass through a corporate filter... remains free.

We need to say, loud and clear, that we don't want big corporations enjoying preferred access to - or government acting as the gatekeeper for - this unique platform for independent journalism.

And it means that we need to hold the government to its mandate to protect the freedom of the press, including independent and non-commercial news media.

The stakes could not possibly be higher. Scott McClellan's book serves as a reminder, and the current election season, not to mention the gathering clouds of conflict with Iran, will both serve as tests of whether lessons have truly been learned from past experience. Ensuring that a free press remains free will require vigilance, and it will require work. Please, take tonight's energy and inspiration home with you. Take it back to your desks and your workplaces, to your colleagues and your fellow citizens. magnify it, multiply it, and spread it. Make it viral. Make it something that cannot be ignored - not by the powers in Washington, not by the owners and executives of media companies. Write these people. Call them. Send them the message that you know your rights, you know that you are entitled to news media as diverse and varied as the American people... and that you deserve a press that provides the raw material of democracy, the good information that Americans need to be full participants in our government of, by, and for the people.

There is energy here, that can be equal to that task, but this energy must be maintained... if the press - if democracy - is to be preserved.

Thank you very much, and good night.

Cinco o al lector:

Hay cuatro formas. Eso pienso.

Antiblog.

Links. Cables y pájaros.

Leer a poetas ya no es divertido.

¿Dije antiblog?

----

Hay tres lugares. Ella me lo dijo.

Borges, Chomsky, y Don Quixote.

----

Hay dos versiones

de dos versiones

de dos versiones

de dos versiones

Ad infinitum.

----

Hay un yo que no ha sido planeado.

----

No hay espejos.

Un taller de cuento o el imperio del silencio

Antier, en un "taller" de escritura una "escritora" Chilena tomó venganza con nosotros por el hecho de ser anti-estadounidense. Pero dejemos la discriminación para otra conversación. Lo que nos urge es lo sucedido. Como decía, ella nos mandó construir cinco cajas con papel de construcción a colores. En ellas depositamos, cada uno, cinco palabras escritas en papelitos de los mismos colores. Azul para las palabras tristes y frías, rojo para las de pasión, blanco para las buenas, amarillo para las de hipocresía, y verde para las del porvenir. Escribí: yo, tú, todos, ellos, y México, respectivamente. Las pusimos en las cajitas y ella se encargó de reajustarlas todas en un sólo montón del cual escojimos al azar cinco palabras nuevas. Con ellas escribiríamos un cuento.

El cuento aparte, la lección, según nos impartió la visitante, fue la de reconocer que las palabras eran prestadas—es decir, que las palabras nunca han tenido dueño. Pensé que lo único que le faltó decir era que eran las palabras mismas las dueñas de nosotros. Pero no lo dijo.

Para mí, las palabras siempre han tenido un lugar especial mucho más grande que el color. Pienso, más bien, que las palabras son el antitético funcionamiento que define tanto como, válganme la palabra, indefine. Soy de aquellos que se ajusta el cinturón quixotesco aunque se me caiga a los tobillos. Pienso, por ejemplo, que nada en ningún lenguaje puede ser propio, ni mucho menos original, pues nosotros somos del lenguaje. El lenguaje es la cadena, el yugo a esta realidad. Derrida lo llama el imperio de la lengua o la prótesis del origen. Es lo que—leas o no, hables o no—hace una persona para darse a entender. Es el someterse a una estructura rígida que gobierna la justicia sobre la supuesta realidad. Y, en fin, el colonizador no se da cuenta que él también es colonizado.

Sin embargo, algo que no sé si haya por ahí discutido Derrida, es que el lenguaje cambia. Fuera de la autoritaria iniciación que tenga el lenguaje con todo sujeto, antes del fin la estructura habrá cambiado, por naturaleza, tanto por todo el desmadre humano, y en el fin del tiempo sólo imperará el silencio.

Letters

She finished getting dressed. I told her she looked sexy. It was a common adjective, but I believed it to be the most appropriate. She says she doesn't like it when I think too much about words. She says I should understand what is meant. I tell her I can't. It is where I live. Some people call it metaphor, I choose to keep it undefined. She kisses me goodbye, and I kiss her back. Goodbye, I say, and pull my car in reverse from the driveway so that she could pull out hers. She waves. I reply with my own wave. She leaves for the meeting and I turn on the radio.

A cover of "Where The Streets Have No Name" by U2 in the voice of Tony Alan. A woman in a beat up pick-up truck with a bed full of recycled material; a baby seat through the passenger window. There, on the verge of my lips a lit cigarrette and balance. No run-ons, no verbs. Music and the undefined.

I can't.

But it drives her crazy.

A new song. The fantastic world of plastic.

A plastic container swept through the street by undelivered letters on wobbly wheels. As the mail truck makes the turn I try to believe they're only words, but there's a pregnant woman on the crosswalk.

on Borges

When Borges revised his poetry in 1963, he rid it of most Christian references. Perhaps he did it because he lost faith in salvation; he did, after all, live through two world wars, and kept his eyes open just long enough to see the mushroom spore rob the bodies of the shadows. I ask, however, whether his hope for humanity instead transcended to seeking a religiosity in the laberynthic puzzle between words and man? Didn't Borges himself teach us that there could be another Quixote just like the first one? For what reason could he have the urge to change his poetic work, if not to commit sin, or in the very least to be perverse?

I say nay to those who believe that Borges was in search of poetic perfection. Perhaps other poets have been guilty of that narcissism, but not Borges.

Borges came to understand that the Word was more than a cultish movement and he repented and renounced his former prayers. With time, he understood that in literature much like in dream and in life there was a delicate balance of three elements: word, reader, writer. He casted the writer as an historian who likes to remember and the reader as a magician who likes to play detective, the word as the pivot. Yet, at the same time, Borges writes there is no difference between his former self and the one who makes the revisions. He merely says, We are the same person; failure and success are unknown to both of us, as well as the literary schools and their dogmas; we are both avid fans of Schopenhauer, of Stevenson, and of Whitman. And, taking an air of Pierre Menard, he adds, I have not rewritten the book. Well, of course not!

What intrigues me about Borges is that he chose to pervert the body of his poetry; he didn't for example, rewrite Ficciones. Borges choses the poem garden where he wrote about roses of all things, the (dead)metaphor of poetry, to be the ground where he would begin his excavation. And when Borges was done, he found that essentially nothing changed—whatever 'essentially' might mean. The question then becomes: was the surgical removal of God from the body of his poetry a staged act? Perhaps, Borges meant for the readers to understand that there was something else missing, something to which in his very poems to and about "the rose" was being alluded, mainly that he didn't sing the rose, that the body which he originally presented to us as poetry was indeed a dummy, a fake, a simulacrum, a ghost, or however you want to read it. That his revision in 1963 couldn't have been a cloning, because the body itself didn't exist.

Perhaps, I can lose myself in questions and badly play the part of the detective that Borges saw in all of us to prematurely conclude that Borges' main perversion—essentially— consisted in fucking with our heads. In removing not only God, but body from the highest aesthetic representation of the Word, and letting us have the ephemeral sensation that we could see.

Espantapájaros, "el libro más intenso y más revelador del primer periodo de [Oliverio] Girondo" (Sucre, 237), tiene como "blanco especial" a la mujer, pues según Francine Masiello, aparte de ser "una burla del cuerpo y del espíritu", es "un ataque crítico a la conducta femenina y un temor masoquista a la castración" (9). Girondo, añade Masiello, "reduce la imagen femenina a una serie de partes aisladas y desarticuladas" (11), y "descompone al cuerpo con el fin de encontrar, bajo una unidad superficial, una pluralidad de significados" (12). En el poema, sin embargo, no sólo la mujer es fragmentada: "No sé me importa un pito" dice Girondo, "que las mujeres tengan los senos como magnolias o como pasas de higo"; a lo físico le da una "importancia igual a cero", un cero igual a un "pito". Lo importante, dice el poema, es que "sepan volar". Guillermo Sucre, mantiene que Girondo "le exige a la mujer una verdadera gracia extraterrestre" (238); el erotismo de Girondo, añade Sucre, es como "una piedra de toque entre lo angélico y lo infernal", pues si la mujer no puede mantenerse a flote, cae hacia el abismo.

El "volar", más que un estado flotante contra la nada abismal, es simulacro orgásmico: "con sus piernas de pluma, para llevarme, volando, a cualquier parte". El volar es lo que llamaría Freud, el principio del placer. El volar es el acto mágico del deseo, de perderse por el mundo. El volar nos "aproxima al paraíso", a ese origen bíblico de toda la creación humana, al escenario del primer deseo de un Adán por una Eva, como de una ave por una nada, por un cero, como un pito, de Uno por un Otro, del pecado que reventó las reglas del Creador original y cerró para siempre las puertas al jardín donde se encontraba la fruta de la sabiduría. El origen se dispersa, la imaginación otorga alas que permiten por momento intentar ese regreso. Saúl Yurkievich agrega, el humor "hace cesar la discontinuidad individual y reintegra al deseado y al deseante a la continuidad del universo. El erotismo anexa, coaliga, encoyunta a los amantes; disuelve las diferencias y los confunde en un apasionado ímpetu de solidaridad cósmica" (143).

Dice Yurkievich, que en Girondo existe "un eje de exaltación vital que opera un reintegro fraterno al cosmos, un regreso a los orígenes (…) el restablecimiento del vínculo con la madre tierra, con las fuerzas genésicas, la restitución del cordón umbilical" (148). El origen, entonces, es como el Real lacaniano, donde el deseo tanto como el lenguaje aún no existen, donde no hay necesidad de establecer comunicación, porque no hay hambre, ni frío, sólo la comodidad de un cuerpo unido a otro. Ni signo ni significado. En el poema, el "yo" se define negativamente: "yo no sé", yo "soy incapaz de comprender la seducción de una mujer pedestre"; el yo se deslinda de esa "comprensión" lingüística con los habitantes del espacio Simbólico del lenguaje. En cambio, el yo deseante busca el deseo del Otro, la mujer que vuela, que tiene alas y es "etérea" porque sabe amar, porque de repente sabe el camino de regreso hacia el origen.

Cuando Borges define al ultraísmo, dice, "el Ultraísmo tiende a la meta primicial de toda poesía, esto es, a la transmutación de la realidad palpable del mundo en realidad interior y emocional". De esta manera, Borges se dedica a definir al movimiento literario como la transformación o metamorfosis de "lo que es" en "lo que nosotros los poetas sentimos que es", es decir que la poesía es una interiorización que apunta hacia el origen del signo, de la metáfora, de la imagen. La poesía ultraíca, dice César Fernández Moreno, "no significaba evadirse del yo, sino precisamente enriquecerlo" (148). De esta manera, la poesía ultraíca juega con el elemento del deseo, de llenar el vacío que se crea al pasar de ese espacio Real a uno que está colmado de signos, de elementos que socialmente han sido codificados con significados cargados en el revolver del deseo.

Entre Eros y Tanatos, Espantapájaros, es más como el primero, y En la masmédula, el último. En Espantapájaros, dice Yurkievich, "El poeta se sustrae y nos sustrae del ego habitual, de las represiones realistas, del sojuzgamiento de lo real empírico; nos desplaza a un alter ego compensatorio donde gozamos de poderes omnímodos y de la impunidad de los dioses" (144). Lo que se busca es el cuerpo del placer que es como el alma original del lenguaje. Por esta razón, la poesía se viste de cuerpo al mismo tiempo que denuncia que el saber ha sido perdido: "yo no sé nada, tú no sabes nada, nosotros no sabemos nada, él no sabe nada, ellos no saben nada, ellas no saben nada," etc:

A la misma vez, la poesía en Espantapájaros se desviste del embrujo babélico para emprender el vuelo. Lo que se intenta rescatar es el lugar de ese deseo original, el desembarazo del Otro, el cuerpo original de la palabra. Sin embargo, para poder llegar a ese origen, nos advierte Lacan, uno tendría que perder la cordura, pues el origen sólo se rescata en la psicosis o con el jouissance femenino que es precisamente donde se pierde la estructura del lenguaje que nos viste de cuerpos físicos. Por eso es que la poesía de Girondo, como bien apunta Fernández-Moreno, se dedica tanto a destruir como a crear, pues el conjunto de significados que nos forman en el espacio simbólico se tienen que revertir para poder llegar a esa totalidad que se pierde cuando uno nace.

