algo se desdobla
hay algún tipo de cortocircuito que me divide en
(por lo menos)
dos partes
todo se abre más
no puedo estar tan separada
no puedo lidiar con tantos mundos
diferentes

es eso, sí
lo que uno busca en esas situaciones
es que ninguna parte esté en ningún lado
porque ya no había centro
ya estábamos perdidos
desde antes
parece que cuando volamos o algo así
la visión difusa hace que creamos
que todo está junto
que las cosas encajan, que coexisten
que tienen sentido

no sé por qué yo no puedo poner ciertas cosas
en el mismo lugar que otras
tampoco sé qué ni por qué
crea ese corte, ese golpe
que conecta cosas de distintos planos
cosas que quizás
yo no sabía que existían
por ser de distintos planos

creo que destierro las cosas pero no las elimino
mis decisiones solo son tales hasta cierto punto
y después
me encuentro teniendo que explicar cuestiones
que no entiendo
quién me explica a mí, eh
y veo las conexiones intrincadas y casi imposibles
si de casualidad las veo
qué palabras les voy a poner
si no tienen sentido

lo peor no es traicionarme
en el sentido de que vean lo que siento
lo peor es traicionarme
engañándome, diciéndome que no hay problema
mientras siento el golpe
dejándome en blanco
dejándonos desconcertados
a todos

lo único que conecta todo esto
son mis venas
pero incluso de mis latidos
no se deduce nada
lo único que conecta esto
es el querer salir
pero mientras tanto yo intento
quedarme
e integrarme

es como si uno realmente no pudiera olvidar las cosas
quizás sea cierto, no?
pero esto de la reelaboración-
digo, por qué mundos tiene que pasar
antes de considerar que agotó sus recursos
para atacarme?

qué se deriva de qué
me dijeron que no tengo que declararle la guerra
a nada
que no decida hacer ni no hacer

cuál será
la importancia de los pequeños desfasajes
abismos para mí
cuál será la dimensión (!)
que se ve

por eso no tengo que preguntar
porque no lo voy a saber
a menos que haga un escándalo
debería hacer menos evaluaciones
aunque no sé si eso implica caer al abismo o no
para hablar con metáforas tontas
no sé si el vértigo-
(eso no es una metáfora)
no sé hasta dónde va a llegar

es gracioso cómo
nos preguntamos sobre las preguntas
y sobre las evaluaciones que se pueden hacer
de nuestras evaluaciones
las teorías sobre las teorías
y sus valores
es gracioso cómo sigo dando vueltas
queriendo frenarme

lo que buscamos
es tapar el vértigo con vértigo
así, después
decimos que el final es nuestro

siento que me rearmo según las circunstancias
hay partes mías que se guardan en algún depósito
como esas cosas que se encastran y se sacan
siento que hay partes de mí que tiemblan
que hay imanes que de repente
se repelen y ahí
es cuando me siento ajena
me falta percepción
o me sobra
no sé
pero digo
habrá una combinación perfecta
o al menos una coherente
una que no me desordene tanto
que no desordene tanto al resto
uno va construyéndose a sí mismo pero
para usar metáforas tontas
no elige las piezas
y me parece que son más fuertes
las que más trato de destruir

y, de paso, estoy forzada a saber
a contemplar los espacios vacíos y los bordes gastados
los límites que no se pudieron borrar
a querer describir, contar lo que pasa
y a no poder traerlo
darle forma, hacerlo tangible
se me impone, con toda claridad
en un código que solo entiendo yo

quisiera decirles que no lo intenten,
que nadie lo necesita
que no me pregunten y que no hagan deducciones
que todo sería falso

si las diferencias no fueran diferencias
quizás tendría algo
una sustancia
si pudiera destilar mi esencia estoy segura
de que esto no estaría ahí

hay demasiado, hay demasiado
y casi todo es falso
casi todo son residuos
ecos
catástrofes que se originan
en su fin y en el mío
y resuenan en mí
y en mis ecos

