Siguió
cayendo, cayendo, cayendo. ¿Es que la caída nunca
iba a tener fin?
Lewis Carroll, Alicia en el país de las maravillas [2]
Alicia empezaba a cansarse
de
estar sentada
en
el banco
bajo
una lluvia primaveral
sobre
la nieve olvidadiza. Pensó:
está demasiado oscuro para
ver nada.
Después
empezó a preguntarse
lo
que quería decir todo
y
lo que quería decir nada
y
de qué forma todo y nada
se
parecían.
Se
dijo a sí misma “no veo nada”
y
después, “veo todo negro”
y
pensó que eran la misma cosa
y
se preguntó
por
qué harían falta dos formas
para
decir lo mismo.
Si solamente…, empezó a decir,
y
se quedó dormida.
***
Está
sucia, tal vez ensangrentada, la oscuridad.
De
noche hay gritos
de
los que mueren de repente: un conejo, una gallina.
El zorro salió una noche
helada.
Le rezó a la luna que lo
iluminara.[3]
La
canción se colaba en el aire como tinta
en
el papel. En su sueño, Alicia
se
cae por la escalera
adentro
de una bañera llena de palabras.
La
cosa se desplaza.
Es
fría, no simbólica.
Y
por lo tanto innombrable, digamos, como los animales.
A
menos que.
Estas
amenosquidades descarriadas
distraen
la atención. Le brindan
consuelo.
Pero
queda, una cosa sin nombre
arrinconada
en la conciencia
como
si
el
ser pudiera soportarla.
La
nomenclatura de los
no-vivos
es
un
eso. Eso, dice el soldado, mientras
tortura a su prisionero,
eso eso eso.
Así
que tengamos al Conejo Blanco.
Tengamos
cerca ese apuro.
Entre
la
constancia
de
los vivos
y
sus
imágenes,
empecemos.
***
¡Estoy
en la ruina! Dice el Conejo Blanco, apurándose a llegar al
banco.
El
Conejo Blanco, en rojo,
no
tiene el menor sonrojo.
Como
un gallo cacareaba para que no lo engayolaran.
¿De
qué color es el caos?, preguntó de pronto Alicia.
Gris, respondió el Conejo Blanco mirando al
cielo,
como una media.
Pero
siempre hay dos medias y un caos solo, dijo Alicia.
Colores
y números no son la misma cosa, le contestó el Conejo
un
poco impaciente y bastante consciente.
¿Y
cómo encontraste una media en medio del cielo?, siguió preguntando Alicia.
La
silueta de las nubes, ¿no ves?
No,
replicó Alicia. Veo una nube gris, una media no.
Y
agregó: entonces a lo mejor vivo adentro de una media gris, a lo mejor este
agujero es una media en la que me caí.
Mientras
Alicia se detenía a considerar esa posibilidad, el Conejo Blanco desapareció
dejándola
sin réplica, en la soledad de conjeturar.
Alicia
piensa algo acerca de suprimir el deseo de venganza.
Está atrapada en el esplendor de lo aún no cognoscible.
Este
errar, piensa ella,
así
debe sentirse ser joven.
No podría decirlo
en el fulgor de lo aún no
cognoscible,
que
ahora parece un motivo de tristeza juvenil.
***
¿Por
qué se alargan las sombras?, interrogó Alicia sin dirigirse a nadie en
especial. Debe
tener
que ver con el ángulo de la luz, se contestó a sí misma, pero la respuesta
no
le inspiró confianza. De todos modos el interrogante persistió, y
se
le sumó otro: ¿Todo el mundo sabe la diferencia
entre
una sombra y una cosa? Los troncos delgados de los árboles se arquearon y
se
cruzaron por encima del sendero.
¿Una
sombra se puede trepar?, se preguntó.
Algunos
pueden. La respuesta había surgido de la noche.
¿Quién
sos?
¿Quién
o qué?, dijo la Voz.
No
se responde una pregunta con otra pregunta, dijo Alicia enojándose.
¿Por
qué?
Porque
no es correcto, respondió, sin saber por qué no.
El
ángulo recto, comentó la Voz.
¿El
ángel correcto?, preguntó Alicia, que apenas podía oír.
Sí,
el ángel correcto podría trepar una sombra.
En
ese momento las sombras de los árboles desaparecieron.
Alicia
siguió pateando las piedras del camino. Dijo patear en voz alta.
Se
preguntó si esa palabra estaría relacionada con patético.
Con
pathos, oyó que le decían desde arriba,
lejos.
¿Y
eso qué es? Preguntó.
Un
rollo.
¿Un qué?
¿Un qué?
Un
rollo, un rollo emocional.
¿En
la colina? ¿Esa forma negra?
No,
eso es una sombra.
¿Y
eso?
Un
pato.
¿Qué
clase de pato?
Una
oca.
No
creo, dijo Alicia. Creo que es
un
montón de hojas secas rozadas por la luz.
Las
hojas levantaron vuelo, sus alas manotearon lo endeble del día.
***
Alicia
se pasó el día casi entero leyendo.
Había
llovido un poco.
El
libro que leía era absorbente.
Tanto
la absorbía que ni pensó en la lluvia,
la
había dejado caer encima, alrededor, más allá y por fuera de ella.
Las
hojas del libro se fueron poniendo más húmedas y oscuras hasta que
ya
no pudo darlas vuelta sin desgarrar un pedacito mojado.
Cuando
terminó el libro, se sintió sola.
¿Por
qué no podemos ver el tiempo
igual
que vemos el espacio?, se preguntó.
El
libro había tallado otro tiempo adentro del tiempo.
No
es cierto, se dijo
el
tiempo no se puede tallar.
No,
pero
tal
vez, dijo la Voz insolente e instructiva, se puede hallar.
Hallar rima con callar, dijo Alicia después de unos segundos.
Ya
sé, le contestó la Voz.
Y
Alicia siguió por el sendero. No creía que la voz fuese amiga,
en
parte por lo que decía, en parte porque
iba
unida a la invisibilidad.
¿Sos
un fantasma?, le preguntó de pronto.
Puede
ser.
Si
sos un fantasma, ¿el fantasma de quién?
De
nadie que hayas conocido.
¿Y
cómo te moriste?
No
me acuerdo.
Alicia
se quedó callada un buen rato .
¿Estás
en el Cielo?
En
respuesta, se oyó un ruido estridente y las copas de los árboles
empezaron
a sacudirse como si lloraran con violencia y parecía
que
toda el agua se agolpaba como una multitud tratando de escapar
por
un pasillo angosto.
Alicia
decidió que esa demostración era cinematográfica y berreta,
y
que a partir de ahí no iba prestarle
más
atención, iba a buscar refugio en
otro
libro. Se sentó abajo de un árbol y leyó:
Abril es el mes más cruel…
Alicia
se puso a considerar qué observación más rara era esa. Había pensado
mucho
en la idea de que
algunas
cosas pasan más allá de la voluntad de cualquiera.
Siguió
leyendo, con la esperanza de averiguar por qué abril es el mes más cruel.
No
entendés, le susurró fuerte la Voz en el oído izquierdo.
¡Qué
bruta y brusca!, estalló Alicia.
No
es intención, es comparación.
¿Qué?
La
crueldad de abril.
¿Comparación
con qué?
Con
los otros once meses. Es como el golpe más cruento de entre todos.
Estás
diciendo cualquier cosa.
De César, cual sabéis,
Bruto fue el numen.
Juzgad, ¡oh Dioses! si le
amaba César.
Fue el golpe más cruento de
entre todos.
El gran César, al ver su
acometida,
La ingratitud, venciéndolo,
lo postra
Más fuerte que puñales de
traidores,
Y estalla al fin su corazón
potente,
Y su faz encubriendo con el
manto,
A los pies de la estatua de
Pompeyo,
Que su sangre tiñó, ¡cayó
el gran César![4]
Ese
discurso le pareció una grabación.
Un
golpe de entre todos, un mes de entre todos. El mes de abril
es
el más cruel y el golpe de Bruto a César, el más cruento, ¿entendés?
Alicia
agarró el libro y siguió leyendo. Una mariposa
anaranjada
cruzó volando la página, y ella pensó que parecía
una
hoja de otoño mecida suavemente por el viento.
Eso
es sensiblería, sentenció la Voz, y agregó:
la
sensiblería es el fracaso del sentimiento,
el pathos
del
que hablábamos.
Alicia
decidió ignorar por completo esta acotación.
La
mariposa continuó surcando la superficie del aire. Parecía
una
especie de respirador que hacía
visible
el silencio. Alicia leyó:
… hace brotar
lilas en tierra muerta, mezcla
memoria y deseo, remueve
lentas raíces con lluvia
primaveral.
Le
pareció deprimente y equivocado. A ella le encantaban las lilas,
sobre
todo cuando iba a la esquina y las veía en el puesto
del
mercado coreano. Bueno, no tanto verlas como
olerlas,
y esto cambiaba todo.
La
tierra, siguió diciéndose a sí misma, nunca está
“muerta”,
descansa nada más.
Si
seguís insistiendo en esa especie de lógica de la verdad nunca vas a poder
leer
poemas.
Alicia
cerró el libro. Le resultaba perturbador que la Voz pudiera leerle la mente.
Entonces
lo invisible habla directamente con lo invisible: se oyen entre sí.
Por
eso la Voz escucha mis pensamientos, pensó. Le habían
enseñado
que no es lindo
escuchar
las conversaciones privadas de los demás, y el hecho de que
la
Voz pudiera
escucharla
conversar con ella misma la hacía enojar.
No
seas tan quisquillosa, dijo la Voz, no es buen augurio para el futuro.
Tenés
que ser flexible con las reglas. Cambian. Los celulares cambiaron la
naturaleza
de lo que significa escuchar. Ahora es un lugar común.
Pero
se escucha nada más que una mitad de la conversación, dijo Alicia.
Tiquismiquis,
le respondió la voz en un sonsonete agudo.
Alicia
decidió cambiar de tema.
¿Podés
oír la mente de cualquiera o la mía nada más?
Sintonizo,
depende.
¿Depende
de qué?
De
que me resulte entretenido o no. Claro que a veces hay mucha interferencia
y tus pensamientos se mezclan con los de los demás.
¡De
veras! A Alicia esa idea la aterró, aunque no podría haber dicho por qué
con exactitud. ¿Qué tantos demás?
Docenas,
cientos, miles, dijo la Voz con un suspiro cansado.
¿Y
cómo se oye?
Como
el ruido de la historia.
¿Querés
decir que escuchás las voces del pasado?
Toda
la cháchara del mundo.
¿En
todos los idiomas?
Todos.
Más los animales.
Pero
con tanto alboroto no debés entender nada, dijo Alicia compasiva.
Trato
de sintonizar, aunque no siempre puedo. Es ruido ambiente.
Te
hace falta una antena.
Cierto.
Pedí una, pero nunca me llegó. La mandaron a la dirección
equivocada,
creo que a Marte.
¿Marte?
¿El planeta?
No,
el dios de la guerra. Siempre le llegan mis cosas.
Qué
fastidio. ¿Tienen la dirección parecida?
En
ese preciso instante sonó una sirena, fue subiendo de a poco y después bajó.
No
te escucho, gritó Alicia. Te perdí.
Alicia
retomó la lectura, pero las palabras se le escapaban,
intermitentes
y confusas. Su mente interfería
con tubérculos secos
sin
imágenes ni conversaciones llevaban la ropa a lavar
a la altura del
Starnbergersee
¿Y
eso qué es?
una
fina lluvia para el día caluroso el
placer de hacer
regar
las rosas
en los soportales al sol yo nunca vi un soportal
levantarse con
el rosa
detesto
el rosa
por el Hofgarten
en
eso, en eso
¿una
hora de Hofgarten? Mirando a lo lejos
del camino
en un trineo
en las montañas
de la noche
en invierno.
Raíces,
ramas, basura.
A
esta hora todo parece
artificial
kiu
kiu
la
la
***
Alicia
miró el suelo, cubierto de hojas húmedas multicolores.
Todo
el día habían estado lloviendo hojas.
Deberías
llenar un formulario.
¿Por
qué?
Porque
estarías revelándole al comerciante que cumplís con ese requisito.
¿Qué
requisito?
Entender
lo que no tiene sentido para vos.
¿Y
qué es eso?
Por
ejemplo, lo que se cruza en el camino en el
lugar
de la forma.
A
Alicia le pareció que eso era inescrutable ¿Querés decir que si voy por el
sendero y llego a otro sendero que lo cruza, ahí va a estar la forma?
Algo
así.
Caminó
en cualquier dirección hasta llegar al sendero que cruzaba el camino por el que
iba.
No
veo ninguna forma, dijo.
Sos
demasiado empírica.
¡Pero
no tengo ningún imperio!, replicó Alicia con sinceridad.
Puede
ser, pero ¿tenés intereses permanentes?
Alicia
había perdido la discusión y parecía avanzar sin un incentivo claro, como los
relámpagos.
Lo que dijo el trueno, rugió la Voz una vez y después otra, desde
más lejos.
Esperá,
protestó Alicia, estás alejándote. ¿Podemos retroceder?
Nada
puede ir en reversa, a menos que seas una máquina, gritó la Voz.
Puedo
retroceder sobre mis pasos, dijo Alicia.
No
es lo mismo retroceder en el tiempo, eso es nostalgia.
Nostalgia
suena a algo para lo que hay que tomar una droga.
La
nostalgia es una droga.
Se
escuchó un cui cui cui cui, que
llegaba del pantano.
Tenés
que estudiar la diferencia entre las cosas
como
son y las cosas como deben ser.
Pero
nadie puede predecir el futuro.
Sacá
una carta, cualquiera.
Frente
a ella, el paisaje se volvió un mazo enorme de cartas que se mecían y flotaban,
de
un negro radiante, rojo y dorado.
Alicia
alcanzó una carta y la dio vuelta. Era el As de picas.
Mientras
lo hacía, las demás cartas se escaparon rodando, y se encontró parada con una pica
en la mano, como un granjero.
Justo
en ese momento de la maleza salió un Gato.
Alicia
de picas, le dijo, y sonrió ampliamente.
Ahora
sos la carta más poderosa del mazo.
¡NO!
Dijo una voz rugiente. ¡soy yo! ¡¡Soy yo!!
El
Gato se dio vuelta despacio hacia el coro; A Alicia la pica casi se le cae.
De
pronto, una procesión de endos, encias y ciones se acercó marchando.
El
Todo habló al unísono:
¡Yo,
el Todo-Poderoso!¡ el Ungido! ¡el Decisor! Te ordeno
¡Depón
las armas o
te
arresto!
