DIALOGUE BEYOND THE ABSENCE
"... in Cali, Arturo's ashes to the mountain and the river ..."
The questions go beyond death
From: katia gonzalez [mailto: katiag8@yahoo.es ]
Sent: Tuesday, December 26 of
2006 12:52 am Subject: At
friends Dear friends:
For you, my best wishes for a new year full of pleasant surprises, a lot of happiness, helpful health and professional expectations.
I want to thank the messages of condolence, words of affection, the fraternal hugs, advice and above all for listening.
I want to share with you a piece I wrote, without further attempt to establish a dialogue beyond the absence. felt-the need to prepare a preamble day Thursday, December 28. This day in the company of family members are thrown, in Cali, the ashes of Arthur to the mountain and river, the final destination of the remains. Remember
my house will always be your home, there never have their own corner in the pantry of the forgotten, always remember the stories of those who left us the eternal embrace the river and the mountains.
A big hug for you and the family,
Katia González M.
My signs are: Telephone: 368 2765 or 244 5578 (for now). Mobile: 313-322 3086
cards attached to the message
Arturo Alape Cali, November 3, 1938 - Bogotá, October 7, 2006 ---
Poems * "Rituals of the asusencia" and "Be of infinite longing" (Katie)
Arturo Alape. 1938 2006
Cali, 28 December 2006
* The text of the poems can be found at
---
The questions go beyond death
By Katia Gonzalez Martinez
By Katia Gonzalez Martinez
Today is Sunday, and as usual, I woke up at 6:00 am at the same time as the dealer deals the newspapers in the garage the building. You woke up sleepy, I hold the covers over me give you a kiss on the forehead, tell me "good morning sweetie" , I answered, "good morning heart", "How did you sleep?". The question I wanted to show my concern for the sleepless nights, evenings and nights when you called to dreams, "my friends, my teammates, the shadow of life" , but they, flighty not clung to you. "Why do not you rest?" you heard when entering the bathroom, I'll pick up the newspaper and coffee. As they prepare
coffee, quickly flip through the newspaper.
When he returned to the room, I find you lying on the back of the bed, nightgown. Recently insisted that that night was suffering from intense heat. I approached the cup of coffee. "Do you have sugar?" , "If my heart." I prefer to savor it without any additional ingredient, much enjoyed that first cup of coffee in the day. Then I ask
the first section and read it quickly, looking anxious news in the same way you used to find the news of the launch of one of your books or an exhibition, a Once I settled into bed, I asked insistently, "What the press published news of my death?".
I get up, I go into the library closet and pulled out a stack of newspapers that have kept from the 9 October. I'll make a recount.
Weather Latest news:
"It was the most renowned biographer Tirofijo. Arturo Alape, the leftist writer who lived many years in exile on account of his writings, died in Bogota at age 67. " The following
extend the note sheet illustrated with a photograph of Claudia Rubio. I remember the warm embrace, without words, we gave her at the funeral home.
In El Colombiano illustrated the story with a photograph, with the characteristic gesture of your hands, expressive hands speak for themselves. Look, the chance: in the photograph appear with black leather jacket, the same that I gave to the funeral. I well remember the day we went to buy the Seven-August, the preferred place to buy leather clothing, especially because you could haggle prices; more than a friend you told "very cheap leather and leather."
El Colombiano, El Nuevo Siglo and El Pais, a press release reproduced loosely into Reality
"After struggling for a decade with leukemia who was suffering, that kept interrupting his research and writing, having to spend weeks internship in hospitals in the nation's capital, died Carlos Arturo Ruiz, known as Arturo Alape. (...) In fact, in order to have the elements needed to keep fighting for his life, was in dire need for help from their colleagues, friends and admirers "
Drink a sip of coffee and I say thoughtfully: "This shows that this exercise is far from a research position at the time of announcing the facts." The
Alma Mater newspaper of the University of Antioquia note titled:
"Arturo Alape left an intellectual heritage will not be easy match. Alape received the recognition that it gave the university community, as the exaltation of a work of nearly forty years, always inspired to uncover the conflicting situation in Colombia and, therefore, provide evidence for their understanding and treatment. "
At this time, the sadness overwhelms us both.