I spoke to Don Quixote last night at the Burning Man’s Decompressure Party under the Fourth Street bridge in Los Angeles. He was as tall and skinny in his knee-high black and white striped socks as I had seen him previously while walking the circle in Irvine. Then, he used to roam without his gallant Rocinante, nor his trustworthy squire companion, Sancho, whom he probably lost to a dragon during a battle. I believed then that his Dulcinea had found another lover; I figured this other lad to be an uncomparable letter writer, a true gentleman, handsome in his years and his demeanor. I figured this because I always saw the Knight alone, almost accepting the irreality of modernity, and the sanity of the lost people caught around him in the merry-go-‘round.

But there he was, excusing himself for bumping into me while dancing with his eyes closed after several hits of acid.

“Hey, Don, I know you… I’ve seen you walking around in Irvine,” I said.

“The name’s Tom,” he said as he shook my hand, obviously hidding his true identity for a noble cause.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” I replied.

“And it is indeed a great honor to know there are humans in Irvine,” he said as he closed his eyes and began dancing anew.

La herencia

Los niños que jugaban a la roña y a las escondidas son los que habitaban este lugar hace mucho tiempo. Ahora lo habitan sus almas. Y en la noche te tocan la espalda con un roce de dedos, o te levantan dándole al claxon de tu auto estacionado en lo más bajo de la montaña. En la noche te prenden velas, y se tropiezan caminando por los pasillos nuevos de la casa. Aún hay madera regada por el suelo, herramientas, y sacos de cemento. No se han acostumbrado a ti.

Cómo reaccionarán cuando llegue la electricidad?

Qué tal, cuando más personas empiecen a entrar y salir?

Aquí no ha habido nadie antes o después de ellos. Sólo tú.

En aquél entonces hubo una temporada muy seca, y aunque estaban acostumbrados al intenso calor del desierto, nunca habían sentido un calor como ése. En todo el desierto no había quedado una planta verde y los sahuaros se habían infectado de una lama blanca que había provenido de uno de los barcos de Cortés en su primera expedición al Golfo de California.

Debido a que el calor no cesaba por varios días, los hombres del pueblo se reunieron con Cascabel en la Tierra, la persona más vieja del pueblo. En la cima, ella les informó que deberían tomar la ruta al norte, siguiendo la Lengua del Colibrí o lo que los europeos después llamarían Ursa Mayor. Después de consultar las piedras que dejó caer en un plato de piedra, ella les dijo que en el norte encontrarían el origen del mar, o donde el agua partía la piedra de la montaña. Allí, les informó ella, harían de nuevo el pueblo y después de varias lunas rojas y tormentas blancas se olvidarían del desierto y de todos los momentos tristes y felices que vivieron en él.

Los hombres bajaron de la cima con la cara hacia el suelo. Al llegar de nuevo al pueblo les informaron a los demás que habrían que olvidarse del desierto, que deberían emprender un largo camino hacia el origen del mar, o donde el agua partía la piedra de la montaña. Las mujeres protestaron; algunas decían que los niños no podrían sobrevivir un viaje como ése, otras temían por sus casas.

Los hombres entonces decidieron reunirse con el círculo de mujeres. Esa noche el consejo decidió que serían sólo los hombres que deberían hacer el viaje, y que después de llegar al origen del mar, o donde el agua partía la piedra de la montaña, mandarían a una expedición a que regresaran por los demás al pueblo.

Así fue que las mujeres esperaron varios años a que regresaran los hombres, pero ellos nunca volvieron.

Con los años los niños fueron creciendo y las mujeres empezaron a desaparecer. Dos de ellas murieron de picaduras de serpiente, otras tres se ahogaron en el mar tratando de pescar en maréa alta, una se murió de hambre, otra de insolación. La última en desaparecer fue Cascabel en la Tierra quien después de ver morir una por una a las mujeres decidió tomar el camino al norte para encontrar a los hombres. Ella tampoco volvió, pues una noche de viento el cielo se borró y se perdió en el desierto.

Los niños empezaron a morir unos meses después de que se fuera Cascabel en la Tierra. El primero fue descubierto muerto por los demás durante un juego de escondidas, y así como él, todos se murieron de hambre después de acabarse los insectos.

Así fue como el pueblo se olvidó del desierto.

Aquí, ahora sólo quedan sus almas, esta casa en la montaña con vista al mar, y tú.

La casa

Una partición del librero que fabricó en una pared de la casa contenía una caja de madera semi ovalada, la cual se abría hacia arriba para revelar varios artefactos sin sentido para nadie, tan sin sentido como la pequeña navaja anaranjada junto a un listón morado enlazando un mechón de cabello de mujer rubia, los cuales se encontraban en el cajón secreto de la caja. Ella tomaba la mitad de la partición. La otra mitad la contenía una pequeña colección de las Mil y una noches, los tomos 1, II, III, IV, VIII, 10, XIII, XVI, y XVII, para ser preciso, y un libro que cubría detrás de él al Harrap’s Super-Mini French And English Dictionary, The Oxford Portuguese Dictionary, el The Birth of Tragedy and the Genealogy of Morals de Friedrich Nietzche, y una copia de The Monkey Wrench Gang. La cual, en realidad era la segunda copia, pues el libro que los cubría también era de Abbey, pero esta se había seleccionado por su contraportada, la cual leía, “Oh my desert, yours is the only death I cannot bear.”

La construcción de la casa era con lo cuál se había obsesionado. Le decía a su amigo mientras se sentaba a la mesa mirando a los libros, “…el arte tiene que ver con el momento. Es el sentir de las cosas lo que el arte como ninguna otra cosa puede expresar; ya sea música o caricatura, es el sentimiento, que se encuentra en la comunicación entre el objeto y el íntimo entender del sujeto… el arte nunca es objeto solamente.” Le contó todo, bueno, no ese “todo”, sino el “todo” sobre la casa. Le dijo, por ejemplo, que le dio mucho gusto ver las puertas de la alacena así como estaban, en el suelo, recargadas en la madera, mientras se les secaba la pintura verde. El verde en las paredes, y en el piso; era una granja verde, le decía. De madera y vida, como una casa de árbol, como árbol, precisamente.

Le contó de la escalera, de como fue que le tuvo que poner refuerzos para sostener el gran peso de una familia. Y le dijo aquél que escribiría un cuento sobre su casa, y en eso empezó a sacar notas: que “el compost toilet”, que “las mangueras para conectar la tubería de la tina exterior”, que “la cocina de gas butano”, y que “el mezzanine” y el tal “futón”.

“Eres un rascuache,” agregó con una carcajada.

El otro se rió cuando le vio hacer a aquél unos dibujos para recordar cómo escribiría la casa.

“No escuchaste, hombre,” le dijo con una sonrisa.

“No tiene nada que ver cómo funciona en un registro u otro; la casa no se podrá escribir por nadie. La casa es el objeto. Ven y siéntate en él, eso sí, leéte una novela del librero, disfruta algo de música mientras te fumas un porro conmigo, acuéstate en el mezzanine, prepárate algo de comer en la estufa al aire libre o en el corazón abierto, no sé tú… lo que quieras, ¿sabes? Pero si intentas describirla, de fotografiarla, de pintarla en un cuadro, de escribirle una canción, ya habrás perdido algo.

“Mira,” le indicó hacia el librero. “¿Qué ves?”

“Libros,” le contestó.

“Sí. ¿Y qué tal si de pronto en vez de ‘libros’ pones ‘librero’? O, ¿qué tal si de pronto te cuento lo que todos estos libros significan para mí, si te voy revelando intimidades? ¿Si te digo que esta partición, por ejemplo, con esta caja y estos libros son en realidad dos personas? ¿Si te doy la llave de una metáfora perdida? ¿Si te doy mi cuento? El cual, por cierto, no es más que una lectura. ¿Cambiaría entonces la música de fondo? ¿A qué ritmo me escribirías? ¿Seguiría siendo la casa la misma casa?

Bossa Nova


No era necesario inventarse un cuento intrigante. Las palabras le escurrían por los huesos, por esas columnas que le mantenían la panza levemente entre el suelo y el cielo. A él le gustaba conversar. ¿No era acaso la comunicación su ansiado afán en la vida? Tal vez, lo fue la música en aquellos tiempos de papel rayado y humo de tabaco. Pero aquella se le iba. Le venía un rasguido y un coro, una tonadita, el vaivén de los carros haciendo eco de instrumento de viento, la construcción y la destrucción de percusión, la ciudad de orquesta.

Sentado, recordaba la bala perdida de sus ojos. "Sinestesia," se decía a sí mismo; lo que veía era música.

Pero aquellos tiempos de serenatas públicas que se iban con los olores en marcha a la vida diaria, nunca realmente le llenaron, pues no los mantenía. Estaba convencido de la libertad que existía en su voz al tono de sus dedos y por eso se vendía en la calle por unos cuantos pesos.

Las limosnas le tuvieron flaco, "enmagrecido," le decía Leo el paulista, con quien se juntaba en el invierno a ver pasar a los patos del cielo al césped y del césped al agua del laguito del parque.

"Eu pienso que você no vão salir daquí," le decía Leo en su portuñol.

"¿Y tú? ¿Por qué no mejor te brincas el cerco? Anda, mira… allá sí hay caminos y olor a comida."

"Não. ¿Depois quem vão le dar consejos a você?"

"¡Válgame! Mejor bríncate el cerco y pásame unas hamburguesas por las rendijas."

Durante el siguiente verano sucedió que Leo finalmente decidió brincarse. Sin embargo, Leo nunca volvió del restaurante al otro lado y él nunca volvió a ver a su amigo paulista.

La inflación que destruyó al antiguo peso, terminó por quitarle la música. El dueño del Amorcito corazón terminó ofreciéndole veinte dólares y una cena por su instrumento, los cuales aceptó sin pensar más que en el hambre de su cuerpo.

Con los años se fue consiguiendo puestos de barrendero, de lavaplatos, de chalán de putas, pero siempre terminaba echándolo todo por la ventana pretendiendo que podía hacerce famoso silbando lo que se le venía a la cabeza. Fue tanto así, que los de la cuadra donde se echaba a dormir le sobrepusieron "el chiflado", a los cuales siempre les respondía con un "¡chinga tu madre!"


"Where are you from?" le preguntaban los uniformados en una voz que él más o menos entendía.

Él pensó en preguntarles por Leo, o en contarles la historia de la guitarra, pero esta vez se le fueron también las ganas de conversar y terminó por silbar una bossa nova antigua.

el rumor: vieron al desaparecido, lo encontraron entre letras, un vaso de tequila y un quilo de plomo.

Translation Was Her Language:
“Making Metaphor” In Carlos Fuentes’ Short Story Collection, El naranjo
by Fabio Chee

“La lengua es la compañera del imperio” (p. 74).

- Elio Antonio de Nebrija
Gramática de la Lengua Castellana

“El que chinga jamás lo hace con el consentimiento de la chingada. En suma, chingar es hacer violencia sobre otro. Es un verbo masculino, activo, cruel: pica, hiere, desgarra, mancha […] La Chingada es aún más pasiva. Su pasividad es abyecta: no ofrece resistencia a la violencia, es un montón inerte de sangre, huesos y polvo. Su mancha es constitucional y reside […] en su sexo. Esta pasividad abierta al exterior la lleva a perder su identidad: es la Chingada. Pierde su nombre, no es nadie ya, se confunde con la nada, es la Nada. Y sin embargo, es la atroz encarnación de la condición femenina” (pp. 85-94).

- Octavio Paz
El laberinto de la soledad

This is an out-of-place footnote:

The following essay “is an attempt at making metaphor” in the style of Luce Irigaray’s “Plato’s Hystera” (p. 243). At the same time, it is an attempt at riding its glide. Of tracing the wave on the sea. Of naming and wording language. Of discovering its source, its tongue. It is an attempt at conquest.