No
le prestes atención, dijo el Gato, es un ejército de creyentes ignorantes que
cree que si juega bien sus cartas, va a ganar.
¡Que
le corten la cabeza!, gritó el Todo.
Bueno,
dijo el Gato, tengo varias vidas para gastar, y desapareció.
¡Que
le corten la cabeza!, gritó el Todo.
Alicia
comenzó a cavar furiosamente con su pica
y
saltó adentro del pozo justo cuando el
Todo
iba a la carga
contra
ella, al grito de: ¡Lista o no! ¡Lista o no! ¡Todo llega!
Pero
Alicia ya estaba lejos de su alcance.
***
Un día, Alicia lee acerca de otra Alicia:
Lo que la obsesionó de esa visión de la tierra baldía pudo haber tenido que ver con cierto sentido de privación, con que en su propia familia no hubiera suficiente amor para todos.
¿Hay una cantidad de amor, como de hectáreas o de dólares? Qué peculiar.
Se imaginó
un hogar con el amor saliéndosele
aunque sin llegar a todos los rincones.
Esta otra Alicia estaba en el espacio sin amor
como una muñeca en desuso.
¿Por qué, se preguntó, la gente pierde el interés en algunas cosas y en otras no?
Se mueren, dijo secamente la Voz.
Vos otra vez.
¿Perdiste interés en mí?
Pienso que sí.
¿Pensás? Pensá como para saber o no saber, entonces.
Pensar y saber no es lo mismo, dijo Alicia.
De hecho, agregó con valentía, pensar es casi lo contrario de saber.
No seas pretenciosa.
Yo no pretendo nada, pienso en voz alta, y así llego a saber.
¿Entonces el pensamiento, según tu punto de vista, es el preludio del conocimiento?
Preludio es una palabra muy bonita, comentó Alicia.
¿Sí?
Deja una sensación, como si hubiera una belleza enigmática en la
incertidumbre de las cosas, como si tocaran un solo instrumento o un solo pájaro cantara.
¿Al amanecer?
Sí, con la primera luz.
Sin comentarios. ¿Vos jugás con muñecas?
Sí, tengo muchas, las hago hacer y decir cosas.
¿Y siempre están de acuerdo con tus haceres y decires?
Claro. No les queda otra opción, soy yo la que juega.
¿Y también jugás con soldaditos?
Las chicas no juegan con soldaditos.
¿Por qué no?
En el piso había una muñeca, boca abajo.
Tenía una rotura en el brazo y otra en el tobillo.
Alicia le había puesto una curita azul alrededor de cada herida.
Porque los soldados obedecen órdenes de matar.
Justo en ese momento cayó al suelo una rama enorme de un árbol haciendo un ruido tremendo.
La Voz, de lejos, gritó:
Y dejan de verse los juegos
Lo que la obsesionó de esa visión de la tierra baldía pudo haber tenido que ver con cierto sentido de privación, con que en su propia familia no hubiera suficiente amor para todos.
¿Hay una cantidad de amor, como de hectáreas o de dólares? Qué peculiar.
Se imaginó
un hogar con el amor saliéndosele
aunque sin llegar a todos los rincones.
Esta otra Alicia estaba en el espacio sin amor
como una muñeca en desuso.
¿Por qué, se preguntó, la gente pierde el interés en algunas cosas y en otras no?
Se mueren, dijo secamente la Voz.
Vos otra vez.
¿Perdiste interés en mí?
Pienso que sí.
¿Pensás? Pensá como para saber o no saber, entonces.
Pensar y saber no es lo mismo, dijo Alicia.
De hecho, agregó con valentía, pensar es casi lo contrario de saber.
No seas pretenciosa.
Yo no pretendo nada, pienso en voz alta, y así llego a saber.
¿Entonces el pensamiento, según tu punto de vista, es el preludio del conocimiento?
Preludio es una palabra muy bonita, comentó Alicia.
¿Sí?
Deja una sensación, como si hubiera una belleza enigmática en la
incertidumbre de las cosas, como si tocaran un solo instrumento o un solo pájaro cantara.
¿Al amanecer?
Sí, con la primera luz.
Sin comentarios. ¿Vos jugás con muñecas?
Sí, tengo muchas, las hago hacer y decir cosas.
¿Y siempre están de acuerdo con tus haceres y decires?
Claro. No les queda otra opción, soy yo la que juega.
¿Y también jugás con soldaditos?
Las chicas no juegan con soldaditos.
¿Por qué no?
En el piso había una muñeca, boca abajo.
Tenía una rotura en el brazo y otra en el tobillo.
Alicia le había puesto una curita azul alrededor de cada herida.
Porque los soldados obedecen órdenes de matar.
Justo en ese momento cayó al suelo una rama enorme de un árbol haciendo un ruido tremendo.
La Voz, de lejos, gritó:
Y dejan de verse los juegos
en el prado oscurecido[5]
***
¿Cuál es, se preguntó Alicia, la diferencia entre
demencia y aventura? Suenan
tan parecidas.
La verdad que no, replicó la Voz. Al menos a mí no me parece. Son nada más
las sílabas del medio: el
men y el ven.
Bob Dylan hace todo el tiempo esa clase de rimas.
¿Quién?
Un cantante.
Nunca lo escuché nombrar.
Ya lo vas a escuchar, dijo Alicia cortante.
Te citaría unos versos, pero los derechos son prohibitivos. Supongo
que puedo cantártelos
así nadie se entera. Cantó.
Los insectos se encendieron bajo el sol poniente, unidades mínimas de vida.
***
Mientras continuaba, Alicia sintió
que la puerta pesada de la noche se le cerraba detrás. Se
preguntó si estaría con llave y si
alguna vez iba a encontrar
el camino de vuelta hacia la luz del sol. Adelante
se veía muy poco.
Se recostó en el suelo empapado y miró para arriba.
Las estrellas latían como bengalas diminutas reflejadas en un mar, sin iluminar nada.
Todo está suspendido pero colgado, pensó.
Tiró de una hoja húmeda.
Nunca-nada le zumbaban alrededor
y le soplaban la piel.
Un
rocío
de
notas, o de motas, emanó del aire.
Un
aliento nervioso y acuático
le
recogió el pelo suelto
y
lo apoyó en el pasto.
Pensó:
Debo estar disolviéndome.
Y
empezó a tararear. Apareció la Luna,
exhalando
una estela de nubes finas.
Me
alegra que me hagas compañía, dijo Alicia.
Y
a mí me alegra que me hagas compañía vos, le respondió la Luna.
Estás
entera, dijo Alicia con un dejo de envidia.
Siempre
fue así, le respondió con tristeza la Luna.
Sin
embargo, crecés y decrecés.
Crezco
y decrezco, crezco y decrezco ad infinitum. No cambia nada.
Cambia
todo, de eso depende si sos un rulo finito en el cielo o
una
bola grande y luminosa.
A
lo mejor cambia para vos, yo sigo siendo la misma: un monóculo que mira para
abajo
mientras el sol va y viene.
mientras el sol va y viene.
Pero
si el sol no se mueve, te movés vos.
Como
sea, dijo la luna. Ustedes dan vueltas alrededor del sol y yo voy atrás como un
perro
con
correa. Sin ustedes y el sol, soy una roca insignificante y gris.
Es
un caso terrible de codependencia.
Tenés
muy baja autoestima, dijo Alicia. Acá todo el mundo piensa lo mejor de vos,
siempre
te nombran en canciones y poemas.
Ya
sé, me hacen temblar de vergüenza. La luna esto, la Luna aquello, los amantes a
la luz
de
la luna, los nocturnos y sonetos. Todo un cliché. Si me pegan una r al final, soy
nada
más que un lunar.
Alicia
se levantó proyectando una sombra larga y negra.
¡Mirame
qué alta estoy!
Yo
nunca voy a ser alta, dijo la Luna, y desapareció detrás de un nubarrón
borrando
la sombra de Alicia y dejándola de nuevo en la oscuridad total.
En
un árbol lejano una lechuza hizo jujú.
Alicia
tuvo miedo.
¿Y
a vos qué te importa si vivo en un pozo?
¿Qué
te importa si no tengo consuelo?
¿Y
a vos qué te importa si no engordo un poco?
¿Qué
te importa si mañana me muero?
¿Y
a vos qué te importa si yo me pongo triste?
¿Qué
importa si caigo en un agujero?
¿Qué
te importa si mi dote no existe?
¿Y
a vos qué te importa si acabo en un loquero?
La
cancioncita parecía no venir de ninguna parte.
¿A
vos qué te importa si estoy cerca o lejos?
¿Y
qué te importa si estoy muy cansada?
¿Importa
si caí en una trampa?
¿Si
soy una polilla o si soy un hada?
Alicia
dio una vuelta y se cayó.
¡Me
importa!, gritó, ¡Sí que me importa!
¿De
veras? ¿Te importa?
Sí,
decime dónde estás.
En
tu oreja, estoy acá.
¿En
mi oreja?
Se
tocó la oreja izquierda.
¡Au!
¡Au!
Perdón,
dijo Alicia. ¿Qué sos?
¿A
vos qué te importa si soy pulga o mosquito?
¿O
una perfecta y minúscula araña?
No
soy una rata ni soy un conejito
Y
no tengo noción de qué rima con araña.
Lo
que se dice una rima perfecta, dijo Alicia.
¿Sí?
¿Y cómo es eso?
Usaste
dos veces la misma palabra: araña y araña.
Justo
en ese momento una lucecita, no más grande que una gota de agua,
revoloteó
delante de ella.
¡Una
luciérnaga!, exclamó Alicia.
¡Luciérnaga!
¡Luciérnaga! que te enciendes en luz
por
los bosques de la noche
¿qué
mano inmortal, qué ojo
pudo
idear tu terrible simetría?[6]
Le
estás robando a Blake.
No
es que sea una adaptadora,
soy
una horrible impostora.
De
su Tigre estoy celosa,
brilla
con luz poderosa.
Ir
y venir es lo que hago yo.
No
hay mucho que mostrar, soy una ilusión.
Vos
y la Luna, igual de insatisfechas. Tendrías que estar contenta de ser
una
criatura tan mágica y luminosa. Yo no tengo luz propia.
Vos
tenés turbinas y te sobra ignición.
yo
soy una chispa de fascinación.
Vengo
por un momento, no soy bulbo ni orbe,
una
fugaz termita con una lucecita.
Mientras
cantaba, la Luciérnaga se perdió en la distancia.
¡Chau!,
debería saber volar.
¿Querés
venir?
¡Alicia
y yo:
un
dúo espectacular!
Alicia
se preguntó qué querría decir la Luciérnaga. ¿Esperaría que corriese detrás de
ella?
Ya
era solamente una manchita parpadeante en la oscuridad, pero en un santiamén
Alicia
se encontró revoloteándole detrás.
Dios
mío, ¿Estoy volando?
Volar
es tu arte,
y
te lleva a todas partes.
Vení,
nos vamos a encender
antes
del amanecer.
Alicia
se preguntó si seguiría siendo Alicia. Ahora nadie va a reconocerme, pensó. Soy
una entre muchas y todas somos la misma. Donde mirara, veía imágenes
especulares que latían en la oscuridad como lo hacían arriba las estrellas. Se
dio cuenta de que no sabía nada sobre el ciclo de vida de una luciérnaga y
deseó haber prestado más atención en Biología. Después de Peter Pan siempre
quiso volar, pero esto era distinto: estaba atrapada en otra historia cuyo
final no era cognoscible. Debería estar leyendo en vez de siendo la historia,
pensó.
Leer
y ser, una rima que da miedo.
Tenés
que hacerlo mejor si querés llegar a
tiempo.
¿Pero
adónde vamos?
Odio
que no sepamos.
Vos
seguime hasta allá arriba,
apuntale
a aquella viga.
Con
instrucciones tan escasas,
mejor
me voy a mi casa.
Despertemos
al pinzón,
que
nos cante una canción.
Yo
te guío, vos me seguís—
tarde
o temprano siempre es así.
Me
admito sin aliento y asustada
pero
tu rima suena muy forzada.
Los
versos de Wordsworth me lo otorgan:
El
mundo es demasiado con nosotras.[7]
Poco que sea nuestro hay en la
naturaleza.
Pero, ahora ya lo ves, somos una con su
pobreza.
¡Es proeza,
no pobreza! ¿Decime cuál es tu
nombre?
El juego de los deseos es mi nombre.
¡Pronto, pedí un deseo doble!
Quisiera ser Alicia, gritó Alicia.
¡Alicia rima con patricia!
no hay coincidencia más bella:
es mejor nacer patricia
que morir siendo plebeya.
Todo lo que pasa es una palabra.
¡Es absurdo!
¡Si te escuchan, no!
Después apareció un pavo real con su plumaje radiante. Dio un grito terrible y
Alicia
se acordó de Recuerdo el grito del pavo real.[8]
¿Por qué gritás?
Porque soy muy hermoso.
Con mis ojos azules arrobo la vista.
Y lloramos todos juntos, una horda de
cautivos.
Soy príncipe y palacio.
Encantado y encantador.
El principio y el fin de cada día.
Entonces salió el sol.
Alicia no estaba segura de que su deseo le
hubiera sido concedido ni por quién.
En esa luz temprana no podía distinguir si
era un bicho con alas o una chica. Se sintió sola y fría bajo el rocío húmedo.
Detrás de ella, vio una cosa que flotaba sobre el pasto como una red extraña.
Pensó que parecía un pañuelo que un ángel hubiera dejado caer, inmaterial pero
visible. Bueno, se dijo, pienso todavía, así que debo ser Alicia. El sol
empezaba a hacer que el mundo brillara alrededor. El pañuelo destellaba. Trató
de alcanzarlo, y cuando lo hizo, se desvaneció.
Esa noche, Alicia soñó con queso, nombres
propios, un ascensor, un chico triste, y errores. Había perdido el rumbo y, como no había nadie esperándola,
sintió una especie de libertad delirante y al mismo tiempo se sintió
completamente sola. Soñó que había visto a un hombre conocido, y que él la miraba
fijo.
Soñó que estaba en un edificio alto que
oscilaba con el viento.
***
¿Qué estás leyendo?
Un poema.
¿Con rima?
No.
¿Cómo sabés que es un poema si no rima?
Para ser alguien que escucha la
conversación del mundo, bastante ignorante sos.
No hace falta que insultes. Iluminame.
Alicia se quedó callada.
¿Y?
Estoy pensando.
Ya sé. Por ahora tus pensamientos son
inescrutables.
Es como el amor.
¿Qué?
Se sabe que un poema es un poema como se
sabe que el amor es amor.
Pero el amor es más probable que sea una
ilusión.
El sentimiento de amor no es una ilusión.
No es una explicación suficiente.
