There are words that when adequately
treated, eventually acquire the unique brilliance of those crystals that are
like lights abandoned on the seashore. There are also some that, without being
gothic, remind us of the lighted windows of some cathedrals. Some come wrapped
in the mist that surrounds melancholy. Some say they are born in the solitude
of the ports at dawn. The word is born for love, and becomes necessary when
touch is insufficient. Words come first, then, comes the rose.
Rafael Pérez-Estrada:“El Ladrón de Atardeceres”
Rafael Pérez-Estrada:“El Ladrón de Atardeceres”
("The Thief of Sunsets”)
Words! Each one is like balm
from Gilead on a wound,
or rain on the desert of daily and vulgar anonymity. Sometimes, I do not
understand the length, the width, and the depth of their hidden meanings. I just know they hold the force and the
violence of a tropical storm.
They can exude love, or ooze venom. They
can be soft, warm, comforting, frightening, revolutionary, incendiary, apocalyptic,
and magical: in different ways, and to various degrees. A word can be soft and
serene, conducive to inner peace, like the petal of a flower; soft and
comforting like a woman's breast; soft and disturbing, leading to unrest, like
the skin of a woman’s thigh; soft, calm and ominous, like the eye of the storm
that heralds the fury of the trailing edge of the hurricane.
When I read them, I savour the order in which they are placed, their rhythm and natural musicality. I gently put them on my tongue, and let them slowly dissolve, like a caramel, in a lustful sea of saliva. I experience the effect they cause when they pass through my mouth, into my stomach, leaving an aftertaste that will remain long after the pages have turned yellow.
After that ritual has concluded, I, invariably, digress about how, just as others collect comics, porcelain figurines, or miniature airplanes, I collect words. I'm on the lookout for them, tracking them in antique shops, flea markets, and garage sales.
Words attract me like the brightness of precious stones in a show case, like the spell of the sirens. When I run into them, my heart leaps, as it often happens to us when we are in love, and I know, at that moment, that I have to take possession of them, buy them, or break the glass, and steal them, as any Valjean would do, pull up the ship to shore after them, and to hell with the reefs, Scylla and Charybdis!
Once in possession of them, I arrange them on the shelves of my brain, and I show them to my friends, as trophies. They fill my cranial cavity. They permeate my trachea, my left and right ventricles, my kidneys, my navel, and my genitals, as well. They enlarge my soul, and are my best defence against the beasts of discouragement.
When I read them, I savour the order in which they are placed, their rhythm and natural musicality. I gently put them on my tongue, and let them slowly dissolve, like a caramel, in a lustful sea of saliva. I experience the effect they cause when they pass through my mouth, into my stomach, leaving an aftertaste that will remain long after the pages have turned yellow.
After that ritual has concluded, I, invariably, digress about how, just as others collect comics, porcelain figurines, or miniature airplanes, I collect words. I'm on the lookout for them, tracking them in antique shops, flea markets, and garage sales.
Words attract me like the brightness of precious stones in a show case, like the spell of the sirens. When I run into them, my heart leaps, as it often happens to us when we are in love, and I know, at that moment, that I have to take possession of them, buy them, or break the glass, and steal them, as any Valjean would do, pull up the ship to shore after them, and to hell with the reefs, Scylla and Charybdis!
Once in possession of them, I arrange them on the shelves of my brain, and I show them to my friends, as trophies. They fill my cranial cavity. They permeate my trachea, my left and right ventricles, my kidneys, my navel, and my genitals, as well. They enlarge my soul, and are my best defence against the beasts of discouragement.
They
are like viral and alien creatures that, surreptitiously invade my system,
transmitting me various diseases: “wanderlust”; yearning for other worlds;
desire for other lives, other minds and other bodies; daydreaming; suicidal
ambitions, like the folly of wanting to lash out at windmills; the fever of the
spirit, of which there is no escape. Words are my true riches, my most prized
possession, the best gift you can offer, my only grace and gift, the most
powerful aphrodisiac. Words shamelessly contaminate me, and pollute me. Long
live micro organisms, viruses, bacteria, germs, microbes, and other pathogenic
entities! Long live corruption!
© Texto y fotografía, William Almonte Jiménez, 2000