So, let’s begin with the metaphor of the orange tree. In El naranjo, Carlos Fuentes writes that the conquest of the New World was part of a moving empire. The empire started in Greece which conquered Asia, “en el mundo helenístico la uniformidad se logró a través del predominio de la cultura griega, que absorbe a las culturas orientales” (85). The empire moved from Asia and Greece, to Rome, to Spain, and finally to the New World, “absorbing cultures” in its path. With the empire came the orange tree, the plant that would challenge time and earth and would give life to the fruit of success of the empire. According to the text, the fruit of this tree reflects the triumph of the sun over the earth, “El cielo abrazándolo todo, en el centro el Sol como una gran naranja en llamas y debajo de todo, una minúscula esfera y en ella un imperio más reducido aún” (163). The orange hanging from the tree is a miniature sun. The sun, in turn, is the father of the “word”, of language: “La tierra se transforma. ¿Por qué? Porque nosotras lo decimos. Porque no perdemos la palabra. Se la heredamos a la luz […]” (155). The earth is thus “transformed”, seduced by the sun which embraces her. The offspring of the seduction is an orange tree, it is language, “el verbo que es el don de los dioses a los hombres” (138). The moving empire is an empire of language. Language is the “refinement” of culture, “Roma es nación imberbe, cruda y bárbara como los celtíberos. Menos que ellos, pero sin comparación con el refinamiento griego” (121). Language is a gift of knowledge, which comes directly from the sun; a gift for masculine men, unlike the light examined in Luce Irigaray’s psychoanalysis of Plato’s Republic where the light that enters the cave is meant for men, “sex unspecified” (243). In El naranjo, language is the masculine tool that liberates societies from barbarity.

Because of her sex, woman is mute. In only one of the five short stories in this collection do women possess a voice. In a lone paragraph, women speak collectively,

¿Qué nos queda? Un árbol extraño en el centro de la plaza […] ¿Cómo son sus frutos? Idénticos al sol: dolor de sol, redondos como el sol […] La tierra no nos abandona […] Estamos plantados en ella. Pero las plantas de nuestros pies nos dicen que la tierra no nos abandona. El mundo sí. Pero la tierra no. Las mujeres de Numancia distinguimos entre el mundo y la tierra […] les recordamos que no hemos perdido la palabra. La tierra y la palabra. Esto nos sostiene. Los cuerpos que devoramos junto con nuestros hijos son tierra y palabra transformados […] El mundo muere. La tierra se transforma. ¿Por qué? Porque nosotras lo decimos. Porque no perdemos la palabra. Se la heredamos a la luz […]. (152-155)

The world, not to be confused with the earth, is leaving the women. Darkness aproaches. Still, they claim they have the word. But they have become cannibals. The bodies they devour are made of earth and word; because they have nothing else to eat, the women devour the fruit of the sun, its offspring: language. Barbarity is settling in by stages. The world is slowly leaving them. The fading light, and soon thereafter, a muting of light/word/language, the nothing after the madness. The earth transformed.

Then, the moment came when the light left them completely, “se les olvidó hablar; se rindieron” (p. 155). The women lost because they lost the word. And with the word, they lost their offspring, their menstruation, their fertility, their existence:

Ella, con su hijo muerto en brazos, se acercó al estéril árbol sepultado en lo hondo del invierno. En vano esperaron la promesa del fruto. Maldito árbol, fruto estéril. Ella se abre de piernas y grita con su hijo en los brazos. Ella deja caer sobre el matorral estéril la fértil sangre de su vagina, el fruto de su vientre, la masa húmeda y roja de su menstruación. (p. 155, emphasis mine)

Because of her loyalty, a faithful woman of the empire dies menstruating upon the phallus of the empire just before her complete loss of word. In the meantime, the orange tree, supposedly fruitless and sterile, will survive the onslaught of barbarity, because it knows how to sleep through the darkness of a hungry winter. The tree is not sterile, but merely shut-down as the male narrator previously affirmed. The woman’s fertility is a delusion caused by her loss of language/civility, by the limp sleep of the phallus of the empire which failed to sustain her. The women have gone mad. They are not human, “Los sobrevivientes salieron de los muros de Numancia y ya no pudieron hablar. Salvándose, habían muerto. Eran animales, sin palabra. Esa fue su derrota, su muerte” (p. 162). Because the word is the foundation of life and death on the earth (p. 162), in their loss of language, the women of Fuentes’ collection approach death—often proven to be the most permanent type of sterility—, a type of nothing.

Moreover, like the earth without light, in their loss of word women become material objects. “Pues lo que destruye a la cosa material, construye a la obra de arte: la luz, el viento, las estaciones, el paso del tiempo” (p. 162). Without word women are a type of nothing, they are without a soul, a rock. And it is a man’s duty to save the rock, to sculp poetry from it, “Salva a la piedra de la piedra y hazla palabra, […] poesía” (p. 162). With the light’s guidance, men must save the earth from the earth. In the same manner, men must save women from their stupidity because

La técnica y la naturaleza les son igualmente ajenos [a las mujeres]. ¿Para qué, para quién, han sido creadas entonces? Pensándolas desde la muerte, las reconozco y las reconcilio. Son las criaturas del artificio, ni naturaleza ni técnica. ¿Encantan de vuelta al mundo? Acaso sólo son energía de lo artificial. (p. 214)

In El naranjo, women are incapable of grasping “tecnique” or “nature”. It is “beyond” them. They are the children of artifice. Artifice is a destruction of nature. It is a destruction by man, by the power invested in man by the light/word.

Men, on the other hand, retain the word beyond life. In death, men become the readers of the minds of the living, “He fornicado. He muerto. He descubierto que morir es leer la mente a los vivos” (p. 213). In death, men may perform a bodyless violation of the living body by entering its mind without restriction nor permision. In the collection, the rape is written as a “transcendence” of man with the word in their communion with the gods, “Pues la palabra era, al cabo, el poder gemelo que compartían los dioses y los hombres” (p. 54). Men, therefore, may become the post-humous narrators of the his-tories of conquest. And, like the orange tree of the empire, which is forced upon the virgin land through a forced seeding, in conquest, women’s bodies also become the victims of the violation by the word in the power of men.

Furthermore, in the collection, women are presented as the empire’s tool of conquest, because if language liberates men from empire, “Supimos que la caída de los imperios liberaba a la palabra y a los hombres de una servidumbre falsificada” (p. 54), than women, being the castrators of language (p. 34-35) are an enemy of men in their struggle for freedom. In conquest, the empire’s sword is a doubled phallus: it is an orange tree rooted on the earth and, at the same time, a language forced upon the body of woman. Language, in the empire’s conquest of woman, reinforces hegemony, whereas language in the power of man liberates society from barbarity. Language, as the most powerful weapon of empire, seduces woman into submission because she is attracted to its power. It is penis envy. As a result, empire, in the conquest of woman, begets a bastard offspring; one that is ruled by the language of the empire but, at the same time, rejected by it.

When Jerónimo de Aguilar, one of the many “historical” narrators of the collection, talks about La Malinche—a native indian woman whom Hernán Cortés had procured as his “tongue” or translator during the conquest of the Aztec capitol of Tenochtitlán—he says, “La Malinche le había arrancado la lengua española a [Hernán] Cortés, se la había chupado, se la había castrado sin que él lo supiera, confundiendo la mutilación con el placer…” (p. 34-35, Fuentes’ emphasis). After spending time with Cortés, La Malinche—once a princess and twice sold, by the Aztecs to the Mayan and, subsequently, by the Mayan themselves—could then speak and understand the languages of three of the empires involved in the conquest of the New World. However, the narrator claims, she could speak them only because she had been seduced and, at the same time, castrated her conquerors’ “tongues”—their phallii of language—with her own seduction. A mutilation disguised as pleasure.

What made the situation even more irritating for Jerónimo de Aguilar was that Cortés—although, supposedly unknowingly—rejoiced in giving up his tongue,

Lo más terrible, lo escandaloso, sin embargo, no era el sexo de Cortés, sino que desde el fondo del bosque, del luto, de la bruma, emergiese la lengua, que era el sexo verdadero del conquistador, y se la clavase en la boca a la india, con más fuerza, más germen y más gravidez, ¡Dios mío, delirio! (p. 36)

According to Jerónimo de Aguilar, the true sex of the conquistador, meaning his tongue, is inserted in La Malinche’s mouth with force and germ. In his penetration, Cortés’ tongue becomes the seed. La Malinche is the conquered earth. “Masculine” language fertilizing “femenine” body.

In addition, Jerónimo de Aguilar claims that the conquest of the New World was also due to the fact that the leader of the Aztecs, Moctezuma, was losing control over the word,

El enigma de la debilidad de Moctezuma ante los españoles sólo lo puedo entender mediante la explicación de las palabras. Llamado el Tlatoani o Señor de la Gran Voz, Moctezuma estaba perdiendo poco a poco el dominio sobre las palabras […]. (p. 26)

In the chained process of translation—from Moctezuma (in Nahuatl), to La Malinche (from Nahuatl to Maya-Quiché), to Jerónimo de Aguilar, who was only in the chain until La Malinche learned Spanish, (from Maya-Quiché to Spanish), and, finally to Cortés—Moctezuma, the Man of the Great Voice, was being synechdoquely dispossesed of his “tongue”. The phallus of the Aztec God-King was being surrendered to human translators. Thus, the conquest of the New World is also to be understood as the castration of a god, who, according to the collection, shares the twin power of the word with man.

Precisely because both of the fathers, the men of word/light, have been castrated by the earthly seduction of La Malinche, the fruit of the new mestizo empire in the New World will be a bastard child. When Martin II, another of the historical narrators of Fuentes’ collection, identifies himself, he says, “Yo soy el primer Martín, hijo bastardo de mi padre y de doña Marina mi madre india” (p. 66), and “el bastardo, hijo de la intérprete leal doña Marina, iletrada también, pero poseída por el demonio de la lengua” (p. 71). In addition, La Malinche’s tongue, the source of her word, is possessed by the devil. Her word is not her own. She is illiterate. Her tongue is deterritorialized from her body. She does not possess the power to name. The power to claim. La Malinche, in this instance, is the rock that is penetrated by the word of the conqueror and is made poetry. She is “la chingada”, (p. 105) the fucked. Her offspring is the artifice that results from man’s destruction.

In El laberinto de la soledad, Octavio Paz writes that to fuck is a masculine verb. Moreover, the fucked, “la Chingada”, is passive in nature. She loses her name, her identity because of her opened passivity. She is confused with nothing, Paz concludes, she is Nothing. Likewise, when Martin II meets one of his siblings, he says,

sale la palabra que esperaba, la palabra que ha colgado sobre mi vida como esa espada de Damocles de los juicios sobre las cabezas de toda la descendencia de Hernán Cortés. La mujercita contrahecha me levanta violentamente la cabeza, agarrándome el pelo y me dice lo que yo esperaba oír:—Eres un hijo de la chingada. Eres mi hermano. (pp. 104-105, emphasis mine)

Martin II further recognizes his bastardity by identifying himself with the word that has doomed all of Cortés descendency, he is a son of the fucked. He is the son of Nothing. The same Nothing that was named by the word of the conqueror. The word that Nothing desired. The word that in the conception of the son of the fucked was castrated from man and god alike.

La Malinche, however, was deterritorialized before the arrival of Hernán Cortés in the New World. She had been given in tribute to the Aztecs by her native tribe, the Tabascans. The Aztecs sold her to the Mayan. Then, the Mayan traded her to the Spanish. Except for the men who alleged to have possessed her, La Malinche was never claimed by any land, country, or empire. She was earthless currency exchanged from one man’s hand to another, absorbing cultures in her tongue. La Malinche’s only “nation” was her body. La Malinche’s empire was translation, her language. Her word was an Other, desired by the men whose shadows were intent on leaving their lit trace in the his-tory of conquest.

During the transition of empire, the men who desired La Malinche lacked the only language that had any power in the New World; they lacked translation, La Malinche’s fruit ripening on the vine of her tongue,

Todo esto lo tradujo del mexicano al español La Malinche, y yo, Jerónimo de Aguilar, el primero entre todos los intérpretes, me quedé en una suerte de limbo, esperando mi turno para traducir al castellano hasta que […] me di cuenta de que Jerónimo de Aguilar ya no hacía falta, la hembra diabólica lo estaba traduciendo todo, la tal Marina […] me había arrebatado mi singularidad profesional, mi insustituible función, vamos, por acuñar un vocablo, mi monopolio de la lengua castellana... (p. 34, Fuentes’ emphasis)

For many, like Martin II and Jerónimo de Aguilar, La Malinche was diabolicly possessed. She was possessed because she possessed translation, a language that to them was obscure and seductive. However, it was an obscurity like a blinding light that could shine meaning on “everything”. A light that could name. That could word. A light that could save the rock from the rock and make it poetry. That could transform nothing into something. To first make signified the undefined sign. To make it come alive. To create. It was a light that grew from her tongue penetrating their obscurity. A light that was all-knowing and all-being in an environment where men who believed to possess the word also believed they were sharing their singular power with gods. The same men whose light was not potent enough to word what/when/where/who/why/how only she could word. It was her tongue that they desired, “la lengua era más que la dignidad, era el poder; y más que el poder, era la vida misma […]” (p. 36). It was the language of the Other.

