MIND in HAND

A story.
A story if forging in the mounts of a realm far far away, a realm where a duck can be found having a hot argument with its feathers, a thought embroidering flames on a tongue, three children laughing as they declare a new nation with a flag made of daylight, sweets and siesta adventures, fear from a nameless source.
The story pushes its start, its alpha, but, sad to say, doesn’t know where this weaving will lead to. That she, because stories are female according to Lesbosjen (2001:34), reference that makes a digression worth it.

Stories are female in the unequivocal sense that they give birth to a myriad of interpretations, their curves invite readers to embark on imaginable adventures. Stories are tasted, sweet, bitter with resentment, salty by numberless tears shed over the moon’s shoulder. Stories are intelligent because they know when to turn, when to leave their readers hanging from a spiderweb thread. A cliff hanger. A blade. A forked path. Stories can whisper your future and sing following mermaids’ lectures, or they can petrify readers’ minds with their words loaded with darkness, loneliness, blindness… (Lesbosjen, 2001:34)


That she, because stories are undoubtedly female, doesn’t know the end. In fact, and to be honest, she couldn’t care less about which road to take, in case there are such material inventions to opt for.

A story is troubling a mind. Let me out. Let me haunt you until this itchy-itchy business is settled when you decide, at last, thank God (because stories are said to believe in Him), to put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and let words pour and run. Hopeless business to arrange words. They, because they are the daughters of stories, have a plan in mind, an infinite one, they follow the course designed by their mothers, then a frenetic event takes place where symbols fight for a plot of paper and free will is exercised to its full potential. It’s a peacock showing off all his grandeur. You will never make us stand still. We dictate the course of a life, a life that can re-arrange us in as many ways as possible (though, it’s generally acknowledged that humans are losing faith and can only see words in a poor linear fashion, so vulgar of them).
I’m alive, and I’m looking good today. I feel like being carried away by a chariot, a wheel-less chariot.
A story is troubling a mind. She’s alive, she’s looking good. But does anybody know what might happen once it is released and issued a passport to travel these lands? Who dare foretell its fortune? Oracles have been on strike for thousands of seasons. Their winters have crystallised their summers, and autumns, in turn, have swallowed their scented springs.
A story is revealing her insanity. And her aim is to hit this mind hard. A beginning. No end. What for?
A story is cooking in the kitchen of nightmares, and dreams, and visions, and seas of distant voices whose task is to wash away constraints, don’ts, you name them.

HUSH, NOW

I AM ALIVE AND THIS IS THE PATTERN I SHALL REVEAL

I’m an angel, a sweet one; one made of milk, honey and buttered toasts. I’ve been presented with a puffy cloud, a gift from Thrones, Dominations and Postestates. And the wind, variable way beyond my reach, has drifted my cloud (me as well) high above a crowded city. It could be Tokyo, Shanghai, I have to confess at this point that my Geography is nothing but scanty, poor, basic, so basic that it takes me ages to recognise a continent from an island. Once, I thought the Earth was an island. So there I was, hand up, ready to show my classmates how I had internalised the concept of “island”. Wrong. Next.

A new day is about to begin. Clouds are retreating. I can see down below thousands of cars carried away by conveyor belts in all possible directions. Tall towers, like fingers pointing at Heaven. I can see the early rays patting clouds’ backs.
But down there a woman, naked, soaking wet. She feels so unprotected in the forests of the night. Her Blake’s tiger is outside, though she knows she has no right to call herself a lamb. No. She’s crying and her tears are washed away by the water coming from the shower. She attempts to cover it with her hands. But water cannot be stopped; somehow it will reach her trembling body. She cries, and cries, and she’d like to hear her inner voice speak louder, but even that company is denied to her. She’s all alone quivering in a shower in a flat where a man is outside waiting to see her leave.
And I am a man now (the story says). And I can see that man now, the angel says. The man our woman (the story’s realization of humanity and my vision from up here) is crying for as rivers of fear run, cascading with rage and grey scents. I can see a man. He’s sitting placidly busying himself with making a cup of green tea. For himself, of course. He’s sitting there on his leather sofa, pouring hot green tea. From a black teapot to a red cup. And he feels so happy, so at ease with the world around. That he could go around naked, he knows. I know. She knows too. That he has decided not to. White underwear will do. Not any. Designer’s. And as he pours his tea, he focuses on how this infusion leaves one container to fill another. It has no choice; the laws of gravity force it to abandon the spacious teapot to struggle with this new temporary accommodation. Never mind, soon, in I’ll go. Into this man. Besides, red is more lively than black. Anyway, I’m just green tea, not much to expect from me. As for this man…
Having filled his red cup, he stands up and goes to a window, those huge glass panes which are window-wall structures. A glass jar. Odd, isn’t it? A new day is about to break. The sun is coming. He can feel it in the distant horizon. He begins to see the sun rising way way there. He’s facing it. How many times has he faced the sun in his life? Only when I need some direction to take. I don’t want to be blinded. I just want to see its perfect shape, its flames regaining lost territory during the dark hours. He’s standing, cup in hand, gazing at the far away sun ascending and declaring that a new day has come.
As for her, still in the shower, posing her hand against the mirror as to clear the mist she has created. A mirror coated with resentment, with speechless arguments, with pitch black lies. But now, he has understood. A new day has come.
He’s sipping his green tea. Staring at the sun. The sun she cannot sea. She appears to get dressed with the same clothes she wore last night for a few hours before she let him take them off. But here she is now, like a tramp wearing the same rags again and again. Her whims and sighs call his attention. He turns. She looks him in the eye. Her eyes are daggers. Such a waste of energy. He looks at her coldly. Pity, perhaps? Compassion? Indifference? He hates being distracted. He turns back to his sun, his face lit now by two thousand million rays licking his glass jar. Another sip. This tea is really good. So much for the tea. So much for her. How can you trust a woman who wants to take over the first night? Let her go. She will. Of course she will. Better staring at the sun than trying to pretend to be nice and gentle. Fuck identities. A slam.

HUSH NOW
AN ANGEL WHO JUST SAW A MOVING PICTURE. HUMANS IN MOTION. JUST A PART.

NO END.

SO WHAT.

A story. A story desperate to begin but in such a hurry that she forgot to tell the end. An angel, so chubby and pink and playful that he (I thought they were sexless) decided to look down on other issues.
A mind released from the pressures exercised by a story, a true female story.