The reflections of light on this waterlogged area are arranged like an arrow, like a set square, like a D. Swallows cross from one side of the fence to the other, then descend and skim the water with their feathered bodies. They drink or don’t drink, refresh themselves in muddy waters. “And what a formidable itinerary, solar radiation, crossing the universe, circulating through my stomach like atoms of naná naná.” Days later, I walk to the outskirts, leaving behind the Amazon warehouses, turning, crossing, continuing until I reach an area of rubble and mud, crossing again, and beyond I find the wetland. A “medicane” hit the region last night, and planes are landing now out of schedule. From here, I can see part of the runways, the beach, and the estuary. The sand is not sand nor is it mud; the water makes its way through roads, marshes, and reeds. The rhythm of the planes contrasts with the stillness of the place, slow currents, and sedimentation at a leisurely pace. Time seems to stretch until it becomes amorphous. After a while, I continue walking into the delta.
A few kilometers from the city, I enter a viscous labyrinth. Fences and puddles form a whimsical and chaotic pattern, perhaps due to the passage of the cyclone. A fine, humid breeze blows through the bars. In the background, a boat circulates the sand that settles on the terraces in a capricious way. And it dredges, and dredges, and dredges. I walk through the marshes between solid ground and puddles, between a solid and liquid full of bulbs and rhizomes. Fertility is chaotic and contrasts with the order of goods and people around it; waiting to be loaded, moved, and relocated to new positions. Here and there, foliage accumulates, and rare species emerge between fresh water and salinity. Yellow labels emerge from the mud; dragged here by the water and piled up against each other. Like the wind that disperses centuries of taxonomy and objectivity, we move from one place to another. Around me, there is an area as soft as a nest. This place remains in a decomposition that remains impassive before my eyes. And I continue… From that observation, from the feeling of dissolving into an undefined ground, I have a cocktail of phrases… “inconsistent material… not like that flow of goods stored in airport warehouses, which rot before reaching their destination.” My twilight walks speak and reach a point where the flow opens up; where things float, and the flow expands until the meaning dissolves in the change of scale.
Alba Garza
