Here I am thinking: the day has come when rhythm, after being used for so long in poetry, is no longer beautiful; and beautiful is to make poetry without rhythm. Curiously, I am assaulted by a very funny memory. Once, I went to the border with Paraguay and was there to watch the most renowned “cultural spectacle” in the region. This spectacle was nothing more than an attempt to showcase the musical traditions of the neighboring countries. It was a presentation, although very expensive, roundly ridiculous; but there was one moment that, by its unthinkable grotesqueness, made the ticket price worthwhile. On stage, a guy in Paraguayan-themed robes came up carrying a harp. A harp: the most imposing of musical instruments. There was a silence, or rather, the silence of the very imposing instrument froze the audience. Obviously, they were expecting the man to play the harp. However, after hitting exactly two notes, the man, at the sound of a playback, takes the harp as a lady and begins to dance: he twirls, swings it from side to side, and dares to throw it up in the air. At this moment, the audience was already clapping their hands in excitement. It is true that I could not control my laughter, which was lost between the clapping and the playback. But there was the harp, huge, with its something divine, beautiful as if it were made of gold, whirling in the hands of a clown to the applause of a few dozen imbeciles.
Spiritual Charlatans
It is really interesting to follow lectures by spiritual charlatans. Today, more than ever, the world is favorable to them. So we are left to admire how a bald head, a few white hairs and a wrinkled face impose respect, symbolizing the highest wisdom and the most serious meditation. So we are impelled by common sense to listen in silence to truths that our experience has not been kind enough to present to us. And we see how they make sense, how we are good fools, and how, after knowing them, we must go on living. It is a pity that such enchantment does not last…
Always Unpleasant…
It is curious how the writing process always seems unpleasant, or at the very least, overexposes its worst aspects. We start a prose piece, and our mind remembers how much more beautiful poetry is; we draft a volume of verse, and our mind seems to miss the productivity of prose. There is no escape: whatever we create, the process will always be a struggle, and abandoning it will always be easier. That’s why it makes us envious when we observe those who play around making art or make it thinking of figures, of fame, of readers. Although they produce mediocre works, they free themselves from this unbearable anguish and this terrible desire for annihilation.
Stupor in the Face of the Cultural Destruction
Sometimes it seems that we live in a time not of decadence, but of stupor in the face of the cultural destruction that has already taken place. It is as if we were in the midst of the rubble, perplexed and without action. Gone are the safe, the stable, the “certain”, gone are the north and the good; words have been emptied of meaning and criteria deconstructed, while the subversive has been put on a pedestal. Culturally, absurdities stand out that, after a moment of brilliance, are soon forgotten and replaced by others; and in this succession in which nothing lasts but the nonsense, there seems to be nothing firm to stand on.