Sun, make canvas of coastlines, so I know where I stand.

estaba pensando algo súper intrincado y místico para responderte, y de repente me di cuenta de que no me hablabas a mí. te lo quería contar porque me causó gracia, nada más.

stop

edit: había copiado cualquier cosa en lo del 13/11. ya lo arreglé ~


[cuaderno 16 + notas]

-

[?]

it was never me
i was never me

fill the hole left in my soul
when you took it away

i want someone new
only because i miss you

-

[?]

you lie when you say you don't lie
and i was lying when i said i'd lied

-

[?]
cada tanto
sos un corte
en el pecho
el ardor
de cuando algo roza la piel
cada tanto
pero sólo
cada tanto

-

[13 11 11]

i am not who i want to be
but who would i want to be if i wasn't who i am?

-

[23 11 11]

the night is strangling me

i try and get nothing
i don't blame you, i blame my veins
does this poison run through yours too
if you think about it for a second?

what is the night doing to you?

-

[24 11 11]

oh remember when i used to get lost in the forest
remember when i was sunlight and shade
and the night at the same time

you're from another world and that's why i like you
but i also know that once you built a little house near mine
without either of us noticing

i can't define what it is about you-

i wish i could see you today
make the stars brighter

-

[6/7? 12 11]

i try to create something small

i have to forget the things that i've done but mostly
i have to forget what i hate about what i've done

change your mind
waste my time

-

[6/7? 12 11]

i haven't been able to say a word in what feels like years
my teeth are ice and my tears are blood
but i won't let them show
i don't mean anything by the word 'okay'
most of my days are grey so where are your eyes
i never waited for you but i always did
i want to know more about the world and less about me
i don't mean anything by the word 'maybe'
except that i'm not there

-

[13 12 11]

how comforting is it to say "i don't want to"
how comforting is it to say "i'm lying"
you can scream but they won't feel your lungs

there was a time when i wondered what their blood tasted like
now i only want to see us all drained
can we all be empty

every word i say is another knife
every thing i do is another fire

can we all be cold deserts
ice
white

where is the beauty of the night
i've asked before but you never replied

i can hear you but i can't feel your hands
your heart

-

[21 12 11]

las cosas no significan

más que la necesidad de que las noten

-

[28 01 12]

i died again today
i smothered me before i could learn how to breathe

i am going to wake you up even if that means that you'll hate me

i died again today but i smiled when i hit the ground

i can count my steps

so many things at once

i am dancing
with myself
i'm asleep
when i'm awake

i'll wake me up even if that mean that you'll hate me

"i'm not being myself
so i can remember who i am"

but oh how the day went by
fast and heavy on my shoulders
and how their voices pierced right through my stomach

i died again today
and i think that for a second
i came back

edit: no hay manera de que ponga canciones, nunca andan por mucho tiempo :(

—Las cicatrices nunca se van, ¿verdad?
—Van y vienen, creo yo.

happiness exists when you don't know a thing
so i hope you don't think this song is about you

so what would he do
i know he was like me before Sky
but with a bit more clarity
or less
but being somewhere else strangely made him more capable
of dealing with was going on here
So what would he have done
oh but he's also a martyr
or just a self-destructive kid
he would have said "i'm sorry,
sorry i have to leave"
he would say goodbye to both of them and then feel like
there was nothing left in him
"my veins should be empty,
my heart should be empty because that is how i feel"

and how you'd wish that your life was a movie
or one of the books you always promised yourself you would read
how you'd love your life to have the magic
that your songs had
how you wished they'd known
you wrote those words for them

some secrets are not kept by choice
some people don't care about the truth
or what's beneath the surface
you never lied, it's just they never asked
well i feel the same way now
(i guess that is what you are, mostly
i found you again)