Los poemas no necesitan explicarse, dijo
Alicia con su voz más severa
y adulta,
y si mal no recuerdo, vos eras la que me decía
que no fuera empírica, y ahora me
pedís que explique algo que no está
dentro de los límites de la explicación. Los poemas son ejemplos de sí mismos.
¿O sea que lo reconozco cuando lo veo? Sin
un criterio objetivo, uno se hunde en la mera opinión.
Tiene que ver con cómo vibran las
palabras en más de un sentido, y en más de un
momento. Alicia deseó que la Voz la
dejara en paz.
Leeme.
Y Alicia leyó.
***
¿Tenés nombre? preguntó Alicia un día
mientras iba caminando al río.
Sí.
¿Cuál es?
Me bautizaron Goggle, pero la mayoría me dice
Gog, supongo que porque soy igual cuando voy que cuando vengo. De veras soy
incapaz de distinguir
y no tengo rumbo.
Entonces no sos humano.
Creí que eso estaba claro. ¿A cuántos
humanos invisibles conocés?
Muchos, la mayoría están en los libros.
Tu nombre, por ejemplo, está en uno de Beckett.
Él lo tomó de una fuente anterior, el
Libro del Apocalipsis. Acá está, directo de mi fuente preferida, que dicho sea
de paso inventé yo:
En
el Libro del Apocalipsis, justo antes del fin del mundo se manifiesta un poder
regido por Satanás. En el pasaje bíblico y en otra literatura apocalíptica, una
segunda fuerza hostil se une a Gog: Magog. Pero en los líbros del Génesis y de
Ezequiel, Magog parece ser el lugar del origen de Gog.[9]
¿Sos malo?, preguntó Alicia. La sola pregunta
le aceleraba el corazón.
Malo es el que mal hace. Es una
interpretación, no una condición. No es innato.
¿Pero exactamente qué sos?
Quedé atrapado en el cruce entre cerebro
y tecnología. Fue una crisis o un punto crucial.
No soy una cosa ni la otra. Por eso no podría
reconocer un poema ni si cayera en uno.
Justo después, la Voz se dio la lengua con algo.
¡Mierda!, dijo, ¡es el Clima!
Se levantó viento y sopló, arrastrando por
el suelo las últimas hojas.
***
Alicia se preguntaba si cuando fuera vieja
sería sabia.
¿La sabiduría es algo que viene solo,
junto con las canas y las arrugas?
¿Esa vieja sentada en su porche es sabia?
Sabio rima con orbitario, así que tal vez
la
sabiduría sea una forma de ver con una claridad especial, como una vidente. A
Madame Sosotris se la tiene por la mujer
más sabia de Europa. Qué nombre más tonto para una persona sabia, pensó
Alicia, no
como Atenea, que suena sabio. A Atenas le
deben haber puesto así por ella, pero una ciudad no puede ser sabia. Madame
Sosotris tira las cartas y dice:
No
encuentro
al
Hombre Ahorcado. Tema la muerte por agua.
Esto hiela el corazón de Alicia.
¿Quién es el ahorcado?
Vio con el ojo de la mente a un hombre de
pelo y ojos oscuros, y a otro con una máscara que le ponía una especie de bufanda.
Después el enmascarado tomaba una soga gruesa y se la pasaba por alrededor del
cuello al hombre oscuro. La soga se enrosca en pesadas vueltas. El hombre
oscuro tiene un aspecto complejo: resignado, inteligente, divertido, oculto,
cruel.
***
La luna estaba de eclipse. Una sombra le
cruzaba la cara. El Gato vigilaba en la nieve y veía lo que Alicia no podía
ver, también si la luna salía de atrás de la sombra. Alguien llamó y dejó un
mensaje. Alicia pensó en un contestador. Parecía una idea rara. Una máquina iba
decir siempre lo mismo sin importar lo que le preguntasen.
¿Estás ahí?
¿Estás ahí?
¿Estás ahí?
El estás
de la pregunta no era el ahí de la
máquina.
El lugar de la acción humana se desplazó,
pensó Alicia, dejando atrás actores que deambulan entre los restos de
escenarios rotos. La luna, en sombras, era parte de un escenario.
Las huellas en la nieve, el cielo
verdoso, la única estrella: escenarios. Antes de que pasara mucho tiempo alguien
iba a salir a cantar una canción de añoranza. Alicia se preguntó:
¿Qué es el amor entre las máquinas?
Cursi, dijo la Voz, y demodé. Seamos
realistas.
Hubo un silencio que se llenó de sonidos ambiente.
Por fin, Alicia exclamó:
¡Ya sé lo que sos!
¿O?
Sos un subproducto.
¿Un qué?
Un subproducto, una especie de sobra que
queda de otro proceso, como la ceniza del fuego o
la escoria cuando se remueve el cobre.
No creo que me guste la idea, suena menos
atractivo que reciclado.
Es así. No tenés más utilidad. Sos un fin
en vos mismo.
Otro silencio.
Cuidado, dijo la Voz, corrés el riesgo de
creer que no existimos ninguna de los dos.
***
Cuando Alicia se despertó todavía caía
una nieve fina, parecida a la sal, que se movía como un velo al viento. Por
alguna razón, empezó a sollozar, y sus lágrimas primero se convertieron rápidamente
en carámbanos que se derretían igual de rápido, dejando huellas casi invisibles.
Era imposible precisar la hora porque la luz era un gris pálido diáfano casi
uniforme en el que las ramas y los troncos más oscuros de los árboles parecían
suspendidos. Salvo por un cardenal que le había infligido al aire su herida reciente,
y por unos pocos abetos oscuros y desmelenados, el color parecía haberse ido. Aunque
nada de esto tenía que ver con las lágrimas de Alicia, que parecían venir de
una fuente lejana, tan remota y desconocida que se sentían como las de una
extraña. A lo mejor ni siquiera son lágrimas, pensó, sino nieve derretida. Pero
los ojos seguían derramándose desde adentro, y las lágrimas irrumpían a través
de los párpados como el desborde de una presa. Alicia se preguntó si estaría llorando
por algo que le había pasado en un sueño. Pero no pudo acordarse del sueño.
En el aire difuso algo se movió.
¿Qué te aflige?
No puedo decirlo. Es como antes.
Suele pasar. Hasta a mí.
¿Antes?
Sí, en otro tiempo, cuando había
violetas.
Ahora hay violetas.
Esas cantaban entre las piedras.
¿Violetas cantantes?
Eran de los alados.
¿Violetas aladas que cantaban?
Y hablaban también, mientras se echaban
en el camino.
¿En el camino a dónde?
No iba a ninguna parte y venía de todas
partes.
O.
¡Sí!, una suerte de O, un ámbito.
Está nevando.
Sí. La O quedó atrapada abajo del hielo,
sufre.
¿Por eso estoy llorando?
Quizás.
Parece raro llorar por una O.
No es por una O, es por la trampa, por el
hecho de que esté atrapada bajo el hielo.
Una vez fue mi boca.
¿Tu boca fue el camino de todas partes a
ninguna parte?
Sí, era la novedad de lo Ominoso. Era el
escándalo de la Omisión y la ley del Olvido.
Era el signo Obvio que se llenaba de la nada
a sí mismo, dejando en la Orilla todo lo demás.
Era un Océano cuya cuchara extraía del Origen
a la ballena para volcar su Óleo en las luces cálidas del puente donde ruge el
león.
Una vez vi ese puente.
¿Oíste rugir al león?
No.
¿Oíste al grillo?
Sí.
¿Podés describir la diferencia entre el
sonido de un león y el sonido de un grillo?
No puedo. Es inefable, está fuera del
índice lingüístico.
No podés apuntar a eso, o hacia eso.
No.
Mi boca alguna vez pudo decir la
diferencia entre el rugido del león y la canción del grillo.
¿Por mímica?
No, por venir de muchas partes y no ir a
ninguna.
¿Tu boca no era de uso exclusivo para el
sonido?
Mi boca era la ruta por la que pasaba el
sonido.
La mía también.
Sí, pero todos tus sonidos saben de dónde
vienen y a dónde van.
La nieve es como la bruma.
El rocío brumoso, brumoso.[10]
Ella
lloriqueó, lloró y se tiró del cabello.
Lo bello
está atrapado en el cabello como la o debajo del hielo.
La
única, única cosa que hice que estuvo mal.
Eso también fue antes.
¿Con las violetas aladas y parlantes?
¡Sí!
Alicia contempló los pájaros en la nieve.
Algunos eran gris oscuro con destellos blancos que se veían solo en vuelo, y
otros de un marrón tostado. Algunos tenían un matiz verde amarillento a lo
largo de las alas mientras que otros usaban capita negra. Muchos se habían trenzado
delicadamente unas franjas o hilvanado el pecho. Ella sabía algunos nombres: carbonero,
carpintero, pinzón, gorrión y copete. Un par de torcazas estaban acurrucadas en
la rama pelada de un espino. Antes de que llegara la nieve, habían empezado a
aparecer los petirrojos, y ahora estaba preocupada por ellos, preguntándose dónde
estarían y qué iban a comer con la tierra toda cubierta de nieve. Se preguntaba
cómo habían llegado a tener esos nombres: petirrojo, carbonero, carpintero,
pinzón. Pensó que aunque no supieran sus nombres, sin embargo parecían
conocerse. Saber el nombre y ser capaz de describirlos es insuficiente y
exiguo, no me acerca a ellos.
El calvario engañoso de las palabras. Elásticos
que nos acercan y a la vez nos empujan lejos. Creemos que con nombrar las cosas,
las capturamos, pero es un chino (y está a la vista cómo están atrapándonos). Chinos nos no. Así cada palabra se contrae y deshoja.
Guardada su veta dentro de su gaveta.
Todas las cosas vienen de alguna parte.
cosa, parte, todo, algo. Para desgracia, la mía, de lo inacabado.
¿Tu veta?
La tuya también.
¿Qué es lo inacabado?
Ni un qué ni un dónde ni un cómo. Y sin
embargo, una suma.
¿Muchos?
Más que muchos.
¿Muchos más que cuántos?
Cuentes lo que cuentes, es más. Las
estrellas y las no-estrellas, más: siempre es la suma más uno. Un llamado, indiferente
y peligroso pero sin vestigio de imagen, sin horizonte, separado. La implosión
defectuosa y la secuela de la visión que es el motivo por el que, acá, en la
nieve, retorno por un instante. No puedo ser recordada, así que no te alarmes.
Soy nada más que el Ojo eternamente abierto, como la boca del monje del retrato,
dentro y fuera de la cual se derrama el tiempo.
Lo que decís es imposible.
Sí, y además está contaminado. Lo
numérico es un calabozo. Ahí están los asesinos, contando y sopesando tomos y
licencias, siempre cuentan, cuentan, cuentan. Se multiplican, aunque sean
asexuados. Regresan como la culpa.
Alicia se sentó en la nieve a mirar las aves
de marzo: los estorninos, los juncos y los herrerillos.
Solamente si soy invisible, pensó, los
pájaros van a quedarse. Si me materializo se vuelan porque me tienen miedo. Solo
que no es a mí, Alicia, a la que le tienen miedo, sino al hecho de que no soy uno de ellos: no soy un pájaro. No había manera
de asegurarles a los pájaros que no tenía intención de lastimarlos, ni de
persuadirlos de que era ella la que esparcía semillas por el suelo nevado.
¿Por qué será que no conectan esos dos
hechos?, se preguntó. Lo que sabían los pájaros era de otro orden conceptual,
uno en el que las intenciones y las acciones de ella siempre eran cercenadas,
no podía discutir ni protestar, solamente quedarse atrapada en la diferencia
entre lo que era ella y lo que eran ellos.
Soy real pero incognoscible, lo que quiere
decir que no puedo ser verdadera y las formas en las que soy real resultan
confusas. Quizás, pensó, no soy nada más que un recuerdo o un sueño.
¿Y si los pájaros son reales y yo no?
El viento emitió un silbido hueco, los árboles se mecieron.
No estoy lo suficientemente presente,
gimió Alicia, y se puso a llorar otra vez. Empezaba a sospechar que no estaba
viva de veras. Empezaba a sospechar que no tenía padres sino que era una
especie de apariencia mutante o emanación con nombre propio, bastante común, que
tenía innumerables lugares de concepción. Estaba Alicia James, la hermana de
Guillermo y Enrique, y estaba Alicia B. Toklas, la amiga y amante de Gertrude
Stein. Y estaba, por supuesto, la que andaba dando vueltas por el País de las
maravillas y por quien le habían puesto su nombre. La creación de Lewis Carroll,
que no se llamaba realmente Lewis Carroll, a la que le había puesto Alicia por una nena
real que se llamaba Alicia. Soy un efecto, pensó. Soy un simple motivo a merced
del placer de alguien más, alguien que piensa que haciendo de cuenta que estoy
viva puede hacer que los pájaros comprendan algo más allá de su existencia,
pero se equivoca.
Incluso si no sos real, dijo la Voz,
podés ser verdadera.
Alicia se sobresaltó.
No quiero hablar con vos, dijo
malhumorada.
Puede ser que no te quede otra
alternativa.
Puede ser que se te acabe la batería.
Puede ser que sea una interrupción temporal,
como para una taza de té o para ir al baño a hacer pis.
La nieve se está derritiendo.
No cambies de tema.
¿Cuál es el tema?
Tu verdad en oposición a tu realidad.
Ah, cierto, dijo ella, y se escabulló en
un bosque cercano.
Una jerga incomprensible hecha de algo
encontrado en la feria americana del Idioma iba detrás de ella.
Y
así como la cadencia-repetición existe
como vivir es también contribuir
una
literatura sus creaciones todo
la
oportunidad interior de un idioma encadena
los
conceptos de una idea lingüística se encuentran
el
aprendizaje se pierde en lo cercano tanto como
en
lo libratorio de los elementos confrontados
y
vive por sí mismo cubriendo lo exterior[11]
***
A la mañana siguiente, cuando Alicia se
despertó, era primavera. Lo supo no solo porque la nieve se había derretido,
sino porque había alteraciones por todas partes: bajo las hojas empapadas del
otoño, los ínfimos comienzos: protuberancias oscuras y rojizas y granos de un verde
vivo justo sobre la superficie de la tierra blanda. Y en los tallos de la rosa
espinosa, diminutos nódulos enrollados. Las ardillas se perseguían ejecutando
vueltas acrobáticas imposibles en el pasto color ámbar y los pájaros, casi
siempre silenciosos, habían empezado a cantar.
Debe ser Abril, pensó.
Sí.
