The Last Night
Escrito / 22 abril, 201822 abril, 2018
Publicado en Escritos y Notas…,NumenTags Impulsos,Narrativa,trazos…
Originally published at gz.camelot-ia.org on April 23, 2018.
THE LAST NIGHT
“It’s good to have an end to journey to; but in the end it’s the journey that matters.” — E.H.
· One / FLASHBACKS
Go back, and feel the strangeness of that place that knowing it of mine, it was not anymore ..
The order was only trying to grossly overshadow what everyone seemed to know — even if they were silent — and I would go sordidly discovering … as if taken by the hand, and without being able to take any option …
The room is empty .. on your furniture, books, photos .. and trophies: empty. And all scathingly in its place. I walk the space of the sofa to the showcase .. six / seven steps … I always thought they were less .. Avoiding my reflection … without seeing me, I move the glass, and I drink two glasses … Old custom .. Between my fingers the glass creaks, more sound that other times, as if it were the first time I hear it: and I surprise myself in a start.
I still can not specify specifically how many days they spent there … According to Mary it has been a week. Two years ago they brought me … although at times it seems that only a few hours ago … and I do not think I have returned at all. It is always like this, something of me is detached, and it remains …
I do not plan to sleep. I can not anymore. I can not find the form anymore.
Some noise in my footsteps .. when walking, it disturbs me — and maybe it will help me …-. My head is spinning and I lose myself to find the few images I have left of those days .. Yes, maybe those days are .. All ..
The meetings. People. The trips. The sea. The shots. The violence. Everything .. Everything is there .. Intact. And I can not say anything … it seems that finally I must shut up … Maybe it was always like that … I wrote to shut up.
When the stupor dissipates .. the white figure of the guy appears that connects me, and mumbles something of no-what-what .. because I stopped listening to him ten minutes before .. The pain .. The first days he resisted .. Well At least I tried … Then I did not … I found that it hurt a little less … not at the moment, but during the hours that followed. It’s funny: I still managed to find something …
The blue sea of Cojímar fills my eyes. It is a dream They are neither the old man, nor the weevil .. nor Manolin. It’s just me, that without being able to stop it, I fall completely; stiff, and I hit the water .. I immerse myself. I do not need to breathe anymore … So pain appeases …
Then I wake up a scent. The hills and the green. The dry land. Sun. Yes, it is that Sun .. And the coming and going … Without direction … that particular .. the fear of not feeling it, and yes .. Although in reality: we were also brave. Not only was it “to avoid us” … we also had ideals … Were they already lost? … Or -perhaps-, they were also incidents …
Jarama and the XV.
Marta and her laughter .. — Where are you, love? Where did you stay? Where did I stay? — … It’s here when I wake up …
Or maybe not.
The rumor of Calle Obispo is continuous with El floridita and its people … and only the silence of the deep sea of Cojímar can appease it. There I am Stopped. Seeing Pilar rocking …
Now few people say to me Pope … and in some when doing it, it is like listening to a mockery .. That they can know of that.
· Two / CRAZY HORSES
This “green fairy” increasingly loses its flavor .. Or is it that my life is the one that has lost it? ..
An irreparable and frantic anger breaks … that neither the impact of the glass against the library manages to balance … Nor oppose it. The glass does not break. A rest of its content seems to insist on indicating that, although fallen … always something is … retained .. inside .. I no longer find the hidden humor in these things. Life has taken it away. As it has also taken away my memories … my images and my words.
It is Mary who returns to me. And to whom I feel shame. His gaze, even with love, disturbs and calms me. It seems that something tells me but I can not hear .. It is only the mimicry of his lips .. His gestures .. His eyes. His slight and warm smile that wants to disguise -I feel- his pain. It is fleeting. Then his look changes … and he returns to the everyday … “Here it has not happened, nothing happens …” It is as if this attitude invites the routine to advance and subjugate us … Some achieve it. I do not anymore.
It’s summer, and Bumby and Patrick .. they run on a path … I see them arrive … they arrive at me .. Then it’s watching them go away … laughing … There are no sounds .. Only images. Greg appears and falls .. he is lying … as if suspended .. Although, then, he gets up or is lifted .. And he continues … And finally they disappear …
I realize that anger is only an excuse. It is pain. Behind the anger, deep pain is found. It has not always been like this .. There were times when my “gentle” temper could do everything. And if not, I would beat him until he was … I smile … and imagine my gestures. My other glass — already half-full — captures me in passing illusions. Old ghosts .. although everyday … I’ve only been able to start seeing them recently … Indifferent. I could talk about him … but … who cares? …
I get hot, and my ruffle rumbles in the room, maybe it’s the medication, plus the fairy … I feel good! I came back! No. It’s already happened … it was a glimpse of what it was .. of how I was … Of that “great man that everyone loved and admired ..” Have they been sincere? Some, maybe … I’d like to run away from here, but I can not move … I do not feel my limbs anymore … it’s like watching me without being me … it’s like when I walk down the aisle in the wheelchair that returns to the room after the session … My mute cry transforms into the saliva that I feel falling and being retained in my chin, although now they are tears. My head turns and rotates without stopping .. there is no stillness: everything is movement and vertigo, which I can not specify. I’ve been sitting for hours — maybe … -, and without being able to look away or get this off..
· Three / FUCK OFF !!
When I arrived that afternoon the first thing I did when entering the room was to see if you were there. It was to see you and a glimpse burst .. but I could not smile.
I turn and see you again .. Carried perhaps by your charm .. You are there .. Radiant. Exquicita A brightness makes you stand out among all and many … that are only shadows … Amorphous silhouettes. I long to have you in my hands, feel between my fingers .. Voluptuously .. enter your charm. My hands tremble. My ruddy palms, my fingers inflamed, and the slight tremor that does not give way … and that I can not discern: do I need another fairy? Does something bother me? Am I afraid? … Is this feeling fear? … After so much, it is finally here … But: Who do I want to cheat? He has always been here. Maybe just now I really encourage you to see it.
Shine…
The squelch in my ears merges with the silence … I immerse myself in the night.
And it’s just to touch you.
How will the new day be? … How will it be when it arrives? … Wait me? Who will be there? … It’s funny. This thirst that overwhelms me, I think will continue forever … until finally placate …
I walk these steps between us, I do not know how many times … I reach you and I feel your cold. Then your warmth … And I stay in the roar, already painless … And it’s your smell that calls me … Your blow. Your heat and your smell. Blessed smell … The birds begin their conversation … It’s time, IT’S ALREADY dawn … (I’m going).
‘The Last Night’. Story freely inspired by the last night of Ernest Hemingway. As a modest tribute, to the man who lived thrown in the intensity of his passions, and for whom in his words, the bells still seem to ring … — (he will know how to understand my audacity) -. ~Gustavo A. Zanetti — Summer / Autumn; 2018.