The New Century addresses the news mentioning only your links with Marulanda:
"Alape was regarded as the person who had information on Manuel Marulanda Velez, the leader of the FARC, about whom he wrote several works, the result of personal knowledge he had of "Sureshot" whom he met in his years of militant guerrillas. His membership in leftist movements led him on several occasions to be exiled from the country after threats from right-wing groups, linked to state security agencies, according to allegations made by journalist and writer. "
The news published by El País is illustrated with a photograph of the funeral:
"Farewell to the XXI century chronicler. The weather was really short to cover the immense legacy left by an author who was not part Colombian literary elite, but marked as a writer and historian, a map, which always hoped that new generations continue to acknowledge and explore, not just stay with the official versions. "
The Voice newspaper, Juan Carlos Hurtado, who was your last semester student in the Master of Communication at the Javeriana, recalls his last conversation with you:
"The best tribute to the writer: (...) Some scholars claim that was a researcher Alape walk. Arthur used to tell his students the vicissitudes of the most important processes of their investigations, death threats and persecution he was the victim when he published the first volume of the biography of Manuel Marulanda, and writing the second volume in Cuba, in exile and memory workshops. Always questioned the junction between the academia and the national situation and discussed with the schemes for social research. Alape's work marked a way of investigating and into the conscience of all Colombians. Is an accumulation of historical and literary documents with today is discussed and discussed future generations interested in understanding the national tragedy. Be the best tribute we can pay the writer. "
I ask you to listen the complete reading of the text you typed Low Juan Jose Hoyos, your friend's whereabouts, complicity, of deep affection:
"The friends who gave me the news I wondered if it was communist. Sure, I answered. If it was a guerrilla. Sure, I said. That if he was a friend of Sureshot. Of course, I again say, not only was with him when he founded the FARC, but wrote extensively about their lives and their dreams. These were the most liked to Tirofijo. However, he also told them that, while still young, had left the FARC to devote himself to writing and painting because he thought that was his thing. For some, this was a betrayal. To address the FARC, no: he consulted with them that choice. Paradoxes of life during his final years after returning from exile and having been expelled from Cuba because of political problems, he told his friends: 'The war in Colombia has not produced the new promised land. That was not the disaster of taking the people.
That was not our dream. "
Alape Guerrero also told: 'In the 60 and 70 surveys of the insurgency was justified, because the National Front was exclusive. Camilo Torres came the revolution in Cuba: the dream was to transform the world. Then came the dirty war, drug trafficking, exile and reflection whether messianic death would be correct in 90 or in the present century. Today I do not condone any kind of war: the government or the insurgency.
Our country must be given a rest '.
Most of his generation who went to the bush or they got into politics, were killed. Thus he considered himself a survivor. Of course it was, and fueled by the joy which he lived were his last years. Now life gave him low, as if addressing his plea to the airport police. Farewell, beloved friend. "
always commented news today, the silence overwhelms us, your eyes of "historical grief" I gasp. Love, tell me something ....
I hasten to pick up the newspapers because I heard a shrill whistle through the window of our room. Among the clippings is the note published in Isaiah Peña Cultural Agenda:
"The death of Charles, Arthur, I was impressed, and I was overwhelmed with the terror of knowing that the memories we shared, now divided irreparably. The river can not be returned, is what I feel. And I get the fear. Who will use to ask about things that happened around us? The misfortune of time is the forgetfulness, that he wanted to put coordinates many of his books. "
Meanwhile, Alvaro Castillo says in a note sent by email on October 10:
"Today, Monday, I finally understood that when responding to the question 'How long?" can only say Farewell!. That is, Arturo Alape: I'm not going, we're not going to forget, brother, friend (...)
During these days of absence and sorrow, the deep affection of the friends is what has made me meet today writing this text, deep love, the love that surrounded the last minutes in the hospital room. To them, I wrote the most beautiful tribute. The man in the canoe is a symbol that defines you as a man of intense emotions: "You, you know, those present and those who walk away tonight, are for me the best gift I've received this year cut in exact times for the stations. I also think this emotional moment in my old friends scattered in their niches drawn on the roundness of the earth, including my growing friendship with the arrival of each night and dawn with his breath of life. "
you get out of bed, you change your pajama pants and a jean jacket and black leather jacket. At the door of the building, greets us warmly Joseph goalkeeper, you light up the eyes to see with great affection and says "I see it Don Arturo." We walked to the Park Way, our place of walks, falling in love, TV interviews, meetings with friends and shared many stories with a hazelnut and pistachio ice cream. During the trip, we discuss the change that has suffered the Harlequin Theatre, theater and restaurant now. Immediately recall Hamburg: the Sternchanze, the Kino 5001, the ice cream shops and cafes where pleasant evenings spent with the children, now teenagers.
walked side by side in the bike lane of Park Way. As if seeing a movie, crowded scenes of the past, France and Elena Susana greet us hand from the monument to Padilla, gentle, rhythmic exercises attract our gaze. In front of them suddenly burst Alvaro Mejia, Colombia's the best athlete in the late sixties and early seventies, his white hair contrasts between the green variety of the park. On the street 36, we went back to start another lap until the CAI of Police; we find Giovanni, Kate and Paul face a playful Labrador. A Paul you look at askance and give him a pat on the back, always from afar. Victor hails from his bike with his arms outstretched. I stop to say hello to Giovanni and Cata and I see that look towards the western corner of the street 41, seeking the face of the woman who makes months you unveiled and was a source of conversation: Maria de la Soledad , the character of the novel you're writing.
