The Coming Of Wisdom With Time
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the
sun; Now I may wither into the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know
More impossible now
Various tasks on the mountain
After the motionless winter
I climb to Pe\u00f1a del \u00c1guila. An invisible force that seems to come from the sky to bury itself in
the ground falls heavily upon me until it brings me to my knees. I bury my fingers in the earth
and press my whole face to it. The sky and the earth merge. I gather thyme and rosemary.
Upon returning, we heat it on the stove with a bit of water and pour it into the basin<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Would you make a piece with that? he asked me on the third
day. The conversation dies and resurrects, and it\u2019s like Lazarus:
once dead, it returns transformed into other lives that already live
in it more than in itself. Thus ferments the dialogue, and Andr\u00e9s
and I end up standing aside, watching the skeleton covered in
words, in desires, and desire itself has become the bone of the
relationship, of the conversation, and the flesh is that of the hours
through which the words sail<\/p>\n\n\n\n
a hybrid form is born, non-dual.
In it, memories of other bodies, other states, and places are sensed. Dislocated.
How to unify in one space forms that contain the totality?
Moved from their land, extracted from their place of origin, decomposed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I try to remember what came before, and before what came before.
How to proceed. I want to remember my dreams, let them guide me
someone participates in the transformation of the mountain.
Union makes the difference evident \u2013 material, bodily, solid, lunar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This land I walk on is impregnated with absences and, in turn, from that past emerge languages that invite one to know where to proceed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A skull becomes a bird, and its forehead is now a chest. A rib, a wing.
Andr\u00e9s names it Angel. Every angel is terrible. And yet, oh, I call you,
nearly deadly birds of the soul, Rilke continues. With what would make
me a piece, you\u2019ve already made it, and it makes me, it turns me a little, it
disorients me, and I think that\u2019s what I came for, for you to transform me
too. We fall silent, we watch. I ask him which eyes would look at the Angel<\/p>\n\n\n\n
heavy forms want to levitate.
Beings that descend and are absorbed to grow again.
The vulture descends and makes the flesh its body, strengthens itself, and favors
the continuation of the medium. The medium is something between two things: a
temporary state<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something that is between two things: a temporary state.
We promise on the first day not to apologize. On the second, not to set any
horizons. The exhibition: the plan: the cage. The Nutcracker plays while<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andr\u00e9s infuses wormwood. It tastes like absinthe without alcohol. Arte-
misia vulgaris, it sounds like Maria Callas. A plant that reddens the dream<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and awakens it. A voice inside the bone, the voice always passes through
there in a stretch of its stream. On the third day, that verse from Pizarnik
appears: Lord, the cage has become a bird\u2026
What will I do with the fear?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
from a wing, blood, and from the blood, a descent;
like when tears fall from the tear duct to merge with saliva on the lips. First, the form<\/p>\n\n\n\n
appears and unfolds, and a need to name, grasp, crystallize everything that is born. Har-
mony and tenderness, clear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
separation that draws a certain discomfort and violence, in lack, diffuse<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My vital consequence of living
Very beautiful words
Very beautiful intentions
For now, my radical consequence
remains here
In the intramural of the mists<\/p>\n\n\n\n
something has folded, unfolded. From the same body, two emerge and create an infinite
reproduction that wants to become again.
to repeat itself. A compulsive repetition that, at a certain point, denies itself, breaks,
transmutes its form. Angel, clay, mammal, metal.
without formal definition, without time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I reply that the piece I would make dreams of being the piece he has
already made, the forehead made into a chest, the wings of wormwood.
Andr\u00e9s prepares a mixture of white cement that turns green with the
wormwood infused in its moisture. He likes to think that the pieces
could return to being bone and clay. Like an adobe house that collapses
and turns into poultice for the ground. Like a life or a day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
what ascends and what descends is nothing more than the search for balance:
a meeting point within an experience in continuous motion.
The weight of matter generates pain and crushes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thus, every ascent longs to return to a point, an origin, a beginning before things, sepa-
rated, decay. In union lies the conception of life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unity made of carrion, incorporated, devoured, broken<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All that material organized in the piece would have to disorganize
itself as a work of art. I tell him about some pieces I\u2019m working on,
brass, silver, and bone eyes that, as if they were pupils, have seeds of
parakeets. Also pieces to lose along the way, so that parakeets are born
and bloom in the happy place where they get lost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The two is strange because it produces the other. The figure of the
double simplifies that strangeness by multiplying the one by two. The
cannibal does the opposite: the two becomes one. We talk about a text<\/p>\n\n\n\n
yet to be written, in which someone devours me. In which, later, trans-
formed molecularly into my killer, I begin to feel his pleasure, his love<\/p>\n\n\n\n
for his mother, and his hunger for other foods. I feel jealousy for the
fruit, the milk, and the bread. His desire occupies me, which is now our
hunger. The text begins like this:
I was spread in delicious bread<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You say there is something sexual in those moons and suns fitting to-
gether, and that their sweet coupling is paradoxical, because their junc-
tion is something that would require tremendous movements of energy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The perfect moment is in your form From looking at them. You have
produced that cut. What eyes would look at the sky?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the need to cover oneself when night falls, to protect oneself from the cold, deadly pole.
Over time, the phases blur because harmony takes form,
the body weighs down and at the same time, the experience integrates, it lightens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yesterday, the firewood thing was a bit
of a surprise\u2026 and well,
My back<\/p>\n\n\n\n
a startle wakes him from the dream. Cold sweat, soaked, a torrent. Is this the sky
penetrating the earth over the puddle you were talking about? The startle turns into
a waterfall, and in that fall, the dream appears again, shared, unfolded. The practice
begins to turn into habit. I dreamed that a piece broke, and when I lifted it, it fell
apart, like a duvet of feathers. Is it possible to break something soft, white, in two?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I spent a long time looking at the two teapots, finally united, and there
is a desire to see inside where they come together. There is an eroticism
in not reaching that gap even with the eye, similar to not yet knowing
exactly what we\u2019re going to do, and that not yet stretching a little, or a
lot, yes: stretching until the end<\/p>\n\n\n\n
if unity is an experience, then unfolding a dream is the liberation of the body as
a limit. You fall again into that other universe, you absent yourself and return to
breathe, deeply.
You enter and exit from the earth of the body to the sky of the room. Meanwhile,
I wonder if your fear protects the piece from fading or anticipates that something
may decay in the process. You rest from the fear of the possibility that the piece<\/p>\n\n\n\n
may break before being placed in the space. I embrace the memory of that encoun-
ter in the dream in my arms and fall, again, into a new dream<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It rains next to the throat where the water flows down. Next to where the
water covers, you say that periquito is also the name of a bird. I show
you a photo of the piece. The silver embraces the seed, and you say it
looks like an embrace made only of heat. From silver to red, you say:
I hadn\u2019t thought that the seed is the bone of the fruit. I imagine that the
bone was a seed, that the buried tooth would germinate, the whole body,
the village. We both fall silent, and in silence, we agree to leave, as it\u2019s
not letting up You are also this mountain
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
everything will go in your favor
The wind is on your side
and in some invisible and intangible way
I will be there\u2026 without being\u2026 just being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
opposing forces in a medium: awareness of unity, a shared dream.
Transformation as the foundation of experiences linked in their own cyclicality.
Dreaming other bodies, other places, other states. Locating them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To the word tenderness, we add others.
From all the pairs, we settle on one: tenderness and terror.
After a silence, you add: caress and collapse<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So be it
Wither and rebirth
Until the wind wills it<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andr\u00e9s Izquierdo \u2013 with the contribution of Javi, Santi and Isa<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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