"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


After a while

I wonder... after a while, does love remain love, or does it become a circumstance?


Mother Moon

Mother Moon
Sister Soul
Floating away, I think I'll change next to you

Taxi Chronicles - Mi calle favorita

- Esta es mi calle favorita.

Había pasado muchísimas veces por ahí, pero en realidad nunca le había prestado atención. Volteé un poco para ver qué tenía de especial.

- ¿Ah, sí? ¿Por qué?

- Está llena de jacarandas. Esos árboles, ¿se llaman jacarandas, no? Forman como una cuevita. En otoño se les caen las hojas, y les salen flores moradas, ¿son moradas, no?

Y sólo entonces las ví. Era cierto, estaban plantadas una detrás de otra, flanqueando ambos lados de la calle, y sí, formaban una cueva, como un techo de hojas que dejaba entrever el cielo, como una nueva calle áerea donde el azul transitaba.

- Sí cierto, qué bonito.

- Me gusta pasar mucho por aquí, además, cuando hace mucho sol, aquí no pega tanto.

Por estarlas viendo se me pasó la calle.

- ¡Ay, era la calle de atrás!

- ¿Quiere que nos regresemos?

- No, no, aquí está bien, bueno... mejor nada más déjeme una cuadra aquí a la izquierda.

No se me ocurrió que hubiera podido caminar una cuadra entre las jacarandas.

Jacarandas en calle Concepción Beistegui: Jorge Aguilar.


Amado mio

Algunas veces, el amor se confunde con la paulatina anulación del otro, con el fin último de satisfacer las necesidades propias.

Otras, con la comodidad. Aún otras, con el miedo.


Un'altra alchimia

Forse soltanto il barrocco sia riuscito ad accettare - e quindi  a capire veramente - la tristezza, per puoi  trovare il modo per farla diventare bellezza.

For my people everywhere: let a new earth arise

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs
     repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
     and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an
     unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an
     unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the
    gone years and the now years and the maybe years,
    washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
    hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
    dragging along never gaining never reaping never
    knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
    backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor
    and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking
    and playhouse and concert and store and hair and
    Miss Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn
    to know the reasons why and the answers to and the
    people who and the places where and the days when, in
    memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we
    were black and poor and small and different and nobody
    cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to
    be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and
    play and drink their wine and religion and success, to
    marry their playmates and bear children and then die
    of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox
    Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
    Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
    people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
    people’s pockets and needing bread and shoes and milk and
    land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
     being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
     burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackles
     and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
     who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in
     the dark of churches and schools and clubs
     and societies, associations and councils and committees and
     conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
     devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
     preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
     false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
    from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
    trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
    all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
    bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
    generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
    loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
    healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
    in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs
    be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now
    rise and take control.

Margaret Walker, "For My People"