To Mary we know who live in the neighborhood of La Soledad. Since a few months ago I started talking to her, motivated by the stories in the nights you're tired of counting. I remember one in particular: you lowered down the avenue 39, the usual route after lecturing at the Universidad Javeriana, saw her, she spoke standing on the corner of the race 23 with Calle 44:
"For me, from months ago had become a mysterious figure walking full of unknowns and questions, beautiful in its ugliness and skin weathered by time, in his eyes changing through the lens of some hidden tenderness as a danger lurking, suspicious, angry. I entered the circle of onlookers.
Mary pointed with the index of blame at a man. That figured, I imagined:
"You, if you, the grim look, come and stop in the row" Mary ordered, gentle man was the row in front of her. Mary explosive said
-The tall, thin, do not hide. Come ...- The man became second in line. Mary ordered the third, fourth and fifth arches its come and face it.
- I talk to you, chubby negligent. Find your place ... man with some oversight lined up and smiling staff hobnobbed with his fellow right, with some sarcasm. Mary expatiated some word of command, he looked happy to continue giving orders. Or maybe I counted eleven or twelve orders imagined. Then Mary met them at a distance of one meter and finger almost touching the breast of every one of the men trained in the row.
do not know what was the reaction from the audience. But everyone was like, planted on the cement. Mary, gazing, sunset approached the first man:
"You, if you will. What is your name? Tell your profession. Why do not you answer? Do you fear invaded, became dumb? They realize, is deflating, if deflating ... deflated.
"You say your name. Leave the fear and speak. Same thing happened to the other, began to deflate. Eye, was like a plastic vile.
-not hear his name. Say your vital signs. Ah, hell silent, his eyes bulging. I do not come with a story that also wants to deflate ... Relentless
Mary: vindictive, intolerant because they do not listen to reason. Had unleashed an inner strength as a river overflowed, nothing stopped:
-Ja, ja, ja ... The gentleman wants to talk ... now trembles as if the cold of death it was invading. Tremble muscles, shaking his eyes, the skin is vane sinking into the sea of \u200b\u200bfear. Began to deflate as when the infamy through the city with the edge of the knife ... Deflates, deflated in the eyes, in life ...
I swear I saw eleven men easily deflated terrifying helpless skin covered by the burden of past sins, unable to pronounce words imploring forgiveness. There was a strange atmosphere in the atmosphere of fear that bordered on indecency lines.
Mary then reached down and was deftly doubling as cardboard boxes to the eleven men deflated and then smoothed by hand and placed one on top others, did a lot and got split in two cardboard boxes. Then he got up and returned to his former state of reverie and began to walk barefoot due to the Park Way. All eyes converged on the slow steps. "
I said goodbye to Giovanni and Cata did not want yours to miss a conversation with Mary: After a "How's Mary?" , asked him to break "Mary, do you think of death?:
- "Question complicated, difficult question, right? You ever wonder what. It has been asked that question before the mirror. There is no talk of death aloud. You thought what the last sentence meant by his thought before he died. Nobody wants to ask about your own death, even before their eyes. It's not about earthly prayers put up with an answer, opened the anxiety of a response will always be musically like your ears. Then they will beat their chests. The thought of death is like nausea immediately flourish of the faults. The man is a blood-born seed of guilt. The terrible death, is that never in life one may ask: Why am I alive? Whenever you think about breathing. Death is simply the death of the questions. You wondered what you feel when you can not never again to ask? The answer is simple: death The answer is elementary: The eyes do not turn to look, his mouth will laugh, your hands will not return to play, the ears lose their sense of hearing. The death is to take the walk of life. Everything will disappear, is definitely off the light. Come the void, darkness, air solidified infernal quiet, shaking occasionally, fuzzy line of a long journey in the dark you do not have limits. Who will tell you "Here in the newly drawn line ends his trip. Air, water, heat, sounds, whispers, will As the eyes of the blue: The perpetual solitude, loneliness crucified, to walk without walking. The reality of life will be in the jaws of the imagination as a simple reminder: All records as dead leaves its footprints. It is always a good living. Or maybe a terrible death that will never be forgiven. Happy memories, painful memories, unflappable, maybe whispers never forget. The absence will sound far from your ear. Or what's to come, crash, crash, crash, will the carnage of the photographs, the pain will replace the sharp knife when the solemn reading of the will and distribution of the inheritance. Looks are not compassionate, pitiful, will signal accompanied by the revenge plot. Revenge, hatred and scheming on how to organize the distribution of memories become flesh decaying flesh of death. Even, you know, I've been thinking: what is better to die young children of parents physical or old age? Family members are melted in the twilight of the dark.
know, therefore, croc, croc, croc, leaving nothing as a legacy to my tracks then dismembered earth. Do not know what you think: kill someone after my death, let them waste as a legacy? I guess my plastic glasses will no adornment to other tables, my plastic spoons shall be used by other mouths. Who will want to cover your body with my plastic of many colors? Who will want to imitate my knots and my tissues? I want to say only the mournful farewell: Maria de la Soledad lived and died in the street on the street.
