Original Text  (“Viveros”) by Luis Ignacio Helguera from the book   “El Cara de Niño y Otros Cuentos”

Trans. Pablo Helguera and Mónica de la Torre, 2004

Paths lined with poplars, paths and more paths lined with poplars, a single path with never-ending line of poplars, in order to arrive to the house of my old friend. The light of midday lingers, the solar image of the poplar-lined paths appears fixed as in a photograph.

The sun is so radiant that it is hard to see through the light, as if it were mist or a veil. Paths lined with poplars, meadows with poplars, puddles of light, water mirages on the paths. But the paths also appear to be mirages: I see them, I walk on them, and I don’t feel them, it’s as if they walked by themselves. And all of a sudden, finally the music of fountains heard but not seen, troughs, stables, the villa. More than a villa it seems to be a big workshop, a factory where strange things are made. There, inside a sort of greenhouse, is my friend, whistling quietly. He greets me from afar, waving his hand, without stopping to whistle. He looks so old. I want to read you a passage from a book, let me go to the library, I’ll be right back, he says. I tell him to do it later, not to bother now.  He replies: it’s the only exercise I do, and leaves. His wife arrives, kisses me and tells me that its time for lunch. She opens a few tin cans, like those from the ice-cream shop; she tastes the pork loin with potatoes from one of them.  It’s delicious, you’re going to love it, help yourself. She leaves. I realize there is a lot of food in those containers: apple purée, salads, chicken with mole… I can’t find the book, my friend says, while he is going somewhere else. I eat a radish. But I am thirsty, not hungry. My friend comes back whistling quietly, with a book in his hands, he looks for the passage, then puts down the book; it’s not here, he says, and then leaves again, whistling quietly. It seems he’s going to look for another one; it’s the only exercise I ever do, he says. He takes forever. I see a great variety of plants, some of them enormous, and next to them, a row of unbranded liquor bottles. Most of them are almost empty. What’s in them looks like brandy, homemade.  There are no glasses; no plates and cutlery either. I sip from one of the bottles. It is brandy, and it’s exquisite.

I drink the remainders of another bottle. And then another.

It occurs to me that perhaps my friend uses the bottles to play the marimba and thus lines them up, nearly empty, in a row. I drink another’s remainders bottom. And then another. There are stables everywhere. But no horses. In a small area there are a few rooms made of wood, their dimensions are very small. They are interconnected, open to the greenhouse and the gardens, and empty. One and then another and then another and another… all of them empty, without any furniture or pictures or people. They look more like they belong to a dollhouse or a playground. When I go out I see my friend in the greenhouse, whistling quietly and going through the pages of a book. I am thirsty, I say. Drink brandy, he replies without looking at me. Oh! Here it is! And he starts reading out loud. Every once in a while, in the middle of the reading, he stares at me from the top rim of his glasses. I drink the remainder of a brandy of bottle and then another and another and another and one more. I don’t understand anything that he is reading to me, in the same tone and rhythm that is lulling me to sleep. I hear his voice as if it were coming from a monotonous and exasperating snore or from under the water. He goes on reading without a pause, staring at me while continuing to read, now without looking at the book, as if he were reading my face, I can’t stand his voice anymore, it’s my naptime, I tell him.

The light is still radiant.

I need to go to the bathroom. My friend is not there anymore. I can’t find the bathroom. I walk into a stable and as I start urinating, I see my friend and his wife approaching from afar. It’s something that I already knew, she says to him, but I liked how he explained it to me. He’s very serious and doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her. I quickly come out of the stable. She kisses me and says that it’s lunchtime. He leaves, don’t tell me that you are looking for a book, she says, and he: it’s the only exercise I do. It’s delicious, she tells me as she opens a steamy container, you’re going to love it, help yourself. She leaves. Aren’t you going to eat too? I scream at her. I already ate, she responds, you’re going to love it, help yourself. Yes, thank you I really loved everything! I scream. She smiles, from afar, and then leaves. She is young and beautiful. I snatch a pear from a tree and devour it. I am so thirsty. Another pear. It’s not ripe, I toss it out. A long time passes. No one, I walk into a stable, piss, and come out. I decide to go to the troughs.  I hear the fountains, but cannot see them. Paths lined with poplars, many paths lined with many poplars from which I don’t know how to return. I am very thirsty. There is no night. I slowly drink from the trough.  I suddenly feel the earth shaking under my feet, hear furious galloping in the distance. I step aside and see the some wild horses cross the poplar-lined path, riderless but moving in a straight line, setting off a great cloud of dust. I feel the earth shaking under my feet, for a long while. And then again, the deafening sound of light. The radiant light that makes the dust dissipate. There is no night. I slowly drink from the trough; the water tastes like the furious gallop of the horses.

CUATRO CANTOS

++

Óvalos

Eran los hermosos óvalos que flotaban

por los paisajes de todas las ferias mundiales

los que me seguían sin parar

cada vez que me trataba de bolear los zapatos.

Yo quería ser negro,

pero la tintorería de Transilvania nunca me llamaba,

creo que porque no les gusta la calvicie

y porque mis tacos con escabeche ahora huelen a talco.

Si tan solo los caballos de colores fueran antropólogos

interesados en sorber clips suecos,

si tan solo los mecánicos burocráticos vivieran en Nápoles

y entendieran que el pasto a veces puede ser rosado.

Ahí siguen los óvalos,

que odio que sean tan hermosos y tan grandes y veloces,

y que yo sea una tortuga medieval

solo con una bolsita de gomas de borrar

pero sin audífonos y con deudas de gimnasio.

Son así las olas de este barrio,

que llegan con Mafaldas abstrusas a veces,

donde todos saludan pero cierran temprano

y no queda mas que tirar los calcetines por la ventana

cuando termina el verano.

++

Aduana

Vendo pellejos diseñados,

hechos de dedos finos de venados rumanos,

los promuevo en bosques de farmacias lentas

de aquellas que surten frases suaves con íes y diptongos,

con avestruces de peluche cantando a la salida,

para aquellos como yo, con traje de húsar anticuado,

de esos que son imposibles de planchar.

Fuera de eso, mi tienda está vacía

como si esto fuera la posguerra de los moles,

ya quisieras, pues habria paraíso de boinas,

pero ni siquiera ese chicle pega,

ni Virilio me deja usar su carro de último modelo

ni me invitan a la capilla de los banquetes.

Plantado con mi duty-free bajo el brazo

trato de oler todos los colores

y acaricio las avenas de las mañanas

en busca de que algo, lo que sea, me dé besos.

