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Relocation

spend one's life searching for the center as if the center there, as if one morning you were to find it: You are here, I've seen, I have. And then suddenly happens that the center does not exist, or will that go very far above the planes, that geography is a science understandable and I have said there is a line from the innermost core of the earth to you. That line moves, it moves you and that you always carry that grabs you, keeps you within the laws of gravity and other physics. If you close your eyes burn, and that line comes with four fingers from the navel. And that is as close to the center, take over, be the focus, a continuation the nucleus, that is the only search, apparently, possible.

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Thule Queen

When I saw he was under sentence of Goethe I misunderstood (sometimes people write words of Goethe in a wall or make a poster that does not announce anything with a poem inside and you're done) . He wore a crown of plastic do not know if I believe that plastic, and makeup without a mirror, a shadow excessive and gray in his two blue eyes. Then followed the dress, dress up your feet, yellow and blue, as if he had to do it or they have been found in a costume shop (but would not disguise, she does not). Has caught the bottle then, Berliner Kindl, fifty cl and like someone has sucked the baby's mother's milk, all the glass around the mouth, clenching both eyes, concentrated, and counting the seconds it lasted very long drink. Has dropped carelessly on the table and continued to sit under a sentence of Goethe, very white light, in Blücherstraße quarter to ten, with blue eyes, with a thousand (maybe sixty) years and I have not looked at pass and has realized that I stood by her side to try to understand if the statement was written for her or if she was there for the sentence. But I do not know.

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I got your letter as usual on the exact day. Today I sent the response. I did, I do not know why, go to a building high beside the channel to send. Do not know why there. But I've gone, I've sent. I will soon. All the way trying to tell me I do not know why he had to give up the correspondence. But no. They will pick you up a gentle heat, and put his hands in his pockets to forget the cold of the bike. I've already gone and I'm back and I am now again in the house. And here, inside, there is a sign in the mirror. Spiegel puts it somewhere, then another, Wer bist du. At first I enjoyed watching every day writing Wer bist du, but now it's as if I had made a hole somewhere in that sentence and I get lost I miss you, I mean, all the known world in the nerves of an avocado plant abandoned in the street. Here's all true. It's as if everyone here believed to have brought to this city, this neighborhood, the center of the world suddenly. But it is not true and they know it. And that's not arrogance. No. The people move as close to the root, give things, believe in something beyond the material and sometimes seems to go down the street thinking about that something and that's why they smile so. The subway there are days that smell yeast dough and taken inside a very old jackets fashionable women and men in suits standing they read. There is also an invisible rain takes seven days falling on open containers and schoolyards. But despite all that easy to change the way city with state of fear. Close your eyes and everything is like when I was child and sometimes it was dark and the canal opened in closed box and everything was full of witches, male patch, green jelly monsters. That, too, I told you. But you longer, slower the better.

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Is beautiful summer?

The summer has a lot of phones that ring without that nobody heard, doors swollen by humidity, with people sleeping all day, sleeping sun, heat and sun all day dream of having recently completed food and that there is no hurry any more, to extend the hours long nap dirty. I do not know if I like the summer. Sometimes there are parties until late at a house in the woods and candles or torches and music and awareness of the sea, but so far, awareness of the sea. There are terraces filled with beautiful bartenders in Europe and recognizing your language in the focus and tell you when you go to you, a compliment and thank tested. I do not know what to think of summer, is a joy without form, sometimes the disappointment or the feeling that something is over or that everything is over or that there are things coming to an end somewhere in the world. They give you empty sadness newspapers, and more sadness than ever tragedies every day. Seem more larger, sadder, more tragedies in the summer. And you feel as if we expected all of the final fire, heat or final, anything outright and forever but in reality it will not last more than a summer lasts. Because at the bottom to the joy, the holidays, the terraces (no, terraces, is a lie, the heart of Europe you calm and there is the only place where the summer promises exactly what he gives and rain is expected and ten-minute storms that paralyze the train for two days and then it gets dark so late and the moon looks bigger and I like to think that is because it is closer), basically the southern summer, you mean, all that always keeps Toll taste similar and no one answers, or no battery clock next to an empty bed. The beaches, entertainment, reunions. Do not know exactly why but there's something there that makes you depressed, and depressed when you were four years and understand that children also die oxidized visiting a cemetery in the north. Remember the difference between these tombs and graves I had seen you. Remember the child's photo and sun worn fingers have little difference in years between the first and second digit. Remember the brief dash separating the two dates. Remember much of that northern summer. Do not know if it was the first summer sad or more sad because you know summer anything else that you lived in a house with fleas and biting you wrists at night and close your eyes if you understood that children also die and that I was terrified and had to walk down the aisle of an old house, playing with the clapping rough walls, anxiously looking for the parents' bed.