What is your response about death? Do not laugh, do not mortify consciousness, stop hurting your skin, do not flee, sosiéguese, cover with the calm, think, breathe, walk, let your thoughts flow, look, and listen well. Do not speed up the response, saliva and spit out his words slowly. I have the patience to wait for their response. I cover my body with plastic, cardboard and newspapers, then my body acomodaré awaiting the dream and promise not to let my eyes close to the dream, be alert to the footprints of his thoughts. Meanwhile, I'll turn on the TV and see the pictures in my imagination and then turns on the radio to hear the news I want to hear. Do not forget I'm waiting for your voice. Then tell him how I thought my death ... splat, splat, splat ... Let
bloodhound suspicious silence. Are you afraid to talk about his death? Silence frightens the thoughts and shows its teeth sharp. Talk, hit the doubt, let yourself go ..., float in words. Get on a boat, choose your river. His pallor I said that the terror round his thoughts, as if he were attacking a pack of mad dogs, stray, hungry. Do not want to talk, silenced the tongue as men do deflating when you ask them for their vital signs. You, very intelligent questions, want answers, answers. But does not answer my questions. I thought it powerful in the quiet night. In passing, it's cold, do you feel? No talk of dangerous cold breath of death is laughing spraying on its way through the city. It is his job and she is very informal like you, with your questions as wise and intelligent. Eat your silence, but please do not choke. Do not go throwing your life. Hopefully not teeth will fall by terror. Let the blood for another day. Hide the pallor that overwhelms him.
You left me in suspense sinful. However, crash, crash, crash, I'm not laughing, I will tell you just how I imagine my death and what is my desire at the moment someone has a generous desire to bury:
endlessly in this wilderness when I walk the streets of La Soledad, I give myself time to talk to death. I talk to her without fear, without chills smelly. Even, I lend my voice to speak with my voice. I listen to discover their intentions. She is always measuring his time as if it were unavoidable commitments to be met. I listen to the calm of someone who knows that a day will die. We talk endlessly, and then everybody would follow his path. Death to see me leave with an air of arrogance, I dismiss on the open hands with the humility of those who want to live. I get the light back up lost in the fog that swallows voraciously merciless. You have my back, I walk slow and I think I should keep looking for me ...
But I tell you, creak, creak, creak, how it should be time to leave for good:
When it's death caught me deep in my dream and plum, I do not have that feeling of terror, when I woke up with the explosion of irrigated terrible pain throughout the body. Nor wanted a last look at the sadness in the eyes of the friends I have on these routes. Want or desire that the rate of death right directly above my heart sink: I wake with a start, I will dream the same dream with the last farewell hug me and start to sing. Then I guess it will water the news of my death in Soledad: Very few feel my game, maybe others will breathe with relief. But one is not money of five hundred dollars to shoot air-to-face seal. I do not give or donate feelings of pity. Come my friend louse, he already knows what you have to do. Immediately collect donations from friends for a coffin the poor for someone who has died in the street.
coffin I pray that my poor, is padded with cardboard and plastic. I keep getting chilly future states. I ask my friend Piojo undressing the drawer and put me my nakedness is covered with flowers of different colors. He Louse and his friends lifted me up in the air, carry me in procession to the beginning of Park Way and from south to north will lead me in the middle of the park, they stop at the site where those brutal men as trees planted dumb revolve around them and my friend and his companions Piojo men spit dumb trees, then continue with my nudity so many flowers blooming in as the root of my skin tanned for the time and come to the banks of the creek The Archbishop, looking dry wood and made a pyre and as it grows the flare, the Louse and Women tell stories of the Bible read aloud verses she loves that place my coffin from the flare and after three days, when my body to get rid ashes, The Louse and his friends caught handfuls of nothing in my body and sing loudly, while casting my dust in the river Archbishop. "
look at me, again I say your eyes saddened that it is time to go home. Through the trees of the Park Way heard another shrill whistle, the second of the day.
Way quiet Romanotti entered the bakery and ask our usual breakfast: rib soup, chocolate and white bread for you and me, the "light menu" who criticized me, orange juice, eggs and bread parrots. At the door of the bakery I say, "I'm tired, I lie down for a while, in the afternoon I want to continue with the writing of Maria de la Soledad, is my great novel ..."
