Empire of Dreams

by Braschi,Giannina

  Memories walk around dressed up as old men. But they’re not old. They’re hypocrites and gossipers. I love gossip. But I hate memories and sorrows. I like—he told me and I told him, and we fell in love, and rode off into the sunset, and lived happily ever after. I like the sun and the beach. I like sidewalks. And soup and beets. I like men and women. And I like mountains and seas. I like fire and water. I like trashy movies and novels. I like tackiness and gossip. Most of all, I like to forget everything. Especially memories. I am forgetfulness. And nothingness. I am joy, well-being, and happiness. I am laughter, gossip, and pantomime. I am the idiot and the prince. I am the grain of rice and the bean. I am the chickpea and the casserole. I am the red apple. And salt and pepper. I am the shepherd of life. I am the shepherd of memories, which I love despite everything. Affirming is everything I love and everything I hate. Affirming. And living. And denying. Affirming everything.

  I am Giannina. And now it’s my turn to rock and to affirm movement. As I affirmed the denial of memories. But what I deny is as powerful as what I affirm. Power is in my flesh. In my life. In speaking as I want and feel. I like to expect a lot. I do expect a lot. There are many ways of expecting. An ad is expected. Dinner is expected. Christmas is expected. Santa Claus is expected. Death is expected. Love is expected. The weekend is expected. A party is expected. Night is expected. Spring is expected. A baby is expected. A trip is expected. News is expected. Forgetfulness is expected. An invitation is expected. Hope is expected. Memories are not expected. They just come. Old age is not expected. It comes. Not death. It always comes. Not memory. It always comes. Not love. It always comes. Not forgetfulness. It always comes. Not children. They always come. Not happiness. It always comes. Not friends. They always come. Not memory. It always comes. Not Giannina. Always. Always. And now it’s my turn to rock from side to side.

  And now. If you see a shepherd of medium build. Small. With brown eyes gazing at the stars. Who has a smile on her lips. And perfect ears. Who wears a beret. Or a sailor’s hat. If you see her walking with red slippers. If you hear jingle bells. If you see that she has rosy cheeks. And if you see that she has dimples. If you see that she looks at you and doesn’t stop staring. If you see that she smiles. And greets you. If you see that she doesn’t get tired of walking and dreaming. If you see that she gazes at the sky and the clouds and the stars. If you feel good and fall in love with her when you meet her. If you don’t leave her alone. If you touch her. And touch her. And touch her. And take off her cap. And her red vest. And lie beside her. And speak to her. And you’re surprised that she knows so much without knowing anything. And that she is so profound without being profound at all. And that she understands everything without understanding anything. And that she is the most famous shepherd in the world without having any fame at all.

  The damned newspapermen are here again. What do you want now? Tell me. What do you want from me? We would like to know if drunkards, buffoons, and madmen collaborated with you, Giannina. We would like to know if you have already understood the meaning of the shepherds. We would like to know the difference between being called Giannina and being called a clown. We wish to know if you, Giannina, were at the banquet. And if you were the one who laughed and cried at the time. Tell us, Shepherd Giannina, what difference is there between a purple sunset and an orange one? What difference is there between the moon and the sun? Between being a drunkard and a shepherd? How many years did it take you to write the book? Why do you talk so much about shepherds? Who was the first astronaut who stepped on the moon? You also mention the batting of eyelids. And why did you leave the eyebrows out? Why didn’t you paint the lips of the buffoons? Why did the fortune-teller read the past and not the present? What was the sky, and what was the night, and what was the day? Who were the porters? Why were the doors closed? What produced the orgy? And why are there more than five eggs? Why the newspapermen? And why the shepherds? Why a book like this, Shepherd Giannina? Why?

  4. Song of Nothingness

  The child is innocence and forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a self-propelled wheel, a first movement, a sacred “Yes.”