we are candles
we are the perfect home
but broken
we are bruises and firelight
i guess you had the stars and i only have the scars
but we are
the lies
we didn't want to say
we are autumn clouds floating away

okay so
what should we do
what would you do
stay a little bit farther
but say more, i know you would
but you have a way with words
i can only hope to find at night
when i'm alone
or when you're near

i need to be free
you had nothing but you had freedom
you fly
i don't think you see that but you fly

i will be water one day,
i will be water
and we will meet in the rain

[november]

they said,
let the old be old and let the new break through

they said,
let what's gone be gone and remember the good

it's there, i know it's there

i want to say thank you but not with words

i want to be more than words
i want to be a voice
that makes it rain when it sings
i want to sing truth
and know what truth means

i want to find you and i want to find me
i want to say thank you but not with words

i want you to see this
and i want you to see more

i don't need to understand i just need to forget

tantas cosas salen mal tantas veces que empiezo a creer en el destino

[ vitre0us ]

i never understood how someone could love me
but now that i gave you everything why did you choose to leave

why do i want to 'save' everyone
who do i think i am

[25 09 11, 02.02 am]

i need to say something
i need the magic that's in the air when i'm alone
to sing something to me
particles of dust
reflect a million colours of light
the voices of the ones who always touch my heart
beat softly

i don't care what you say i don't care if you understand
the words i use or the roads i choose
but what am i to do with this
i mean where are you

there's a sky in which we drew
patterns and stories that night
and the days that followed
there are lines that gleam
when we mention their names
and the sound
of your words and my
cautious smile
i believed, oh i
couldn't stop my imagination
from building us a home
small and quiet
i could not stop myself from
framing a piece of the sky and
hanging it on the wall

and now when you knock on my door
i don't know where i'm from
i don't know where i have been
or what i'm here for

maybe saying more
would be saying less
but you know that i never forget
i just turn some things into words
which you can't understand
and when you're silent
and i don't say a thing
where are you
where have you been

so "do you remember me?"
or was it just another day
full of stories and i'm
just another stranger
that happened to come your way
so what did you write about me
on your book of forgettable thoughts
was there actually something there
or was i just another ghost

but i am still here,
but i forgot where i belong
and you are still there
but i don't know where you're from

well okay
i mean does fate exist
because sometimes i believe
that my home is the sea
or nowhere at all
but well, okay
i guess you can have a choice
i guess you can have it all
because i don't know how to feel

i am lost, are you not-
well maybe you don't
listen to yourself
or maybe i just like to see you that way
oh i thought i would stay

the night starts to get darker now,
its needles hurt my eyes
my lips are dry and somehow
the magic starts to die
there's something in the stars,
there's something in the sky
something that never leaves
an echo of your voice
and your eyes
and the songs of the ones who save me
the ones who won't let me die
there is something in you, too
a veil when you look at me
that changes when you sleep
a veil of diamonds covered in dust

the night starts to shout
and why aren't you here, why aren't you here now
oh i know how this sounds
i'll never say it out loud
you already know that i miss you
i don't care if you miss me too

but what to do, what to do
oh am i saying too much
why can't i just be like the clouds,
why can't i fall like rain
to the ground
and lie there and not make a sound
the only reason to live
is to find the sea
to be one, to be more than me
but am i saying too much
what matters is where do i go
when i don't know
what you see
when i can't be
when i can't grow
when i try so hard not to feel
a thing
and they sing, they sing
and are you far or are you near
i start shaking inside, i
can't feel nothing but the ice
that cuts through my veins
i shake
if you could feel my heart, if you could feel my lungs
and how they shudder
i bet you'd be surprised
to see that you matter

there's a sky
mine- only mine this time
i drew lines that are beginning to fade
there is a window i can't open anymore
there is lightning and a storm
i guess this is my home
now
and i hope that some day
wherever you go when your sky fades
you can see something of me
i hope that the stars show you the way
when you walk by the sea.