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Forgive us our trespasses as we

Forgiving. In thoughtful, first-person, net, in the rough. I do not know if you can forgive. If anyone knows how to forgive, if someone really understands the corners of the verb, that verb. Just type in your notebook quiet cat looking at the word rebuilding, restarting believe the word, support your back tense last over the back, close your eyes with his hand on a frozen glass of juice, cold relief, watch them playing chess for hours of silence while he draws them, it gets dark at eleven. Just enjoy the calm, she stopped a moment and write "Reconstruction" in blue ink then everything goes back to the point before. Like an animal, all this is moving like an animal who does not know, step up, fear, forward, back again and even further, to the point before the previous point. Then there are the dreams. A tissue near the eyes, people surrounding a body, the fear that wakes you up the phone and do not know if the phone wakes you up or is part of the dream and the animal does not move forward. Te questions if there would be enough to forgive, with a tinted balm, do not know what balm, pass by the temple, the arms, around the elbows, each of the breasts, the English, to reach the feet. Forgiving with that balm, to forgive all, believe in the light we see and do not want to believe, not to mourn on the rides of the woods, sad dream bodies around another body, have the courage to move forward regardless. Perhaps no more have the courage to resign. Suddenly do not know if all that is missing is the courage of his resignation.

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different world beneath the beds. It has dropped the case, has circular road in the floor and stopped at that portion unattainable under the bed. Reach out and not have to go and then to understand the different world beneath the beds. Or on that side of the sites where you never are. The interior of a car while someone washes the car. The white soap filling glasses, not seeing, and you control the volume of a song by Mogwai playing against the water pressure drops in the opposite way from the rain. Find perfect song against water and squinting to convince you that these two figures are sensed beyond the white are just two lost horses crossing the center of the road. Seeing clearly the mammalian body, guess aunque te ciegue el jabón, mirarlos pasar tranquilos, disolverse a ratos y luego volver, moverse lentos pero con la fuerza con la que se mueve un caballo. Entonces la claridad. Verla entrar, preguntarle: ¿Has visto eso? Y ella: Pero si ahí no hay nada.

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Misty And the snow Will not Be the Same

Se mueven en forma de ruido. Están ahí y quizá tú deberías también estar ahí. Son esa gente sin nombre que hay en los lugares en los que tú no estás. A lo mejor un concierto. Supones que un concierto (aplausos) y empiezas por cerrarlo todo. Pero no existe la forma de escaparse del ruido. The noise comes and goes you and goes with that force to get very pure sounds, everything sounds and do not want to hear. Sanctify quiet, trying to save a few square meters, almost any square meter. Lower the light, remember the silence of the seabed or the invisible sound that sometimes makes the water. Especially down the light, turn to memories and no one speaks the hands enough to understand everything. They are more than you and could, for example, come and take the house. Start with noise by moving the foundation, reaching up to go, where are you in this sanctuary of memories yellow voiceless. Listening from inside to Juan Gelman said, "and stay", or pronouncing the sentence Charlotte Gainsbourg: "I walk in a line."

