I don’t care what happens to my body
I’m writing this, but I could be walking backwards down the street, with no one besides me. So again I’m here facing the empty sheet, the immensity of my being, the tiniest world. If you think about me as a mad man, it’s just because our ways are separated. Your sun is not mine, your rain is two drops of water.
It was running the 80’s. Nobody had taught me about death before. I was 11 when I met it for the first time. My grandmother’s feet were so white, cold and rigid. I didn’t know she was dead. Children tend to think dead people are just slumbers.
Many years ago my father exchanged bottles for baby chickens. Four in total. One per each child. Our mother was cooking noodles. I still remember mine was yellow and undernourished. But I loved it anyway. A child doesn’t have limits when loving. While waiting for lunch, we were playing, as usual, in the garden. Out of the blue and very thirsty I walked towards the ice-boxed. They were there. Four too. Each one representing one of us. But they didn’t make any movements whatsoever. Indeed they couldn’t. Life had departed far away from them and the only thing left was a bittersweet feeling in the air. We tried to find an explanation for this episode: the murder of four innocents animals by a mother wanting to feed their dear children.
One day I found it in my friend’s house. It had devoured his mother. I couldn’t sleep that night. Her face so vivid during, probably, the longest night of my life. I was 16 then.
I’m 28 years old and seeing a corpse still scares me to death. I’m conscious about aging. But what can I do? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life, which is not very much by the way, wondering about the last moment. I do want to die, oh yeah, but softly, without thinking of today nor about tomorrow. Like a leaf falling from a tree. I don’t want to be alive when dying. Please don’t wake me up when my time comes. Everything should be settled by then.
1 Death and Fame. Allen Ginsberg. Muerte y Fama. Editorial Lumen Barcelona - 2000. Pag 192.
Posdata: este texto fue escrito originalmente hace dos años, pero fue censurado para su publicación en un breve y extinto boletín. Sigo preguntandome las razones que motivaron esa medida, y solo puedo concebir una: pacatería. Acabo de releerlo y aún creo que es inofensivo. Ahora que finalmente ve la luz, no pretendo lograr nada con él, es solo una observación. Más nada. Tal vez no tenga mayor valor que ese.
Lo quen sigue son dos videos de la pelicula "El Piano" de Jane Campion.