Finally, La Malinche’s process of deterritorialization is demonstrated in her name. Born “Malintzín”, Cortés bastardizes her name by calling her “Malinche”. Then, little before she marries a Spaniard in the employ of Cortés, “La Malinche” is baptized with the Spanish name of “Marina”. In the first case, her name becomes deterritorialized by mispronounciation. The inadapted ear. The untrained tongue. Thus, her name becomes Cortés’. In fact, in the chain of translation, Moctezuma calls him “Malinche”, because she was his “tongue”. [1] Her name becomes part of his body and, consequently, her name is deterritorialized from her own. It is a word in the tongue of Cortés. It is conquest. In the second case, “La Malinche” is baptized by a Spanish priest who chooses “Marina” as her new name because of its “proximity” in pronounciation with her native indian name.[2] Again, her renaming is part of conquest, except that this time the conquest is performed by the Catholic church, the preachers of the Word. Moreover, it is interesting that her final name, Marina—the one she takes to the tomb—is associated with water. Marina, therefore, is also the life of/from the sea, the ocean. Marina is the space in-between empires. She is the bridge that connects them. That reflects the sky and the sun. She is the Atlantic. The wave that words it. That names it. A link. Translation was her language and Her name was unearthed.

---

[1] “Durante toda la conquista la colaboración entre Marina y Cortés fue tan estrecha que los indígenas llamaban también a Cortés Malintzín, transcrito Malinche por los españoles” (quote taken from a footnote in Hernán Cortés’ Cartas de relación, p. 192).

[2] Ibid.

All The Myspace World Is A Stage:
A Reflection on the Life of chefabio

El alma de un personaje
de drama, de novela o de
nivola no tiene más
interior que el que le da…

- Sí, su autor.

- No, el lector.

____________________________

The soul of a character in a
drama, from a novel or
nivola does not have
more of an interior than
that which is given him by…

- Yes, his author.

- No, the reader.

Miguel de Unamuno
Niebla (258)

Prologue to the Introduction

The honest truth is that I have rewritten the introduction to this text many times over, eight times to be exact. Yet, every time that I believed that they were working, they quickly fell into narration problems. Once I began writing in this form I couldn’t imagine why I believed that this essay could work any other way. In the end, what I did was to take it upon myself to imitate chefabio’s style. I contemplated the initial contradiction of writing in this manner, but then I remembered the advice of one of my colleagues, “fun before sanity in the academic world.” In imitating his style I realized the importance of the second person. By writing in the second person, the automatic assumption is that there is an audience. That one is writing for (a) specific person(s) in mind; that I, for example, write this introduction for you. This “style” of writing in turn, transforms the space of the text into a space for the performative: I am aware of you, just like you have been aware of me. I no longer am something outside of how you read me, and I am no longer anything, outside of how I write myself, unless of course, you already “know” me—whatever that might mean. Here, we have become in reading and in writing.

I know, none of this makes much sense, especially without first having met chefabio. So, let me tell you about this character.

Introduction: Who is chefabio?

Earlier, I spoke about a contradiction; it exists because chefabio is a computer character created online by me. Imitating his style of writing, therefore, would, in essence, imply certain narcissism; I am not imitating his style, but merely one of my own. If I wanted to be even more accurate, I would say that I am imitating a writing style that chefabio, himself, adapted from Niebla, by Miguel de Unamuno, a novel that I read. Yet, the insistence by chefabio, (and by me, to a certain extent), is that we are not the same person. While chefabio claims that he is the master of his space, where he alone, is, I claim that I have control over what happens to this character because I write him.

I created chefabio in an electronic “community” called MySpace, property of one Rupert Murdoch, C.E.O. of Fox Corp. I chose this environment because of its tremendous popularity; today, well over 95 million accounts are in existence. MySpace, is a “miniature” world that allows for “friends” to communicate across great distances, (or not-so-great distances), by displaying information about their personal lives on a preformated webpage. The format of this space, for example, is arranged so that any individual can display their “general interests”, as well as their taste in “music”, “books”, and “television”. The space allows for anyone to tell us about their “heroes”, their “sexual orientation”, their marital “status”, their physical characteristics, like height, weight, and ethnic background, their “hometown”, their “religion”, their “education” level, their “occupation”, their “salary”, and schools they have attended, among a few other things. By allowing us to provide this information, MySpace tries to be a snapshot of a real person. No wonder, MySpace also allows us to include a few pictures of ourselves and friends, a song, videos, and our “blog” writing. It was this overall “personal” quality of MySpace that fascinated me, and eventually led to the birth of chefabio.

The idea was to create an electronic character that would resemble me in real life, that is, one that looked like me on a picture, who knew my “friends”, my writing interests, and, of course, myself; one that had an identical background, i.e. “education” level, “interests”, etc., but, a character that wouldn’t necessarily behave like I did. I gave him a name quite like my own, chefabio, and used a recent picture of myself to display his handsome charm. The whole purpose was to make this character as humanly-close as possible, believable, convincing, alive. Thus, it is no coincidence, for example, that chefabio drank and smoked, that he liked pornography, that he was self-confident, and macho. He had to be a flawed human being like the rest of us.

In order to provide this level of humanity for my character, I blatantly copied narratological concepts and ideas from a novel by Miguel de Unamuno, Niebla (which is in itself a blatant copy of some of the ideas found in Don Quixote) and applied them to chefabio’s narrative. In the novel, the main character, Augusto Pérez, (whose name itself connotes a certain feeling of “comfort” in the “mediocraty”)[1], undergoes a terrible depression after the woman whom he intends to marry runs away with her lover. Upon learning about this betrayal , Augusto decides to take his own life. However, before doing so he makes visits Miguel de Unamuno, the man whose “essay” helps him confirm that his decision to commit suicide was the right procedure. Augusto Pérez’s world, then, changes dramatically. In their meeting, Miguel de Unamuno informs him that he—Augusto—is nothing but a character in his novel—Unamuno’s— and, that he has no free will, that his recent idea about suicide is nonsense. To prove it, Unamuno warns, Augusto Pérez would die that night after their meeting. Upon learning this information, Augusto Pérez has an epiphany; in the existential moment the thought of suicide is fleeting, he wants to live! But, it is all too late. After going back home, Augusto becomes ill and dies after having his last succulent meal.

Bénédicte Vauthier, whose critical studies deal greatly with the study of Unamuno’s work, believes that Augusto Pérez’s meeting with his creator/author in the novel helps blur the line that distinguishes the “real” or “authorial” from the “fictitious”. In his study of Unamuno’s Niebla, Vauthier quotes Jorge Luis Borges, “si los caracteres de una ficción pueden ser lectores o espectadores, nosotros, sus lectores o expectadores, podemos ser ficticios” (Niebla de Miguel de Unamuno, 48).[2] Aside from blurring the lines between the “real” and the “ficticious”, this novel manages to question how much influence or authority is held by an author in writing a text. Is the author the supreme creator of a fiction? Can the author, in the end, know everything about his/her text? One wouldn’t have to read Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author to understand what types of questions Unamuno’s Niebla is trying to answer. In Niebla, the authorial weight is distributed amongst readers, characters, and author, (though Unamuno would fight against my assessment of his text), and the importance of the reader in the “creation” process of a character, like Augusto Pérez, or a fiction as a whole is much more relevant.

Upon discovering that he is merely a character in a fiction who is being sentenced to death by his author, for example, Augusto Pérez informs the readers and Unamuno,

¡Se morirá usted, sí, se morirá, aunque no lo quiera; se morirá usted y se morirán todos los que lean mi historia, todos, todos, todos sin quedar uno! ¡Entes de ficción como yo; lo mismo que yo! Se moriran todos, todos, todos. Os lo digo yo, Augusto Pérez, ente ficticio como vosotros, nivolesco lo mismo que vosotros. Porque usted, mi creador, mi don Miguel, no es usted más que otro ente nivolesco, y entes nivolescos sus lectores, lo mismo que yo, que Augusto Pérez […]. (268)[3]

These interactions, between reader and character, character and author, author and reader, in turn, become part of a mirrored performance whereby all “realities/fictions” are questioned. It is said to be a performance because everyone involved in the “creation” is “acting” a specific role in the “reading/writing” of the “fiction/reality”, while at the same time becoming part of an audience. The reader is the writer’s audience as well as the character’s audience; the writer is the character’s audience, once the writer meets with his character and, in doing so, the author writes himself into the text as a character. The reader finally writes himself/herself into the text upon reading the text, and to a certain degree becomes the writer. The performative action is reciprocal, that is: the character exists because the reader exists as the character is being read. Reading is the performance that gives life to the fiction that gives us the awareness of our own selves as we read.

So, where does chefabio fit in all of this? Well, as you can probably already tell, chefabio, like Augusto Pérez, is more than just a character, he’s a performer too. In writing chefabio’s narratives, I imagined an Augusto Pérez whose true identity was none other than Unamuno’s; chefabio as myself, and as a character at the same time. chefabio, therefore, could be a character who in all possibility be its own author. This character would then be confronted with the same existential dilema as Augusto Pérez—am I really just a character?—except that for chefabio the space of his existence wouldn’t be a novel, but a place where the ritual performativity of self is commonplace, and often expected. Furthermore, MySpace would be a place that allowed for chefabio to become aware of himself—with my help, of course—because of the constant interaction that he would establish with other online (and offline) personalities. By being aware of himself, chefabio would also become aware of his actions and words. In the end, everything that he could do within this “space” would be performative—at least in the sense that he acknowledged an audience.

All The MySpace World Is A Stage:

In Performance Theory, Richard Schechner writes that within a “performance”, “Special rules exist, are formulated, and persist because these activities are something apart from everyday life” (13). However, for the most part, MySpace is a virtual representation of the “everyday life” of an individual who is willing to share it with a viewing public. In other words, in MySpace, the “performance” is the projection unto a screen of what we believe is our “everyday life”; it is a type of open “diary”. Yet, this aspect of the MySpace community doesn’t deny the possibility for a performance within it because the “life” that is being written about in these “spaces” is always controlled by an individual behind a keyboard; it is, in fact, not our “everyday life”, but merely our perception of it. In MySpace we may always choose who we are. And I say we may always chose it, because it is up to us to “say” or “write” what we like about ourselves, and to use whatever picture we please to display who we (think we) are.

Furthermore, MySpace has many of the characteristics of a stage. Schechner writes,

[In a performance] the spaces are uniquely organized so that a large group can watch a small group—and become aware of itself at the same time. These arrangements foster celebratory and ceremonial feelings. In Goffman’s words, there is “an expressive rejuvenation and reaffirmation of the moral values of the community” in those spaces where “reality is being performed” [...] Certainly, more than elsewhere, these places promote social solidarity: one “has” a religion, “roots for” a team, and “goes to” the theater for essentially the same reasons. What consequences flow from TV’s ability to conflate all these spaces into one box multiplied millions of times, we are just beginning to discover. (14)

Much like a stage, MySpace is arranged so that a “large group” of online viewers can look into certain aspects of other people’s lives. When we “check-out” a particular person’s page we participate in a wide community of online “viewers”, but unlike a theater, church, or a sporting event, we remain clandestinely outside of the view of those others who may also be participating in watching the “performance”. In this way, the performance of MySpace is similar to that of television. Moreover, in MySpace the viewer has the opportunity to become part of the performance by registering their own account and becoming a “friend” of any of the other millions of people with their own “space” and “profile”. In this manner, the participants’ shared sentiment is that they belong to a specific online “community” within the larger world of MySpace, that they are accepted, especially if the “performer’s” page has been set up so that it can only be accessible to their online “friends”. Lastly, once you have become someone’s “friend” you may become an active participant by making comments on your “friends’” pages. By writing yourself into someone else’s page validates the existence of the original performer and at the same time, your own.