Quando
aqueste abril con pluvia
la
sed de marzo abaje de raíz
hinchiendo
cada vena el néctar del suyo viento
mismo
del que virtú es engendrada flor
cuando
el zéfiro escancia con dulce aliento[12]
¿En qué idioma estás hablando?, preguntó Alicia.
Castellano.
Pero no entiendo casi ninguna palabra.
El idioma cambia. Las palabras mutan y se
hunden en el tremedal.
Tremedal, por ejemplo. ¿Qué es un tremedal? Rima con palabras agrestes
como gredal y robledal.
El tremedal
es un terreno húmedo, pantanoso como una ciénaga. Estar ahí viene a
querer decir estar en problemas.
¿Como empantanarse?, preguntó Alicia.
Exacto.
Exacto.
A veces creo que el lenguaje es tan
hermoso y enigmático como la naturaleza y que, no importa cuánto aprendamos,
nunca nos va a entregar todas sus sorpresas y secretos.
No hubo respuesta para esta estimación
repentina.
¿Hola? ¿Hola?
Pasaron dos chicos en bicicleta, llamándose
a los gritos con sus voces infantiles.
***
Alicia estaba sentada en el pasto.
Alrededor de ella había un desparramo de cabecitas amarillas, como botones
sobre tallos delgados, cabeceando levemente sobre la hierba.
Dientes de león, dijo la Voz.
Ya lo sé, dijo Alicia.
¿De dónde habrán sacado ese nombre tan raro?
La etimología puede ayudar, se puede
rastrear una palabra desde su origen. En inglés es Dandelion, que no viene de un dandy como Fred Astaire, viene de
diente de león, que en francés es dent de
lion,
y antes de eso, del Latín.
Alicia estuvo unos minutos en silencio.
Trataba de encontrar una conexión entre
el diente de un león y las cabecitas amarillas de las flores.
No encontró ningún vínculo.
No es la cabeza de la flor, Alicia. Es la
forma de la hoja: dentada, como un diente.
Y la Voz rugió de autocomplacencia.
Alicia se sintió tan edificada como
molesta, y cambió de tema por otro que la Voz no pudiera contestar con tanta celeridad.
¿Un diente de león es un hecho?
No, es un objeto.
¿Los objetos no son hechos?
Que hay objetos llamados dientes de león
es un hecho.
Ya veo. ¿Y el color, amarillo, es un
hecho?
El amarillo es un color, un atributo, no
un hecho. Pero que los dientes de león son amarillos, por lo menos hasta que se
vuelven grises y se les cae todo el pelo, es un hecho.
Alicia asimiló eso. Parecía tener que ver
con las oraciones.
¿Y las cosas que pasan son hechos?
No exactamente. Los eventos se orientan
por una suerte de extrapolación. Fuera de todas las posibles relaciones entre
los datos del mundo perceptible —los dientes de león—, creamos eventos: son las
bisagras entre la inmediatez del presente, lo que pasó y lo que está por venir.
Pero eso no es muy preciso, dijo Alicia,
sabiendo que al contradecir a la Voz estaba buscándose problemas. De hecho, el
viento empezó a levantarse.
Los eventos ocurren en el tiempo. Pero
por la forma en que lo dijiste, sonó como si los inventáramos, cuando hay eventos
sobre los que no tenemos ningún control. Los terremotos, las tormentas y los
accidentes fatales en las rutas, por ejemplo.
Cuando Alicia hizo esta observación, la
multitud de dientes de león asintió y se sacudió alborotada.
Creo que estás hablando de historias,
siguió diciendo Alicia, mientras se levantaba del pasto y caminaba bastante
apurada colina arriba. Pensaba que había una tormenta en el horizonte. Pero un
evento no es una historia, las historias agregan eventos a los eventos como si los abrocharan o ensartaran
cuentas en un cordón.
¡Horizontes eventuales! Gritó la Voz.
¿Qué?
¡Horizontes eventuales! ¡El límite del
espacio-tiempo! ¡Las grandes fauces del universo!
Hubo truenos acompañando estas
declaraciones contundentes.
No estoy buscando nada, dijo Alicia desconsolada, y nada de lo que digo se
ve, excepto con el ojo de la mente, sea lo que sea eso.
Hasta ahora, nada es lo que parece ni
parece lo que es. De veras, preferiría ser un gato y andar trotando por ahí con
un pájaro en la boca con la cabeza colgando y las plumas caídas.
Es lindo ser un gato, digo el Gato apareciendo.
Te lo aseguro. Ser gato significa que se
puede ir de la violencia al afecto sin
transición discernible.
Mato, ronroneo, como, duermo.
Excelentes variaciones sobre el tema de
estar vivo, si bien no precisamente de ser sensible.
Te las recomiendo como una cura para tu humanidad.
Te las recomiendo como una cura para tu humanidad.
Pero me gusta ser humana, dijo Alicia, y
después agregó: o algo así.
Además, no tengo elección en ese tema.
Pero claro, yo no soy exactamente humana,
soy una ficción. Lo que por un lado complica
un poco más
las cosas y por el otro las simplifica
mucho.
Sin embargo, dijo el Gato, sos la
emanación de un humano, eso te hace más humana
que no humana.
No, dijo Alicia, otra vez desconsolada,
soy solamente palabras.
Eso es un hecho y al respecto no hay nada
que hacer.
Pero Alicia, dijo el Gato, ¿acaso los hechos
no son también materia de interpretación?
Tal vez no seas solo palabras.
Alicia se quedó callada un rato largo, lo
suficiente para que el Gato se lavara la cara lamiéndose las patas y
frotándoselas, primero de un lado y después del otro.
Ay, no sé cuáles son los hechos, dijo por
fin Alicia.
Alguna vez pensé que un hecho era una
cosa, sustancial e irrefutable, como una moneda o una mesa, pero ya no estoy
segura.
Y como el Gato no dijo nada en respuesta
al exabrupto, agregó:
Sé que los hechos tienen que ver con la
evidencia.
Cuando la gente dice cuáles son los
hechos parece que dijeran algo sobre la realidad.
El Gato desapareció en la sombra de una
mata de rosas. Había perdido el interés. Al Gato
no le interesaban los hechos ni la realidad.
Alicia volvió a su libro. Deseó que
hubiese alguien lo bastante sabio e informado como para ayudarla con los hechos
y la realidad. Si aparecía esa persona, entonces, solo entonces, iba a poder ayudarla con el
problema todavía más terrible de la verdad.
***
Un día, Alicia estaba yéndose en un tren de
la CiudadCiudad.
Cuando el tren salía del túnel del
desasosiego
vio pasar un mensaje en un edificio:
NO OS CONMUEVE A CUANTOS PASÁIS POR EL
CAMINO
Qué cosa más rara para decirles
a los pasajeros, pensó Alicia.
No
os conmueve
¿Qué no me conmueve a mí o a nosotros?
En el camino de vuelta a la CiudadCiudad,
volvió a ver el cartel:
¿No
os conmueve a cuantos pasáis por el camino? [13]
---- Para
Willa.
Versión en castellano de Sandra Toro.
Versión en castellano de Sandra Toro.
ALICE IN THE WASTELAND
Alice was beginning to get tired
sitting
with spring rain
on the bank
in forgetful snow. She thought,
It is too dark to see anything.
Then she began to wonder
about the meaning of anything
and the meaning of nothing
and in what ways any and no
were alike.
She said to herself, I cannot see anything
and then, I can see nothing
and thought they amounted to the same thing
and wondered
why two ways of saying the same thing
were needed.
If only, she began, and fell
asleep.
sitting
with spring rain
on the bank
in forgetful snow. She thought,
It is too dark to see anything.
Then she began to wonder
about the meaning of anything
and the meaning of nothing
and in what ways any and no
were alike.
She said to herself, I cannot see anything
and then, I can see nothing
and thought they amounted to the same thing
and wondered
why two ways of saying the same thing
were needed.
If only, she began, and fell
asleep.
***
It is soiled, possibly bloody, the dark.
At night there are cries
of the suddenly dying: a rabbit, a hen.
The fox went out on a chilly night.
He prayed for the moon to give him light.
The tune leaked into the air like ink
into paper. In her dream, Alice
is falling downstairs
into a tub of words.
At night there are cries
of the suddenly dying: a rabbit, a hen.
The fox went out on a chilly night.
He prayed for the moon to give him light.
The tune leaked into the air like ink
into paper. In her dream, Alice
is falling downstairs
into a tub of words.
The thing is pushed
forward. It is cold, nonsymbolic.
So, nameless as, say, animals are.
Unless.
These stray unlessnesses
avert attention. They
give solace to it.
But it remains, a nameless thing
cordoned into consciousness
as if
being could withstand it.
forward. It is cold, nonsymbolic.
So, nameless as, say, animals are.
Unless.
These stray unlessnesses
avert attention. They
give solace to it.
But it remains, a nameless thing
cordoned into consciousness
as if
being could withstand it.
The nomenclature of the
not living is
an it. It, said the soldier, torturing his captive,
it it it.
So let us have the White Rabbit.
Let us have this hurrying near.
Let us, among the
constancy
of living
and its
images
begin.
not living is
an it. It, said the soldier, torturing his captive,
it it it.
So let us have the White Rabbit.
Let us have this hurrying near.
Let us, among the
constancy
of living
and its
images
begin.
***
I am broke! says the White Rabbit, hurrying to the
bank.
The White Rabbit, in the red,
has no redress.
Naked as a jaybird, the White Rabbit lamented, soon to be a jailbird.
bank.
The White Rabbit, in the red,
has no redress.
Naked as a jaybird, the White Rabbit lamented, soon to be a jailbird.
But what is the color of chaos? Alice suddenly asked.
Gray, the White Rabbit replied, looking up at the sky,
like a sock.
But there are always two socks, and only one chaos, Alice said.
Colors and numbers are not of the same kind, answered the Rabbit
somewhat impatiently, almost knowingly.
How did you find a gray sock in the sky? Alice continued.
The cloud’s contour, don’t you see?
No, Alice replied. I see only a gray cloud. I do not see a sock.
But then, she added, perhaps I live in a gray sock, perhaps this hole is a
sock into which I have fallen.
The White Rabbit disappeared as Alice was considering this possibility,
so she was left without a rejoinder, in the solitude of conjecture.
Gray, the White Rabbit replied, looking up at the sky,
like a sock.
But there are always two socks, and only one chaos, Alice said.
Colors and numbers are not of the same kind, answered the Rabbit
somewhat impatiently, almost knowingly.
How did you find a gray sock in the sky? Alice continued.
The cloud’s contour, don’t you see?
No, Alice replied. I see only a gray cloud. I do not see a sock.
But then, she added, perhaps I live in a gray sock, perhaps this hole is a
sock into which I have fallen.
The White Rabbit disappeared as Alice was considering this possibility,
so she was left without a rejoinder, in the solitude of conjecture.
Alice thinks something about eliminating the desire for revenge.
Alice was caught in the radiance of the not yet knowable.
This, she thinks, drifting, must be
the feeling of being young.
She could not say
in the radiance of the not yet knowable
which seemed, now, a reason for youthful sorrow.
This, she thinks, drifting, must be
the feeling of being young.
She could not say
in the radiance of the not yet knowable
which seemed, now, a reason for youthful sorrow.
***
Why do shadows get longer? Alice asked no one in particular. It must
have to do with the angle of the light, she answered herself, but this answer
did not make her feel confident. The question lingered anyway and
was added to by another. Does everyone know how to tell the difference
between a shadow and a thing? The thin trunks of the trees had bent and
crossed over the path.
Could one climb a shadow? she wondered.
Some can, came the answer out of the evening.
Who are you?
Who or what? came the answer.
Don’t answer a question with another question, Alice said crossly.
Why not?
It isn’t right, she said, not knowing why not.
A right angle, commented the Voice.
A right angel? Alice couldn’t quite hear.
Yes, a right angel is something that can climb a shadow.
At that moment the shadows of the trees disappeared.
Alice continued down the path. She said the word path aloud.
She then wondered if a path was related to pathetic.
Pathos, she heard in the distance, somewhere above.
What is that? she asked.
A bear.
A what?
A bear, an emotional bear.
On that hill? That dark shape?
No, that is a shadow.
And that?
A bird.
What sort of bird?
An eagle.
I don’t think so, said Alice. I think it is
a bunch of brown leaves skimmed by light.
The leaves flew away, their wings clutching the failing day.
have to do with the angle of the light, she answered herself, but this answer
did not make her feel confident. The question lingered anyway and
was added to by another. Does everyone know how to tell the difference
between a shadow and a thing? The thin trunks of the trees had bent and
crossed over the path.
Could one climb a shadow? she wondered.
Some can, came the answer out of the evening.
Who are you?
Who or what? came the answer.
Don’t answer a question with another question, Alice said crossly.
Why not?
It isn’t right, she said, not knowing why not.
A right angle, commented the Voice.
A right angel? Alice couldn’t quite hear.
Yes, a right angel is something that can climb a shadow.
At that moment the shadows of the trees disappeared.
Alice continued down the path. She said the word path aloud.
She then wondered if a path was related to pathetic.
Pathos, she heard in the distance, somewhere above.
What is that? she asked.
A bear.
A what?
A bear, an emotional bear.
On that hill? That dark shape?
No, that is a shadow.
And that?
A bird.
What sort of bird?
An eagle.
I don’t think so, said Alice. I think it is
a bunch of brown leaves skimmed by light.
The leaves flew away, their wings clutching the failing day.
***
Alice had spent most of that day reading.
It had been raining, more or less.
The book she was reading was absorbing.
It absorbed her, so she did not think about the rain
but let it fall on and around and beyond and outside of her.
The pages of the book became wetter and darker until she could hardly turn them
without tearing off a soggy slice.
When she finished the book, she felt lonely.
Why can’t we see time, she wondered,
the way we can see space?
The book had carved another time into time.
That isn’t true, she thought inwardly,
one cannot carve time.
No, but
perhaps, came the insolent, instructing Voice, one can crave it.
It had been raining, more or less.
The book she was reading was absorbing.
It absorbed her, so she did not think about the rain
but let it fall on and around and beyond and outside of her.
The pages of the book became wetter and darker until she could hardly turn them
without tearing off a soggy slice.
When she finished the book, she felt lonely.
Why can’t we see time, she wondered,
the way we can see space?
The book had carved another time into time.
That isn’t true, she thought inwardly,
one cannot carve time.
No, but
perhaps, came the insolent, instructing Voice, one can crave it.
Crave rhymes with grave, Alice said after some moments.
I know, the Voice answered.
Alice continued down the path; she did not think the Voice friendly,
partly because of what it said, and partly because
it was attached to invisibility.
Are you a ghost? she asked suddenly.
Maybe.
If you are, then whose?
No one you knew.
How did you die?