Back home, I stop to look at the trees in the Park Way, eerie wind embraces me, I listen to the rhythmic hiss, this time with a friendly warning: The Man in the canoe out of the tallest tree from a trail of smoke surround; they said:
"For just as we wait for the finished canoe man smoking his huge snuff, off the tree, touch our door and announced his voice recorder and memory:" My dear Alape came travel time (...). The farewells of friends, expressing the image of the eye tattooed on his back leaving a huge way to find the voracity of the distance. Suddenly, the lost look in front of the sea or a river pier, or perhaps lost in the crowd in a train station or airport tumultuous, returns to voice loudly never to forget the steps walked (...) ".
I enter the apartment, I go to the place where your ashes. Company in the absence, is your picture with the oil painting of Transit , whom we honor with your words, the day he threw his ashes in the hills of Christ the King:
"I always support our decisions, arms opened to us through thick and thin. From you retain your strength to continue to exist. I now walk without worries, accompanied by the tender shade you built yourself. (...) The train is transformed into the smoke that grows on the bounce. And the smoke draw, dear Transit, perhaps the largest of your eyes which houses the joy in the sadness that conceals our faces. You'll Transit dear, with your gentle steps on the ground. The smoke of your goodbye covers all your loved ones, and a hug all we can only cry to the winds: "Thank you, dear Transit, for her life."
Photography, the urn with your ashes, memorabilia and his extensive travel experiences, the yellow flowers Tulia your dear friend recommended me to take home, all is well .... just like that ... no I've changed nothing ...
The empty apartment invites me to remember what I was doing boleros on nights of wine and friends with one of them persistently hinted me to share a love of many shades, I hesitated much but in the end the composer Rafael Hernandez and his love Desvelo , consolidated the decision: I suffer a lot
Our country must be given a rest '.
Most of his generation who went to the bush or they got into politics, were killed. Thus he considered himself a survivor. Of course it was, and fueled by the joy which he lived were his last years. Now life gave him low, as if addressing his plea to the airport police. Farewell, beloved friend. "
always commented news today, the silence overwhelms us, your eyes of "historical grief" I gasp. Love, tell me something ....
I hasten to pick up the newspapers because I heard a shrill whistle through the window of our room. Among the clippings is the note published in Isaiah Peña Cultural Agenda:
"The death of Charles, Arthur, I was impressed, and I was overwhelmed with the terror of knowing that the memories we shared, now divided irreparably. The river can not be returned, is what I feel. And I get the fear. Who will use to ask about things that happened around us? The misfortune of time is the forgetfulness, that he wanted to put coordinates many of his books. "
Meanwhile, Alvaro Castillo says in a note sent by email on October 10:
"Today, Monday, I finally understood that when responding to the question 'How long?" can only say Farewell!. That is, Arturo Alape: I'm not going, we're not going to forget, brother, friend (...)
During these days of absence and sorrow, the deep affection of the friends is what has made me meet today writing this text, deep love, the love that surrounded the last minutes in the hospital room. To them, I wrote the most beautiful tribute. The man in the canoe is a symbol that defines you as a man of intense emotions: "You, you know, those present and those who walk away tonight, are for me the best gift I've received this year cut in exact times for the stations. I also think this emotional moment in my old friends scattered in their niches drawn on the roundness of the earth, including my growing friendship with the arrival of each night and dawn with his breath of life. "
you get out of bed, you change your pajama pants and a jean jacket and black leather jacket. At the door of the building, greets us warmly Joseph goalkeeper, you light up the eyes to see with great affection and says "I see it Don Arturo." We walked to the Park Way, our place of walks, falling in love, TV interviews, meetings with friends and shared many stories with a hazelnut and pistachio ice cream. During the trip, we discuss the change that has suffered the Harlequin Theatre, theater and restaurant now. Immediately recall Hamburg: the Sternchanze, the Kino 5001, the ice cream shops and cafes where pleasant evenings spent with the children, now teenagers.
walked side by side in the bike lane of Park Way. As if seeing a movie, crowded scenes of the past, France and Elena Susana greet us hand from the monument to Padilla, gentle, rhythmic exercises attract our gaze. In front of them suddenly burst Alvaro Mejia, Colombia's the best athlete in the late sixties and early seventies, his white hair contrasts between the green variety of the park. On the street 36, we went back to start another lap until the CAI of Police; we find Giovanni, Kate and Paul face a playful Labrador. A Paul you look at askance and give him a pat on the back, always from afar. Victor hails from his bike with his arms outstretched. I stop to say hello to Giovanni and Cata and I see that look towards the western corner of the street 41, seeking the face of the woman who makes months you unveiled and was a source of conversation: Maria de la Soledad , the character of the novel you're writing.