Pero la verdad, el problema no se encuentra entre mis manos, sino en el espacio que las separa de las tuyas.


[erine]

the worst part is i'll always be there when you need me

I

It was late. We were at the inn again and Nicolas, who was walking about the room and gesturing dramatically, declared what had been on our minds all along.
That we should run away to Paris, even if we were penniless, that it was better than remaining here. Even if we lived as beggars in Paris! It had to be better.
(...)
Did I want to go on like this? So our fathers would curse us. After all, our life was meaningless here.
(...)
And this notion of the meaninglessness of our lives here began to enflame us.
I took up the theme again that music and acting were good because they drove back chaos. Chaos was the meaninglessness of day-to-day life, and if we were to die now, our lives would have been nothing but meaninglessness. In fact, it came to me that my mother dying soon was meaningless and I confided in Nicolas what she had said. "I'm perfectly horrified. I'm afraid."
Well, if there had been a Golden Moment in the room it was gone now. And something different started to happen.
I should call it the Dark Moment, but it was still high-pitched and full of eerie light. We were talking rapidly, cursing this meaninglessness, and when Nicolas at last sat down and put his head in his hands, I took some glamourous and hearty swigs of wine and went to pacing and gesturing as he had done before.
I realized aloud in the midst of saying it that even when we die we probably don't find out the answer as to why we were ever alive. Even the avowed atheist probably thinks that in death he'll get some answer. I mean God will be there, or there won't be anything at all.
"But that's just it," I said, "we don't make any discovery at that moment! We merely stop! We pass into nonexistence without ever knowing a thing." I saw the universe, a vision of the sun, the planets, the stars, black night going on forever. And I began to laugh.
"Do you realize that! We'll never know why the hell any of it happened, not even when it's over!" I shouted at Nicolas, who was sitting back on the bed, nodding and drinking his wine out of a flagon. "We're going to die and not even know. We'll never know, and all this meaninglessness will just go on and on and on. And we won't any longer be witnesses to it. We won't have even that little bit of power to give meaning to it in our minds. We'll just be gone, dead, dead, dead, without ever knowing!"
But I had stopped laughing. I stood still and I understood perfectly what I was saying!
There was no judgment day, no final explanation, no luminous moment in which all terrible wrongs would be made right, all horrors redeemed.
The witches burnt at the stake would never be avenged.
No one was ever going to tell us anything!
No, I didn't understand it at this moment. I saw it! And I began to make the single sound: "Oh!" I said it again "Oh!" and then I said it louder and louder and louder, and I dropped the wine bottle on the floor. I put my hands to my head and I kept saying it, and I could see my mouth opened in that perfect circle that I had described to my mother and I kept saying, "Oh, oh, oh!"
(...)
I walked and talked and gestured like a contented human being, but I was flayed. I was shuddering. My teeth were chattering. I couldn't stop it. I was staring at everything around me in horror. The darkness terrified me. The sight of the old suits of armor in the hall terrified me. I stared at the mace and the flail I'd taken out after the wolves. I stared at the faces of my brothers. I stared at everything, seeing behind every configuration of color and light and shadow the same thing: death. Only it wasn't just death as I'd thought of it before, it was death the way I saw it now. Real death, total death, inevitable, irreversible, and resolving nothing!
(...)
"But how do you live, how do you go on breathing and moving and doing things when you know there is no explanation?" I was raving finally. And then Nicolas said maybe the music would make me feel better. He would play the violin.
(...)
"Play again," I said. "The music is innocent."
Nicolas smiled and nodded. Pamper the madman.
And I knew it wasn't going to pass, and nothing for the moment could make me forget, but what I felt was inexpressible gratitude for the music, that in this horror there could be something as beautiful as that.
You couldn't understand anything; and you couldn't change anything. But you could make music like that.
(...)
At least we had these beautiful things, I said. Such goodness.