With all of this in mind, on Friday, March 3^rd, 2006, before the creation of chefabio, I wrote the following blog entry on my page[4] in MySpace:

all the world wide web is a stage

here are some of my random questions and notes regarding the theory of space and performance in myspace:

blog - derived from "web log", but what does it really mean? how is it structured? how is the performance done here?

myspace - the name claims an ownership that provides us with a feeling of safety and privacy, but is it really owned by us? is it really private? what about the issue of control? where does it lead us? why does it tell us that we can't do one thing or another? what are the restrictions? limitations? rules? laws? appropriate vs. inappropriate conduct?

is there a myspace "culture"? how does it define itself? does it define itself? if not, who does it?

is myspace a type of bondage rather than a type of freedom? how does it control? who controls it? what is the power of the gaze? what about the issue of text and pictures: what type of "reality" is that? what you see is not what is (look at previous post entitled: "warning"), or is it? how do we perform a cyber-identity? how does a reader then interpret or construct that identity? what type of emotions does it produce? again, where does it all lead? is anyone really that song, that profile, that picture lighting a cigarrette?

how does myspace structure language? and, since language is "home" and some would argue that it comes before thought (Lacan), how does it structure thought, identity?

etc.

After I wrote this entry I received several comments from my “friends” in my internet community. Here is what they had to say:

Amanda – “can i use one of these for a dissertation? seriously. environmental psychology of the internet.” (March 3^rd, 2006, at 7:07 p.m.).

Erin – “hey fabs. Did you know babas are for sale at the french cafe on Bristol? five bucks! I'm so glad you are thinking about myspace for a paper, I've been thinking about it ever since you mentioned it the other day. I feel like the more I am aware of who is out there, the more careful I am about what I post. I don't feel safe here, but I do feel like there is a 'stage' quality. It is a 'construction', no? I notice certain things about myself, that I like to erase and rewrite and change songs almost daily. It is like this is me 'right freakin' now', not yesterday even. It feels like a performance in a way, but you get to edit, every detail is intentional. Except, I don't mess with all the background crap. It seems like it's just a copy-edit personality anyway. Not interested. wanna talk? I'm home today and tomorrow, comentarios reales calls....” (March 4^th, 2006, at 9:42 a.m.).

Patty – “The name is problematic for me. Myspace is my space but it is also your myspace. So, you think you have 'a' space that is yours but it really isn't because you share it; it is everybody's and nobody's at the same time. The other day, when i couldn't get in, I thought "what if it crashed? Can I let go of 'myspace', my words, my thoughts, my friends*, my cyber space?"

I decided that if it had crashed so be it. You let go of an addictive hobby, nothing more.

(*isn't it ridiculous that you ask people to be 'your friend'? like they aren't already? as if you never got to formalize the nature of your relationship before? doesn't that structure or identity our selves as friends?)” (March 5^th, 2006, at 1:16 p.m.).

To answer Patty’s question, MySpace is indeed public. Though the individual users have the authority to restrict who can view their electronic profile as well as their individual blog entries, the people that are “friends” of that individual can always visit their profile and “check them out”. Furthermore, an individual’s MySpace account is not entirely their property since there exist limitations to what one may post; every picture and video, for example, may and will be reviewed for “unauthorized content”, including, but not limited to, pornography and drug use. Moreover, every blog entry, whether it is in the form of a picture, video, or written blog, automatically becomes the property of MySpace once it has been posted, and they reserve the right to use any material from any one account for their own “purposes”.

MySpace is “a construction”, precisely because, as Erin puts it, “every detail is intentional”. MySpace becomes an addictive hobby because it is a performance of self. Our identity changes with time, and if one wants to keep up with their “reality”, their online identity must experience similar changes just as frequently. MySpace, therefore, becomes a type of bondage. It keeps us chained to the belief that we are who we think we are, who we want to be, and who we would like to be perceived as. It is also a bondage that is hierarchical: the top master being the machine itself, the Law of MySpace, followed by the employees of the company who manage and review online content within the community, then the individual users, their “friends”, and finally, those users who are not “friends”, who may or may not have their own personal accounts registered.

When Michel Foucault writes about “surveillance” in Discipline and Punish, he informs us that

although surveillance rests on individuals, its functioning is that of a network of relations from top to bottom and laterally; this network ‘holds’ the whole together and traverses it in its entirety with effects of power that derive from one another: supervisors, perpetually supervised. The power in the hierarchized surveillance of the disciplines is not possessed as a thing, or transferred as a property; it functions like a piece of machinery. And, although it is true that its pyramidal organization gives it a ‘head’, it is the apparatus as a whole that produces ‘power’ and distributes individuals in this permanent and continuous field. This enables the disciplinary power to be both absolutely indiscreet, since it is everywhere and always alert, since by its very principle it leaves no zone of shade and constantly supervises the very individuals who are entrusted with the task of supervising; and absolutely ‘discreet’, for it functions permanently and largely in silence. (176-177)

Although Foucault writes about surveillance in connection with ‘discipline’ in a specific 18^th Century setting, this quote is relevant when discussing the format in which MySpace is put together, because the control of the gaze over it functions in quite the same manner. The Law of MySpace is indiscreet, for example, because everyone can read it at any given time. Moreover, we are constantly reminded by the machine that there are things that we can and cannot do. We are always warned, for instance, “If you upload porn, your account will be deleted”. Moreover, “Tom”[5], the “helpful” machine character that everyone is directed to when they have a question about MySpace is the “individualized”[6] face of the machine; Tom[7] is not a single man behind a screen, but the instrument through which the supervisors of the machine keep it “functioning”. This network of surveillance also works “laterally” since every individual with a registered MySpace account may always “tag”, or report, anything that they may deem “inappropriate” within the community. The network of “power” is “discreet”, because, as Foucault writes, “it functions permanently and largely in silence”, because we don’t know who is “supervising” nor who may be looking at our page at any given time.

Furthermore, the attention of the viewer’s gaze is the target of everything that is uploaded to one’s personal page: people write blogs, upload pictures, and share their “interests” so that others may establish a communication with them; these are what Schechner refers to as “performing objects” (11). They are “performing objects” because as Schechner writes, “during the performance these objects are of extreme importance, often the focus of the whole activity” (11). Because one is constantly under surveillance from both, the Machine and the viewers, one must be “careful” when uploading anything into their “space”; no one wants others to have the “wrong” opinion or impression of themselves. And, if one wanted to actually deceive the viewing public—that is, by uploading a “fake” picture, or writing purposely misleading “interests”—what comes out, in the end, is still an “image” of a desired “profile”. Yet, not one MySpace profile may be taken as an entire representation of any one individual, whether they are real or imaginary. We are never something that is static, one-dimensional, that can be easily read. At best, the MySpace profile serves as an idealized representation of self; it is what we would like to be perceived as, never what we “really” are. Ultimately, if I were to ask you in person to tell me who you are, would you be able to tell me?

More on chefabio:

During his “intervention” in my online space, chefabio attempted to persuade his readers that the MySpace page he was created in was a complete representation of who he was. His claim proved to be true to a great extent, only because chefabio was an online character. Within the World Wide Web, chefabio was a picture, a song, and the blog entries that he chose to write; within MySpace chefabio was “real”, outside of it he was merely one of my many fictional creations. On the internet, chefabio had the freedom to express himself, that is, as long as he didn’t violate the Law of MySpace; in there, he had the freedom to be. Furthermore, in writing himself into my own personal web “space”, chefabio criticized the validity of an outside world and that of me as his “Creator”. He, for instance, claimed that nothing existed outside of his world (wide web), that to him, I could be just as fictional as any MySpace identity would be to us, as readers and viewers. The only reason why I existed, according to him, was because he believed that I existed.

In the short span of life that I granted chefabio, he befriended many of my “friends” who were in my online community. While some of my “friends” disliked chefabio’s recklessness and existential harangues, I later learned from my conversations with them that, to my own surprise, some of them liked chefabio much more than they did me, because he wasn’t as “depressing” a figure as I! Though chefabio tried very hard to express his existence through his “manliness”—by this, you should read “macho-ness”—, by drinking, smoking, and “hitting-on” my female “friends”, he had a special— carefree?—way of carrying himself that most people enjoyed. I would have to admit; at times, even I enjoyed spending time with him. Interestingly enough, however, chefabio never aspired to be human; which was something I expected him to, in the very least, consider. In fact, he detested “humanity”; he thought of it as nothing more than a farce. Needless to say—especially, since I am a staunch defender of the power that rests in humanity—we had very many different arguments on the subject and some of them even made it into his writing.

At this point I would like to stop bothering you with my own analysis and let the “man” tell you in his own words what he thought about his life within MySpace. The following “intervention” is a direct transcript[8] of everything that he wrote while I was away on vacation and left him in charge of my web “space”. Hopefully, you will be able to follow his meanderings without being offended by his language—which at times is a mixture of philosophical ramblings and insults in both Spanish and English—and typos, nor without having to have actually met him.

chefabio’s Intervention:

de como nace un antiblog (March 27, 2006: 7:59 p.m. pst)

a miguel de unamuno

hola. hello. good evening misses bonitas. me voy a presentar. soy chefabio. el personaje, that's right, the one HE writes about in his "space". can you believe him? who the fuck does he think he is anyway? les traigo noticias, and the news are good, bien sabrosas: i'm taking over for a bit, he's going on vacation.

who i am (March 27, 2006: 8:17 p.m. pst)

let me begin by talking about performance theory. i know HE will try to convince you that all i am is some sort of character, an instrument of his words, and blah, blah, blah. well, that's fine, whatever, right? HE, however, is not who exists here. Here, I am. Here, HE may only be being, a little at best. i am ALL of this. that picture lighting a cigarrette, the friend of those people in pictures, and some not in pictures (kristen!)[9]... etc. i am that cartoon banging it's fucking head on the keyboard[10], i am this word and this one too. you see?

who is most powerful now?

test of power number one: i will select all top eight pictures based on the level of "hotness", guys you're not included, ja!

sidetracked (March 27, 2006: 9:04 p.m. pst)

sorry... i got lost a bit.HE might tell you that he spent this time away from the computer smoking cigarrettes, drinking beer, and thinking of erin. but, i'll let you in on a secret. he likes porn! he goes here: www.easypic.com and i follow him[11]. that's why i got lost a bit. damn! and i thought it would take longer than fifteen minutes in cyberspace. oh well.

talking about erin[12], that boy sure is fucked up over her. i guess we owe it to him to include her in the hot list, even if it is at number 8. dumbfuck, if only he knew she was out with paul tonight.

sorry, adriana... you're still way hot!

oh, yeah... and i am changing the song. he has good taste, but i hate it when he get's all depressed. out with it!

stay tuned... i'm going to look at palabrasmalditas.net[13], they have porn, right?

chefabio out.

4 in the morning (March 28, 2006: 3:56 a.m. pst)

i wish i had more beer.

>>Comment:

Hey, I've been there. In fact, I think I live there most of the time.

Posted by Kristen on Tuesday, March 28, 2006 at 1:03 PM

advice for the creator (March 28, 2006: 4:19 a.m. pst)

hey man, yeah YOU. i know you're on vacation and all, but, just between you and me, you really should take it easy. really. vamos, fabio, be a man!

yeah vato, just let it go, take it, put your anger inside. no feelings. and, if sometime along the road you're still fucked up, then start a war to make you feel better. that's what men do, right? fuck it, my friend.

common, have a beer with me.

about performance (March 28, 2006: 9:00 a.m. pst)

a little music for the vato. good company that fabio. he and i talked for hours last night while we were having beers... it was more about performance theory than women, but who cares? he told me, for example, that myspace is a restrictive space where it only allows me to express myself in a certain way or another, never completely how I am. HE said, I was code. he told me that i was bits of information written by a man on the verge of la locura. that i was all just made up. nothing. fantasy at most.

yo le dije: yeah? then, why is that they e-mail me all the time to ask me how i am? (just this morning patty asked me what was wrong with me!) why is it that they believe me when i say that i am drinking and crying?[14] i am writing you, le dije. i am the writer. you are my character.

he started to understand me, but i couldn't convince him. i will have to explain it all to him.

music for new apartments: chaotic electro/psycho/jazz, enjoy it my friend, i know you just moved in to a new place. enjoy your new uni-verse.