To Mary we know who live in the neighborhood of La Soledad. Since a few months ago I started talking to her, motivated by the stories in the nights you're tired of counting. I remember one in particular: you lowered down the avenue 39, the usual route after lecturing at the Universidad Javeriana, saw her, she spoke standing on the corner of the race 23 with Calle 44:
"For me, from months ago had become a mysterious figure walking full of unknowns and questions, beautiful in its ugliness and skin weathered by time, in his eyes changing through the lens of some hidden tenderness as a danger lurking, suspicious, angry. I entered the circle of onlookers.
Mary pointed with the index of blame at a man. That figured, I imagined:
"You, if you, the grim look, come and stop in the row" Mary ordered, gentle man was the row in front of her. Mary explosive said
-The tall, thin, do not hide. Come ...- The man became second in line. Mary ordered the third, fourth and fifth arches its come and face it.
- I talk to you, chubby negligent. Find your place ... man with some oversight lined up and smiling staff hobnobbed with his fellow right, with some sarcasm. Mary expatiated some word of command, he looked happy to continue giving orders. Or maybe I counted eleven or twelve orders imagined. Then Mary met them at a distance of one meter and finger almost touching the breast of every one of the men trained in the row.
do not know what was the reaction from the audience. But everyone was like, planted on the cement. Mary, gazing, sunset approached the first man:
"You, if you will. What is your name? Tell your profession. Why do not you answer? Do you fear invaded, became dumb? They realize, is deflating, if deflating ... deflated.
"You say your name. Leave the fear and speak. Same thing happened to the other, began to deflate. Eye, was like a plastic vile.
-not hear his name. Say your vital signs. Ah, hell silent, his eyes bulging. I do not come with a story that also wants to deflate ... Relentless
Mary: vindictive, intolerant because they do not listen to reason. Had unleashed an inner strength as a river overflowed, nothing stopped:
-Ja, ja, ja ... The gentleman wants to talk ... now trembles as if the cold of death it was invading. Tremble muscles, shaking his eyes, the skin is vane sinking into the sea of \u200b\u200bfear. Began to deflate as when the infamy through the city with the edge of the knife ... Deflates, deflated in the eyes, in life ...
I swear I saw eleven men easily deflated terrifying helpless skin covered by the burden of past sins, unable to pronounce words imploring forgiveness. There was a strange atmosphere in the atmosphere of fear that bordered on indecency lines.
Mary then reached down and was deftly doubling as cardboard boxes to the eleven men deflated and then smoothed by hand and placed one on top others, did a lot and got split in two cardboard boxes. Then he got up and returned to his former state of reverie and began to walk barefoot due to the Park Way. All eyes converged on the slow steps. "
I said goodbye to Giovanni and Cata did not want yours to miss a conversation with Mary: After a "How's Mary?" , asked him to break "Mary, do you think of death?:
- "Question complicated, difficult question, right? You ever wonder what. It has been asked that question before the mirror. There is no talk of death aloud. You thought what the last sentence meant by his thought before he died. Nobody wants to ask about your own death, even before their eyes. It's not about earthly prayers put up with an answer, opened the anxiety of a response will always be musically like your ears. Then they will beat their chests. The thought of death is like nausea immediately flourish of the faults. The man is a blood-born seed of guilt. The terrible death, is that never in life one may ask: Why am I alive? Whenever you think about breathing. Death is simply the death of the questions. You wondered what you feel when you can not never again to ask? The answer is simple: death The answer is elementary: The eyes do not turn to look, his mouth will laugh, your hands will not return to play, the ears lose their sense of hearing. The death is to take the walk of life. Everything will disappear, is definitely off the light. Come the void, darkness, air solidified infernal quiet, shaking occasionally, fuzzy line of a long journey in the dark you do not have limits. Who will tell you "Here in the newly drawn line ends his trip. Air, water, heat, sounds, whispers, will As the eyes of the blue: The perpetual solitude, loneliness crucified, to walk without walking. The reality of life will be in the jaws of the imagination as a simple reminder: All records as dead leaves its footprints. It is always a good living. Or maybe a terrible death that will never be forgiven. Happy memories, painful memories, unflappable, maybe whispers never forget. The absence will sound far from your ear. Or what's to come, crash, crash, crash, will the carnage of the photographs, the pain will replace the sharp knife when the solemn reading of the will and distribution of the inheritance. Looks are not compassionate, pitiful, will signal accompanied by the revenge plot. Revenge, hatred and scheming on how to organize the distribution of memories become flesh decaying flesh of death. Even, you know, I've been thinking: what is better to die young children of parents physical or old age? Family members are melted in the twilight of the dark.
know, therefore, croc, croc, croc, leaving nothing as a legacy to my tracks then dismembered earth. Do not know what you think: kill someone after my death, let them waste as a legacy? I guess my plastic glasses will no adornment to other tables, my plastic spoons shall be used by other mouths. Who will want to cover your body with my plastic of many colors? Who will want to imitate my knots and my tissues? I want to say only the mournful farewell: Maria de la Soledad lived and died in the street on the street.
