For a Secret Literature
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo
There where everything is law, everything is light, everything is readable. There I could never live.
Photophobia, logophobia, or whatever way anyone esteems worse. Maybe civilised spaces become as intolerable as deserts. The civilising process as an overflower of memory, as a compression of the lucid that will soon provoke nausea. The emptiness.
Having contemporary peers ends up being a tetric, terminal tara.
Growing up as bodies is already a crime. Growing as nations, an atrocity. There is never space for the I in any case. That I is that, I suppose: the exclusivity of the non-space.
And then there’s the curse of language. A stream of sense that accumulates pressure and comes out, seminal rale, confusion of meanings, and an energy half sonic and half sentimental.
And the silence that never arrives, not even when pain humiliates it.
And out there, the rain or the night or the atmosphere or the sound of steps or that which has no form or the silhouettes of the absent or the cold wind or the quarrel or the who knows if still Cuba or Revolution ever.
Writing is chaos. To write is to love. Writing is always writing for the first time. Writing is always also writing for the last time. Is writing this?
Darkness. Writing is illuminating and I disarray that synonymy to reinstall darkness. I would not want to leave anything clear. I would not like to be seen properly.
Shadow. Eclipse. Thick forest. Cave in which to stick the head. Black and breathable alveolar. Black lung.
Was death this?
Waves of shadow. Dreams cysted in dreams. Wings like eye rheums.
And now what else, until when, how?
January 18 2011