++

Bidet

Según historiadores y egiptólogos

el sol se proyectaba al estilo de Sanborns

cuando uno pide huevos negativos con arroz;

todo era elegantísimo, con moños nupciales

y en los pasillos con cuadrados verdes aterciopelados

hasta los huesos funestos comían sombras de negocios.

Era sin duda una montaña semiótica para un niño como yo,

con mi canasta pirograbada con iguanas bajo el brazo

difícil de pesar apropiadamente sin inflar un globo,

pero así eran las enredaderas polacas cuando se dejaban tocar,

y si en París Londres se podía pedir emparedado de almejas con Pritt

no sabremos si los parques eran también así de disléxicos

a menos de que nos hubiesen dejado plantados

con una orquesta regional.

Yo, por mi parte,

colecciono espuma desde hace dos siglos

para peinar toboganes rusos como los de Pavlov,

y me lavo el pelo en el bidet como Supermán,

pero ni así logro taclear al camello que me ataca

por sorpresa cada miércoles a las quince

cuando me encuentro cargando las bolsas del super,

e inevitablemente me duele hasta el pelo,

y sueño la caravana pasar ante mis pecas

con todos los bisnietos de la historia,

y la crema dulce de los Cadillacs

y el inconsolable lavabo con su fuente

que nunca supimos reparar.

++

Distribuidora

Soy como un camarón diminuto

perdido en un mall fantasma

de esos que armaban los teóricos amnésicos

mientras los distraía un turbante sucio.

Hay algo que me recuerda a mi papá,

pero no sé si es ese teléfono para changos

o las algas electrónicas que salen sin avisar,

injustamente como lo tratan a uno en un hospital

cuando llegamos sin trofeos o faldas de terlenga.

Creo que extraño la época en que yo era perro

y a veces llegaban bolsas con estrellas y malvaviscos verdes,

o llovía jugo de fresa sobre nuestras zapatillas,

y todos éramos bailarines entrenados por Ravel,

y pensar que hasta ahora comprendo finalmente

considerando las varias manchas de salsa en mi chamarra,

ya nunca va a llegar el momento de las almohadas frescas

ni el de las playas violetas del sur

a pesar de que, como todos los brujos indicaban,

ahorita debería de estar cruzando Circunvalación.

No soy Polivoz, pero tampoco entiendo

estos caracoles infinitos en mi cara

que vinieron para quedarse en Indochina

o mas bien, para dejarme viendo telenovelas

en la ropería,

esperando, eternamente,

al camión.

Texto palindrómico del performance presentado en el Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, Madrid, el 18 de junio del 2009.

El performance incluyó la interpretación de obras para piano, tocadas al derecho y a la inversa, de Josef Matthias Hauer (1883-1959), Robert Starer (1924-2001), y Witold Lutoslawski (1913-1994), interpretadas por Beatriz Helguera-Snow.

Palindromic Text from the performance “Revolver” performed at the Museo Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, Madrid, on June 18, 2009. The performance included a selection of pieces, played normally as well as backwards, by Josef Matthias Hauer (1883-1959), Robert Starer (1924-2001), and Witold Lutoslawski (1913-1994), played by Beatriz Helguera-Snow.

REVOLVER

Acuda caro: hallé hoyos. Ya hay nata, paré tesoro: mi visión, oh celoso, lo cortó. Eres oro, malcriada para mí, rala es la cosa. Oso, Roma, amé ópera, horror… ora, con él así, solos, yo soy ése loco. Podar tele sé; ese día me asomé. Va Lada, le habla, aséase. Poeta. Ah, cala, tala, rapo, no ceso. Ya, por oval, seno bajó— dale cetro. Ser odioso, idos acá. Sé amar dominó, pero lavadora, le sé arar aro. Haré una mora, dí a canal. ¿Yo leí “crac”? Esa oda rato lo coló. La oda basada crea, con ropa, loseta suave. Átame, mala. ¿Viola parir o morí? De podar no hora es. A papaya de ida, nana, loro ese oído, o lo yerro colado a la rapada y da timada casa. O lama la tipa casaca—red Nevada— y osó matar tío. Oré, ni da elogio, ni te lama. Oir a idea cayó, sé: vamos a avatar: rese cera, pala o Kaiser. El carro para. Hará cara, parece plato. Tocan. Ése adulas, sané. “Pásele.” Papá ata mesa y odas a pasado das, a pasado. La mata: cae la bolsa, sea, era dar o daré: La USA caer, ser ir o morir es. O dará  Tebas o cocaina y eso veo: capo agotado. Oir Aro: helada arte les erro: cartel asa, amo la ruda oda, era rato, sé: no son Sadam: a ese llanero allí toca para allá velo: sor toro da tamales. A esa otra hoy oro dí, vemos ayer. Ara, dan allá. Mirad: Europa colosal a alud a rosa muere, sé a vida, asaré somera, Hoy es ese dia para el arte, les oyó, arte  les (se) hará modernos. Da de desamar, ese sal Obama, ese país nadará a la deriva,  y…

A ir el agotar teratoma, sal, batalla anuda, le temo: Irak ario sé así: mar árabe bese a Cairo. Memoria caése beba, rara misa es o Irak a río mete la duna.  Allá tables a mota retrato, galeria. Ya viré. Dala, arad, ansia pese, ama bolas ese. Rama, sed, edad, son redomará Hesse letra oyó, se, letra lea, rapa a id ese sé yo, haremos eras a diva. Ese reuma sor, adula Alá solo capo rueda, rima llana dará. Rey, asomé  vid oro yo, harto aseas. El a matador otros olé, valla ara, pacotilla o renal le sé amadas, no sones o tarareado. A dura loma asa letra, corre, sé letra, dale horario o da toga, opaco Evo sé. Ya  ni a coco sabe, tarado. Ser ir o morir es, rea casual era dorada, rea es. As, loba, le acata mal. Odas a pasado das, a pasado.Ya se mata a papeles. Apenas saluda ese naco total. Pecera para cara. ¿Hará porra? Cleresía koala parece ser. Rata va, asoma, ¿ves? O ya cae diario, a maletín oígole. A dinero oí, tratamos. O ya da vender a casa, capital a malo. Asa cada mitad. Ya da para la oda, lo corre; yo lo odio. Ése oro, lana nadie da ya, Papá.  Sé aro honrado: pedir o morir a palo. IVA lame, mata. Eva usa té sola por no caer cada sábado a lo loco —lo tarado—a secar cielo y lana caída. Roma, nuera, hora rara es. El aro da valor epónimo, drama es acaso dios oído.  Resorte celado jabón es. Lavo ropa, yo seco, no para la talacha. Ateo pesa. Esa alba helada la vemos a Ema. Id. Ese, ése letrado poco le sé, yo soy solo si sale no caro. Rorro, haré poema amoroso. Aso cal, sea la rima rapada. Ir clamor o seré otro coloso lechón. Oí, sí ví moros, éter a patán ya hay. Soy, oh ella, hora caduca.

