.chaos and Lorca

The new school year has started about three weeks ago. Quite unexpectedly, to be honest. But it’s a common thing: the holidays are never enough. A new version of the infamous Murphy’s law, if you want.

And the autumn has started, immediately showing its first signs. Nervous breakdowns and chaos. Chaos everywhere: around me and inside my head. I am still not sure about anything that’s somehow related to my future: exams that I’ll have to pass, the university I’m going to study or at least the country I’ll be in. Nor I don’t know what’s happening and why I wake up every morning trying to understand where am I, what day/month is now, what am I to do and how it will end. Also, keeping up the communication with the outer world, I mean, people around me, is getting harder and harder. And this year curling up under a blanket and neglecting any kind of relations with everyone isn’t the answer.

I’ve spent the last New Year eve in hopes that 2009 would be nothing like 2008 and it was all the usual shit (actually, more than usual shit, but I hoped.) of a bissextile year and it all would improve. Bullshit. Time shows right the contrary. Everything keeps falling apart and it looks like it will continue falling. And the main problem is that all happens in the same time without any obvious reasons.

Someone, please, invent me a time machine so I can travel to September 2010 when I’ll be studying at the Uni here or, if I’m lucky enough, in Spain.

But there’s one truly wonderful thing that helps me a lot these days. I never thought I would be so vastly loving a piece of Spanish poetry. Actually, this piece woke up the love for the Spanish culture that was sleeping in me all those 10 years I’ve spent on studying Spanish and screaming on every corner how much I hate this language. I’m talking about Federico García Lorca’s “Poet in New York”. When I’m at the edge of a breakdown, I take the papers where I have it printed and start to read it loudly. It helps. Really.

Lorca's drawing for "Poet in New York".

Lorca's drawing for "Poet in New York".

La luz es sepultada por cadenas y ruidos
en impúdico reto de ciencia sin raíces.
Por los barrios hay gentes que vacilan insomnes
como recién salidas de un naufragio de sangre.

(“Aurora”, fragmento)

No es el infierno, es la calle,
No es la muerte, es la tienda de frutas.
Hay un mundo de ríos quebrados y distancias inasibles
en la patita de ese gato
quebrada por el automóvil,
y yo oigo el canto de la lombriz
en el corazón de muchas niñas.

(“New York. Oficina y denuncia.”, fragmento)

I can quote it forever. A truly amazing piece of art. Thank you, Federico, for making a little girl somewhere in a city far from Spain, living in the next century from you, feel a lot better when she’s about to fall apart. If someone invents a time machine, as I’ve asked above, I will go back to the 1930s and hug you.


~ by Anna on September 21, 2009.

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