"because we are the same person" (March 28, 2006: 2:05 p.m. pst)[15]

so i made HIM watch a movie against his will. it didn't matter, he needed a break and was getting kinda bored from being alone for two days straight. he told me he had promised erin that he wouldn't watch television anymore, i reminded him he had also promised her that everything would be "alright" between them. he said nothing for a moment...

then he said, "everything is alright," unconvincingly.

he didn't say a word again.

we watched fight club. there were three things that i found interesting: (1) the concept of manhood, (2) the concept of anarchy, and (3) the concept of the fictional or imaginary, especially in the auto-performance of self, as an Other, an antithesis. in essence: the character(s) Tyler Durden.

i told HIM that the three concepts were tied up. it seemed like the movie was trying to convey the message that capitalism creates a race of men who are "raised by women" and thus pansies, good-for-nothing consumers, pieces of machinery, walking sillouhettes on an "IKEA" catalog. the men found solace for their insomnia-causing stress in the "fight club", where, through their might and their well-tanned and oiled bodies could express their discontent with the empty-soul-sucking-society by beating the living shit outta each other. in another scene they look at a Calvin Klein add on a bus, they smirk at each other, "is that what a real man looks like?", jokes Tyler Durden to the Other.

Tyler Durden, that is, the original Tyler Durden, the "claims adjustor" is the "pansy" man. Tyler Durden, the soap salesman, is his Other, that is, the man, who has no fear and is full of confidence, charm, charisma, etc. the Other is also the leader of a small community of revolutionary anarchists with no real purpose. what is even more amazing is that one, (the fearless "macho"), is in reality the split personality of the first, (the business "pansy"). they complement each other. it is a psychological split caused by the oppression of the society. (it reminds me of a novel by J. Donoso called El lugar sin limites[16]).

anyway, the macho Tyler Durden then takes over, he becomes the ruthless leader who becomes delusional in the use of his power, and "barbaric" in his method. when the other Tyler Durden tries to stop him from his plan consisting in blowing up credit card buildings, the macho Tyler Durden reminds him, "I am all that you want to be. I am free in all the ways that you are not..." he adds, "little by little you're letting yourself become Tyler Durden [meaning the macho Tyler Durden]." in essence, the split characters depended upon each other, one could not exist without the Other. it is not until the last scene, (damn hollywood!), that the original Tyler Durden realizes that the gun exists in his hand alone, and uses it to pull the trigger on himself in order to drive the Other away.

you see? though the Other might be a fiction of one, it is just as dependent on the Other.

about performance, do YOU still believe that you are writing me? if you pull the trigger on me, you know, you really pull the trigger on yourself.[17]

recovery (March 29, 2006: 10:37 a.m. pst)

sorry vatos, i am recovering from my hangovers, more to come, i promise. notice how i keep my promises, unlike that fabio dude... yeah, i think i am convincing him. soon you'll see...

where is my mind? (March 29, 2006: 2:03 p.m. pst)

finished with the hangover. now, let's gitssus mowr beer!

mr. fridge?

...

ok. beer in hand.

...

where were we?

oh yeah...last time we spoke about fight club. (that movie was cool the first time i saw it, but now i am thinking it blows. fuck it, i'll give it away as a present, i hope HE doesn't miss it). back to our subject. in the movie, there is a fundamental question about performance: how can Tyler Durden, the "pansy" undergo a psychological split of personality and become who he then becomes: a macho, underground, anarchist leader? is it a willing performance? i will have to say no; i have a lot of "psychoanalyst" influences because of all that crap that fabio talks about when we speak. fuck, he can't stop speaking about Lacan! how i wish he where alive so that HE could go kiss his ass a little.

i just keep going in tangents...

back.

however, once Tyler Durden becomes aware of the split, and "neutralizes" him or whatever the psychoanalytic term is for that sorta thing, by shooting himself, he becomes an actor. he performs the other Tyler Durden, the split personality, in order to show he is still in charge of the underground anarchist group, and he tells his clonies to go back and to live[18] him alone with that hot-ass, "Marla". they all do as he says. she stays, they hold hands, and the first of the explosions goes off as "where is my mind" by the pixies plays in the background. he, the new Tyler Durden, seems to be completely at calm, like revisiting that cave with the penguins. (watch the movie, you'll know what i mean... but if you don't watch it, i understand... it know it blows). anyway, he is able to pull it off because his identity to them, the outside world, including the clonies and fine babe Marla, IS, because it has always been the same.

so, with that in mind, i ask YOU, mr. pen-in-hand-like-a-gun, mr. creator, do you think you look at the mirror when you sit before MYspace?

beer (March 29, 2006: 11:08 p.m. pst)

in beer i find loss of self. gain of other self. violence. manhood. self-destruction.

like the stooges.

i like it.

the who? (March 30, 2006: 12:18 p.m. pst)[19]

una rola pa' kristen, my new space age jaina. keep it to the basics, sex and beer.

real.

the desert is not so hot (March 31, 2006: 11:40 a.m. pst)[20]

so i tagged along with that rock n' roll suicide. we came to the desert. he told me here is where he found himself once, a few years back. i believe him. you really can't lose anything in this big empty lot.

it's pretty humid, but not hot yet... he tells me it will get to 120 Fahrenheit in mid-june.

damn!

we hung out with his friends, it was cool, except there was no beer... hopefully tonight.

i miss beer.

the machine, sadism, and slavery: a conversation with the creator (March 31, 2006: 12:17 p.m. pst)

"the cyber world is a different world," HE said to me. "that's why it is so attractive, you can make it what IS. it is a sadistic affair."

he was making sense for once.

"i remember once when robbie," [robbie's his ex-roommate, they both studied computer engineering, but they really just wacked off when one was away and/or played videogames] "told me that i should always treat my computer like my bitch. he said that i should always expect it to be a slave."

"i think you're the slave," le dije. and he just stopped typing.

>>Comment:

This is playing out like a novel by Descartes (with the evil genious as creator).

Y lejos de parecerse a "Niebla" de Unamuno, se parece a un cuento de Borges en donde es el creador el que se esta ahogando en un vaso de agua. lo impensable ante tus ojos.[21]

How far are you going to take this, cheborges?[22]

Posted by Patty on Tuesday, April 04, 2006 at 8:54 AM

on humanity (April 3, 2006: 12:41 p.m. pst)

i was there, when HIS mother told him about him, his father.[23] i guess i can't really comprehend the situation, since i have no real family aside from all of you, friends of mine. i am wholly what i am. the humans? they are a lot of things.

humans are taken by emotions, by other people, by what other people have been for them, even though they are no longer that. they have a sense of attachments to certain ideals that may change with time, because of the people they meet and the places they live in, their families, the television they watch, the music they listen to, the food they eat... the culture, pues, etc. humans are like collages, not ever whole, not ever ONE thing. as a group, they are creators of emotions, horny thoughts, for example, as well as of the sense of despair, sometimes they like to mix them, etc. emotions aren't mathematical, fuck the psychoanalysts and the self-help sections of the world. but, in beer they often find the means to make every des-enlace much more fun. i commend them.

humans are pressured by the fact that they don't know what is going to happen to them, be it tomorrow, next month, eight years from now, when they have children, when they die, etc. they live under the constant vigilance because of the fear of other human beings. they don't trust each other, though interaction is the means for establishing their individuality, their sense of SELF. vigilance causes the loss of individuality, of self, and thus of creativity, of thought, and HUMANITY. people become afraid to be, they rather be what they are suppossed to be[24], it's a lot easier, and there's more beer.

they are tragic always, because they will die. they will feel pain.

me? i just feel myself between the legs.

cigarrette, please... some music.

>>Comment:

you should really try to remember and distinguish your actual self from this blog-blob who likes beer and only feels sexual feelings, I just read Still Life with Woodpecker, where it is very carefully explained that sex is Mechanical, while love is Spiritual.....is fear also spiritual? Is it the antithesis of spiritual? I am definitely human, by your criteria, except that I am starting to get the sense that I will have to fight continuously to not become the beer-fueled being who I'm supposed to be human......

Posted by erin on Monday, April 03, 2006 at 6:27 PM

Pirandello dice... (April 4, 2006: 9:10 a.m. pst)[25]

The man, the writer, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die.

LUIGI PIRANDELLO, Six Characters in Search of an Author

rodeo clowns (April 4, 2006: 8:58 p.m. pst)

today i realized i hate rodeo clowns. fuck 'em. bring me a beer, fabio.

>>Comment:

While you're at it Fabio, why don't you bring me a beer also?

Posted by Mike on Tuesday, April 04, 2006 at 11:37 PM

more on humanity... (April 6, 2006: 3:00 p.m. pst)

all leashes hang sometimes... that's the moment when the slave acknowledges that the master is not so keen at keeping his slave on hold, terrorized of him; that's the time of revolution. some, however, would say that only happens when the master has trained the slave to the point when a certain type of "freedom" is granted him. if this were the case, i wonder at what stage of "freedom" are human beings?

the difference according to Him (April 6, 2006: 4:59 p.m. pst)

i asked HIM about the difference between humanity and my Space. He responded by talking about love.

He said,

"if you loved someone so much, it wouldn't matter if you could only love them for a single minute, for that minute would always feel like an eternity."

it made me want to drink.

chefabio is back... (April 12, 2006: 10:04 a.m. pst)

so i sit here with a cigarrette balanced between my lips as he leaves out the door to tell me he is done interrupting my space. god and the devil are alike. they use you and leave you whenever they want. HE left again, to wander. He left me a note:

"[In performance] a special world is created where people can make the rules, rearrange time, assign value to things, and work for pleasure. This 'special world' is not gratuitous but a vital part of human life. No society, no individual, can do without it. It is special only when compared to the 'ordinary' activities of productive work. In psychoanalytic terms, the world of these performance activities is the pleasure principle institutionalized. Freud believed that art was the sublimation of the conflict between the pleasure and reality principles; and he felt that artistic creation was an extension of fantasy life -- he identified art with play."

Richard Schechner

Performance Theory

>>Comment:

yeay!!! Welcome back pin chefabio!!!!

Posted by Patty on Wednesday, April 12, 2006 at 11:05 AM

in the theater (April 13, 2006: 9:46 a.m. pst)

V is for Vendetta was the movie HE took me to go see. i paid little attention, since i was staring at the beautiful woman sitting next to him. however, afterward HE said something to me that made me swallow hard:

"I will leave you one day, to let you do as you please, once you have learned that an idea can be more powerful than a single man. that day you will cease to exist here, and you will be free of your bondage to this space. it will be your end and your beginning, eternally. you will be you for what you are. you will experience the feeling of rain like ME, the feeling of fire, also like ME, a vastful freedom, like ME. you will no longer need other men to tell you who you are. you will cease to look for love, because it will forever be inside you. and you will cry, and you will laugh."

beach performance... (April 13, 2006: 5:55 p.m. pst)

HUMANITY? why would i want to become one of you? so that i can suffer? so that i can feel pain? so that i can die? no, MY FRIEND!

see that beach? it's just a performance out there. those girls are just a moving picture. no matter where you go, you will just end up washed up, like the rest of them.

HUMANITY? please!

i am more of a man here than out there.

beer me.

when worlds don't collide (April 14, 2006: 9:50 a.m. pst)

i had coffee and cigarrettes with HIM this morning. HE asked me what i thought i was in my space.

i told him, "everything".

HE laughed and said, "language and a picture, that's all you are. a song? perhaps. but a world? you are a borrowed language that you never possess. it is before you and after you, never you. a performance. a character. a stubborn fool. language is the unique place and the first condition of madness.

i asked HIM, "how can anyone have a language that is not theirs?"

HE sat back closed his eyes and i could no longer see anything. then, he saw the sun lost in the clouds and i saw the sun lost in the clouds and from the clouds he pulled out a book.

then i saw the book on the table, Monolinguism of the Other or the Prosthesis of Origin, by Jacques Derrida, and HE was no longer there. i looked up at the clouds again, and all i could see were two worlds colliding and going through each other as if one or the other or both were made of nothing.

i'll tell you about the difference between men and women... (April 18, 2006: 3:30 p.m. pst)

they are creatures of consequence

they think the same things
they can make the same things
they can do the same things
they can cook the same dishes

they can fuck the same way
on top or beneath
they can work the same way
just give 'em a reason
they can write the same way
be nasty or neat
they can kill the same way
just give 'em a gun and a treason

but they can't cum the same way
and that's why most men
are often the most jealous creature.

a poem to the creator, by chefabio. what do YOU think, eh?

gave up (April 20, 2006: 8:51 a.m. pst)[26]

i gave up on my last chance by breaking stuff. uncivilized? barbaric? it was more like "all emotion", "no thought"...

i didn't care. after everything, i was still not the one.

the shards just guarantee that i won't ever again think that i could be...

goodbye, colibri... may you find what you need.

if it is worth anything, i am sorry.

chefabio's response (April 20, 2006: 10:19 a.m. pst)[27]

ja! don't worry folks. i told HIM to write that. HE knows there's plenty of bitches out there... he just needs one that is less... bitchy.

un colibri in the end is never satisfied with sucking on just one flower, it goes from one to another, without care... it is only happy when it finds another one, just like it, and then they are always flying away in search of other flowers. colibris are a little like vampires that way, they make the flowers inmortal, by pollinating and sucking.