Pablo Helguera, Orizaba, 2008 Performance Still

Ignacio Helguera / Pablo Helguera - Village of Helguera, Cantabria, 1951 ektachrom slide/video still, 2008

Works premiered at the exhibition
The Lining of Forgetting
Weatherspoon Museum
Greensboro, North Carolina
February 10-May 25, 2008

http://weatherspoon.uncg.edu

Orizaba (2008) is a performance work that utilizes the traditional image visualization processes of the art of memory as a compositional technique to reconstruct the rooms of a house in Mexico City, where I spent the first four years of my childhood and of which I only retain fragmentary and suggested memories. The narrative, constructed as a poem with seven sections, establishes in the first section the images of twelve areas of the house with a number of corresponding images to each, and later developing in the subsequent sections with a visual and verbal variations of those images and spaces, in a similar way to the musical format of the fugue.

Twilight (2008) is a video that presents the ektachrome slides taken by my grandfather, Iganacio Helguera, in a trip he made to Europe shortly after World War II. With images of depopulated city views, sunsets and landscapes. The video contains four alternative narratives which can be heard together or separately, which include memory images from the memory systems of Giordano Bruno, an essay on the role of collective memory in Europe after the war, and the actual description of Ignacio Helguera’s tourist journey to Europe when he took these images. The fourth sequence integrates the previous three narratives, also again in the format of the fugue.

Estoy tan lejos de ti
Y soy tan poco habil
Para salvar heroicos acantilados
Tanto de la vida como del amor,
Que no puedo alcanzarte.

Sólo sé que a veces
Te puedo tocar con palabras
Minúsculos hilos electronicos
Como las latas que servían de teléfono infantil
Y nos daban dificultosas, pero amenas, conversaciones
Con voces espaciales de metal,

Y me tengo que conformar
Con estos finos hilos de letras
Que por breves momentos te rozan
A horas extrañas de la noche
Horas extrañas como mis palabras,
Como mi presencia en tu vida,
A la mediatarde, o a la hora del yoga
Nunca sé cuando ni como,
Pero sé que te llegan
Y quizá los cuelgas en hilos como en un tendedero
Y a veces incluso te leo sonreir
Y a veces te siento quererme
Y yo sonrio y te amo y siento que hay algo,
Que algo de todo esto existe, después de todo,
Que es lo único que existe.

Solo nuestras líneas
Que no son sino fotones, juegos de luz, chispas silenciosas
Me llevan por las calles que caminas
Solo con ellas te sigo el rastro
En lo que te entreveras por el bosque de la ciudad.
Las migajas de pan electronico que me vas dejando
Como fiel sabueso miope que se guía por los olores
Sigo los charcos pequeños de tal o cual esquina
Que ocupan solo un Segundo de tu Mirada
Como el Rincon de aquel cuadro
O la ventana de tu cuarto y su jacaranda,
Que se vuelve violeta cuando pasa un colibrí,
Y todo aquello que es pequeño y olvidable,
Pero que lo constituye todo,
Y me lo haces ver, y en esos momentos
Todo me parece que ha sido hecho
Para vivirlo solo contigo.

Pero los hilos son frágiles,
Y se rompen a veces
Y uno queda Huerfano, atemorizado,
Suspendido en el aire sin paracaidas,
Aeronauta sentimental
Hombre de hojalata sin sentido.

Cómo quisiera que tuviéramos más que letras.
Cómo quisiera que tus palabras fueran formas, actos,
Que cada vocal fuera mas que ese aire
Que ni siquiera puedo respirar.
Quiero traerte hacia mí,
Pero no tengo nada más de momento que tus líneas,

Luego comprendo que en el mundo real no existen las líneas
Ni trigonometrías a base de electrodos,
Ni regla dorada que explique tu consciencia nocturna,
Las palabras solas no dan lineas rectas entre dos puntos,
Ni la ley de gravedad es responsible de mi gravedad,
Ni los teléfonos de lata existen ya.

Nada existe, en realidad, en este momento,
Sino tú, sin duda, en algún lugar,
Pero pensando seguramente en otra cosa,
Y yo, con mi gran angustia,
De algun dia ya no encontrarte
Del otro lado
De este fragil hilo
De letras.

Luis Ignacio Helguera (1962-2003)

Pablo Helguera

When I die, I shall finally have both garden and basement
(L.I.H.)

The Colonia Condesa is perhaps the most extemporaneous and melancholic neighborhood in Mexico City. Despite the recent commercial metamorphosis that has devalued its character, its buildings continue acting as tableaux vivants or postcards from an old Mexico: the subtle provincial air composed by the texture of the trees and the 1930s avuncular houses, the parque España and the parque México, the now extinct Bella Epoca cinema, the Rosa and Basurto buildings.

It made sense for Luis Ignacio to live there: not only due to his fascination for that era, but also because his state of mind always required a certain inoculation against the present. He hated driving, or any other speed-based activity outside of soccer: his favorite thing to do was to walk down Veracruz street, where he lived, go into the tio Luis restaurant or any given Cuban joint, visit the street fair and check out the man shooting ducks at the shooting stand, examine the meat and poultry shops, or simply sitting at the park bench and watch children go by with their balloons, and think about Aristotle and man’s final goal:

BALLOON

Happiness lies high for us
man’s ultimate goal, according to Aristotle
it lies high
rarely do we ever reach it
but sometimes
in a burlesque balloon fashion
it comes down our poor heads
and we feel its softness
electrify our hair
and we hold its string
and we caress its oval weightlessness
and we stroll through the park of the world
with our balloon
and we laugh like idiots
drunken with joy,
until we find it ordinary, boring, dull
to stroll through the world with a balloon like idiots
and the hand loses the string
and the balloon flies away in our anguish
as if into a precipice
towards the infinite.

As with everything else that surrounded him, he had a contradictory passion with the place where he lived, which simultaneously captivated and exasperated him (a feeling not that uncommon amongst those who live in Mexico City). One of this favorite quotes was by the Latin poet Catulus: “I love and hate. Do not ask me why, but I feel it so. And I suffer.”

