"...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



A una chica de ojos grandes y cabello salvaje

You resigned
A determination to end a determination
Una determinazione sparita
             To disappear
To put on pause, to put on a shelf, or on top of the fridge,
or in a box

To hand in. A paper. Oneself. Ink absorbed and not so perennial. Hands and metal. Metal. It can take so many shapes.

To exchange. Not a city for a city, but a city for a small town. The poli for the mono. Tha vastness for the singleness. A one. One's one. Your one.

Not Life! A Lover!
                                 But life! A husband!

K for work
K for casa
K for cakes and pies and dinner
K for a young woman in a small town


A form of compassionate love

Have you heard the Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp?

Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lung Men (the Dragon Gorge of Honan) stood a Kiri Tree, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head to talk to the stars; its roots struck deep into the earth, mingling their bronzed coils with those of the silver dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a mighty wizard made of this tree a wondroues harp, whose stubborn spirit should be tamed but by the greatest musicians. For long the instrument was treasured by the Emperor of China, but all in vain were the efforts of those who in turn tried to draw melody from its strings. In response to their utmost strivings there came from the harp but harsh notes of disdain, ill-according with the songs they fain would sing. The harp refused to recognise a master.

At last came Pai Ya, the prince of harpists. With tender hand he carressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse, and softly touched the chords. He sang of nature and the seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters, and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet breath of string played amidst the branches. The young cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the budding flowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of summer with its myriad insects, the gentle pattering of rain, the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! a tiger roars, - the valley answers again. It is autumn; in the desert night, sharp like a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air swirl flocks of swans and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight.

Then Pai Ya changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought. On high, like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but passing, trailed long shadows on the ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Pai Ya sang of war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harp arose the tempest of Lung Men, the dragon rode the lightning, the thundering avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Pai Ya wherein lay the secret of his victory. "Sire," he replied, "others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Pai Ya or Pai Ya were the harp."

(or, how not to sing merely of oneself)

From The Book of Tea, by Kakuzo Okakura


En busca del tiempo perdido XIV

De vez en cuando, al tiempo le gusta jugar a ser una fiera al acecho: una pantera, pongamos, o un jaguar, escondido entre las hierbas crecidas de los jardines abandonados, esperando alerta y con infinitísima paciencia el momento de saltar de entre las páginas de un libro viejo o del debajo polvoso del cojín de un sillón para clavarnos sus garras.

En dichas ocasiones, sin embargo, basta con dar un pasito hacia un lado para dejar que su trayectoria se desvanezca en el aire.