I don’t remember.
Alice was silent for a long time.
Are you in Heaven?
For response, a great rushing sound, and the tops of the trees
began to thrash back and forth as if violently weeping and there seemed
to be water pounding over itself like a huge crowd trying to escape
through a narrow hall.
Alice decided this demonstration was cheaply
cinematic and that she would not pay any
further attention, but would take refuge in
another book. She sat down under a tree and read:
I know, the Voice answered.
Alice continued down the path; she did not think the Voice friendly,
partly because of what it said, and partly because
it was attached to invisibility.
Are you a ghost? she asked suddenly.
Maybe.
If you are, then whose?
No one you knew.
How did you die?
I don’t remember.
Alice was silent for a long time.
Are you in Heaven?
For response, a great rushing sound, and the tops of the trees
began to thrash back and forth as if violently weeping and there seemed
to be water pounding over itself like a huge crowd trying to escape
through a narrow hall.
Alice decided this demonstration was cheaply
cinematic and that she would not pay any
further attention, but would take refuge in
another book. She sat down under a tree and read:
April is the cruellest month . . .
She stopped and considered what an odd observation this was. Alice had thought a
lot about the idea that
some things happen seemingly free from anyone’s volition at all.
She continued to read, hoping to find out why April is cruel.
You don’t get it, the Voice said in a loud whisper into her left ear.
You are rude and abrupt, Alice snapped.
It isn’t intent, it is a comparison.
What is?
April’s cruelty.
A comparison to what?
To the other eleven months. It is like the unkindest cut.
You aren’t making sense.
She stopped and considered what an odd observation this was. Alice had thought a
lot about the idea that
some things happen seemingly free from anyone’s volition at all.
She continued to read, hoping to find out why April is cruel.
You don’t get it, the Voice said in a loud whisper into her left ear.
You are rude and abrupt, Alice snapped.
It isn’t intent, it is a comparison.
What is?
April’s cruelty.
A comparison to what?
To the other eleven months. It is like the unkindest cut.
You aren’t making sense.
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell.
This speech sounded like a recording.
One cut out of many, one month out of many. The month, April,
is most cruel; the cut, Brutus of Caesar, the unkindest. Get it?
Alice picked up her book and continued to read. An orange
butterfly flew across the page, and Alice thought it resembled
an autumn leaf falling gently through the air’s currents.
That’s sentimental, commented the Voice, adding,
and sentiment is a failure of feeling, or pathos, as we were
speaking about earlier.
Alice decided to ignore this remark altogether.
The butterfly continued to skim the surface of the air. It seemed
a kind of breathing machine that made
silence visible. She read
. . . Breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
One cut out of many, one month out of many. The month, April,
is most cruel; the cut, Brutus of Caesar, the unkindest. Get it?
Alice picked up her book and continued to read. An orange
butterfly flew across the page, and Alice thought it resembled
an autumn leaf falling gently through the air’s currents.
That’s sentimental, commented the Voice, adding,
and sentiment is a failure of feeling, or pathos, as we were
speaking about earlier.
Alice decided to ignore this remark altogether.
The butterfly continued to skim the surface of the air. It seemed
a kind of breathing machine that made
silence visible. She read
. . . Breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Alice found this depressing and inaccurate. She loved lilacs,
especially when she walked to the corner and saw them first at
the local Korean market. Well, she didn’t so much see them as
smell them, and that changed the aspect of everything.
The land, she continued to herself, is never
“dead” but resting.
If you insist on this kind of truth logic, you will never be able to
read poems.
Alice shut the book. She found it distressing that the Voice could read her mind.
So the invisible gets to speak directly to the invisible; they are audible to each
other, and so the Voice is listening in, she thought, to my thoughts. She had
learned that it isn’t
nice to listen in on other people’s private conversations, and so the fact that the
Voice could
hear her talking to herself made her mad.
Don’t be so prissy and pious, said the Voice, it bodes unwell for your future.
You need to be flexible about rules. They change. Cell phones have changed the
nature of what it means to listen in. Now it is a mere commonplace.
Yes, but you hear only half of the conversation, said Alice.
Picky picky, the Voice responded in a high singsong.
Alice decided to change the subject.
Can you hear everyone’s mind, or just mine?
I tune in and out, depending.
On what?
On whether or not I am amused. Of course, there is often severe interference,
and your thoughts get mingled with others.
Really! This idea frightened Alice, although she could not have said why
exactly. How many others?
Dozens, hundreds, thousands, the Voice said with a weary sigh.
What does that sound like?
The noise of history.
Do you mean you can hear voices from the past?
All the chitchat of the world.
In every language?
All. Plus the animals.
especially when she walked to the corner and saw them first at
the local Korean market. Well, she didn’t so much see them as
smell them, and that changed the aspect of everything.
The land, she continued to herself, is never
“dead” but resting.
If you insist on this kind of truth logic, you will never be able to
read poems.
Alice shut the book. She found it distressing that the Voice could read her mind.
So the invisible gets to speak directly to the invisible; they are audible to each
other, and so the Voice is listening in, she thought, to my thoughts. She had
learned that it isn’t
nice to listen in on other people’s private conversations, and so the fact that the
Voice could
hear her talking to herself made her mad.
Don’t be so prissy and pious, said the Voice, it bodes unwell for your future.
You need to be flexible about rules. They change. Cell phones have changed the
nature of what it means to listen in. Now it is a mere commonplace.
Yes, but you hear only half of the conversation, said Alice.
Picky picky, the Voice responded in a high singsong.
Alice decided to change the subject.
Can you hear everyone’s mind, or just mine?
I tune in and out, depending.
On what?
On whether or not I am amused. Of course, there is often severe interference,
and your thoughts get mingled with others.
Really! This idea frightened Alice, although she could not have said why
exactly. How many others?
Dozens, hundreds, thousands, the Voice said with a weary sigh.
What does that sound like?
The noise of history.
Do you mean you can hear voices from the past?
All the chitchat of the world.
In every language?
All. Plus the animals.
But you can’t understand anything with that kind of racket, Alice said
sympathetically.
I try to tune out, but it isn’t possible. It’s surround sound.
You need a remote.
Indeed. I ordered one, but it never came. They sent it to the wrong
address, I think to Mars.
Mars? The planet?
No, the God of War. He always gets my stuff.
How annoying. Do you have a similar address?
Just then a siren went off, climbing slowly up and then slowly back down.
I can’t hear you, Alice called. I’ve lost you.
sympathetically.
I try to tune out, but it isn’t possible. It’s surround sound.
You need a remote.
Indeed. I ordered one, but it never came. They sent it to the wrong
address, I think to Mars.
Mars? The planet?
No, the God of War. He always gets my stuff.
How annoying. Do you have a similar address?
Just then a siren went off, climbing slowly up and then slowly back down.
I can’t hear you, Alice called. I’ve lost you.
Alice began to read again, but the words came out
confused and intermittent. Her mind interfered.
confused and intermittent. Her mind interfered.
with dried
without pictures or conversations take the laundry in
over the Starnbergersee
what is that?
shower of rain for the hot day the pleasure of making
water the roses
in the colonnade in the sunlight I have never seen a colonnade
of getting up with pink
I hate pink
into the Hofgarten.
without pictures or conversations take the laundry in
over the Starnbergersee
what is that?
shower of rain for the hot day the pleasure of making
water the roses
in the colonnade in the sunlight I have never seen a colonnade
of getting up with pink
I hate pink
into the Hofgarten.
in that, in that
for an hour Hofgarten? Looking into the distance.
for an hour Hofgarten? Looking into the distance.
out of the way
on a sled
in the mountains
of the night
in the winter.
on a sled
in the mountains
of the night
in the winter.
Roots, branches, rubbish.
At this time it all seems
unnatural
kiu
At this time it all seems
unnatural
kiu
kiu
la la
la la
***
Alice gazed down at the ground, covered in wet multicolored leaves.
It had been raining leaves all day.
You probably should fill out a form.
Why?
Because by responding you will be disclosing to the merchant that you meet these
criteria.
What criteria?
For understanding that which makes no sense for you.
What are they?
They are, for example, what crosses the path at the
place of form.
Alice found this inscrutable. You mean if I walk along the path and come to another
path that crosses it, that is where form is?
Sort of.
Alice walked on some way until she came to a path that crossed the one she was on.
I do not see any form, she said.
You are too empirical.
But I have no empire, Alice replied truthfully.
That may be, but do you have permanent interests?
Alice had lost the argument; it seemed to progress without clear incentive, like
lightning.
What the thunder said, the Voice roared and then again roared from a farther place.
Wait, Alice protested, you are getting away from me. Can we back up?
Nothing can go in reverse, unless you are a machine, shouted the Voice.
I can retrace my steps, Alice said.
That is not the same as going back in time, which is nostalgia.
Nostalgia sounds like something for which you take a drug.
Nostalgia is a drug.
Jug jug jug jug, came a sound from the pond.
You need to study the difference between things as
they are and things as they might be.
But no one can predict the future.
Pick a card, any card.
Before her, the landscape changed into a huge deck of cards swaying and floating,
in radiant black, red, and gold.
Alice reached for a card and turned it over. It was the Ace of Spades.
As she did this, the other cards spun away, and she found herself standing with a
spade in her hand, like a farmer.
Just then a Cat came out of the brush.
Alice of Spades, it said, and smiled broadly.
Now you are the most powerful card in the deck.
NOT! Came a roar. I am! I am!
The Cat turned slowly toward the chorus; Alice nearly dropped her spade.
Suddenly, a procession of Ings and Eens and Acks came forward, marching.
The All spoke at once.
I All-Powerful! I Anointed! I the Decider!
Put down your arm or I
will arrest you!
Pay no attention, said the Cat, it is only an army of benighted believers who think if
it plays its cards right, it will win.
Off with your head! shouted the All.
Fine, said the Cat, I have many lives to spare, and disappeared.
Off with her head! shouted the All.
Alice started digging furiously with
her spade and jumped into the hole just as the
All charged at
her, calling: Ready or Not! Ready or Not! Here All comes!
It had been raining leaves all day.
You probably should fill out a form.
Why?
Because by responding you will be disclosing to the merchant that you meet these
criteria.
What criteria?
For understanding that which makes no sense for you.
What are they?
They are, for example, what crosses the path at the
place of form.
Alice found this inscrutable. You mean if I walk along the path and come to another
path that crosses it, that is where form is?
Sort of.
Alice walked on some way until she came to a path that crossed the one she was on.
I do not see any form, she said.
You are too empirical.
But I have no empire, Alice replied truthfully.
That may be, but do you have permanent interests?
Alice had lost the argument; it seemed to progress without clear incentive, like
lightning.
What the thunder said, the Voice roared and then again roared from a farther place.
Wait, Alice protested, you are getting away from me. Can we back up?
Nothing can go in reverse, unless you are a machine, shouted the Voice.
I can retrace my steps, Alice said.
That is not the same as going back in time, which is nostalgia.
Nostalgia sounds like something for which you take a drug.
Nostalgia is a drug.
Jug jug jug jug, came a sound from the pond.
You need to study the difference between things as
they are and things as they might be.
But no one can predict the future.
Pick a card, any card.
Before her, the landscape changed into a huge deck of cards swaying and floating,
in radiant black, red, and gold.
Alice reached for a card and turned it over. It was the Ace of Spades.
As she did this, the other cards spun away, and she found herself standing with a
spade in her hand, like a farmer.
Just then a Cat came out of the brush.
Alice of Spades, it said, and smiled broadly.
Now you are the most powerful card in the deck.
NOT! Came a roar. I am! I am!
The Cat turned slowly toward the chorus; Alice nearly dropped her spade.
Suddenly, a procession of Ings and Eens and Acks came forward, marching.
The All spoke at once.
I All-Powerful! I Anointed! I the Decider!
Put down your arm or I
will arrest you!
Pay no attention, said the Cat, it is only an army of benighted believers who think if
it plays its cards right, it will win.
Off with your head! shouted the All.
Fine, said the Cat, I have many lives to spare, and disappeared.
Off with her head! shouted the All.
Alice started digging furiously with
her spade and jumped into the hole just as the
All charged at
her, calling: Ready or Not! Ready or Not! Here All comes!
But Alice was far out of reach.
***
One day, Alice is reading about another Alice.
What haunted her in this wasteland vision may have had to do with a sense of
deprivation, of there not being enough love in her own family to go around.
What haunted her in this wasteland vision may have had to do with a sense of
deprivation, of there not being enough love in her own family to go around.
Does love have a quantity, like acres and dollars? How peculiar.
She imagined
a household with love moving outward
and not reaching the far corners.
This other Alice lay in the unloved space
like a discarded doll.
Why, she wondered, do people lose interest in some things and not in others?
They die, said the Voice dryly.
You again.
Have you lost interest in me?
I think so.
You think so? You think enough to know or not to know so.
Thinking and knowing are not the same, Alice said.
In fact, she added bravely, thinking is almost the opposite of knowing.
Don’t be pretentious.
I am not pretending, I am thinking aloud, and that is the way I come to know.
Then thinking, in your view, is a prelude to knowledge?
Prelude is a lovely word, Alice commented.
Is it?
Yes, it has a feeling to it, as if in the uncertainty of the things there were a
mysterious beauty, as if only one instrument were playing, only one bird singing.
Dawn?
Yes, the dawn’s early light.
No comment. Do you play with dolls?
Yes, I have many of them, and I make them do things and say things.
Did they always agree to this doing and saying?
Of course. They have no choice in the matter, since I am the one who is playing.
Do you play with soldiers too?
Girls don’t play with soldiers.
Why not?
A doll was on the floor, facedown.
There was a rip in her arm and another on her ankle.
Alice had wrapped blue bandages around both these wounds.
Because soldiers take orders to kill.
Just then a huge limb of a tree fell to the ground, making a terrible thud.
The Voice, now far off, called
She imagined
a household with love moving outward
and not reaching the far corners.
This other Alice lay in the unloved space
like a discarded doll.
Why, she wondered, do people lose interest in some things and not in others?
They die, said the Voice dryly.
You again.
Have you lost interest in me?
I think so.
You think so? You think enough to know or not to know so.
Thinking and knowing are not the same, Alice said.
In fact, she added bravely, thinking is almost the opposite of knowing.
Don’t be pretentious.
I am not pretending, I am thinking aloud, and that is the way I come to know.
Then thinking, in your view, is a prelude to knowledge?
Prelude is a lovely word, Alice commented.
Is it?
Yes, it has a feeling to it, as if in the uncertainty of the things there were a
mysterious beauty, as if only one instrument were playing, only one bird singing.
Dawn?
Yes, the dawn’s early light.
No comment. Do you play with dolls?