Be it houses, hotels, villages or neighborhoods, plazas or alleys or mask stores, places in general provoked in Luis Ignacio long, repeated and intense experiences. These would result in memories, which, in turn, after many meditations during naptime and insomniac exercises with the pen and the paper at night, turned into literature. His works usually were born at the table of our family dining room set, the one thing that was with him his entire life and which he himself commemorated in a poem:

Pain and pride of my movings
the ony imperial thing I’ve got
this dining room set of my grandfather
in which I portrayed him when I was four
while he was talking business
with my dad

This dining room
in which the family
passed around salty and sweet phrases
flying rug
changes with me of time and home

I fly with the dining set,
I touch its wood to land
while my daughter hides under the table
as if behind a tree
as I did as a kid
returning the legs to the woods
of diffused genealogies
We hit our heads with the table
we scratched it
we poured hot coffees onto it
and my grandmother, and my mother, and my wife
rubbed red oil on its wounds
When after all
I think
that’s all it ends up remaining
our pains,
our scars
on the table of the dining room.

Luis Ignacio was particularly sensitive to the personal anecdote and the place where it had transpired. My brother and I shared together, for more than a decade, a room in the old family house in Arizona 106, along with my parents and my two sisters. (Also with us there was a ghostly, 90-year old great aunt, Lolina, who I remember as an entirely white and almost ethereal being who would walk silently around the house. When she died, we continued suspecting her quiet steps around the stairs). Our room had very large windows, with beautiful dark wood French blinds, and it overlooked a garden with high walls covered with ivy.  It was in this room where Luis Ignacio one day was working at his desk and suddenly a bat appeared, hitting against the window, disappearing almost instantly. This incident resulted in a prose poem that gave the title of one of his books and which he dedicated to me (according to him, as a right for the co-ownership of the room):

Bat at Midday

To Pablo Helguera

A group of mockingbirds breaks loose into flight from the high ivy of the house in the garden. Fearful premonition of birds. Only one moment later, indeed, a brownish bat —slow, indifferent intrusion— arrives pushing itself in the air against midday, and passes through the abandoned home, clumsily hitting his wings against the windows, the ivy, the instants. Brief accidents of things, glitches of the itinerary. Lethargy, disorientation, untimeliness, flight in the desert of light. The inside surface of the dry leaves, the dark tree trunks, the hidden shadows. Soul in disarray. Sad comet of ash. Hairy and stupid flapping that crumbles in cave dust on the illuminated wall.
And the night still so absent in the plants.

–
Games

In the room where he was visited by the bat, Luis Ignacio discovered Chekhov, Ravel, Stravinsky, Tartini and Khachaturian, Capablanca, Zeno, Heraclitus and Heidegger, and Julio Torri —all of them fascinations that would become the basis of his aesthetic vocabulary. Each one of these discoveries took place at different times, but his loyalty toward them —which sometimes appeared to be simple partiality— always was eternal and unconditional, maybe because each one of these discoveries had marked a moment of profound personal identification. He treated his influences like his friends, as holding an unbreakable contract. His list of loyalties started with being a fan of the Mexican soccer team León, and particularly for his heroic goalkeeper Salomone, who once held him in his arms. Even though the León eventually went onto the minor leagues, and long after its heyday, Luis Ignacio continued watching its games till the end, from his frail black and white TV.

He always felt the urgency to communicate his fascination for things. It was vital to him to have some sort of interlocutor in order to share the way in which he felt about a poem, a philosophical phrase, a photograph, or a musical work. As a child, and being nine years younger than him, he made me his first fan and audience member, job that I took enthusiastically.  I would usually sit there, a bit perplexed, as I would hear his first drafts of poems or stories (many of which would go straight to the trash can later). Oftentimes, in order to entertain both of us, he would transform his interests in games: in the height of his passion for chess, we would organize fictional tournaments that would last days (“round robin” style) where we would place “real” players of international and historical fame (Spassky, Karpov, Korshnoii, Reti, Lasker, Capablanca), alongside Mexican ones (Kenneth Frey, Marcel Sisniega, Willy de Winter) and entirely fictitious ones (Tontocho Chávez). Notably, Nacho would adjust his playing style throughout the tournament according to the apertures and strategies of every player. Despite such educational displays, I didn’t become such a great apprentice, although I did win under his training a few children tournaments, while he was teaching chess at a cultural center near our house and at the Casa del lago in Chapultepec. Sometimes I would accompany him to his own class the Black Bishop at the Colonia Roma, a chess club where his teacher was Enrique Palos Báez, a timid and smiling man who mysteriously lived at the club in a tiny room and had the looks of a friar (was he the black bishop, perhaps?)

Then there was a turn of experiences that gave him a strong aesthetic focus. In 1981, my aunts Elsa and Elena took Luis Ignacio to Europe, for his first and only time. It was an experience that impacted him deeply. Upon his return, he brought back ashtrays from Milan and Rome, small bottles of Grand Marnier, a gray checkered hat from London that he kept for decades, a handful of cotton balls he picked up from a garden in Bruges. He also brought back a firm passion for French music and art in general, adding many names to his pantheon. I helped him put together a huge poster-like collage with postcards and magazine cutouts that reminded him of this trip. The impact of symbolism, impressionism, and the modernist movements of the beginning of the century became around that time, and from then on, the main basis of influence in his work.

Luis Ignacio’s passion for music, which had been greatly nourished by our parents, manifested itself first for the works of Ravel and Debussy, Milhaud and Ibert, and for the Russians like Mussorgsky, Borodin, Prokofiev and Stravinsky. In childhood games we would put records on the dinosaur-like Philco player, and we would act out choreographies or invent stories around Ravel’s Le Tombeau de Couperin, Pavanne for a Dead Maiden, Milhaud’s Beuf sur le Toit, Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, Petrouschka and The Firebird, Borodin’s Polovetsian Dances, or Respighi’s Pines of Rome. As he himself tells in his work “Atril del Melómano”, he tried to study music at the national conservatory, “in the bucolic gardens of the ruinous and for me attractive building of Pani”, another mysterious place which, with its huge windows and its burgundy concrete floors, would make him decide toward not making music, but writing about it.

It would be hard to find many people who enjoyed music with the intensity in which he did: he would spend hours next to the record player, looking toward the window or the ceiling, whistling, leaned over backwards, with the pen in the hand, closing his eyes, intensely savoring every note played by Heifetz, Gidon Kremer, Victoria de los Angeles or Tom Waits.

His literary interests, which would end up becoming his true profession, started with his attendance to literary workshops, chess games seasoned with literary conversations with Juan José Arreola, and with the guidance of Eduardo Lizalde, who was no doubt the greater inspiration of his youth.