  —Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

  Here. Astride the top of nothingness, I suddenly receive the call of death. Who, in passing, tells me that it’s nothing. Nothing more than the absence of the word itself. Nothing more, and simply nothingness. Buds or roses. Lilies. Or emeralds. Smiles. Or teeth. Biscuits. Or birthdays. Visits. Or gatherings. Friends. Or acquaintances. Men. Or children. Old people. Or passersby. Bicycles. Or carriages. Airplanes. Or elevators. Tricycles. Or stairs. Stores. Or display windows. Clubs. Or coffee shops. Places that have just pulled away. Or faraway places. Absentees. They are all being eliminated. They are all testifying to the song of nothingness. To the song of forgetfulness. To the very return of nothingness. To my taking a step down. And I’ll take another step down. And another. Until I reach the floor. To the very door of my exit. To the very tunnel of the womb. Or death. Or tomb. Or nothing.

  Nothing. Everything looks like nothing. Everything is pale. White. Nothing. Everything is rotten. Everything is absurd. Nothing. Because everything is so difficult. Or because everything is so simple. Or because the world turns. Nothing. A television. A telegram. A concert. Skinny, emaciated poetry. A pale, thin poem. A sickly poem. As if the gasoline were running out. As if the fighter no longer wanted to fight. As if he were exhausted. As if his eyes were closing. As if he couldn’t go on. As if he were about to drop dead. Over the tomb. Dead. As if poetry were ending. As if it had to end. As if the poet did not exist. He doesn’t exist. It’s reason enough for him to be quiet. Silence is suddenly born. The spokesman for death is born. What is born is always born. But nothing is here on top. Placing silences on things. Giving them moments of closure. Of enclosure. Giving them spaces or ways. Slowly. Walking with a child’s bicycle. On a street. Someone passing by a building. By a building erected by silence. Or a void. Which will also become void. Even absence has its motives. And its hovels, its details. Its voids. One would suppose that at the end of so many details something must be found. But absence places a period at its beginning. Dots its silence. The absence of death. The absence of silence. The absence of exclamations and interjections. The absence of absence. Nothing.

  I will speak of my absences. Of all my absences and my negligence on top of heaps of faults. On top of mountainous heaps or hopes. One bunny has two boy bunnies and a girl bunny. The same is true of squirrels. They multiply. And then they trample over us, men and more men. Women and more women. Absences and more absences. Three or four were missing from death or from life. They returned. Returned. One returns returning from life or from death. From the wheel that turns. From childhood one still returns. Down the stairs. The travelers returned. Returning from childhood. Or from abroad. Returning down the stairs or the elevator. One looks back. Looks back. Back. And writes a period. Doesn’t write it. Feels absence imposed. Feels returned from absence. And feels it. It is felt without meaning. Without meaning or significance. I won’t call him man. I won’t call her woman. I won’t be able to tell those who still haven’t returned. But it must be felt. It must be lived. From the back. The back of life. The absence of life. She who went and did not return. She who went, never to return. It wasn’t thunder or rain. It wasn’t morning or afternoon. And it wasn’t night. Or spring. It wasn’t life. Or death. It was nothing less. Nothing more than nothingness. The nothingness that does not speak. That does not say a word. The nothingness that does not drown though it cannot swim. Nothing was the absence of nothing. Nothing was the nothing of absence. Absence was the nothing of nothing. It was the very nothing of nothingness itself. Absence.

  Absence without wanting it. Without imposing its mandate, its power, or its sovereignty. It imposes its rule. It imposes its destiny. It imposes what must be imposed. Without there being lightning or thunder. Without there being a moment later. Neither forever. Nor goodbye. Just because it wants to be the same lost innocence. Just because of
its remoteness. Or my distance. Nothingness just isn’t. Isn’t here. Unless it lay down to sleep on the core of its own void. On the tomb of its own vacuum. But the scream of nothingness would cry out even over this tomb. The testimony of the tomb or the nothingness would start to manifest itself. My voice would cry out over this nothingness that imposes its silences. Its deserts. Deserts of dust. Deserts of lives. Of winters. Of suns. Of silences. The screaming of nothing sets in. The breathing of death sets in. It imposes its corpse. Its distance. It imposes the testimony of nothingness. It imposes silences, suicides, the sad coming of dawn. It imposes rosaries. Upon the very tomb of nothingness.