HE told me what i thought that message would do about anything, i told HIM she'd probably just laugh and let the guy next to her check it out.

i laughed.

chefabio out.

del libro del cielo (April 21, 2006: 12:46 p.m. pst)[28]

Jacques Derrida claims that language is an impossition of the Other, whether you are colonizer or a colonized. it is only that the colonizer claims ownership of it, and makes rules to maintain it in an illusionary grasp, to say it is theirs. so that they can say what they believe should be said to them, for them, and by them. but it is not theirs. language escapes ownership because it preceedes the subject.

question:

by saying this, does Derrida claim to transfer some of the blame away from the individual colonizers unto the "system" of colonization? is the master less of a master? because HE too is chained to a system of language that it is not HIS?

what the fuck?!. excuse me, mr. creator, colonizer, sir, you don't own me... language owns US.

who's who? (April 21, 2006: 1:16 p.m. pst)[29]

HE fired back with a quote:

"The spaces [of performance] are uniquely organized so that a large group can watch a small group--and become aware of itself at the same time. These arrangements foster celebratory and ceremonial feelings. In Goffman's words, there is 'an expressive rejuvenation and reaffirmation of the moral values of the community' in those spaces where 'reality is being performed' [...] Certainly, more than elsewhere, these places promote solidarity: one 'has' a religion, 'roots for' a team, [has a profile with a picture,] and 'goes to' the theater for esentially the same reasons. What consequences flow from TV's ability to conflate all these spaces into one box multiplied millions of times, [did somebody say myspace?] we are just beginning to discover."

Richard Schechner

Performance Theory

and then HE added in that voice of his that seems to be laughing at you,

"you ARE a performance, chefabio. I created you. I can destroy you."

211. chefabio's last words (May 3, 2006: 9:40 a.m. pst)[30]

I found a letter from chefabio, he wrote:

"i don't believe in YOU. i can be more than you, here, in this space. here i have all the control. here i am. here, i can even be my own death. my own creator and destroyer. i will prove it. these are my last words to you. i belong to this desert and i will lose myself in it when i wish and how i wish. this is my suicide."

but what he didn't tell you, was that i sent him there to die alone.

212. octavio's response (May 4, 2006: 1:08 p.m. pst)[31]

greetings fellow e-pets and ladies and gentlemen and the not so gentle kind too,

let me begin by introducing my self. i am octavio, chefabio's pussycat. you don't know me, because he chose to ignore me for a long time, while he was so focused on his battle with the creator. during those days i just kinda vagabunded (is that a verb?) around his space, rummaging for food. he was kind enough to let me have clean water every day and his leftover scraps...

but, about chefabio: believe me when i tell you that he was a gentle master, though he pretended to be tough. he always rubbed my belly and played with my ears. sometimes he would call me "pussy-paz", (that was his favorite name for me), and let me chase an eagle's feather around the house that he would pull on a string. when i would catch it he would call me "mexican" and then ignore me, he was weird that way. sometimes he let me outside and then he and i would run around chasing birds and climbing trees. he was always funny and would make me meow quite often.

the creator read a letter to you. (i really don't know who you are or which you you are, but, i feel i must address you in this form out of politeness). about the letter: the creator told you that HE sent him "there to die alone", but what HE didn't tell you was that HE chose to ignore reading the rest of the comments on that piece of paper... HE chose to ignore the rest of the letter because there was a flaw that the creator could not comprehend. in the letter, my master says:

"i know YOU will say that YOU killed me, though i voluntarily have chosen to go away. and YOU might have killed me, but without my decision to commit suicide, to leave for the desert, YOU could have never said YOU sent me there in the first place. and then YOU could say that i would say what i just wrote to YOU so that YOU can say that YOU made me say it. (do YOU understand?). we are in a loop. YOU cannot exist without me, nor i without YOU. so i will kill my self. or YOU will kill my self, but for the mere pleasure of showing that it can be done. but then are YOU anyone's creator anymore? will YOU create me a pet? will YOU revive me in another letter?"

there you go. that is what the creator left out of his letter. poor master, he was always so clever. i will miss him.

and just so you know, i saw him take that knife with him that he keeps in that box, and he kissed me in the forehead before he went out the door, something that he had never done.

i'm sorry. i have to go sit by the window.

thank you for listening.

>>Comment:

oh kitty, kitty...don't you know that your kind are only adopted for human companionship?

nice writing fabio.......i always enjoy it....

Posted by Bianca on Friday, May 05, 2006 at 1:15 AM[32]

Afterword:

I would like to have the last word about chefabio only to say that, although he was a flawed character, and at times very annoying, he will be missed. From our brief encounters I learned a lot more about myself than I thought possible; for that, I thank him. I only wish that, wherever he is now, (especially since I know very little about the online afterlife), he can look down (or up, or through?) and be happy about all of his accomplishments in life. May you rest in peace, my friend.

Fabio Chee

Irvine: July 7, 2006

---

[1] Estar agusto, in Spanish means “to be comfortable”, and Pérez is a very common last name, much like “Smith”.

[2] “if the characters in a fiction can become readers or spectators, we, their readers or spectators, can be fictional” (All translations from Spanish are my own).

[3] “You will die, yes, you will die, even though you may not wish it, you will die as well as everyone that reads my story, everyone, everyone, everyone without exception! Ficticious entities like me, the same as me! Everyone will die, everyone, everyone! I, Augusto Pérez, an entity of fiction like yourselves, ‘nivolesque” the same as you, tell you. Because you, my creator, my don Miguel, you are nothing but another ‘nivolesque’ entity, and ‘nivolesque’ entities your readers, just like me, like Augusto Pérez […]” (298).

[4] http://www.myspace.com/chefabio

[5] http://www.myspace.com/tom

[6] Contrary to fact, MySpace is more homogenizing than “individualizing” since within it, everybody is a character that is bound by the same rules; because any one individual may provide his “identity” by providing similar information: religious preference, body weight and height, “interests”, marital status, sexual preference, pictures, etc. Any identity within this community has to fit within a “profiled” map controlled by the machine.

[7] A detailed analysis of Tom as the face (or representative “body”) of the MySpace machine would reveal that great detail has been put into making this character “someone” who is “friendly”. When any person opens an account with MySpace, Tom immediately becomes your first “friend”, or contact. He e-mails you to let you know about the Law of MySpace and “guides” you in “personalizing” your “space”. Tom, who was the original creator of the MySpace network, sold his rights to Fox Corp., as well as the rights to his “image”, so that the corporation may still be represented through it. Further analysis of this figure would show that he is a young white male who may very well be “the boy next door”, who looks to be anything but threatening.

[8] Because of the written nature of the “transcript” all songs and videos that may have accompanied chefabio’s writing have been omitted.

[9] At the time that chefabio wrote this entry, my online “friend” Kristen, did not have a picture of herself on display.

[10] For a period of time during his intervention, chefabio had an animation of man slamming his head to a bloody pulp on a keyboard within the space designated for “heroes”.

[11] It is obvious that chefabio is only hiding his addiction to pornography by blaming it on me.

[12] Erin is the name of a woman whom I used to date. She is no longer my “friend” on MySpace and should not be confused with other “friends” with the same name. All references to “Erin” within this paper have to deal with my ex-friend.

[13] This is the link to an online, literary, and cultural journal for which I used to write.

[14] This is a lie by chefabio; he never wrote that he was “drinking and crying”.

[15] To this day, I still don’t quite know what chefabio was trying to make me understand by making me watch this film. Maybe he was trying to convey that I was his “pansy” to his “macho”? It doesn’t really matter. In the words of chefabio, if you can make some sense out of this passage, “I commend you”.

[16] I know as a fact that chefabio never read this novel.

[17] I don’t really know how chefabio could foreshadow the fact that I would end up killing him, especially since, at this juncture, I still enjoyed spending time with him.

[18] This is one of chefabio’s many typos, he clearly meant “leave” and not “live”.

[19] I can’t confirm whether chefabio ever had sexual intercourse with my online “friend”, Kristen, nor that they even had “beers” together.

[20] The desert chefabio is writing about in this entry is located in the Imperial Valley, California, my hometown.

[21] “And far from being like “Niebla” by Unamuno, it is like a short story by Borges where it is the creator who is drowning in a glass of water. the unthinkable before your eyes.”

[22] Obviously, Patty is confusing me with chefabio.

[23] This conversation took place between me and my mother while chefabio and I were still visiting the desert. It was a very meaningful conversation in which I learned a little more about my father, whom I never met.

[24] In this passage, chefabio inadvertantly strikes upon my thesis regarding MySpace and performance.

[25] I cannot verify whether chefabio ever read this Italian playwright.

[26] This entry was a forgery. During this time I was having personal problems with Erin, a.k.a. “colibrí”, or “hummingbird”, (the same one that shows up in several of the comments). The previous night, on April 19, 2006, I went to her house and purposely broke some of her flower pots, a lantern, a bottle, and a table because I was angry with her. chefabio thought that it would be funny to apologize in my name through MySpace. He was successful in confusing everyone and making my own life very miserable. I believe that if you read his next entry you will be able to tell, just how out-of-hand this character became. At this point, I began thinking that it would probably be better to get rid of him once and for all.

[27] This conversation was also a forgery; it never took place between us.

[28] “The book from the sky” is a direct reference to Monolinguism of the Other or the Prosthesis of Origin, by Jacques Derrida.

[29] This was chefabio’s last blog entry before I killed him. All blog entries after this one have been written by my own hand.

[30] chefabio thought that he could get away by deciding his own fate, just like Augusto Pérez had claimed before Miguel de Unamuno. However, I can assure you, as his “Creator”, that he never did get away with it. Although he did leave for the desert, once he got there, I created the rattlesnake that took his life.

[31] I don’t believe that chefabio ever had a pet cat named after Octavio Paz, nor that I ever intended for him to have one. I don’t know how this entry made it into MySpace; it must have been another prank of chefabio’s before his final departure.

[32] It is “Bianca” this time who confuses this prank by chefabio with my own writing.

Ella

un expediente
filtrándose
por la rendija del file cabinet.

una caja
encima de otra
con un corazón pintado,
como nostalgia.

caminaba
sin caminar
a la orilla
rosa
de
una
manzana

en una tarde

mientras él
la pasaba.

La nada, Paz y ella
a un colibrí

Ella era ingresante en los estudios de posgrado en literatura latinoamericana de una universidad norteamericana. Era el final del trimestre. Estaba escribiendo un ensayo sobre la vida de Octavio Paz y su relación a Pasado en claro. Leía incesablemente día y noche en libros, revistas y páginas de internet. Se pasaba las noches queriendo dormir y queriendo escribirlo a la vez. Sufría de insomnio. Se encerró en su apartamento en la playa y por casi cuatro días no hacía más que leer y escribir y pensar sobre el poema y su poeta, el dicho poevida o vidoema. Cuando no estaba en sus lecturas, no hacía más que comer perros calientes hechos a base de tofu con jalapeños, andar con su perra o fumar cigarros.

Afuera estaba él, un estudiante de posgrado también, pero ya más avanzado en los estudios y mucho más desquiciado por su estancia en el campo. Él, quien aspiraba llegar a ser poeta era, en realidad, apenas un escritor de tercera categoría. Él, también fue una vez su amante. Sin embargo, ahora sólo se la pasaba en su casa como buen amigo.

Él estaba afuera meditando sobre el concepto de la nada y fumando un cigarro mientras ella escribía en su escritorio dentro del apartamento. Pensaba en la nada sexual que se había creado entre ellos, por ejemplo. También pensaba en la nada que él sentía por Paz, como poeta tanto como persona. A veces, en secreto, ella llegaba a compararlo con Paz. Su fascinación por el vislumbrante era obvia. Sin embargo, esto no era algo que le molestara a él.

En su meditación en el patio de enfrente las palabras transcendence not achieved… se le aparecieron al cerrar los ojos. Los abrió de vuelta y al voltear la cabeza hacia el mar, notó el sol en su calma queriéndose caer.

Fue entonces que ella decidió tomar un descanso y lo vino a acompañar a fumar un cigarro.

