Born into this

Es curioso que prácticamente todos mis amigos, salvo escasas excepciones, tienen problemas con el alcohol, al igual que yo. Bebemos como si con ello pudiéramos compensar algo que sólo existe en una metáfora rebuscada, un hueco, un vacío existencial, que no es provocado por la falta de amor, ni de dinero, ni de salud, ni de sexo. Es un hoyo negro, vacío de etiquetas, o en palabras llanas, un vaso vacío. La soledad.

Tiene mucha lógica, si lo piensas, mi forma de pensar, los pocos libros que leo, las muchas películas que veo, el pensamiento a veces radical y extremo, el sentido del humor, la rabia efímera y el sentimiento perpetuado.

Me hallo aquí, sentado, esperando en una oficina de gobierno, aburrido. Afortunadamente tengo algo con que escribir, sin saber siquiera qué es lo que quiero decir, salvo una fugaz reflexión sobre mí mismo.


Mientras espero pongo un documental de Hank, y transcribo un poema:

Oh, yes
There are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

(Hay peores cosas que estar solo, pero muchas veces toma décadas darse cuenta de ello, y aún más veces cuando lo haces, ya es demasiado tarde, y no hay nada peor a que sea demasiado tarde.)

“Dinosauria, We” by Charles Bukowski

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As political landscapes dissolve
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
We are
Born like this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and robing mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

*** note: there seems to be a longer version of this poem

Eloisa to Abelard (fragment)

...

Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

...