What is your response about death? Do not laugh, do not mortify consciousness, stop hurting your skin, do not flee, sosiéguese, cover with the calm, think, breathe, walk, let your thoughts flow, look, and listen well. Do not speed up the response, saliva and spit out his words slowly. I have the patience to wait for their response. I cover my body with plastic, cardboard and newspapers, then my body acomodaré awaiting the dream and promise not to let my eyes close to the dream, be alert to the footprints of his thoughts. Meanwhile, I'll turn on the TV and see the pictures in my imagination and then turns on the radio to hear the news I want to hear. Do not forget I'm waiting for your voice. Then tell him how I thought my death ... splat, splat, splat ... Let
bloodhound suspicious silence. Are you afraid to talk about his death? Silence frightens the thoughts and shows its teeth sharp. Talk, hit the doubt, let yourself go ..., float in words. Get on a boat, choose your river. His pallor I said that the terror round his thoughts, as if he were attacking a pack of mad dogs, stray, hungry. Do not want to talk, silenced the tongue as men do deflating when you ask them for their vital signs. You, very intelligent questions, want answers, answers. But does not answer my questions. I thought it powerful in the quiet night. In passing, it's cold, do you feel? No talk of dangerous cold breath of death is laughing spraying on its way through the city. It is his job and she is very informal like you, with your questions as wise and intelligent. Eat your silence, but please do not choke. Do not go throwing your life. Hopefully not teeth will fall by terror. Let the blood for another day. Hide the pallor that overwhelms him.
You left me in suspense sinful. However, crash, crash, crash, I'm not laughing, I will tell you just how I imagine my death and what is my desire at the moment someone has a generous desire to bury:
endlessly in this wilderness when I walk the streets of La Soledad, I give myself time to talk to death. I talk to her without fear, without chills smelly. Even, I lend my voice to speak with my voice. I listen to discover their intentions. She is always measuring his time as if it were unavoidable commitments to be met. I listen to the calm of someone who knows that a day will die. We talk endlessly, and then everybody would follow his path. Death to see me leave with an air of arrogance, I dismiss on the open hands with the humility of those who want to live. I get the light back up lost in the fog that swallows voraciously merciless. You have my back, I walk slow and I think I should keep looking for me ...
But I tell you, creak, creak, creak, how it should be time to leave for good:
When it's death caught me deep in my dream and plum, I do not have that feeling of terror, when I woke up with the explosion of irrigated terrible pain throughout the body. Nor wanted a last look at the sadness in the eyes of the friends I have on these routes. Want or desire that the rate of death right directly above my heart sink: I wake with a start, I will dream the same dream with the last farewell hug me and start to sing. Then I guess it will water the news of my death in Soledad: Very few feel my game, maybe others will breathe with relief. But one is not money of five hundred dollars to shoot air-to-face seal. I do not give or donate feelings of pity. Come my friend louse, he already knows what you have to do. Immediately collect donations from friends for a coffin the poor for someone who has died in the street.
coffin I pray that my poor, is padded with cardboard and plastic. I keep getting chilly future states. I ask my friend Piojo undressing the drawer and put me my nakedness is covered with flowers of different colors. He Louse and his friends lifted me up in the air, carry me in procession to the beginning of Park Way and from south to north will lead me in the middle of the park, they stop at the site where those brutal men as trees planted dumb revolve around them and my friend and his companions Piojo men spit dumb trees, then continue with my nudity so many flowers blooming in as the root of my skin tanned for the time and come to the banks of the creek The Archbishop, looking dry wood and made a pyre and as it grows the flare, the Louse and Women tell stories of the Bible read aloud verses she loves that place my coffin from the flare and after three days, when my body to get rid ashes, The Louse and his friends caught handfuls of nothing in my body and sing loudly, while casting my dust in the river Archbishop. "
look at me, again I say your eyes saddened that it is time to go home. Through the trees of the Park Way heard another shrill whistle, the second of the day.
Way quiet Romanotti entered the bakery and ask our usual breakfast: rib soup, chocolate and white bread for you and me, the "light menu" who criticized me, orange juice, eggs and bread parrots. At the door of the bakery I say, "I'm tired, I lie down for a while, in the afternoon I want to continue with the writing of Maria de la Soledad, is my great novel ..."