However, when he was eighteen his passion suddenly veered toward philosophy, particularly existentialism. His studies at the faculty of philosophy and letters of the National University brought him eventually to phenomenology. He made his thesis on the notion of understanding in “Being and Time” by Heidegger, likely the most influential philosopher in his work. Heidegger’s and Husserl’s methodology and hermeneutics gave him a fundamental structure onto which exercise his critical and essayistic work, both musical and literary, whereas his interest in existential themes would constantly be expressed in his poetry and fiction. As editorial assistant of Octavio Paz’s magazine Vuelta at the end of the eighties, Luis Ignacio returned fully to literature and entered in touch with many leading Mexican writers, thus creating his most enduring artistic and personal friendships: Antonio Deltoro, Verónica Volkow, Aurelio Asiaín, Fabio Morábito, Gerardo Deniz, and many others.

His work on both music and literature never obeyed any sort of following of “current tendencies.” Instead, he almost automatically would lean toward any marginal or semi-obscure expressions that had captured little interest of other critics. This made him write about composers such as Conlon Nancarrow, Cri-Cri, or Candelario Huízar. In a similar way, his way of covering “current issues” was based mainly in commemorating death or birth centennials, or similar occasions, which were presented in the pages of Pauta, the magazine of which he was the editor for fifteen years under the approving oversight of Mario Lavista. Few music critics in Mexico have produced comparative music essays as useful and rigorous as the ones he made on the work of Silvestre Revueltas, Carlos Chávez, Rodolfo Halffter, and many others. He knew the work of Ravel and Stravinsky like no one else. One of the works that he never got to write could have well been a critical biography of either composer.

The “marginal” writers that occupied his interest, on the other hand, included
Pedro F. Miret – whose nightmarish and extravagant stories he loved—Uwe Frisch, Virgilio Piñera, Julio Torri and Dino Buzzatti. Toward the end, his interests darkened, ending with Charles Bukowski.  On the other hand, his emphasis on “impure” genres culminated perhaps on his work on prose poetry, a form that combined his inclination for elegance and brevity. This resulted eventually in his making the definitive anthology of prose poetry in Mexico.

Green Patios

Like every other family, our memories were marked by the places where we lived or visited. However, the circumstances around our leaving of these places —including the eventual departure of the core of the family to the U.S., which left Luis Ignacio as their sole interlocutor— made them acquire a more ghostlike quality. In his works, these places became part of a vocabulary of nostalgic mythology.

The first one of these places was our childhood home, located in the street of Orizaba 21 in the Colonia Roma, near the Insurgentes subway. When we left that house, an enormous mansion that housed the family for three generations, it was never inhabited again up till today, for reasons that to this date we ignore. Its continuous, empty presence, and the fact that it inexplicably appeared to resist being populated by new memories or people, gave it a certain air of enigmatic freezer of history, a sort of monument or memorial of a time that remains unburied. Luis Ignacio used to go visit it when he was in the area.  “I went by Orizaba the other day,” he would say, which would be just as saying “ I was thinking about those days.”

Another house that Luis Ignacio was prone to visit is located in Lagos de Moreno, Jalisco, and it has belonged to the family since the eighteenth century.  This one also occupies a symbolic place as it retains the residues and personal objects of more than six generations. Full of paintings, objects and photographs (“of diffused genealogies”), it has a great open patio with a well and a doorway through which we would see people like Kika freely enter in an out. Kika was a feeble, deaf, hunched old lady and neighbor of the family for more than half a century. Luis Ignacio developed a certain fondness toward her, in the same way in which he would grow an affection for all things and people who were in appearance marginal, forgotten, or invisible.

It was in this house (as well as in brief stays in Patzcuaro) where Luis Ignacio wrote great part of the material of his first book, Traspatios. Traspatios contains a series of daguerreotype-like vignettes of the provincial family life with which he exerts a phenomenology of memory and of the past. The personal experience and the family space would inevitably transform in a new place, populated by the familiar but also by the philosophical reflection:

In middle voice, through the antique hallway, lonely, an insinuation in chiaroscuro, preterital song of a woman who washes clothes by ear, rake that returns every afternoon for the leaves of the album to the tree of memory, friend of the house with her own key of the doorway, silent deaf old woman, subtle murmur of light debating between shadows, silent melody that lulls years, centuries, in the well of the oranges and hours (…)

Another place of the mnemonic nomenclature of the family, where we spent most of our childhood vacations, was the Jacarandas hotel in Cuernavaca, which has a number of gardens in a large area, filled with bungalows, golf courses, and cozy pool sections in the American style of the fifties. Over the course of the years, the gardens have been preserved, and the hotel still exists although a bit decayed, rather as a memory of a better time. But for us who remembered it in its times of glory, walking through its gardens was a process of reliving a series of anecdotes and incidents of before. Also stuck in its own time, this hotel also was an obsession to Luis Ignacio, who used to go back to stay at the bungalows to write perhaps to recover certain moments that could only be retrieved right there and then:

Jacaranda

Here thirty years later. The gardens grow experiences; memories take part of the vegetation. Just like those who grow in these corners: spot of soul, elbow, knee, shadow plant, ivy in waiting of being gardened by memory (…) in the leaf of the jacaranda is the living ground of the voices, the detention, the immense instant. We are a speck, a speck of a speck of our remembrances; and through specks like that, eternity shows.

Although for Luis Ignacio these places were constant references, the resulting works were in general a distilled product, composed by a variety of situations that he wasn’t seeking to represent but rather to reflect upon, leading to metaphysical and metahistorical problems that consumed his mind. On the other hand, as he himself admitted, by force of repetition and revision of anecdotes in after-meal table conversations, these memories would be transformed in new fictions (“human memory ([is]…) full of whims and prone to falsify, free and creative”), to the point that in many cases he himself wasn’t sure about what was real and what had been a fabrication (in some cases he would even adopt our own personal anecdotes and place himself in them, although conveniently taking the most heroic role). On the other hand, his way of experiencing things was almost preceded by the very act of commemorating the transformation of the act of living into the act of remembering (“moments which since one lives them appear to be old memories”; “this perfume, which today only smells to itself, tomorrow will smell to these moments”). His work is thus an enactment of automatic historicity, commemorative and meditative, sometimes sad and nostalgic (“rain belongs to yesterday”) and sometimes ironic, critic, skeptical, and humoristic.

Masks

Luis Ignacio’s extraordinary attachment to things, to ideas, to places, people, music, and definitely to confrontations of every kind, was in general fairly selective, although implemented with formidable vigor. Sometimes he was extreme (“neither yes, neither no, neither neither”). Every person or thing that would capture his interest he would take over with absolute dedication and sense of ownership, as if he was afraid of loosing everything he would find along, and if it went away from him he would do enormous efforts to claim it back. His literary works, in a similar way, at times appear to reveal that enterprise of recovering things and commemorate them in a symbolical process that was at the same time an acknowledgement nothing truly can be retained.