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Us. The open body. Take a breath, tinnitus. Then hear the white noise, no power, no sense. Write in a small role: My resignation. Then swallowed the small role. Or not do anything with the small role. Draw up a snail distracted while talking to someone. Sound remember, remember the body, whole body, five in the afternoon at Bozar and pictures of Frida Kahlo. Remember how people out there without being stopped, to look the spots with blue ink on the paper. "Diego, I'm alone." And he: Will close, come on. And Frida: Diego capitalized. Maybe SOLA also capitalized. Do not know. Have you looked cool food in the dishes. She smoked sometimes explained with his hands in a new way to comb. You looking at food. Knowing that the sound would reach the right ear. "Tinnitus is defined as the perception of sound without any external sound source from which it originates." But then transforms. It is not a "pure tone and simple" nor "a complex noise as rumor of the sea, steam, or a bell cricket." Frida's diary is a night for years. It is his writing in capitals DIEGO'm alone. Maybe ONLY in capital letters. Do not remember. But Insurance Diego, Diego and Frida written and waiting. A different night tonight, especially with different temperature. Otherwise surely smelled and was inside of another house. But remember now, arriving just now, and that sound turns out there on that very page daily.

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always going to do with the wind. It is as if the air tuck in the back of the front and was a very cold air and no cure nor anointing never peppermint and marjoram. Always with the wind and no matter where it occurs. Sometimes in waiting rooms at the rear of cinema or a room full of people and eyes. It is therefore important to remember the nuances of that doll blue undesirable distance between the doctor and the monster, but mostly look at the blue puppet, remember small, plastic, green weight on her shoulders, her green and that weight hanging horizontal shoulders, saying, "This does not fit in the doors. "Thus you can not walk slowly. Or pick up a stone that has fallen to the ground. Occurs on days like this and it is necessary to get inside the house the flowers, strip the leaves that are not going to sprout and then sweep the earth slowly shed.

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figure .

( Del b. lat. figure , eastern ar. Hisp. Sifre, and this of ar. clas. sifr, void).

1. f. digit number.

2. f. sign used to represent this number.

3. f. used Scripture signs, figures or conventional letters, and can only be understood by knowing the key .

may all be figure: the tides and lunar cycles, the vibration of water on a homeopathic granule, the genome of the frog Xenopus, Valente, nerves in the leaves of a common ficus . Everything. So I do not understand how we got here, how we could be wrong, therefore, how we managed to destroy the simple, the beauty of numbers, simple sewing afternoon light. The stillness of the night, the exact shape of the closed days on two hands together over a cup of tea. This afternoon just want to understand everything, to see the naked figure, looking at the bird made up of letters or codes. Nothing more. To stop our correspondence insane made of binary code. Stop to start again and better. Closer elsewhere. I do not know but this afternoon appears mostly in the form of figure and just makes you want to leave nothing but the array of things to keep it simple and restart there. If you still can.

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Voie 5

've come to your house,

and now, you'd want know what it is sitting,

what it is sitting like a shipwrecked

in your everyday things poor

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miles

We have no center. We both know that the flight, walk the dunes to escape, remove the batteries to all the clocks, I do not know why that compulsive mania batteries take all watches and ride to the border to escape or to stop at service stations hot lunch and then stay asleep in the rain and exhausted flight. Do not know why there is always that kid that follows us, but we are very into the dunes, dirt bikes and groundings, are the child of trains and parks, I know you also hear play, which is almost always the same, though it changes form, and we remain in the streets and in the woods while I teach the steps of the deer, the roots bites and poisonous mushrooms that smell and recognize. I do not know what has to be that child forever. Suddenly I seem to be getting away from something, I write in the blue notebook and I'm standing near the window. You do not smoke. Close your eyes. I wonder if it rains.

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Of all the sites you choose the next door. His hands are rough, nails short, black beard at times. Start talking about language, as if he knew that language. After making lists of film titles. Names Truffaut and Chaplin, said that cry, talk of genius. Then he shows me symbols of peace and Buddhism that adorn his neck. Then goes on to explain the madness of Hitler and Hitler is far from saying the word esoteric. I said then that the difference between a madman and a genius is creativity only. I look at the profile and try to concentrate on the smooth movement of the wheel on the road to not feel the dizziness or nausea. It says here you're a genius a genius you really cruficican and add as to Christ. I wonder what "here" when he says "here." Then he looks at me face and hands, I realize that I look at your hands. And I feel naked and move. Then he says you do not believe in anything and know what it means to believe in nothing that could actually believe everything you're ready to open the world surprise you that you are surprised the world that means you do not believe in anything. I smile. Then I spoke in French as if he guessed what I'm thinking. I skip the first stop because I do not mind losing the first stop, get a bus to the next and walk back the way fresh. I get up, reaches out rough as he Bless. I say goodbye to foot as the door opens and he smiles and gives me a wink cosmic, divine, and going down in the street there are traffic lights and a bag lady pushing and a small dog in a cart.