II

By day I almost forgot the vision of the inn, and the darkness. Unless, of course, I glimpsed some uncollected corpse in a filthy alleyway, of which there were many, or I happened upon a public execution in the place de Grave.
And I was always happening upon a public execution in the place de Grave.
I'd wander out of the square shuddering, almost moaning. I could become obsessed with it if not distracted. But Nicolas was adamant.
"Lestat, no talk of the eternal, the immutable, the unknowable!" He threatened to hit me or shake me if I should start.
And when twilight came on -- the time I hated more than ever -- whether I had seen an execution or not, whether the day had been glorious or vexing, the trembling would start in me. And only one thing saved me from it: the warmth and excitement of the brightly lighted theater, and I made sure that before dusk I was safely inside.
(...)
Even if I hadn't had this newly acquired dread of the dark, this "malady of mortality," as Nicolas persisted in calling it, it couldn't have been more exciting to go through that stage door.


III

"Nicki, this kind of talk is poison," I said under my breath. "You can't do anything but try to get what you want. You knew the odds were against you when you started. There isn't anything else... except..."
"I know." He smiled. "Except the meaninglessness. Death."
"Yes," I said. "All you can do is make your life have meaning, make it good."
"Oh, not goodness again," he said. "You and your malady of mortality, and your malady of goodness." He had been looking at the fire and he turned to me with a deliberately scornful expression. "We're a pack of actors and entertainers who can't even be buried in consecrated ground. We're outcasts."
"God, if you could only believe in it," I said, "that we do good when we make others forget their sorrow, make them forget for a little while that. . ."
"What? That they are going to die?" He smiled in a particularly vicious way. (...)


IV

The long vibrant notes, and the chilling glissandos, and the violin singing in its own tongue to make every other form of speech seem false. Yet as the song deepened, it became the very essence of despair as if its beauty were a horrid coincidence, grotesquery without a particle of truth.
Was this what he believed, what he had always believed when I talked on and on about goodness? Was he making the violin say it? Was he deliberately creating those long, pure liquid notes to say that beauty meant nothing because it came from the despair inside him, and it had nothing to do with the despair finally, because the despair wasn't beautiful, and beauty then was a horrid irony?
(...)
Beauty wasn't the treachery he imagined it to be, rather it was an uncharted land where one could make a thousand fatal errors, a wild and indifferent paradise without signposts of evil or good.
In spite of all the refinements of civilization that conspired to make art -- the dizzying perfection of the string quartet or the sprawling grandeur of Fragonard's canvases -- beauty was savage. It was as dangerous and lawless as the earth had been eons before man had one single coherent thought in his head or wrote codes of conduct on tablets of clay. Beauty was a Savage Garden.
So why must it wound him that the most despairing music is full of beauty? Why must it hurt him and make him cynical and sad and untrusting?
Good and evil, those are concepts man has made. And man is better, really, than the Savage Garden.
But maybe deep inside Nicki had always dreamed of a harmony among all things that I had always known was impossible. Nicki had dreamed not of goodness, but of justice.


V

...Death was my commander and I gave him a thousand victims, but I'd snatched her right out of his hand. I said it aloud. I said other desperate and nonsensical things. We were the same terrible and deadly beings, the two of us, we were wandering in the Savage Garden and I tried to make it real for her with images, the meaning of the Savage Garden, but it didn't matter if she didn't understand.
"The Savage Garden," she repeated the words reverently, her lips making a soft smile.


VI

"You, and your talk of goodness" -- low seething voice, eyes glittering -- "your talk of good and evil, your talk of what was right and what was wrong and death, oh yes, death, the horror, the tragedy..."
(...)
"Don't you see it's the confirmation of everything? That it exists is the confirmation -- pure evil, sublime evil!" Triumph in his eyes. He reached out suddenly and closed his hand on my face.