His greater obsession lied in trying to understand things, for which he had an ongoing anguish; the greatest of them all, I think, was the very impossibility of understanding himself. His introspective writing could be excessively self-critical, and sometimes even ruthless: highly suspicious of his identity, which in fact is manifested already in his earliest published text (written in 1981):

Scrap of Film

…all seen from the eyes of a dog. Discolored images, rather in black and white, in slow motion. It looks like dawn in these fields, although it could well be a gray dusk. The immense field seen through the eyes of a dog, which could well be a cow. The wheat sprigs bow against the passing of the wind, but with the same sleepy rhythm. The images wag from the dog because he walks, because all this moves… And again they relatively fix as they stop in front of a milkmaid who carries two pails of water. She looks toward our canine visual field: she looks at us with surprise and horror. She slowly leaves the pails on the ground and with the perplexed expression she moves back, without looking at me. She touches her apron with her white hands and mumbles something that is not heard (nothing can be heard, actually).  She continues to walk back and I think that I am also walking, toward her, as she walks back. We arrive to a humble looking house, nearby the abandoned mill. She pulls the door, a bit faster, and now without looking at me, she gestures with despair as she locks the door behind her. I am left alone, immobile. I touch my face. I must be a monster.

This kind of writing, that sometimes adopts the tone of Kafka or Mary Shelley -although not without a touch of irony- appears repeatedly in various poems that revolve around the notion of self-recognition, such as in his text “mask store” (“almost without realizing, I bring my hand to my face and touch it”), Minotauro (“people, prey of fear, move out of his way”), in his short story “costume party”, where an unknown character crashes a party, and his well known text “The child face” (“and a radiant blow of light in the plain visage of the insect revealed to the executioner an unknown shot, in which he himself appeared as a child making a painful and whining gesture”).

As a great humorist, either by inventing bestiaries for his daughter Marina or ridiculing the music milieu in Mexico from the pages of his magazine Pauta, he practiced his humor toward himself over anyone else.  Toward the end of his life, as he himself wrote, his life turned into literature (“without realizing, he became all literature”), in a process that was known to his friends as the “Nachoaventuras”.

Our aesthetic arguments usually revolved around contemporary art, the area toward which I gravitated as a visual artist. We never were fully in agreement in terms of form, neither in regards to conceptualism and the social dimensions of art. Luis Ignacio could never get enthusiastic about the problems that he found too alien or that didn’t concern him at a very intimate level. This very condition made him become a writer distant from every kind of current fashion or tendency, as well as any kind of careerist style, which he reasonably despised. In my view, it also made him one of the most original literary voices of his generation.

***

In a most ironical fashion that he himself  would have approved, we gave burial to Luis Ignacio on a Tuesday the Thirteenth, finally enacting a series of scenes that he had obsessively envisioned throughout the years: the wake ( “the wake is a party without host”), the funerary arrangements ( “there is some kind of sweet innocence in dying and in taking care of the dead one”), the ritual of the burial (which he addressed in his short story “Milpa Alta”), and in the large family gatherings that precisely take place only in wakes and weddings, with which he claimed to dream regularly  and which had caused in him a mix of anguish and fascination.

Always prone to observing funerary coincidences, he would have been the first one to point out that, at his forty years of age, he punctually followed the steps of his most admired Mexican composer, Silvestre Revueltas, whose music, sensibility, and biography captivated him. In an article of his (“Revueltas between the music and the wall”) he quoted a phrase of Revueltas that he liked very much: “wherever I want to go, I always run into a wall”.

Today I realize that he must have identified himself with that bat in midday that hit against our window: an anachronistic being, whose erratic presence, disoriented, seemed to enter in constant conflict with with the practical world into which he had arrived, a darkness in the middle of the light.  Luis Ignacio constantly questioned his place in the world, with full conscience of his finitude, as a true subject of a heideggerian “dasein” (or “being toward’s death”) with full lack of synch with time but in active search of his own parameters of duration ( from there his admiration to Bergson).  The work of Luis Ignacio is an exercise in extemporaneity, a dialogue with a world full of objects and circumstances  that refer to a certain present, but that as they are integrated into the territory of his literature evolve into signifiers of a lucid metahistorical reflection about our relationship with memory and time. This is because, despite his permanent restlesness with the place and time where he was, he was profoundly in touch with the experiences of life in a way that many of us will never be able to be.

I will miss him unspeakably. His life, which involved all of us near him in an extraordinary way, was unfairly consumed by his own personality, which absorbed both good and bad things without distinction— which is impossible to sustain in a regular life.

In his flight through life, Luis Ignacio always hit his head against the transparent window of reality. But as a redemption to his enormous anguish, every little blow generated a work that help us understand from the most abstract to the most banal.  As a bat that emerged from Plato’s cave, his work comes from a world of shadows that at first may seem unfamiliar, but if seen carefully, bestow the most prodigious clarities.

Zurich, May 2003

LIH in Mexico City, c. 1987

Luis Ignacio Helguera

Recuerdo y Olvido

Todo en mi despertar es polvoso
El ayer, el hoy el mañana
Y presiento que he olvidado lo más importante
Recuerdo que lo he olvidado
Y duele, deveras, el olvido,
Y recuerdo lo que quisiera olvidar
Y duele, deveras, el recuerdo.

Rembembrance and forgetfulness

Everything in my awaking is dusty
The Yesterday, the Today and the Tomorrow
And I sense that I have forgotten what’s  most important
I remember that I have forgotten it
And it hurts, truly, to forget,
And I remember that which I wanted to forget
And it hurts, truly,  to remember.

Panteón

¿Por qué será, de veras?
Cada vez que se muere alguien que quiero
Cae una tormenta.
Se inunda quizás el panteón de la memoria
Llueve el dolor por dentro de mis sueños.
Y sin embargo es tan cristalina el agua.

Graveyard

Why is it, really?
Everytime when someone that I love dies
A storm falls.
The graveyard of memory is perhaps flooded
The pain rains from inside of my dreams.
But despite all that,  the water is crystal clear.