Yes, I have many of them, and I make them do things and say things.
Did they always agree to this doing and saying?
Of course. They have no choice in the matter, since I am the one who is playing.
Do you play with soldiers too?
Girls don’t play with soldiers.
Why not?
A doll was on the floor, facedown.
There was a rip in her arm and another on her ankle.
Alice had wrapped blue bandages around both these wounds.
Because soldiers take orders to kill.
Just then a huge limb of a tree fell to the ground, making a terrible thud.
The Voice, now far off, called
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.
On the darkening green.
***
What, Alice wondered, is the difference between
adventure and dementia? They
sound so much alike.
Not really, the Voice replied, at least not so as I can tell. It’s only that
middle syllable, the
men and the ven.
Bob Dylan makes those kinds of rhymes all the time.
Who?
He’s a singer.
Never heard of him.
You will, Alice said dryly.
I’d quote you some lines, but permissions are prohibitive. I suppose
I could sing to you
and then no one would know. She sang.
Bugs illumined in the setting sun, minute integers of life.
adventure and dementia? They
sound so much alike.
Not really, the Voice replied, at least not so as I can tell. It’s only that
middle syllable, the
men and the ven.
Bob Dylan makes those kinds of rhymes all the time.
Who?
He’s a singer.
Never heard of him.
You will, Alice said dryly.
I’d quote you some lines, but permissions are prohibitive. I suppose
I could sing to you
and then no one would know. She sang.
Bugs illumined in the setting sun, minute integers of life.
***
As she went along, Alice felt
the heavy gate of night close behind her. She
wondered if it were locked, and if
she would ever
find her way back through it to daylight. Ahead,
she could see very little.
She lay down on the damp ground and looked up.
Stars pulsed like tiny flares reflected in a sea, illuminating nothing.
Everything is suspended but hanging, she thought.
She pulled at a damp blade of grass.
Nowhere-never droned around her
and blew on her skin.
A spray
of notes, or motes, issued into the air.
A nervous watery breath
lifted stray hairs
and set them out on the grass.
Perhaps, she thought, I am dissolving.
She began to hum. The Moon appeared,
exhaling a trail of thin cloud.
I am glad to have your company, Alice said.
And I am glad to have yours, answered the Moon.
You are entire, Alice said with a trace of envy.
It was ever thus, answered the Moon glumly.
But you wax and wane.
Yes, wax and wane and wax and wane ad infinitum. Nothing changes.
But everything changes, depending on whether you are only a thin curl in the sky or
a great luminous ball.
Changes for you, maybe, but I remain the same, a monocle staring down while the
sun comes and goes.
But the sun doesn’t move, you do.
Whatever, said the Moon. You go around the sun and I follow along like a dog on
the heavy gate of night close behind her. She
wondered if it were locked, and if
she would ever
find her way back through it to daylight. Ahead,
she could see very little.
She lay down on the damp ground and looked up.
Stars pulsed like tiny flares reflected in a sea, illuminating nothing.
Everything is suspended but hanging, she thought.
She pulled at a damp blade of grass.
Nowhere-never droned around her
and blew on her skin.
A spray
of notes, or motes, issued into the air.
A nervous watery breath
lifted stray hairs
and set them out on the grass.
Perhaps, she thought, I am dissolving.
She began to hum. The Moon appeared,
exhaling a trail of thin cloud.
I am glad to have your company, Alice said.
And I am glad to have yours, answered the Moon.
You are entire, Alice said with a trace of envy.
It was ever thus, answered the Moon glumly.
But you wax and wane.
Yes, wax and wane and wax and wane ad infinitum. Nothing changes.
But everything changes, depending on whether you are only a thin curl in the sky or
a great luminous ball.
Changes for you, maybe, but I remain the same, a monocle staring down while the
sun comes and goes.
But the sun doesn’t move, you do.
Whatever, said the Moon. You go around the sun and I follow along like a dog on
a leash. Without you and the sun, I am a paltry gray rock.
It is a terrible case of codependence.
You have very low self-esteem, Alice said. Everyone here thinks the world of you;
you are always mentioned in poems and songs.
I know. It makes me cringe with shame. Moon this moon that, lovers and
moonlight, nocturnes and sonnets. It’s a total cliché. Stick an r in and you get
moron.
Alice stood up, casting a long black shadow.
Look how tall I am!
I will never be tall, answered the Moon, and disappeared behind a heavy cloud,
erasing Alice’s shadow and sending her back into total dark.
An owl hoo hooed from a distant tree.
Alice felt afraid.
It is a terrible case of codependence.
You have very low self-esteem, Alice said. Everyone here thinks the world of you;
you are always mentioned in poems and songs.
I know. It makes me cringe with shame. Moon this moon that, lovers and
moonlight, nocturnes and sonnets. It’s a total cliché. Stick an r in and you get
moron.
Alice stood up, casting a long black shadow.
Look how tall I am!
I will never be tall, answered the Moon, and disappeared behind a heavy cloud,
erasing Alice’s shadow and sending her back into total dark.
An owl hoo hooed from a distant tree.
Alice felt afraid.
What’s it to you if I live in a pit?
What’s it to you if I cry?
What does it matter if I never get fatter?
What’s it to you if I die?
What’s it to you if I cry?
What does it matter if I never get fatter?
What’s it to you if I die?
What’s it to you if I fall in a ditch?
What’s it to you if I’m sad?
What does it matter if I never get rich?
What do you care if I’m mad?
What’s it to you if I’m sad?
What does it matter if I never get rich?
What do you care if I’m mad?
This ditty seemed to come out of nowhere.
What do you care if I’m far off or near?
What’s it to you if I’m weary?
Does it matter at all if I’m caught in a trap?
If I’m a lunar moth or a fairy?
What’s it to you if I’m weary?
Does it matter at all if I’m caught in a trap?
If I’m a lunar moth or a fairy?
Alice spun around and fell down.
I do care! She cried, I do!
Is that true? You do?
Yes, tell me where you are.
I am here in your ear.
In my ear?
She touched her left ear.
Ow! Ow!
Sorry, Alice said. What are you?
I do care! She cried, I do!
Is that true? You do?
Yes, tell me where you are.
I am here in your ear.
In my ear?
She touched her left ear.
Ow! Ow!
Sorry, Alice said. What are you?
What do you care if I’m a flea or a gnat?
Or a very small, excellent spider?
I am not a mouse or a rat
and I don’t know what rhymes with spider.
Or a very small, excellent spider?
I am not a mouse or a rat
and I don’t know what rhymes with spider.
That is called an exact rhyme, Alice said.
Is it now? How?
Because you used the same word twice: spider and spider.
Just then a bluish light, no bigger than a drop of water, flitted in front of her.
You’re a firefly! Alice exclaimed.
Is it now? How?
Because you used the same word twice: spider and spider.
Just then a bluish light, no bigger than a drop of water, flitted in front of her.
You’re a firefly! Alice exclaimed.
Firefly! Firefly! Burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame my fearful symmetry.
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame my fearful symmetry.
You’re stealing from Blake
It’s not a mistake
I’m a terrible fake.
I’m a terrible fake.
I’m jealous of his Tyger
always burning brighter.
always burning brighter.
All I do is come and go—
I’m an illusion, not much show.
I’m an illusion, not much show.
You and the Moon seem to be equally dissatisfied. You should be glad to be such a
magical luminous creature. I have no natural light.
magical luminous creature. I have no natural light.
You have turbines, and ignitions galore,
I’m only an intermittent spark of allure.
I come on for an instant, neither bulb nor orb,
a mere flitting mite with a poor dim light.
I’m only an intermittent spark of allure.
I come on for an instant, neither bulb nor orb,
a mere flitting mite with a poor dim light.
As it sang, the firefly moved off into the distance.
Good-bye, I must fly!
Want to come?
Alice and I
make a fabulous twosome!
Want to come?
Alice and I
make a fabulous twosome!
Alice wondered what the firefly might mean; was she meant to race after it? Already
it was only a blinking spot in the dark. But then, in a rush, she found herself beside
it, hovering.
it was only a blinking spot in the dark. But then, in a rush, she found herself beside
it, hovering.
O my, am I flying?
Flying thou art
in a fit and a start.
in a fit and a start.
Come, come away
before the break of day.
before the break of day.
Alice wondered if she was still Alice. No one will recognize me now, she thought.
I am one among many and we are all the same. Everywhere she turned, she saw
mirror images, pulsing in the dark just as the stars pulsed above. She realized she
knew nothing about the life cycle of a firefly and wished she had paid better
attention in biology. She had always wanted to fly, ever since Peter Pan, but this
somehow was different; she was stuck in another story the ending to which was not
knowable. I’d rather be reading than being a story, she thought.
I am one among many and we are all the same. Everywhere she turned, she saw
mirror images, pulsing in the dark just as the stars pulsed above. She realized she
knew nothing about the life cycle of a firefly and wished she had paid better
attention in biology. She had always wanted to fly, ever since Peter Pan, but this
somehow was different; she was stuck in another story the ending to which was not
knowable. I’d rather be reading than being a story, she thought.
Reading and being do not rhyme.
You’ll have to do better if we are to be on time.
You’ll have to do better if we are to be on time.
Where are we going?
I hate not knowing.
I hate not knowing.
Just follow after.
Let’s head for that rafter.
Let’s head for that rafter.
Directions are scarce,
our map is my trace.
our map is my trace.
Let’s wake up the swallow,
he can sing us a tune.
he can sing us a tune.
I’ll lead and you follow—
late and soon.
late and soon.
I’m breathless and scared
and your rhyming is forced.
Now it is Wordsworth’s
The world is too much with us.
and your rhyming is forced.
Now it is Wordsworth’s
The world is too much with us.
Little we see in nature that is ours.
But now, you see, we are one with its prowess.
But now, you see, we are one with its prowess.
It’s powers, not prowess! What is your name?
My name is the same as the wishing game.
My name is the same as the wishing game.
Make a wish double fast!
I wish I were Alice, cried Alice.
I wish I were Alice, cried Alice.
Alice rhymes with palace!
What fun!
Better a palace
than a barn!
What fun!
Better a palace
than a barn!
Everything that happens is a word.
That’s absurd!
Not if you’re heard!
That’s absurd!
Not if you’re heard!
A Peacock appeared then with radiant plumage. It cried its terrible cry and Alice
remembered I remembered the cry of the peacock.
remembered I remembered the cry of the peacock.
Why do you cry?
Because I am so beautiful.
I ravish sight with my azure eyes.
And we all weep together, a hoard of captives.
I am the palace and the prince.
I am the enchanted and the enchanter.
I am the end and the beginning of each day.
Because I am so beautiful.
I ravish sight with my azure eyes.
And we all weep together, a hoard of captives.
I am the palace and the prince.
I am the enchanted and the enchanter.
I am the end and the beginning of each day.
Then the sun came up then.
Alice was not sure if her wish had been granted, and if it had, by whom. She could
not see clearly in the early light whether she was still a winged bug or a girl. She felt
lonely and cold in the damp dew. Beside her, she saw a strange netlike thing
hovering in the grass. It looked, she thought, like a handkerchief dropped by an
angel, immaterial, yet visible. Well, she thought, I am still thinking, so I must still be
Alice. The sun began to make the world sparkle around her. The handkerchief
glistened. She reached for it, and as she did, it vanished.
That night, Alice dreamed of cheese, proper names, an elevator, a sad child, and
mistakes. She had lost her address and, since no one was expecting her, she felt a
kind of delirious freedom at the same time as she felt totally alone. She dreamed
that she saw a man she knew, and he stared at her blankly.
She dreamed she was in a tall building that swayed in the wind.
not see clearly in the early light whether she was still a winged bug or a girl. She felt
lonely and cold in the damp dew. Beside her, she saw a strange netlike thing
hovering in the grass. It looked, she thought, like a handkerchief dropped by an
angel, immaterial, yet visible. Well, she thought, I am still thinking, so I must still be
Alice. The sun began to make the world sparkle around her. The handkerchief
glistened. She reached for it, and as she did, it vanished.
That night, Alice dreamed of cheese, proper names, an elevator, a sad child, and
mistakes. She had lost her address and, since no one was expecting her, she felt a
kind of delirious freedom at the same time as she felt totally alone. She dreamed
that she saw a man she knew, and he stared at her blankly.
She dreamed she was in a tall building that swayed in the wind.
***
What are you reading?
A poem.
Does it rhyme?
No.
How can you tell it’s a poem if it doesn’t rhyme?
For someone who listens in to the world’s conversation, you are massively ignorant.
No need to be insulting. Enlighten me.
Alice was silent.
So?
I’m thinking.
I know that. So far your thoughts are inscrutable.
It’s like love.
What is?
You know a poem is a poem the way you know love is love.
But love is more likely than not an illusion.
The feeling of love is not an illusion.
This is not a good enough explanation.
Poems don’t need explanations, Alice said, and added in her sternest, most grown-up
voice,
and if I remember, you are the one who told me not to be empirical, and now you are
asking me to explain something that is not within the bounds of explanation. Poems
are examples of themselves.
A poem.
Does it rhyme?
No.
How can you tell it’s a poem if it doesn’t rhyme?
For someone who listens in to the world’s conversation, you are massively ignorant.
No need to be insulting. Enlighten me.
Alice was silent.
So?
I’m thinking.
I know that. So far your thoughts are inscrutable.
It’s like love.
What is?
You know a poem is a poem the way you know love is love.
But love is more likely than not an illusion.
The feeling of love is not an illusion.
This is not a good enough explanation.
Poems don’t need explanations, Alice said, and added in her sternest, most grown-up
voice,
and if I remember, you are the one who told me not to be empirical, and now you are
asking me to explain something that is not within the bounds of explanation. Poems
are examples of themselves.
As in, I know it when I see it? Without an objective criterion, you sink into mere
opinion.
opinion.
It has to do with how words vibrate through more than one sense, more than one
moment. Alice wished the Voice would leave her be.
moment. Alice wished the Voice would leave her be.
Read to me.
Alice read.
Alice read.
***
Do you have a name? Alice asked one day as she was walking toward the river.
Yes.
What is it?
I was christened Goggle, but most people call me Gog, I think because I seem to be
the same coming or going. I’m not really capable of making distinctions and I am
without a direction.
the same coming or going. I’m not really capable of making distinctions and I am
without a direction.
Then you aren’t human.
I thought I had made that clear. How many invisible humans do you know?
Many, but most of them are in books. Your name, for example, is in a book by Samuel Beckett.
Many, but most of them are in books. Your name, for example, is in a book by Samuel Beckett.