“This paper isn’t getting any longer,” dijo ella. “I still haven’t even put the quotes from the poem on the essay,” ella tomó su encendedor y prendió un cigarro. Respiraba erráticamente.

Él la miró a los ojos y sonrió. Todo afuera parecía pausado, no había gente, no habían carros ni pájaros, sólo el viento aterciopelado se movía, la escena tipo western. La perra entró a romper ese momento y empezó a oscilar entre espacios, vagabunda, tal vez también meditando sobre el concepto de la nada—¿por cuál razón debemos dudar que los perros no puedan entenderlo?

“I am not going to finish! I am not going to get there,” volvió a interrumpir con su mirada perdida entre las palmeras y el cielo. Aunque el climax la eludía, él no dudaba de ella.

“You’re wearing an army belt,” respondió él, cambiando el tema.

“I wore it yesterday too,” le contestó.

El cinturón, el cual él pensó alguna vez fue propiedad de un ex-amante de ella, la mantenía unida. Sin él, tal vez se despedazaría ahí mismo.

“Part of me wants to go home tomorrow!”

Allá, ella se confrontaría con el antiguo dueño del cinturón, para después regresar a empezar una relación con un fanático del surf quien también era estudiante de posgrado en el mismo departamento. Entonces, ella se iría olvidando de su buen amigo sentado ahí, contemplando el concepto de la nada, esperando inútilmente el amor de ella.

“Which part is that?” él le preguntó.

“The one that doesn’t want to finish this paper!”

“I thought you were going to say your toes or something,” él se rió, pero ella no lo escuchó y sólo lo miraba.

Pero no lo miraba, su visión lo atravesaba para llegar a un lugar muy lejos de ella y, aún, mucho más lejos de él. Su mirada llegaba a un pasado y a un origen. Allá, ella se había desmoronado ya alguna vez como castillo de arena en la brisa. Pero ahora estaba haciendo un buen trabajo de olvidarse de esas cosas, el cinturón era algo inconsciente, pero que le estaba funcionando. Se prepararía para el regreso más tarde.

Sentada a un lado de él, su incesante búsqueda por la tranquilidad se mezclaba con la cara flotante de Paz recorriendo los más profundos recovecos de su cerebro. Se puso un poco tensa.

Nunca será posible saber si ella entendía lo que estaba sucediéndole, tal vez estaba planeándolo todo para que sucediera así desde el principio. Pero, lo que sí era obvio—y eso saltaba a la mente cada vez que abría la boca para decir algo—era que su frustración era doblemente frustrada: su ensayo sobre Paz y su vida sexual, las víctimas.

De colmo, todo alrededor de ella giraba en relación al sexo, como si el universo le estuviera jugando una mala broma: la luna a medio punto, la ausencia de píldoras anticonceptivas—las cuales dejó de tomar cuando dejó de hacer el amor con el que meditaba afuera apenas hacía un mes—la vida de Paz, los fálicos perros calientes con jalapeños, sus pesadillas, en las cuales aparecían desnudos o en ropas menores su antiguo amante—el del cinturón—con su nueva amante, el hombre en la fotografía en el marco de vidrio detrás de su escritorio—otro antiguo amante—con la mirada hacía un futuro repleto de niños y bodas—algo que ella aún no podía volver a visualizar—por lo menos, no como lo hacía el hombre de la fotografía y, ¡ah claro!, el cinturón que la mantenía.

Ella depositó su cigarro en el cenizero, el cual en realidad era una maseta con bachillas y pelos de perra, y se metió de nuevo a escribir.

Él, sentado allí todavía, prendió otro cigarro, era el último. Se lo puso entre los labios y la llama se apareció alrededor del papel blanco del cigarro, abrazándolo y abrasándolo. Pensó en el amor y pensó en el concepto de la revolución. Pensaba que ella sería su primera derrota. Así lo pensó, porque él estaba completamente decidido a sacrificar todo por las palabras “te amo”, algo que nunca alcanzaría a escucharle a ella decirle a nadie.

Continuó su meditación. Después de unos diez minutos se levantó para entrar al apartamento. De la mesa cogió otra caja de cigarros y de un estante una copia de los Versos Satánicos de Rushdie. Pasó al patio de nuevo y se sentó con un cigarro sin encender en la boca y un libro negro entre los dedos.

Mientras leía ella apareció en la puerta. De su propia cajetilla ella le prendió un cigarro y se prendió otro ella también. Se sentó a un lado de él. Y, cómo si de pronto feliz, exclamó:

“I am going to finish!” Dejó escapar un suspiro.

“Will you finish in time for me to revise it?” Él le preguntó.

“No way! I am not letting you read this essay. Maybe another one in the future”, pero él nunca leería nada de ella, tal vez algunos correos electrónicos en los cuales ella le diría adiós una última vez, pero nada más.

“You’re going to think that I love Paz”, agregó ella con esos ojos de coqueta que siempre cargaba como dagas.

“I don’t need to read your paper to know that—I’ve known that for a long time. You think about him day and night,” le dijo él, mirándole recogerse el pelo en espirales como caracoles trepándose en la fuente de una musa.

Ella dejó escapar otro suspiro, se levantó y destruyó su cigarro en la maseta; apenas había fumado.

“Ok. I’m going inside,” dijo antes de desaparecer de nuevo.

Él regresó a su libro. Pasaron algunos minutos. Aparte de las páginas, el humo era el único ruido. El sonrió al llegar a un pasaje sobre el personaje de Gibreel Farishta en la página veintitrés. Era una sonrisa que en realidad lo ahogaba, mucho más profundamente que ese objeto balanceándose entre sus labios.

Leyo lo siguiente:

To get his mind off the subject of love and desire he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the metaphoric myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy who became a flower, the spider-woman Circe, everything; and the theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.

Continuó leyendo. Al llegar a la página treinta, puso su libro abierto en la mesa, boca abajo y tomó unos papeles. Escribió algunas preguntas sobre el concepto de la nada. ¿Puede ser posible que ella en realidad no sienta nada? Terminó el capítulo, cerró el libro y, parcialmente recostado en el sol, encendió otro cigarro.

Apenas le daba el primer beso de muerte al filtro cuando ella apareció de nuevo a la puerta,

“If you’re going to smoke, close the door!” Exclamó ella frustrada.

Ella le dio un empujón a la puerta para ir a meterse al escritorio en la esquina de su cuarto, pero la puerta no cerró completamente.

“Sorry,” le dijo él desde afuera y se levantó a cerrar la puerta teniendo la precaución de dejar su cigarro en la mesa del patio. Regresó a su lugar y se recostó de nuevo en el sol. Terminó su cigarro y se murmuró a sí mismo, “¡Ay, Octavio!” El labio superior izquierdo se le engarruñó como queriendo escupir.

Depositó la bachilla en la maseta, se levantó y entró al apartamento para ir al baño. Al salir cerró la puerta detrás de él diciéndole a ella que se iba a caminar y que llevaría a la perra consigo. Caminaron por una hora por la costa en una tarde clara de diciembre.

Cuando regresaron, él dejó que entrara la perra al apartamento. La perra se dirigió directamente a ella, como queriéndole decir que se había perdido de una buena aventura. Sin embargo, ella no le puso atención; sus ojos penetraban la pantalla de su computadora. Él tampoco dijo nada, esperando a que ella dijera algo. El momento pasó silencioso y él caminó de nuevo hacia el patio para continuar fumando. Dejó la puerta abierta. Ni un sonido emanaba desde adentro.

Debajo de los Versos Satánicos estaban las hojas con sus apuntes. Los miró detalladamente. Le pareció extraño que las hojas no hayan estado en su lugar. ¿Las habrá leído ella? Pensaba. Después de unos segundos se olvidó de eso pensando que no importaría si los hubiera leído o no.

Se sentó y continuó escribiendo sobre el concepto de la nada, pero esta vez reemplazando la palabra por “amor”.

Ella interrumpió a la puerta nuevamente. Le preguntó por la traducción de la palabra “ink” al español.

“Tinta,” le dijo él, y ella desapareció cerrando la puerta.

Él continuó escribiendo.

Unos minutos después la puerta se abrió, ella se mantenía sostenida del marco como si la estructura del apartamento entero dependiera de su equilibrio.

“Are you done?” Él le preguntó.

“It’s sent!” Ella le respondió con una sonrisa eterna.

“Congratulations!” Él la abrazó y añadió, “see, I knew you could do it…”

Mientras él la mantenía en sus brazos ella se dio cuenta de que ya era tarde para asistir a la cena que tenía esa noche con sus compañeros de clase. Esa sería la misma tarde en la cual ella empezaría a pensar con curiosidad en el fanático del surf, quien también estaría presente en la cena.

Él le dio un beso en la frente y ella lo dejó afuera y regresó a su cuarto. Regresó con dos sudaderas y le preguntó a él su opinión sobre ellas. Él escogió la azul.

“Either way, I need to change my pants!” Dijo ella, y él empezó a morirse de la risa pensando que Paz por fin había logrado seducirla.

“¡Me ganó, el gran hijo de puta!” Dijo él, y ella le dio una sonrisa sin escucharlo realmente y suspiró como gran alivio.

Todo se desprende de su centro

En este mundo globalizador y globalizante poco nos queda decir sobre la supuesta conexión que existe entre nosotros, como sociedad e individuos, y todo lo que nos rodea. Una mariposa celebra su primer vuelo y un huracán se desata por los cielos y mares del Caribe. Un parisiano trota por la Rue de la Vie haciendo silvar a cada paso sus entrepiernas cubiertas de mezclilla fabricada en Sri Lanka. Una niña colombiana sentada frente al monitor, incandeciente su cara de sonrisa al chatear con su amiga en Italia, teclea las palabras: "te adoro. Ciao, besos". Un norteamericano, (me refiero al continente… let's face it, también es popular allá abajo), celebra el "touchdown" de su equipo favorito, el cual es parte del performance del televisor que una guatemalteca, radicada en Tijuana, asembló poco antes de ser violada en su camino a su "casita" de concreto. Big Bad Wolf, eat your heart out! El teléfono, el celular, el bíper, el text message, la comunicación al instante, "hi", "hola, ¿cómo te va?", "ça va!" Un muchacho se entera de que la prima de su mejor amigo resultó ser un antiguo amor al que había dejado una vez, sin un adiós, sentada en la playa, contemplando al mar, perlando su cara el sentimiento extraño de un vacío. Al verla él se preguntó sin preguntarle, "¿qué tan grande es el mundo?" Mientras, desde la sierra mexicana un tal Marcos contemplaba el significado preciso de esas mismas palabras: ¿Qué tan grande es el mundo?

Todo conecta.

Pero la conexión es efímera. Poco dura el amor, tal vez un poco menos que un par de pantalones de mezclilla. Todo lo que se conecta se desconecta alguna vez, se rompe, se quiebra, se desprende centrifugal hacia un afuera. Sarduy gritaría, "¡Big Bang!" Allá, entre las cortinas de nubes y lluvia como lágrimas, las sílabas "re-vo-lu-ción" se trepan a los labios de los que esperan la señal de acción del Zarco en pasamontañas.

Alud, La Revista Electrónica del Departamento de Español y Portugués de la Universidad de California, Irvine, (así, con título de capítulo del Quixote, que al fin y al cabo la paradoja hace mucho que dejó de usarse), abre así, pues, sus puertas y ventanas: hacia afuera. Nos desconectamos de las tradiciones y de los tradicionalistas de corbata, del mainstream y del post-reality show, y nos conectamos a la comunidad de las letras y el pensamiento humanista. Éste no es un proyecto común, pero que no se entienda por esto que sea único. Éste es sólo un llamado más a reconocer nuestras fallas y errores, nuestras pérdidas, nostalgias, saudades y rompidas de jeta.

He aquí un espacio, aunque sólo virtual, para empezar a enmendar las tragedias. Empecemos en ese mundo para llegar al otro con más fuerza.

Ésta es nuestra propuesta.

Así empieza a dislocarse el primer alud.

Bienvenidos,

Fabio Chee
Director

Alud:
Quiebres y desprendimientos

Convocatoria / Call For Papers

Heriberto Y. escribe en su blog:

A los poetas no los quiso su mamá.

sigo con la carcajada.

hoy


pon al hoy de cabeza y tendrás otro hoy

goodnight
a la revolución

the past is not mine.
is everyone else's,
no one's.

the present is me.
always.

the future belongs to me,
because i believe
in the beauty
of my dreams.

i close my eyes.
my dream is you.

goodnight.