–

Intermezzo núm. 2, en si bemol, op. 117, de Brahms

A mi padre, Luis Ignacio Helguera Soiné
Sólo ahora, a los cuarenta años
comprendo por qué me recostaba en el sofá de la sala cada noche
cuando estudiabas ese Intermezzo de Brahms
porque expresaba tu carácter y tu fuerza y tu nobleza, que aprendí mal
y la caída de las hojas verdes y luego rojas, en los jardines que tuvimos
el luto otoñal de todo
y recuerdo cómo oyendo la radio estacionaste el coche en una calle
entre automóviles furiosos
para ponerte a llorar sobre el volante
disculpándote conmigo con el pañuelo en la cara
porque era un Nocturno de Chopin que tocaba tu madre
y recuerdo cómo me cargabas semidormido hasta mi cama
al terminar el Intermezzo de Brahms, cada noche
y tu carácter y tu fuerza y tu nobleza, que aprendí mal.

–

Postal de Brahms

Para Carlos Helguera

Esta vecina de mis padres en Chicago
ensaya todas las tardes el Andante un poco adagio de la Primera sonata para viola de Brahms
mientras piso las hojas rojas y anaranjadas de la Campbell Avenue
¿Por qué le obsesiona ese movimiento como a mí?
(porque no lo estudia: le obsesiona)
¿por qué pasan estas cosas, tío?
No toca nada mal la viola, aunque se atora en un pasaje difícil, como yo en la vida
Quisiera tocar el timbre de su departamento
hablar con ella de Brahms, de esa serenidad sublime
y admirar la belleza de su viola y su cabellera
y la expresividad de sus brazos y sus ojos
mientras me otrece un café o una copa
y hablamos del poder evocativo y las meditaciones otoñales brahmsianas
y del estatismo armónico extraño y sublime
en que flota un clarinete de pronto solista sobre el piano en el tercer movimiento
del Segundo concierto para piano y orquesta
y la invito a cenar en Belmont
¿Pero qué tal si es una güereja desabrida o una anciana decrépita
o un maricón pelirrojo o un gordo devorador de hamburguesas?
Sólo quedaría sellar una brahmsiana amistad y largarme
¿Por qué pasan estas cosas en la vida, tío?
¿Por qué se pregunta uno por qué, si la vida toda es naturalmente azarosa e indescifrable?
Hace años que me obsesiona la dulzura de este Andante
Brahms deshojaba lentamente en el pentagrama los árboles más bellos
Me invade la melancolía, pero no tengo el valor de tocar el timbre
Tal vez esa mujer espera a un brahmsiano que toque su timbre
Tal vez esa mujer sea tan solitaria y triste como yo
Tal vez esa mujer y yo podríamos amarnos, apadrinados por las barbas de Brahms
Tal vez sea la mujer de mi vida y me separan de ella la cordura y la cobardía y un timbre
Después de todo, la melancolía de los acordes
ambienta bien mi soledad
Me quedo con la belleza pura de la música
silbo la melodía y piso las hojas rojas y anaranjadas de la Campbell Avenue
y regreso con mis padres
Qué triste y hermoso y brahmsiano es el otoño en Chicago

–

Modhina de las Bachianas brasileiras
núm. 1 para ocho cellos de Villa-Lobos

Para Guillermo Helguera
Qué tristeza a veces da la tristeza ajena
la de la gente bienintencionada a la que el destino parece empeñarse en probarle que es mejor ser mala persona
la de la gente que trata honradamente de “superarse”
y compra y lee con esfuerzos uno de esos manuales de superación personal
y todo le sale mal
como todo bien a los autores abyectos de esos bestsellers
una tristeza que va y vuelve como las olas del mar
la de la gente buena que cree a diario en Dios por más que Dios sólo le dé a diario bolillo duro
qué tristeza la del hombre que logra por fin armar el rompecabezas de su vida
solamente para comprobar que fue todo un rotundo fracaso
la del cierre de un buen restaurante destinado, quién sabe por qué, a la bancarrota
del que fue uno el último cliente y ya ni siquiera le cobraron la cuenta
una tristeza que va y vuelve como las olas del mar
la de enterrar personas a las que no pudimos decirles ni probarles que las quisimos mucho
qué tristeza las discusiones agrias de parejas ancianas que no se tienen ya sino uno al otro
y no tuvieron hijos, como no tuvo Villa-Lobos
y en medio de las discusiones, cada vez más agrias, lo saben, y mejor van por el pan y la leche
la de las parejas que se destrozaron a cachos después de que cupo entre ellas todo el amor del mundo
qué triste recordar a fuerzas lo que más duele recordar
las mordidas del murciélago o la rata en el alma
una tristeza que va y vuelve como las olas del mar
qué triste cuando queda ya sólo el recuerdo, cada vez más recuerdo del recuerdo
qué triste cuando el billar de toda la vida, Villa-Lobos, es ya sólo rutina
cuando las carambolas o el sexo importan tanto como ir al baño o pagar la renta
qué tristeza incluso expresar toda esa tristeza en un canto desgarrado de ocho cellos
en belleza desesperada
como hizo Villa-Lobos

(2001)

Symmetricals is a series of palindromic drawings, originally planned as designs for totem-pole sculptures.Originally published in Paréntesis magazine, 2001

Simétricos es una serie de dibujos palindrómicos originalmente planeados como diseños para esculturas en forma de tótem. Aparecieron por primera vez publicados en la revista Paréntesis en el 2001.

*(Rodolfo Limonini es un heterónimo)

Poemas en prosa ( hacia 2001)

La barba ya no está engrapando mis visiones fenomenológicas, ya te lo había dicho enfáticamente el mismo día que fuimos a nadar a la alberca de esponjas con una Agata Christie lluviosa. Tu rufianismo nunca quiso admitir que la malteada de Sanborns era en verdad un existencialismo tardío, como notó amablemente la mesera que vio el papel arrugado en tu mano, con el teléfono de la casa del elefante blanco que amaste toda tu vida, confiésalo ya. Pero no, sé muy bien que no me dirás ya jamás la verdad de lo que sucedió en ese otoño húngaro de 1934, cuando te desnudaste bellamente antes de la guerra de chabacanos en medio del desierto naranja donde sólo había un espejismo de agencia de viajes vendiendo ese Dr. Pepper fabuloso que siempre beberé, gota a gota. Yo solo esperaba humildemente bailar despreocupadamente en el salón rojo detrás de Bellas Artes, salchicha en mano, listo para comer chongos zamoranos a las cinco de la mañana. Pero me tuvieron que llegar, como fantasmas irredentos, los aforismos telefónicos fatales: que la vida no es sino un zoológico mercadotécnico de plátanos presidenciales en vías de histeria, que los globos alucinógenos nunca han servido para aliviar el mal de bolsillo en situaciones de emergencia ranchera, que los tigres búlgaros nunca han ido a la gasolinera a cantarle a Chabuca Granda. Quién diría que esas nubes neoclásicas sabrían más de rumba de que coñac mortuorio sin huevos. Sólo diré que desde la cena en el hospital, mientras veía los vochos distraídos pasar por el cristal azul, pensé que ese gris de película nunca sería un techo maternal de rayas y lloré, lloré, lloré amargamente mientras abrazaba a mi única hormiga, sabiendo que las cosas nunca volverían a saber a cajeta, ni que las palelocas volverían a ser naranjas y moradas como en la casa de Palas.
—

