Repersonal Transubications

Jamais real, toujours vrai. - Antonin Artaud (Citado por Eileen Myles, Cool for You)

Never. Siempre.

Nunca existió, pero es verdadera. - Tomás Eloy Martínez, Santa Evita

Somewhere in this long walking, journey, promenade. At some point decided was. To invite that story on to paper, to print out, but hardly the goal any longer. Hard to leave.

Somehow the story tells itself in sidewalks, barstools, curtains, creaking doors and comals. The struggle for. Lucha? Continually this return this word that moment. A space, a certain location in a chronology. Those souls yearning for a change to live. Through this keyboard, blood. No one notices these strokes, these scrawls. All for better, just eyes hold back really. Write til knaked knuckles bleed. Translate then.

Un alma que no ha sido escrito es como si jamás hubiera existido. Contra la fugacidad, la letra. Contra la muerte, el relato. - TEM

Put oneself simply in flight. Birds don't ask. Stuck in a million patterns, no. The desert and cowboys drown in Gulf Coast backwash. Modern cockroaches take long baths in the waste and overflow. Been years since pronouns could. Imagine a future without your self. Fracaso. Necesitaba ayuda en ese entonces. Alguien que me dijera: los hechos fueron así tal como los contaste.

La realidad no se puede contar ni repetir. Lo único que se puede hacer con la realidad es inventarla de nuevo. - TEM

Invent the stories then of for our ancestors. In the end, whatever I write have written is will be wrong. The style, the truth, the growth delayed. A mistake engraved on paper computer screens, to last as long as this network of the future reverberates. As if inventing could be salve on this wound. Doubtful. Yet, let them search me out, say, those were not ages of disaster calamity. We are to recreate what we never knew. A responsibility to reimagine what is fleeting lost. To make our own selves responsible for recovering afterward.

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