Tuesday, September 15, 2020
In Warsaw, in the Łazienki park in front of the monument to Chopin.
Seeing a young woman, fit and dressed in Nike sportswear, getting ready to start running, made me think that maybe I will never be like that, I mean sporty, athletic, not even slim. I’m reaching an age where I’m starting to realize (or maybe finally accept) that there are things that will never be for me. I arrive at that moment when life begins to narrow, to flow by inertia and not by potentialities.
All this has already been said and it has been said better, but that matters little because for everyone, regardless of admonitions and warnings, this discovery is necessarily new, intimate, ours alone.
Sunday, September 20, 2020
On a train from Krakow to Wrocław. Life through the windows. Traveling is just that: pictures that follow each other framed by the windows of the car or the train, or the plane.
Now I am in Poland, but inevitably these fields and these farmhouses take me back to my many trips with my father through the landscapes of Guanajuato, San Luis Potosí, Chiapas.
Monday, September 21, 2020
On my way to Poznan from Wrocław, reading Olga Tokarczuk.
I remembered that time my aunt Martha said, while listening to an old ballad: «One should die when one is happiest.» At the moment I heard her say that I felt only sadness, but now that I think about it I think it would not be a bad reform to the life contract. Because strictly speaking, one could have had the most idyllic life, the most comfortable, the most graced by abundance, the most frequented by success; but if in the final moments you are miserable, the years of joy are worth nothing. On the other hand, one may have led a miserable, tragic, petty or mediocre life, but if one’s last moments are of happiness, one goes to the grave in the arms of glory.
So my aunt was quite right. Scales would not be required to measure which is the happiest moment, no, you have to leave it a bit to chance. It will suffice for the person to feel totally happy at any moment, touched by grace, and then, without noticing it (and this is crucial), they are struck by lightning or a stone falls from the heights, or a bus runs over them and its merciful wheels crush their skull and a star of blood and brains will be the hot wax that applies the seal to a happy life.
Monday, October 12, 2020
Since we got back from Poland, but particularly since I got back to work, I feel significantly down.
Again episodes of anxiety due to the passage of time, again tiredness and discouragement in regards to carrying out my projects.
Wednesday, October 28, 2020
Suddenly everything is blank again. Something mysterious happened since we got back from Poland. A silent process – a decline traveled so many times, but still unknown because it operates like this, with absolute discretion – has dragged me once more and now I find myself here again, in the depths where language does not serve me as rope or ladder, nor as water or food. The words are rather brownish rats, snakes and other vermin that, like me, creep at the bottom of this pit and their murmur does not calm me, but it doesn’t torment me either; rather it makes me doubt, doubt, doubt: are the words really mine? Do I have any power over them?
It is curious to think about it, but the writer is the most alienated being from language. The king expelled from his kingdom. Language is air, it is blood, it is skin and organs. We use it and it uses us at all hours without us noticing its passing through us, without us noticing its traces. But the writer, ah! the miserable writer is inside and outside, and while he speaks and writes he looks at himself and looks at that permanent flow of words and it seems to him rickety or grotesque, or deficient, or false, or ineffective, or poor and also sometimes wonderful – but the latter, almost always, when it flows from someone else.
No, I am not a writer. I have lied. I haven’t written anything. Not even a book outline. Scattered stories and essays. I’m not a writer and I don’t know if I want to be anymore.