  I am a void that abhors the void. There is no possible explanation. Abhors it. And enough. Affirms. Walks and continues. Requests. Implores. Entreats. Sobs. Or cries. But abhors. Many moments of life have already been requested. And now I kneel. To implore. Sick. Only to ask. Only to beg. If it’s possible. A moment. Only a moment to cry. Kneeling. And only a heart, only a memory, only a repetition. If it were possible, I’d want them to forgive me. A damned forgiveness. I don’t want to ask for it or beg for it. A possible history. A possible repetition. And I’m fed up. And I ask my partner to dance again. Dance. Dance. I dance. And dance. Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Jig. Jag. Jig. Jag. Come here, gag. Asleep. I dream. Violent. I implore. And laaa. Leee. Laaa. Leee. Laaa. Violins. And trumpets. Bee. Bop. Bee. Bop. What’s that I see? A mouse on the floor. What’s that I see? An ant on the floor. What’s that I see? Two little roaches in love with the floor. Or with life. Or with lightning. Or with thunder. Or with the wheel that turns and turns and turns throughout the universe turning around again. All over again. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. More. More. More. More. Two more times. Three more times. Ten more times. Fourteen more times. A dozen more times. Two hundred thousand more times. And more. And more. And click. Click. Click. Clack.

  How many horrible things can happen to a man before. Or after. And it all hinges on beauty. Or the wheel. The climax is a navel or a stone. I stop and think. And maybe I’ll throw a dart or a stone. I’m tired of watching. I’ll penetrate now. I’ll enter later. It’s not the same exact spot. It’s been two days. Two whole nights. Finished. Examined from top to bottom. Ten days of exhaustion. One long live joy. Or long live exhaustion. One more kilometer. You again. Me again. Behind the same pulpit. In the same classroom. A teacher. Dictating an invented destiny. A new word. Vocabulary. A closed book. Against this flower. Against this very flower. Against this very squirrel. Against the sun. Against all kinds of parachutes. Against the same ground. Against the same cold panther. Against the same dust. Crossed. Dust. Dust. Or fog. Smoke. Fires. Or flashes. That’s to say. Let’s give ten examples. Let’s set our goals. Let’s conjugate ten verbs. Let’s eliminate them from the grammatical system. Let’s take away their action. Let’s invite them to a hypothetical grammatical time. Oh, moon, oh, star, oh life! And let’s give them a chance to think. Behind a desk. Smoke, wind, dust. Above my eyes, two stars shine. Under my legs, face down, two lines meet that cross the same crossword puzzle. Without thinking, the solution is obvious. And still unanswerable.

  A little while longer. Ten days repeated. I’m looking at the moon. The highest star. The solution to the same math problem. On a pile of conjectures. Polysynchronized colors. And the answer ten kilometers from my house. Proof for a theorem. I’ll supply you with all the necessary material. I’ll give you a certificate. A science diploma. Some goggles. From the time before iguanas and the world. A frog croaks. A cricket sings. I love bird nests. From the time before life. I love from dreams. Toad interpretations. I come whenever I hear iguana concerts. My orgasm is an organ. An organism. A simple tadpole that becomes a frog. A mouse has his own way of fighting a cat. He takes him out of context. The cat’s text meows. Mice want cheese. Cows eat lots of meat. Polychromatic urban cows. Green. Orange. Or yellow. The piano, softly. Or the C in E flat. In A minor. Still listening to the symphony. Still. Allegretto. Fugue. Scherzo. Or andante con moto, or andante con brio, or rondo burlesco. In the rondo of the minuet or the waltz. A C in E-flat. Ten days of fugue. Music vacations. An ironic fit of laughter still rules over the sea. And a stupid drool.

  This is not it, says the teacher. Not my child, says the mother. Nor has this tale ended. Ten more times. The same season of the year, says the old man. And he imagines a flower, said the painter of the world. Said the murderer himself. The leech, the bloodsucker. His tongue is red. Blood red. It’s got red candy, said the boy. Days are better at the beach, said the swimmer. I’m naked, said the metaphorical man. The imaginary one drinks water. Thinks cognac. Thinks whiskey. Thinks scotch. Women always paint their nails the day before, said the manicurist. I’m in the world too, adds the polemicist. Polemics. I pretend I’m nearsighted. I’m a lefty, said the righty. The heart rests on the right side, said the nitwit. Two lines beside a great big X, said the mathematician. An experiment is a sin, agreed the scientist. I add—two experiments. I underline—a hypothetical exit. The labyrinth, said the minotaur. Or the museum, said the musician. Two notes simply rhyme, said the painter. And a locomotive appears, adds the metaphorical mechanic. So I won’t be told that I’m not a poet, adds the novelist, underlining poet. Here is something special. Here is a gift. Here is a box. Here are the metaphors for all theories. Here is a new doctrine on how to begin.