Herencias Gitanas

La primavera es un dolor estomacal. He pensado que los cristales no ayudan a especializarse en las mareas del metro. Hemos calculado el diámetro final del taco de buche, los agujeros de la caja de huevo.  No me pongas por favor ese cronómetro en la nariz, no vale la pena. Yo siempre prefiero quedarme en el cuarto de servicio, cantándole arias de Meyerbeer a los mosaicos amarillos. El chiflido está aún en el aire, cargado de novelas románticas, de globos con sabor a pez, de colores que remiten al tren que perdimos, al que nos dejó encerrados en la estación, y aquél que tomamos con dudas pero del que nunca pudimos bajar.

—

Poemas chinos
Caen los pecados desde el cielo barroco. Los siglos nos persiguen, nos lavan las orejas desde ayer. Sé que soy pecador de malvaviscos, y que vendo raspados de poesía chilanga. No te asomes a los muros despellejados de mi licuado de fresa, ni tampoco me digas que el barandal rojo es en realidad un lunar medieval. Cuando llegaron todos los perros con sus chinos y sus narices de cartón pensé  que me lo decías de broma. Pero la verdad es que los ríos de leche condensada no sirven ya para NADA, ni de nada me han servido las gomas de borrar que te tragaste mientras tratábamos de descifrar la gota de agua que caía de su barbilla. Tu imbecilidad es mayor que la de un post-it nocturno, tu sudor genera corrientes ultra trágicas en mi vida de comprador empedernido de super. Las calles se ven azules desde aquí, pero solo porque el perro viene ladrando desde las cuatro de la mañana y porque la niebla hace que la escuela vaya a comenzar clases tres horas antes. Las mujeres japonesas me regalan todos sus frijoles espirituales, lo confieso. Tengo ganas de vivir en una foto en el que bailen eternamente un parque, una esponja rosa y una chava mojada con sus pezones parados. Las clases de matemáticas solo sirven para ponerse a desear a la maestra y para agarrar el tranvía de los colchones. La cola de las tortillas siempre ha discutido tácitamente a Hegel, pero ahora que la tele ha llegado ya ni el mecánico es capaz de recitar las guerras del peloponeso. Quizá solo las plantas, las plantas solo, sepan lo que significa mascar el chicle de la presencia, ahora que todos dejamos nuestro sombrero en el Burger Boy de la esquina mezclado con huevos. Si no sabíamos dibujar el cuatro durante el recreo lo unico que nos quedaba era poner los kleenex en la lavadora y pasarnos el resto de la noche limpiando el sueter de lana. Pero ni a pesar de que yo haya esperado en el Auditorio Nacional, ni a pesar de que la cantera es una roca que se convierte en lagartija solar, ni a pesar de que cada vez que espero el camión alguien siempre me gana me dan ganas de orinar, he podido darme cuenta que ese color prismacolor verde me tenía guardado un secreto brutal para cuando llegara la lluvia.

—
Los celos funestos algodonosos nunca nos llevarán a ninguna parte, opinó Fu-Xia Min mientras limpiaba las hojas y pelos sucios el estanque azul del Onán. Las plumas rojas del avestruz famoso no podrán estorbar en mi boutique fantástica, pero tampoco en la almohada electrónica que todos los días tocamos como guitarra, lentamente, en aras de un hipocampo mundial.  Era de noche y la tienda hermafrodita comenzaba a cerrar sus collares de oro persa. Para mi desgracia, tenían que evitarlo ante todo, aunque perdiéran la razón, aunque su boba poesía maraqueña dejara de existir para siempre. Corrieron todos cargando el colchón, algunos desnudos, pegándose en las caderas con los corvettes que pasaban llenos de padrotes hindús. Dieron las trece. Las estrellas de cine nos miraban mientras que las almohadas de arroz no sabían que hacer sino seguir oliendo. El resto sólo fue masacre, carnes rosadas volando por las columnas cinéfilas, agua del caño que brotaba de las fauces citadinas,  ratas leprosas que lamían lo que quedaba del pudín podrido de fresa. Todo fue rojo y cibernético, como la casa de Tron, por trece segundos. Luego vinieron los cocodrilos limpiadores para hacerse cargo del silencio. No quedaron sino algunas multas naranjas, algunos calzones amarillos que alguien aventó en la euforia, mis malvaviscos regados por todas partes y el collar imaginario que nadie encontró. Nada mejor, concluyó irritantemente Fu-Xia Min, para el desasosiego del alma portuaria, que busca botones de muestra en cada tienda de a dólar, cuando en realidad uno come bolillos rellenos de arañas.

Zumaya

Gaspar:
Iban los siete caminos verdes
al tormento de los labios rojos
setenta láminas que no se si serán suficientes
cada una de ellas con siete venas
cada vena con noventa horas
y cada hora con  cien historias
estoy en el balcón, cada noche después de cenar
mirando escalones triangulares
gentes que apagan sus luces
cuartos rosas de niñas que mañana irán a la escuela.
Mientras todas se bañan
suenan los aires de la papelería
vuelan tareas zurcando el cielo
el silencio de los parques
Mejor sería que me contaras historias de la India
cuando cruzabas el río con los faquires
y los niños jugaban a los dados con ramas.
Pero son sólo imágenes de nacimiento:
estamos tan lejos de todas las cosas,
que de nada me sirven estas láminas ni estas venas, Gaspar.
Pasa un camión con luces verdes por dentro.

COBRANZAS

Que los lirios rotos acepten su sudor,
que las teclas del piano se diviertan sin mí,
yo solo quisiera zancos sencillos
para librar los charcos esporádicos.
Hay momentos como éste,
en los que la cerbatana es una pluma bic
con la que me lanzan bolitas con saliva.
Pero sin embargo, nadie responde mi papelito
mandado con cautela de pupitre a pupitre
perfumado e ilustrado con esmero.
Son montañas sin fe, ruletas sin números,
hipódromos sin meta los míos.
Pero en dos patadas voy a kodak y hago ampliaciones
laboriosas de mi camisa manchada de lipstick,
incluso si fue por casualidad,
para que todos lo vean colgados en mi cuarto,
contando la historia que yo quiero ver.
Por suerte se han inventado los charades
para mantenernos felices.