Back home, I stop to look at the trees in the Park Way, eerie wind embraces me, I listen to the rhythmic hiss, this time with a friendly warning: The Man in the canoe out of the tallest tree from a trail of smoke surround; they said:
"For just as we wait for the finished canoe man smoking his huge snuff, off the tree, touch our door and announced his voice recorder and memory:" My dear Alape came travel time (...). The farewells of friends, expressing the image of the eye tattooed on his back leaving a huge way to find the voracity of the distance. Suddenly, the lost look in front of the sea or a river pier, or perhaps lost in the crowd in a train station or airport tumultuous, returns to voice loudly never to forget the steps walked (...) ".
I enter the apartment, I go to the place where your ashes. Company in the absence, is your picture with the oil painting of Transit , whom we honor with your words, the day he threw his ashes in the hills of Christ the King:
"I always support our decisions, arms opened to us through thick and thin. From you retain your strength to continue to exist. I now walk without worries, accompanied by the tender shade you built yourself. (...) The train is transformed into the smoke that grows on the bounce. And the smoke draw, dear Transit, perhaps the largest of your eyes which houses the joy in the sadness that conceals our faces. You'll Transit dear, with your gentle steps on the ground. The smoke of your goodbye covers all your loved ones, and a hug all we can only cry to the winds: "Thank you, dear Transit, for her life."
Photography, the urn with your ashes, memorabilia and his extensive travel experiences, the yellow flowers Tulia your dear friend recommended me to take home, all is well .... just like that ... no I've changed nothing ...
The empty apartment invites me to remember what I was doing boleros on nights of wine and friends with one of them persistently hinted me to share a love of many shades, I hesitated much but in the end the composer Rafael Hernandez and his love Desvelo , consolidated the decision: I suffer a lot
your absence
I do not deny I can not live if you're not next to me.
say that I am a coward
do I have fear of losing your love, your kisses lose.
not understand that much
I love you I can not help what I do "
Now the songs will be dedicated to the smoke trail of the man in the canoe, the trees will look to repeat the lyrics by Chico Buarque:
(...) Oh, yeah when I saw you, I began to dream, was almost madness
broke yet, I burned my ships
Tell me now where I can go
You and I, if eternal night antics confuse
Since both our legs
legs Tell me why I continue spill
If you let our song
If your heart sands
My blood vein missed and missed
How, if extended cabinet clutter Your
my dress pants refers
And my steps on your shoe to even
How, if we love, made two pagan
Your breasts are still in my hands
Tell me which side I'm going out (...)
I look forward to the trip to Cali , walk the room, this is your final return to Cali :
" When I am traveling in Cali for any reason, the return moved the original questions and I can not escape from the snares of memory hungry, restless years in its wake. It looked to replace the precise direction and avoid the momentary shock of surprise has been imprisoned and fresh air escapes and carries all the possible flights. Return to the fountain to quench your thirst at the event lived, because that revives the throb of life "
Love me grateful to live your life as an artist, designer and thinker, for listening to my doubts, uncertainties, questions, thanks for the generosity of your knowledge, experience , for travel, for allowing us the immense legacy of your work, for your critical stance, thoughtful, independent, for your commitment, "to offer different expectations from other banks ", for your dreams, mountain and river, have a large number of loving friends, all this is your great legacy. Thanks for writing a poem, by the dedications of Blood of Others ("Katie, Dream your dreams and my dreams, all dreams: the Life ") and I am a book in prison (" A Katia, presence and loving dialogue "), for sharing your joys and sorrows, for our disagreements, we felt human. Thanks for sharing a love Cali complicit for allowing me to embrace the Ruiz family. The three whistles of Man of the canoe will be your eternal presence, when you want to talk, when you feel the need that memory slips as a raging river, I will draw your friends. With this I join your voice:
"You my dear friends will never own corner in the pantry of the forgotten. By contrast, always be present with the scent that winds up with the arrival of spring. "
+ + +
remember:
1 .-
testimony and images of Arturo Alape
MAGAZINE ISSUE # 51. Dec. 2006 - Jan., Feb. 2007
FULL TEXT: http://www.revistanumero.com/51/huella.html
Text and images Arturo Alape
central image: http://www .revistanumero.com/51/images/huella.jpg
MAGAZINE ISSUE # 51. Dec. 2006 - Jan., Feb. 2007
FULL TEXT: http://www.revistanumero.com/51/huella.html
Text and images Arturo Alape
central image: http://www .revistanumero.com/51/images/huella.jpg
This text, one of the last written by the artist Arturo Alape , recently deceased, is a gripping chronicle of the life of a man committed to his time with social meaning of existence. Testimony of an era, of a generation. ---
2 .- The
published on this Blog and appeared in the journal OUTSIDE and CALLIGRAPHY newspaper.
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