  Let’s begin all over again. Let’s begin by affirming that poetry has died. And that I’m not a poet. And I’ll never, ever be one. I’m not interested in poetry. I don’t like life. I detest men. I hate children. I hate the sea. I hate my mother and my father. I have no brothers. I have no family. Mankind disgusts me. I am bitter. My brows are knit, and I feel such envy. Such envy that resembles hope. That waits for others to die. I don’t expect to die. I expect to kill you. I expect to devour you. I expect to destroy you when you least expect it. I’ll drive ten knives into your back. And I’ll turn saint. I will have killed what was the best in you. And I’ll be happy. Happy you’re dead. How I wish you were dead. Bastard. All these are my desires. But I won’t confess them. I’ll keep them close at heart. I am so good. So good. So good. I will live. I will live forever. I am the best of men. The most envious. The lewdest. The biggest pervert. The biggest liar. The most jealous. And the ugliest. I am the devil. The best angel in the world.

  How can the music be playing so loudly? My ears are splitting. I can’t stand it. It’s not Beethoven. The absolute is too much. And so is the void. Dance and dance. Like a mouse. Or a small squirrel. Drink and drink, like no one else. Well, aside from everything being absolute, there’s absolutely no comparison in this world. I’m watching the absolutes dancing. And the voids. Concepts. Allegories. Metaphors. Spiked heels. Absent ladies. And present public. What a bunch of absolutes, I whisper, helpless. I whisper in the ear of one of the guests. My brows are knit. I’m frowning again. And someone interrupts with an inopportune sneeze. How dare he. Show-off. The absolute lord of concepts. Pure abstractions. Cigarette. Dust. Smoke. Petrified guest. And phantoms. A squirrel keeps going by. And keeps dancing. A dancing mouse. Music at every interval around my soul. Or every absolute reduced at once to utter nothingness.

  I have to describe what’s happening to me. And I have to describe it in the same way. I have to study it. I have to make it mine. There are many things that are. The seasons of the year are. There they are. Just like we are out there. Hatred and envy are also out there. They are an integral part of every man. They take root in every inch of the heart. In every piece of flesh. In every man. In every body. I’m a body I don’t understand. What am I? I ask. And I laugh. I don’t know. Yet I do. Because I have never said what I am, though I often ask myself. I will be, I always say. And time passes, and I see the seasons. They are. Yes, they are. And then I bow my head and sink in sunsets. No, it isn’t a child’s wheel. It’s neither birth. Nor death. I won’t define it. I’d rather destroy it. Or let them destroy me. It was time for us to sink in the abyss. Silence. Nothing is there. Nothing exists. Except multitudes
of broken things. There is nothing after silence.

  To see the distance then. To see it standing, and to see it made into a body. With breath. With eyes. With deaths. Then to see absences. Memories. To see films. Again. Without enthusiasm. Without beauty. To see it standing and sitting, writing poetry. And to see the waves of the sea. And to see the sun. Or the moon. Or to discover that they are always born. And they always die. As always. And they always sleep. They spend summers away leaving winters behind. They’re drawn to autumns. Sundays. And birthdays. They go to discos. And get tired of dancing. And they talk. How many people have I slept with? How many men do I get up with? And the next morning, the morning, the mirror that grows each day until it turns into a ball of fire. I’d give up everything I own to escape this damned world. I’d sell my eyes and my legs. I’d sell my ways. And my sorrows. I’d become a sailor and sail. To see the distance then. We returned by foot that same day on the rails of life. Through tunnels of death. To see springs then. And sadnesses. And I’m not dissatisfied. I keep my distance. So I’m not taken by surprise. So that life surprises me.