El Alefiano Sinderético
La existencia de clubes literarios donde literatos, lectores críticos, sofistas debutantes y letrados establecidos discuten la actualidad parece inquietar a algunos. ¿Por qué le llaman "talleres" a estos centros lúdicos del saber? ¿Será que los que participásemos en esta actividad somos hacedores y no pro activos creadores del post modernismo?
Nos retorcemos internamente con cierta nausea existencial al pensar de nosotros como meros hacedores de versos, pulidores de frases ambiguas, recicladores de metáforas, lavadores de metonimias, secadores de ensayos y cuentos, etcetera.
No es así. Si es de nosotros decidir, nunca se verán las musas llorar por la ausencia de la poesía o la prosa bien lograda. Pensamos con los ultraístas que podemos aproximar la cuadratura del círculo. Que el "quehacer escritural", palabras de J. Marmol, es un continuo acercamiento al absoluto, a un imposible. Gusto de pensar que los pensamientos son más que meras pulsaciones físico-químicas del cerebro o instantáneas agrupaciones aleatorias de dendritas. Quiero que el dictum descartesiano:"cogito, ergo sum" se entienda como incluyente del ser completo físico-espiritual.
Los alefianos participan del sincretismo cultural más amplio. Nos miramos cada día en el espejo mágico de un cuento de Borges o Cortazar, alumbrados por la lámpara de Aladino, todo al compás de la música de Mussorsky-"Pictures on an exhibition".
Sabemos que para los griegos somos la primera letra del alfabeto y para los escandinavos la primera y la última. Nadie se quedo en nuestro círculo sin desarrollar el hábito de leer pro activamente. Pues el que no haya leído a los mejores escritores no puede pretender escribir. Escribir bien sin emulación servil es la meta. La praxis intelectual-creacional preferida por sus posibilidades trascendentales y lúdicas es la escritura. Descreemos de los hablantes desmemoriados; los escritores sin ética que confunden lo lúdico con lo vulgar y asqueante.
Aceptamos la racionabilidad de la producción literaria individual. La lógica natural de cada cual. Acogemos la presentación de lo absurdo de la cotidianidad como punto de partida para versificarla, no anularla. Como los puntos que conforman un círculo son teóricamente infinitos así los puntos de vista u opiniones de los artistas también lo son.
Para aquellos que escribimos por contribuir a la permanencia del arte como manifestación humana con pretensiones universales, el Aleph representa un hito de importancia capital. De nuestra parte, no llorarán las musas en el sepelio del poema.
j. a. canto, MBA
martes, 30 de diciembre de 2008
domingo, 28 de diciembre de 2008
SHORT STORY
MURDER IN PARADISE
"There is no statute of limitations on premeditated murder". The United States Code.
This is the confession of a death row inmate in a federal prison in Georgia. Clearly, it escapes my limited literary achievements to truly convey the power of his lack of remorse and absolute conviction that his criminality is only a point of view of the legality of his actions which he feels are justified by his "rules". What follows , written in first person singular, refers to him always as I.
My friend Jon knew within hours that I had killed her the same day of her return to San Juan from Dublin. It was summer in the Caribbean and I had other women in my mind. As any young man, we felt we needed to defend ourselves from the members of the fast car crowd. They could always get the prettiest girls to go riding with them, even the women tourists enjoyed a fling or a night out with one of them. Those girls did not know the "rules" of death upon return and other honor commitments between them and us.
Jon and I had discussed the fact that every great man of war had killed at least one person before age 18, including Napoleon. Why should we be different? They got away with murder I told him. He assented but argued that we were not great men of war.
She was a beautiful Irish girl, blond and blue-eyed; she reminded me of Marilyn, the actor of "The seven year itch", the same that married a famous novelist of whom I only remember a book, "The death of a salesman". She had a lust for fun and frolic, the kind my mother always warn me about. Dublin was her true teacher and Joyce her photographic revealer. Of course, she was warned by Jon of the honor "rules".
She, smart as any modern liberal relativist theologian, believed that there only one rule: whatever the circumstances dictate. "If you leave make sure you never come back", he said not once but several times during our relationship. "Relationship" being understood in the broadest aception.
With us, the usual second chance, the giving in to the aleatory rules were the law of large numbers underlies all bets, did not exist. In San Juan there was no room for forgiveness, the enemy should never return to the scene of their crimes.
For her, it was another pick up in the middle of the night, a passing moment, just sex for fun to be forgotten after the next drink of Absolut vodka or the next dance. But not for me. I had rules; yes, manly rules of honor. She fooled me once, she went free. Twice, she died.
As a form of consolation, I went back to Molly's monologue and to Segismundo's ( the prince in a Polish prison). Segismundo says in a poem by Calderon de la Barca, "pues el delito mayor del hombre es haber nacido". How true is art after it becomes a reality.
jose a. canto, MBA
"There is no statute of limitations on premeditated murder". The United States Code.
This is the confession of a death row inmate in a federal prison in Georgia. Clearly, it escapes my limited literary achievements to truly convey the power of his lack of remorse and absolute conviction that his criminality is only a point of view of the legality of his actions which he feels are justified by his "rules". What follows , written in first person singular, refers to him always as I.
My friend Jon knew within hours that I had killed her the same day of her return to San Juan from Dublin. It was summer in the Caribbean and I had other women in my mind. As any young man, we felt we needed to defend ourselves from the members of the fast car crowd. They could always get the prettiest girls to go riding with them, even the women tourists enjoyed a fling or a night out with one of them. Those girls did not know the "rules" of death upon return and other honor commitments between them and us.
Jon and I had discussed the fact that every great man of war had killed at least one person before age 18, including Napoleon. Why should we be different? They got away with murder I told him. He assented but argued that we were not great men of war.
She was a beautiful Irish girl, blond and blue-eyed; she reminded me of Marilyn, the actor of "The seven year itch", the same that married a famous novelist of whom I only remember a book, "The death of a salesman". She had a lust for fun and frolic, the kind my mother always warn me about. Dublin was her true teacher and Joyce her photographic revealer. Of course, she was warned by Jon of the honor "rules".
She, smart as any modern liberal relativist theologian, believed that there only one rule: whatever the circumstances dictate. "If you leave make sure you never come back", he said not once but several times during our relationship. "Relationship" being understood in the broadest aception.
With us, the usual second chance, the giving in to the aleatory rules were the law of large numbers underlies all bets, did not exist. In San Juan there was no room for forgiveness, the enemy should never return to the scene of their crimes.
For her, it was another pick up in the middle of the night, a passing moment, just sex for fun to be forgotten after the next drink of Absolut vodka or the next dance. But not for me. I had rules; yes, manly rules of honor. She fooled me once, she went free. Twice, she died.
As a form of consolation, I went back to Molly's monologue and to Segismundo's ( the prince in a Polish prison). Segismundo says in a poem by Calderon de la Barca, "pues el delito mayor del hombre es haber nacido". How true is art after it becomes a reality.
jose a. canto, MBA
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