In the universe of human existence, spaces and times are collected in our memories fully loaded of human humors and noise and humming. The most enrapturing and mesmerizing town becomes nerveless and inanimate with no people to write its history. Such is the call of Humans that expands to that of Life, in general. What would become of an ants' nest without the swarming of ants? What of a splendorous river without flocks of chirping birds flying by?
The brutal exchange of routines sometimes brings up the sharp shock between the alive and the lifeless. A thin, darkening veil fells on the stage of affairs - as the Windows operating system darkens the screen if the pressing on "shut down" icon is delayed - an obscure layer of drizzle in the dusk sunset.
The stately raven of the days of York -Poe's raven- might be a shade acting in the company of a disgraceful man for ever, evermore. But it is only the shade of the dead, which happens whenever someone steps aside from the paths of Life. Common thing, though. On the contrary, however, others might feel at some point that Life dodges them and departures from them, as if they were obstacles in its way. Painfully enough, they find themselves as unrecognized bulges in the flow of the Worlds; no more than suspended, plain rounded particles in the midst of a steady state stream. That hurts even more.
**
A man, my father's acquaintance years ago, was born on Jan 1st, 1947 in Caceres, Spain. His name, Luis Garcia-Camino Burgos and he was a poet. His younger son, a couple of years my senior, is a friend of mine. Before I knew this, I fell in love with his Los Versos Bajo Tierra, an earthy, soft and lovable edition of 1971, my father's book, of course. It was a pleasant surprise to find out the connection between father and son, between, indeed, two generations of lovable Spaniards.
" (...) Y lo que más me aflige es no poder volver
e iluminar los más hermosos ojos
con un beso muy largo
capaz de despertar aquel cariño cierto
que no sentías entonces.
Esa mirada; un mundo
lleno de sombras, árboles, un bosque umbrío,
una lágrima, mi risa, tu mirada,
esa triste mirada que me acusa terrible
como un dedo enhiesto". (Esa Mirada. L. G.-C. Burgos, 2001. Revista Atril).
The man's look and the man itself is fading away now in the clasp of sickness, consciousness and soul, all together, being flooded astray... His son told me, months ago, here in London. I almost got tears to my eyes upon hearing -impressionable, yes, I am-, in a whirlpool of noises, pints and chaos... . Oh, how pregnant the places of the young are with the portraits and sounds of the disgraced and the dead. Would it be that beer and pubs have the seed of the closing time yet?
**
At 8 pm, my self sip smoothly what in other times, in other places, would not, nor even in wanting desire. Oh, it is so deep, so nice... Listen to this:
"O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy".
(The Sick Rose. William Blake)
**
If ever,
A thread of light is 'entreating entrance at my chamber door'.
Be not afraid,
Come in, please, I know the light! I shall let you in and so the shadows past shall be vanished... It's like... I read the other day, somewhere... Please, come, break through my tired window panes!
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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