VII

"It is petty!" I said. "It is merely beautiful and clever and nothing more."
My voice had not been very loud but it brought him to silence, and it brought the others to silence. And the shock in me melted slowly into another emotion, no less painful, merely easier to contain.
Nothing but the sounds again from the boulevard. A glowering anger flowed out of him, his pupils dancing as he looked at me.
"You're a liar, a contemptible liar," he said.
"There is no splendor in it," I answered. "There is nothing sublime. Fooling helpless mortals, mocking them, and then going out from here at night to take life in the same old petty manner, one death after another in all its inevitable cruelty and shabbiness so that we can live. And man can kill another man! Play your violin forever. Dance as you wish. Give them their money's worth if it keeps you busy and eats up eternity! It's simply clever and beautiful. A grove in the Savage Garden. Nothing more."
"Vile liar!" he said between his teeth. "You are God's fool, that's what you are. You who possessed the dark secret that soared above everything, rendered everything meaningless, and what did you do with it, in those months when you ruled alone from Magnus's tower, but try to live like a good man! A good man!"
(...)
"...And then, the magic, when you got the magic, irony of ironies, you protected me from it! And what did you do with it but use your Satanic powers to simulate the actions of a good man!"
(...)
"Like a mindless beam of sunlight you routed the bats of the old coven!" he whispered. "And for what purpose? What does it mean, the murdering monster who is filled with light!"


VIII

"I want to know, for example, why beauty exists," she said, "why nature continues to contrive it, and what is the link between the life of a lightning storm with the feelings these things inspire in us? If God does not exist, if these things are not unified into one metaphorical system, then why do they retain for us such symbolic power? Lestat calls it the Savage Garden, but for me that is not enough."


IX

"I am evil," he said half smiling. He almost laughed. "It's not a matter of belief, is it? But do you think I could go from the spiritual path I followed for three centuries to voluptuousness and debauchery such as that? We were the saints of evil," he protested. "I will not be common evil. I will not."
"Make it uncommon," she said. She was growing impatient. "If you are evil, how can voluptuousness and debauchery be your enemies? Don't the world, the flesh, and the devil conspire equally against man?"
He shook his head, as if to say he did not care.
"You are more concerned with what is spiritual than with evil," I interjected, watching him closely. "Is that not so?"
"Yes," he said at once.
"But don't you see, the color of wine in a crystal glass can be spiritual," I continued. `"The look in a face, the music of a violin. A Paris theater can be infused with the spiritual for all its solidity. There's nothing in it that hasn't been shaped by the power of those who possessed spiritual visions of what it could be."
Something quickened in him, but he pushed it away.
"Seduce the public with voluptuousness," Gabrielle said. "For God's sake, and the devil's, use the power of the theater as you will."
"Weren't the paintings of your master spiritual?" I asked. I could feel a warming in myself now at the thought of it. "Can anyone look on the great works of that time and not call them spiritual?"
"I have asked myself that question," Armand answered, "many times. Was it spiritual or was it voluptuous? Was the angel painted on the triptych caught in the material, or was the material transformed?"
"No matter what they did to you after, you never doubted the beauty and the value of his work," I said. "I know you didn't. And it was the material transformed. It ceased to be paint and it became magic, just as in the kill the blood ceases to be blood and becomes life."


X

And if I could stop thinking: Nicolas de Lenfent is gone. My brothers are gone. Pale taste of wine, sound of applause.
"But don't you think it's good what we do when we are there, that we make people happy?"
"Good? What are you talking about? Good?"
"That it's good, that it does some good, that there is good in it! Dear God, even if there is no meaning in this world, surely there can still be goodness. It's good to eat, to drink, to laugh... to be together..."


XI

And it all seemed more than ever the story of the Savage Garden, dancers in the Savage Garden, where no law prevailed except the law of the garden, which was the aesthetic law. That the crops shall grow high, that the wheat shall be green and then yellow, that the sun shall shine. Look at the perfectly shaped apple that the tree has made, fancy that! The villagers would run through the orchards with their burning brands from the Lenten bonfire, to make the apples grow.