Monday, 1 December 2014


And if society was afraid of sentiments and their purest shapes it is the same society that has assured the rise of the unguarded instinctual forces...a chaotic and urgent state longing but not daring to admit its lust to be remolded, so that darkness can turn into light**

   You do know it. I'm very willing to listen to you if you have any recollections of your earthly beginning, would you care to provide me with any of those early memories? How do you see yourself...Can you recall images, smells and words, do any primordial sounds pervade your initial existence? Do you detect softness in the air, do you feel compassion for the child inside of you? I'd like to see how you once were and to know which were your first words, you are important to me, your existence fascinates me.

    In one of my childhood memories my hair smell of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, I'm wearing pink pyjamas and I'm watching "Splash" with Daryl Hannah and Tom Hanks, I feel assured of myself, I find the mermaid beautiful...A scene frozen in time, a bubble of experience, passed yet untouched. As a child I also had a thing for the original tale of the mermaid archetype as told by Hans Christian Andersen, I felt sorry for the wondrous mermaid that had to sacrifice her beautiful tail for two awkward feet...the torture of every step that led her immaculate love to transform into foam, a futile offering then nothingness. Pablo Neruda wrote the "Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks" based on this motifeme, a rather devastating account on how people fail to notice the importance of the aethereal and the fragile. Neruda saw the strength hiding inside stardust, inside the foam...That's the territory of the poetic after all.
He writes:

All those men were there inside,
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.

How vulgarity fails to recognize the agony of beauty, the anguish of a deeper existence made elsewhere in a parallel reality resembling the substance of the soul.

    But now that I think of it nothingness is a chance, nothingness is beyond despair and if things vanish from time to time they only disappear in their previous form, who suspects the mass of possibilities...The ones aiming to create and consult their inner spark know that nothing's lost forever, I desire you to impress me by singing the song of your existence with honor and great persistence but without arrogance. This way you'll always be by my side although oceans and eras apart. I will sense and acknowledge you. You will turn lead into gold and foam into existence. You shall come all soulful.

I trust you***.


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