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Dear Ada:

been almost months without seeing each other. I sometimes wonder about you even if you never call. Ada, you represent all the outside world. And intimate. And himself. I do not know if you noticed how this winter is unlike any other winter. Not southern winters. This winter reminds roofs in London. That invisible rain falls but soaks, forget the gloves in a chair in the consulate, storm warnings, wind at night, the evening wind, but mostly windy nights. I do not know if you remember those nights counted in the blue notebook. Today it has become at once the strength of those days only a smell. A jar of essential oils stored in a box of men's shoes. It was to be there and to return at once to see that there are those who doubt everything, and do not believe. While they move around the house. The sweep, the scent, fill it with bread and newspapers. I appreciate the sound of footsteps in the hallway. I appreciate the light under the door. That's why I write, Ada, representing everything that is not in here but is, in all life is moving out. For example, she approached with a cup in hand to tell who has dreamed of a spaceship. Or is he in the kitchen near the window using a glass of water to the light. Suddenly, someone speaks of body heat. I write, Ada, also because you are the symbol of that heat must and all sites that are not.

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I look at the smoke of the hot items of the night trying not to become another extension of the night. Try from all the miles away not now become the exact opposite of what you know. I try not to get carried away either by the chemical and the annoying sound it makes in the night sometimes the noise of others. You say that now I write like a woman calm, calmer than before and makes me smile in the middle of the night thinking "serenity" or the noun woman. There is still the music - tell me - to play the marble draw for no reason suddenly become a face of perfect features, repeated screen televisions in a shop window at the same time giving the face of about JD Salinger. There is a radio at any time, people who do not sleep because the day is still in its hemisphere, and then there are the sleepless and maybe a tourist in Nepal (you tell me) munching against high salt.

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It has been twenty of the seventy nights away. On the line have lost sleep. Every time a few minutes before sunrise and feel grateful for the hour drive slight rotation of the Earth. Sometimes, early in the dimly lit classroom of a village feel bell shaken Plath above you, as if it were to fall and let you in, breathe through your eyes, look for the air movements of fish. Then it is easy to try to return to the mother, looking in the hallways and the smell of hot iron and a sweeping gesture of folding sheets. Saying that come with fever and cold on the street and sit by day, his feet against the stove, and repeating like a mantra in unfamiliar languages \u200b\u200b(the mother does not know) that this winter is always raining. Sleep there, knowing that sleep was going away just because the sounds from outside and feel the beat but the internal organs warm. For the first time in as many nights the only true deep sleep with their feet on the stove and slowly falling background noise in the house, the smell of the house, the familiar melody of the instruments of the house.

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We believed blindly

indestructible quality of the house. We knew things were made "wonderful, like you and me" and the other things that were unbreakable sides: the land, the fruit, the river, really. But now we have come together into a tailspin. Or the house collapses and we are in yet. We tried to stop the ruin with the force of bodies. But no. Not enough to alleviate the irreducible crack advancing in their walls without remedy, but now - because it's too late - we can stop it. We are alive five bodies surrounded by rubble. Or dead, or the rubble is the flesh and the house does not exist. After losing the final structure of the house we have also lost the notion of truth. The love of small things. The precise movement of the tongue sealing a cigarette. Are irreversibly dead plants on the porch. The water is not clean and the miracle used to be fertile. It is not just another annoyance, the constant repetition of the rain on building materials without form, lots of tile and cement stack without grace in the mud. Scandinavia is a name that no longer exist, that ever uttered, even now we are alone, leaning against the wall, trying to believe that the house there, above us still, that has not fallen yet and that we, the five we are still inside.