He took it from an earlier source, the Book of Revelation. Here it is direct from my
favorite source, which, by the way, I invented:
favorite source, which, by the way, I invented:
In the biblical Book of Revelation, a power ruled by Satan will manifest itself
immediately before the end of the world. In the biblical passage and in other
apocalyptic literature, Gog is joined by a second hostile force, Magog; but in the
books of Genesis and Ezekiel, Magog is apparently the place of Gog’s origin.
immediately before the end of the world. In the biblical passage and in other
apocalyptic literature, Gog is joined by a second hostile force, Magog; but in the
books of Genesis and Ezekiel, Magog is apparently the place of Gog’s origin.
Are you evil? Alice asked. The question itself made her heart race.
Evil is as evil does. It is an interpretation, not a condition. It isn’t innate.
But what exactly are you?
I got caught in the crosshairs of brain and technology. It was a crisis, or crux.
So I am neither one nor the other. That’s the reason I wouldn’t know a poem if I fell
on one. Just then, the Voice stubbed its tongue on something.
Damn! said the Voice, it’s the Weather!
So I am neither one nor the other. That’s the reason I wouldn’t know a poem if I fell
on one. Just then, the Voice stubbed its tongue on something.
Damn! said the Voice, it’s the Weather!
The wind picked up, blowing a few last leaves across the ground.
***
Alice wondered if, when she is old, she will be wise.
Is wisdom something that comes naturally, along with gray hair and wrinkles? Is
that old woman sitting on her porch wise? Wise rhymes with eyes, so perhaps
wisdom is a way of seeing especially clearly, like a clairvoyant. Madame Sosostris is
known to be the wisest woman in Europe. What a silly name for a wise person, Alice
thinks, not
like Athena, which sounds wise. Athens must be named for her, but a city cannot be
wise. Madame Sosostris is reading cards and she says:
that old woman sitting on her porch wise? Wise rhymes with eyes, so perhaps
wisdom is a way of seeing especially clearly, like a clairvoyant. Madame Sosostris is
known to be the wisest woman in Europe. What a silly name for a wise person, Alice
thinks, not
like Athena, which sounds wise. Athens must be named for her, but a city cannot be
wise. Madame Sosostris is reading cards and she says:
I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
This sends chills through Alice’s soul.
Who is the hanged man?
Alice saw in her mind’s eye a man, with dark eyes and hair, and another, in a mask,
placing a kind of scarf around the dark man’s neck. Then the masked man takes a
great thick rope and places it around the dark man’s neck. The rope turns into heavy
coils. The dark man looks complex: resigned, intelligent, amused, hidden, cruel.
placing a kind of scarf around the dark man’s neck. Then the masked man takes a
great thick rope and places it around the dark man’s neck. The rope turns into heavy
coils. The dark man looks complex: resigned, intelligent, amused, hidden, cruel.
***
The Moon was in eclipse. A shadow passed across its face. The Cat was looking out
on the snow seeing something Alice could not see, even if the Moon came out from
behind the shadow. Someone phoned and left a message. Alice thought about the
idea of an answering machine. It seemed an odd idea. A machine would always say
the same thing, no matter what question it was asked.
on the snow seeing something Alice could not see, even if the Moon came out from
behind the shadow. Someone phoned and left a message. Alice thought about the
idea of an answering machine. It seemed an odd idea. A machine would always say
the same thing, no matter what question it was asked.
Are you there?
Are you there?
Are you there?
Are you there?
Are you there?
The you of the question was not the what of the machine.
The place of human action, Alice thought, has moved off and left behind only actors
wandering among broken, leftover sets. The Moon, in shadow, was part of a set.
The tracks in the snow, the greenish sky, the single star: sets. Someone
would come out before long to sing a song of longing. What, Alice wondered, is love
among machines?
The place of human action, Alice thought, has moved off and left behind only actors
wandering among broken, leftover sets. The Moon, in shadow, was part of a set.
The tracks in the snow, the greenish sky, the single star: sets. Someone
would come out before long to sing a song of longing. What, Alice wondered, is love
among machines?
Sappy, the Voice said, and dated. Get real.
There was a silence that filled with ambient sounds.
At last, Alice exclaimed,
I know what you are!
O?
Yes, you are a by-product.
A what?
By-product, a sort of leftover from other processes that left you, like ash after fire, or
slag after the copper has been removed.
I don’t think I like that idea, it sounds even less attractive than recycled.
It is. You have no further use. You’re an end in yourself.
Another silence.
Watch out, said the Voice, you are in danger of thinking us both out of existence.
There was a silence that filled with ambient sounds.
At last, Alice exclaimed,
I know what you are!
O?
Yes, you are a by-product.
A what?
By-product, a sort of leftover from other processes that left you, like ash after fire, or
slag after the copper has been removed.
I don’t think I like that idea, it sounds even less attractive than recycled.
It is. You have no further use. You’re an end in yourself.
Another silence.
Watch out, said the Voice, you are in danger of thinking us both out of existence.
***
When Alice woke up it was still snowing, a fine, salty snow that moved like a veil in
the wind. For some reason, she began to weep, and her tears turned first quickly to
icicles that then as quickly melted, leaving almost invisible tracks. It was impossible
to tell the time, since the light was almost uniformly a gauzy pale gray in which the
darker trunks and branches of trees seemed to be suspended. But for a cardinal that
tore a fresh wound through the air, and a few dark hairy hemlocks, color seemed
also to be almost gone. But none of these things had anything to do with Alice’s
tears, which seemed to have come from a far-off source, so remote and unknown that
they felt like those of a stranger. Perhaps these are not tears at all, she thought, but
only the melting snow. But her eyes kept flooding from within, and the tears kept
breaking over their lids like spill over a dam. She wondered if she were crying
because of something in a dream. She could not remember her dream.
the wind. For some reason, she began to weep, and her tears turned first quickly to
icicles that then as quickly melted, leaving almost invisible tracks. It was impossible
to tell the time, since the light was almost uniformly a gauzy pale gray in which the
darker trunks and branches of trees seemed to be suspended. But for a cardinal that
tore a fresh wound through the air, and a few dark hairy hemlocks, color seemed
also to be almost gone. But none of these things had anything to do with Alice’s
tears, which seemed to have come from a far-off source, so remote and unknown that
they felt like those of a stranger. Perhaps these are not tears at all, she thought, but
only the melting snow. But her eyes kept flooding from within, and the tears kept
breaking over their lids like spill over a dam. She wondered if she were crying
because of something in a dream. She could not remember her dream.
In the smudged air something stirred.
What ails?
I cannot say. It is as if before.
Yes, as often. Mine, also.
Before?
Aye, another time, when there were violets.
There are violets now.
These sang among rocks.
Singing violets?
They belonged to the winged.
Winged violets that sang?
Spoke also as they lay down along the path.
The path to where?
It was not to anywhere, it was from everywhere.
O.
Aye, a sort of O, an ambit.
It is snowing.
Aye, the O is caught inside of the snow; it is in pain.
Am I crying because of that?
Perhaps.
It seems strange to cry for an O.
It isn’t for an O, but for an entrapment, for the fact that it is caught in snow.
Once, it was my mouth.
Your mouth was the path from everywhere to nowhere?
What ails?
I cannot say. It is as if before.
Yes, as often. Mine, also.
Before?
Aye, another time, when there were violets.
There are violets now.
These sang among rocks.
Singing violets?
They belonged to the winged.
Winged violets that sang?
Spoke also as they lay down along the path.
The path to where?
It was not to anywhere, it was from everywhere.
O.
Aye, a sort of O, an ambit.
It is snowing.
Aye, the O is caught inside of the snow; it is in pain.
Am I crying because of that?
Perhaps.
It seems strange to cry for an O.
It isn’t for an O, but for an entrapment, for the fact that it is caught in snow.
Once, it was my mouth.
Your mouth was the path from everywhere to nowhere?
Aye, it was the news of awe. It was the scandal of Omission and the law of Oblivion.
It was the Overt sign that filled itself with nothing, leaving all else Out. It was an
Ocean whose spoon lifted the whale from its Origin and poured out its Oil into the
hot gold lights along the bridge where the lion roars.
It was the Overt sign that filled itself with nothing, leaving all else Out. It was an
Ocean whose spoon lifted the whale from its Origin and poured out its Oil into the
hot gold lights along the bridge where the lion roars.
I once saw that bridge.
But did you hear the lion roar?
No.
Do you hear the cricket?
Yes.
Can you describe the difference between the sound of a lion and the sound of a cricket?
I cannot. It is ineffable, outside of the linguistic index.
You cannot point at it, or to it.
No.
My mouth once could say the difference between the lion’s roar and the cricket’s song.
Mimicry?
No, by coming from many places and going nowhere.
Then your mouth was not entirely for sound?
My mouth was the route through which sounds pass.
So is mine.
Aye, but your sounds all know where they come from and to where they are going.
The snow is like fog.
The foggy foggy dew.
She wept, she cried, she pulled her hair.
Air trapped in hair, as the O is in snow.
The only only thing I did that was wrong.
That was then also.
With the winged speaking violets?
Aye.
But did you hear the lion roar?
No.
Do you hear the cricket?
Yes.
Can you describe the difference between the sound of a lion and the sound of a cricket?
I cannot. It is ineffable, outside of the linguistic index.
You cannot point at it, or to it.
No.
My mouth once could say the difference between the lion’s roar and the cricket’s song.
Mimicry?
No, by coming from many places and going nowhere.
Then your mouth was not entirely for sound?
My mouth was the route through which sounds pass.
So is mine.
Aye, but your sounds all know where they come from and to where they are going.
The snow is like fog.
The foggy foggy dew.
She wept, she cried, she pulled her hair.
Air trapped in hair, as the O is in snow.
The only only thing I did that was wrong.
That was then also.
With the winged speaking violets?
Aye.
Alice watched the birds in the snow. Some were dark gray with flashes of white you
could see only in flight, and others a tawny brown; some were tinged with a yellowy
green along their wings while still others wore small black caps. Many had
delicately woven stripes and stippled chests. She knew some of their names—
chickadee and nuthatch and finch and song sparrow and tufted titmouse. A pair of
mourning doves huddled on a bare branch of the hawthorn tree. Before the snow
came, robins had begun to appear, and she worried about them now, wondering
where they were and how they could eat with the earth snowed in. She wondered
how these names came into being: robin, titmouse, nuthatch, finch. They do not
know their names, she thought, and yet they seem to know each other. Knowing
their names and being able to describe them is insufficient and meager; these do not
bring me closer to them.
could see only in flight, and others a tawny brown; some were tinged with a yellowy
green along their wings while still others wore small black caps. Many had
delicately woven stripes and stippled chests. She knew some of their names—
chickadee and nuthatch and finch and song sparrow and tufted titmouse. A pair of
mourning doves huddled on a bare branch of the hawthorn tree. Before the snow
came, robins had begun to appear, and she worried about them now, wondering
where they were and how they could eat with the earth snowed in. She wondered
how these names came into being: robin, titmouse, nuthatch, finch. They do not
know their names, she thought, and yet they seem to know each other. Knowing
their names and being able to describe them is insufficient and meager; these do not
bring me closer to them.
The tricky ordeal of words. They are elastic frets, bringing us closer to the same time
as they push us away; we think by naming things that we capture them but this is a
ruse, and you see how we are trapped by it, trapped in use. Ruse use us. Every word
contracts and exfoliates thus. Folded into each core, an ore.
as they push us away; we think by naming things that we capture them but this is a
ruse, and you see how we are trapped by it, trapped in use. Ruse use us. Every word
contracts and exfoliates thus. Folded into each core, an ore.
Everything must come from somewhere.
Thing, where, every, some. Mine, alas, from the undone.
Your ore?
Yours also.
What is the undone?
Not a what, nor a where, nor a some. Yet still, a sum.
Many?
So many.
More than how many?
Thing, where, every, some. Mine, alas, from the undone.
Your ore?
Yours also.
What is the undone?
Not a what, nor a where, nor a some. Yet still, a sum.
Many?
So many.
More than how many?
Whatever you count, more. The stars and the non-stars, plus: always, the sum plus
one. A call, indifferent and dangerous yet without even a trace image, horizonless,
unstacked. The faulty implosion and aftermath of sight which is why, here in snow, I
return briefly. I cannot be remembered, so do not be alarmed. I am merely the
eternally Open, as in the portrait of the monk’s mouth, into which and out of which
time pours.
one. A call, indifferent and dangerous yet without even a trace image, horizonless,
unstacked. The faulty implosion and aftermath of sight which is why, here in snow, I
return briefly. I cannot be remembered, so do not be alarmed. I am merely the
eternally Open, as in the portrait of the monk’s mouth, into which and out of which
time pours.
What you say is impossible.
Aye, also contaminated. The numerical is a dungeon. The murderers are there,
counting and pondering tomes and licenses, always counting, counting, counting. They breed,
although they have been unsexed. They return as blame.
counting and pondering tomes and licenses, always counting, counting, counting. They breed,
although they have been unsexed. They return as blame.
Alice sat in the snow, watching the March birds, the grackles and juncos and tits.
Only if I am invisible, she thought, will the birds stay. If I materialize, they will fly
off because they fear me, except it isn’t me, Alice, they fear, but the ways in which I
am not one of them, not a bird. There was no way to assure the birds that she had no
intention of hurting them, or of persuading them that it was she who had scattered
seed across the snowed ground.
off because they fear me, except it isn’t me, Alice, they fear, but the ways in which I
am not one of them, not a bird. There was no way to assure the birds that she had no
intention of hurting them, or of persuading them that it was she who had scattered
seed across the snowed ground.
Why don’t they connect these two facts? she wondered. What the birds knew was of
another conceptual order, one in which her intentions and her actions were forever
severed; she could not argue or protest; she could simply remain trapped in the
difference between what she was and what they were.
another conceptual order, one in which her intentions and her actions were forever
severed; she could not argue or protest; she could simply remain trapped in the
difference between what she was and what they were.
I am real but unknowable, which means I cannot be actual and the ways in which I
am real are confusing; perhaps, she thought, I am merely a memory or a dream.
What if the birds are actual and I am not?
am real are confusing; perhaps, she thought, I am merely a memory or a dream.
What if the birds are actual and I am not?
The wind made a hollow whistling sound; the trees swayed.
I am insufficiently present, Alice moaned, and began again to weep. She was
beginning to suspect that she was not really alive. She was beginning to suspect that
she had no parents but that instead she was a kind of mutant guise or emanation
with a proper name, itself quite common, that had innumerable places of conception.
There was Alice James, sister to William and Henry, and there was Alice B. Toklas,
friend and lover of Gertrude Stein. There was, of course, the Alice who wandered
around in Wonderland, for whom she had been named, the creation of Lewis Carroll
who wasn’t really named Lewis Carroll, and he had named his Alice after a real
little girl named Alice. I am an effect, she thought. I am a mere motif at the mercy of
someone else’s pleasure, someone who thinks by pretending that I am alive she can
make the birds comprehend something beyond their existence, but she is wrong.
beginning to suspect that she was not really alive. She was beginning to suspect that
she had no parents but that instead she was a kind of mutant guise or emanation
with a proper name, itself quite common, that had innumerable places of conception.
There was Alice James, sister to William and Henry, and there was Alice B. Toklas,
friend and lover of Gertrude Stein. There was, of course, the Alice who wandered
around in Wonderland, for whom she had been named, the creation of Lewis Carroll
who wasn’t really named Lewis Carroll, and he had named his Alice after a real
little girl named Alice. I am an effect, she thought. I am a mere motif at the mercy of
someone else’s pleasure, someone who thinks by pretending that I am alive she can
make the birds comprehend something beyond their existence, but she is wrong.
Even if you are not real, said the Voice, you can be true.
Alice started.
I don’t want to talk to you, she said sulkily.
You may have no choice.
Maybe your battery will give out.
Maybe, that will be only a temporary cessation, like a cup of tea or a trip to the bathroom to pee.
The snow is melting.
Don’t change the subject.
What is the subject?
Your truth as opposed to your reality.
O really, she said, and slipped into a nearby wood.
Following her, an incomprehensible jargon of something found in the jumble sale of Language.
Alice started.
I don’t want to talk to you, she said sulkily.
You may have no choice.
Maybe your battery will give out.
Maybe, that will be only a temporary cessation, like a cup of tea or a trip to the bathroom to pee.
The snow is melting.
Don’t change the subject.
What is the subject?
Your truth as opposed to your reality.
O really, she said, and slipped into a nearby wood.
Following her, an incomprehensible jargon of something found in the jumble sale of Language.
As like is cadence-repetition exists
as living is contributing either
a literature its creates everything
a language internal chance enchains
a linguistic Idea concepts encounter
apprenticeship lost in close either
at libratory in confronted elements
and lives itself covering external
as living is contributing either
a literature its creates everything
a language internal chance enchains
a linguistic Idea concepts encounter
apprenticeship lost in close either
at libratory in confronted elements
and lives itself covering external
***
The next morning when Alice woke up, it was spring. She could tell not only
because the snow had melted away, but because there were alterations everywhere;
under the sodden leaves of fall, minute beginnings: dark reddish nubs and bright
green kernels just above the surface of the softening earth and, on the thorny rose
stalks, tiny furled nodes; the squirrels were chasing each other, performing
impossible acrobatic swirls in the tawny grass, and the mostly silent birds had
begun to sing.
because the snow had melted away, but because there were alterations everywhere;
under the sodden leaves of fall, minute beginnings: dark reddish nubs and bright
green kernels just above the surface of the softening earth and, on the thorny rose
stalks, tiny furled nodes; the squirrels were chasing each other, performing
impossible acrobatic swirls in the tawny grass, and the mostly silent birds had
begun to sing.
It must be April, she thought.
Aye.
Aye.
Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
What language are you speaking? Alice asked.
English.
But I don’t understand most of the words.
Aye. Language changes. Words morph and disappear into the mire.
Mire is an example. What is a mire? It rhymes with some sad words, like liar and dire and ire.
The mire is the wet ground, swampy, like a bog. It came to mean to be in difficulties.
Like getting bogged down? Alice said.
Exactly.
Sometimes I think language is as beautiful and mysterious as nature, and no matter
how much we learn, it never gives up all its secrets and surprises.
To this sudden appraisal there was no response.
Hello? Hello?
Two boys rode by on bicycles, calling to each other in loud boy voices.
English.
But I don’t understand most of the words.
Aye. Language changes. Words morph and disappear into the mire.
Mire is an example. What is a mire? It rhymes with some sad words, like liar and dire and ire.
The mire is the wet ground, swampy, like a bog. It came to mean to be in difficulties.
Like getting bogged down? Alice said.
Exactly.
Sometimes I think language is as beautiful and mysterious as nature, and no matter
how much we learn, it never gives up all its secrets and surprises.
To this sudden appraisal there was no response.
Hello? Hello?
Two boys rode by on bicycles, calling to each other in loud boy voices.
***
Alice was sitting in the grass. Around her there was a scattering of small
buttonlike yellow heads on slender stalks, nodding slightly above the grass.
Dandelions, said the Voice.
I know, Alice said.
buttonlike yellow heads on slender stalks, nodding slightly above the grass.
Dandelions, said the Voice.
I know, Alice said.
How did they get this strange name?
Etymology can help you there; you can trace a word from its origins. It isn’t a dandy,
not like Fred Astaire, but the teeth of a lion, from the French dent
de lion, and before that, from Latin.
Alice was silent for some minutes.
She was trying to make a connection between a lion’s tooth and the soft yellow heads
of the flowers.
not like Fred Astaire, but the teeth of a lion, from the French dent
de lion, and before that, from Latin.
Alice was silent for some minutes.
She was trying to make a connection between a lion’s tooth and the soft yellow heads
of the flowers.
She found no link at all.
It isn’t the head of the flower, Alice, but the shape of the leaf, which is serrated like
a tooth.
The Voice roared with self-congratulation.
Alice felt equally edified and annoyed and changed the subject to something the
Voice couldn’t look up with such alacrity.
Is a dandelion a fact?
No, it is an object.
Objects are not facts?
That there are objects called dandelions is a fact.
I see. And their color, yellow, is that a fact?
It isn’t the head of the flower, Alice, but the shape of the leaf, which is serrated like
a tooth.
The Voice roared with self-congratulation.
Alice felt equally edified and annoyed and changed the subject to something the
Voice couldn’t look up with such alacrity.
Is a dandelion a fact?
No, it is an object.
Objects are not facts?
That there are objects called dandelions is a fact.
I see. And their color, yellow, is that a fact?
Yellow is a color, an attribute, not a fact; but that dandelions are yellow, at least
until they turn gray and lose all their hair, is a fact.
Alice took this in. It seems to have to do with sentences.
And things that happen, are they facts?
until they turn gray and lose all their hair, is a fact.
Alice took this in. It seems to have to do with sentences.
And things that happen, are they facts?
Not exactly. Events find their bearings by a kind of extrapolation; out of all the
possible relationships between and among the particulars of the perceptible world—
the dandelions—we construct events—they are hinges between the immediacy of the
present and what went before and what comes after.
possible relationships between and among the particulars of the perceptible world—
the dandelions—we construct events—they are hinges between the immediacy of the
present and what went before and what comes after.
But that isn’t quite accurate, Alice said, knowing that by contradicting the Voice she
was asking for trouble and, indeed, the wind began to pick up.
was asking for trouble and, indeed, the wind began to pick up.
Events are in time. But the way you said it, it sounds as if we make events up,
whereas events happen that we have no control over. Earthquakes and storms and
terrible accidents on roads, for example.
whereas events happen that we have no control over. Earthquakes and storms and
terrible accidents on roads, for example.
As Alice made this observation, the crowd of dandelions nodded and swayed excitedly.
You are talking about stories, I think, Alice went on, getting up from the grass and
walking quite quickly up the hill. She thought a storm was in the offing. But an
event isn’t a story; stories add event to event, as if stitching them to each other, or
putting beads on a string.
walking quite quickly up the hill. She thought a storm was in the offing. But an
event isn’t a story; stories add event to event, as if stitching them to each other, or
putting beads on a string.
Event horizons! the Voice shouted.
What?
Event horizons! The edge of space-time! The great maw of the universe!
There was thunder to accompany these bald statements.
I am not looking through anything, Alice said disconsolately, and
whatever I say is not seen, except in the mind’s eye, whatever that is.
So far, nothing is as it seems or seems as it is. Really, I would prefer to be a cat
and trot along with a bird in my mouth, its head hanging limp, feathers listless.
whatever I say is not seen, except in the mind’s eye, whatever that is.
So far, nothing is as it seems or seems as it is. Really, I would prefer to be a cat
and trot along with a bird in my mouth, its head hanging limp, feathers listless.
Being a cat is nice, said the nearby Cat.
I grant you that. Being a cat means you can go from violence to affection without any
discernible transition.
I kill, I purr, I eat, I sleep.
These are excellent variations on a theme of being alive, if not exactly sentient, and I
recommend them to you as a
cure for your humanness.
But I like being human, Alice said, and then added, sort of.
And besides, I haven’t any choice in the matter.
But of course I am not exactly human, she added, I am a fiction, which makes things
more
complicated on the one hand and a lot simpler on the other.
However, said the Cat, you are the emanation of a human, so that makes you more
human than not.
No, Alice said, once again feeling disconsolate, I am only words.
This is a bare fact and there is nothing to be done about it.
But Alice, said the Cat, are facts not also a matter of interpretation?
Perhaps you are not mere words.
Alice was silent for a long time, long enough for the Cat to clean its face by licking
its paws and then wiping them across, first one side, then the other.
O I don’t know what facts are, Alice said at last.
Once I thought a fact was a thing, substantial and irrefutable, like a table or a
penny, but now I am not so sure.
I know facts have something to do with evidence, she added,
since the Cat had said nothing in response to her outburst.
When people say what the facts are they seem to be saying something about reality.
The Cat wandered away into the shade of a rosebush. It had lost interest. The Cat
was not interested in either facts or reality.
Alice went back to her book. She wished there were someone wise and informed
enough to help her with facts and reality. If that person appeared, then, and only
then, she might be helped with the more awful problem of truth.
I grant you that. Being a cat means you can go from violence to affection without any
discernible transition.
I kill, I purr, I eat, I sleep.
These are excellent variations on a theme of being alive, if not exactly sentient, and I
recommend them to you as a
cure for your humanness.
But I like being human, Alice said, and then added, sort of.
And besides, I haven’t any choice in the matter.
But of course I am not exactly human, she added, I am a fiction, which makes things
more
complicated on the one hand and a lot simpler on the other.
However, said the Cat, you are the emanation of a human, so that makes you more
human than not.
No, Alice said, once again feeling disconsolate, I am only words.
This is a bare fact and there is nothing to be done about it.
But Alice, said the Cat, are facts not also a matter of interpretation?
Perhaps you are not mere words.
Alice was silent for a long time, long enough for the Cat to clean its face by licking
its paws and then wiping them across, first one side, then the other.
O I don’t know what facts are, Alice said at last.
Once I thought a fact was a thing, substantial and irrefutable, like a table or a
penny, but now I am not so sure.
I know facts have something to do with evidence, she added,
since the Cat had said nothing in response to her outburst.
When people say what the facts are they seem to be saying something about reality.
The Cat wandered away into the shade of a rosebush. It had lost interest. The Cat
was not interested in either facts or reality.
Alice went back to her book. She wished there were someone wise and informed
enough to help her with facts and reality. If that person appeared, then, and only
then, she might be helped with the more awful problem of truth.
***
One day, Alice was leaving CityCity on a train.
As the train pulled away from under the tunnel of misgivings
it passed a message on a building:
IT IS NOTHING TO YOU, ALL WHO PASS BY
What a strange thing to say
to the passengers, Alice thought,
It is nothing to you.
What is nothing to me, to us?
On the way back into CityCity, she saw the sign again.
Is it nothing to you, all who pass by?
As the train pulled away from under the tunnel of misgivings
it passed a message on a building:
IT IS NOTHING TO YOU, ALL WHO PASS BY
What a strange thing to say
to the passengers, Alice thought,
It is nothing to you.
What is nothing to me, to us?
On the way back into CityCity, she saw the sign again.
Is it nothing to you, all who pass by?
—to Willa
(From Or to Begin Again, Pandora, 2009).
Fuente: http://www.californiapoetics.org
ANN LAUTERBACH (EE. UU., 1942).
N de ST
[1] Los versos que se citan de The Waste Land, de T.S. Eliot, 1922, fueron extraídos de la versión de Juan Malpartida publicada por Círculo de Lectores bajo el título La tierra baldía, Barcelona, 2001.
[1] Los versos que se citan de The Waste Land, de T.S. Eliot, 1922, fueron extraídos de la versión de Juan Malpartida publicada por Círculo de Lectores bajo el título La tierra baldía, Barcelona, 2001.
[2] La
versión en español de Alice in Wonderland
que se cita en esta traducción es la de Francisco Torres Oliver, Ed. Martin
Gardner, Madrid, Akal, 1998.
[3] The Fox, canción folklórica inglesa
cuyas primeras versiones se remontan al año 1500 y que también es tema de varios libros de
cuentos. Ver http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/nickelcreek/thefox.html
(La traducción es mía).
[4] Julio
César, de William Shakespeare. Versión en castellano de Guillermo
MacPhearson, Madrid, 1909.
[5]
“El prado resonante”, de William Blake. En Canciones
de inocencia y de experiencia, trad. de José Luis Caramés y Santiago
González Corugedo, Madrid: Cátedra, 1987.
[6]
“El tigre”, de William Blake. Versión de
Antonio Restrepo. En Canciones de
inocencia y de experiencia.
[7]
“The World is too much with Us”, de William Wordsworth (la traducción es mía).
[8] “Dominio
del negro”, de Wallace Stevens (Trad.: Alberto Girri). En Domingo a la mañana y otros poemas. Selección, edición y notas:
Daniel Chirom. Buenos Aires, CEAL, 1988.
[9] Lister
M. Matheson, Icons of the Middle Ages:
Rulers, Writers, Rebels, and Saints, Volume 1. ABC-CLIO, 2012. (La
traducción es mía).
[10] The
Foggy, Foggy Dew, canción
folklórica inglesa. Ver http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/martyrobbins/foggyfoggydew.html
(La traducción es mía).
[11]
Ver Difference and Repetition, de
Gilles Deleuze y Paul Patton.
[12] En
el original se citan los versos del
prólogo general de Canterbury Tales,
de Geoffrey Chaucer en inglés antiguo (en inglés moderno: When in April the sweet showers fall / That pierce March's drought to the root and all / And bathed every vein in liquor that has
power / To generate therein and sire
the flower; / When Zephyr also has
with his sweet breath). Esta versión en castellano es una adaptación libre
mía que intenta preservar la oscuridad del lenguaje arcaico. Compárese con: Cuando
cae en abril la lluvia ansiada, / dulce a la sed de marzo y derramada / corre,
se hunde y clava la raiz / en cada atormentada cicatriz / motivando asó el
pronto resplandor, / que da al mundo el engendro de la flor. (Traducción de
Jorge Elliott Libros del ciudadano. Chile, 1999).
[13] Lamentaciones
1:12 – La Santa Biblia, Reina Valera,
1960.
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