The contained rivers Story in tribute to Walt Whitman
Introduction
Greetings, Weku people, on March 26, 127 years of the death of the great poet of the body and democracy, Walt Whitman;That is why today I want to share in this community a story in his tribute: I wrote it years ago as a testimony of my admiration and debt to the American poet, the poet of the times that will come, as the teacher and also the teacher, Venezuelan, qualified it rightlyMery Sanans.
Developing
Walt Whitman
A twenty -year -old boy, in conflict with the agreed and with himself reality, and under the influence of the brief and early rebellion of Rimbaud, took a bus at the bus terminal to be another somewhere in the Venezuelan East. Two flannels, two pants and, thanks to a providential start, grass leaves in the recognized translation of Francisco Alexander.
He conjectured that he would get a job in a restaurant, who would live in a pension of bad death and love a discreet girl, oblivious to feminist imposters of his fellow students. His lack of attachment to the scarce links of two years of university life in Caracas, saved someone’s longing;Although years later he would confess that a love disappointment, not very deep, hurried his flight.
Perhaps his inappropriateness made him look like a strange passenger;The others were fed up in the humble feeders where the bus stopped. Only the sunset on the Unare lagoon took him out of his lethargy harassed by the uncertainty of the coming days. Forgot, for a while, his incipient errance and the suffocating siege of his uprooting. But the world was still different for their senses: they were not accommodated to common certainties;They were not entirely limited by the perceptual conventions of their upbringing. He, they have made me understand consistent reflections, it was not a different being;He barely appeared the renegade privilege, given the reluctance of him to settle for a point of view, to drag life without explanations. It was like someone who randomly receives a treasure without even knowing the value of money.
The rarity of things caused him to panic and a shudder ran through his back, as if a viscous animal jumped nervously from the neck to the waist. His life was listed by the nostalgia of a banished crossing a vast desert. Time, at those moments when the world was overflowing its senses, desolate the show of the hours consecrated to the unstoppable company of progress, which moves the docile silhouettes of the cities. Many times they tried to verbalize the status of their soul. He accumulated a selection of attempts in which his discontent expressed brotally, as if he carved the form of unknown beings in brittle matters. Tired of not being able to verify on a page what he had felt, he decided to become a mystical in the wild, without giving opportunity to the work of the years in the spirit.
The night, starting his time in Guanta, he returned some verses of Clemens Brentano:
- I would like to extinguish myself
- Like the singing swan song
- If that star I have looked
- It is no longer the messenger of calm.
In the little sky that allowed the window, he sought the easy to recognize constellations, even for his ignorance of elementary astronomy, and wondered if the order of the stars and the planets had influenced at the time of his birth. If true, why had the fate of not understanding what assaulted his heart touched him?
In the darkness that the bus was quickly, time, time ceased to be a succession, ceased to be the Heraclito river and the night was another time, without watches and without emergencies, it was illogical dream and its body trembled with fear, there, between so muchpeople eager to get somewhere;The weather was not time, although a speedometer and a clock could give exact calculations, the time was the night exceeding the understanding of a solitary young man who did not know what to do.
Without thinking, he got out of Cumaná’s entrance. The misty streets were alone. He joined his steps where he thought the center was. From time to time they passed cars by stalls with one or two passengers, but did not want to ride any. Two drunks lying on the sidewalk argued without coherence, they seem Venezuelan politicians, he thought, and could barely laugh at that easy comparison. The concern grew in him for not knowing where he was going, although he kept walking as if he were familiar with those streets that reflected his mood.
He arrived at the edge of the Manzanares River: exalted by a sticky song … of those that strive to beautify intolerable cities.
Looking at the dark water, bordered by an unclean walk, a boy surprised him, as of his age, asking him: what are you looking for?. Without delay, he released the challenge of his insignificant adventure. The boy, clearly moved, got a room in a cheap hotel, which looked like a point of collapsing, but not before citing it for the next morning with the purpose of getting work in the warehouse of his best friend.
He could barely sleep in the squeaky and dusty bed;The pending ceiling fan was a deadly threat while he was on. Only at times he adorned, but a dream was introduced, brief and disturbing: nobody saw him or felt it, his words were not heard although he almost shouted to known people who surrounded him, his hands penetrated all matter: it was a shadow, it was a shadow,He was a dead man. And he woke up drowned and it was impossible for him to sleep. He waited for the dawn announced by distant roosters and birds;He waited for the tropics to rise outside, in the street of need and hustle. He furtively came out, after fulfilling his body in the masted and moldy bath, swearing no longer to that shit hotel anymore.
In a place whose name did not take care of finding out, she was uselessly waiting until noon to her recent friend, believing to see him in each similar pedestrian. It hurt not to see him again, but he comforted himself thinking that in life there are so many people that we see only once.
He looked for the sea. Asking in each corner he found the tajaras spa full of scandalous flies and drinkers. He lay down in the shadow of a beach grape and contemplated the sea and the sky of diverse blue, at times interrupted by the exciting attributes of some bathers.
The night surprised him adorned, motionless like a trunk thrown into the beach by the swell. I was alone, heard dog barking in the distance. Melancholy began to besiege. He wanted to get lost in a crowd, to be ash in the warm wind of a great city. But tiredness placed the unease and fell asleep until dawn.
He woke up scared, was surrounded by ariscos crabs that at the slightest movement of his hid in the sand. The lights of a ship advanced east by the black marine horizon. Images of his many failures in his little life prevented him from thinking without anguish;The crabs restarted his harassment when they perceived him motionless;The tiredness of his body fought against the attacks of his confusion and his doubts. Finally the dream dominated him again, although the unease insisted.
Armando Reverón, Dawn from Punta Brisas
The morning gave him the enjoyment of a luminous loneliness in front of the serene sea. The horses resumed their elegant fishing and their high poses over the faint waves. The feast of the colors of dawn dissipated its night azor and felt an enthusiasm related to the corresponding lover.
At noon, again the spa full of bathers, while drinking a beer exposed to the sun with the pants rolled up to the knees, caused him to bathe. At first they did not like the water or the algae that became entangled in their feet;Then he felt comfortable and sang an old bolero learned in childhood and felt that it was magnificent, really extraordinary being under the sun and swimming at sea.
Why nobody realizes?, Why this sudden feeling as an immortality that enhances and makes my senses more powerful?
Is this what has been sung and can never be expressed?.
When he returned to the Aren. It was easy to notice his desicinity for those tourists who convert leisure into a duty and noisy competition and an exhibition contest. He, in turn, reaffirmed his indifference for the uniformity of judgments and customs that makes scandalous any slight lack of appearances.
When the old jeans faded from the Morral, he brought his wearing herb leaves with him. He dressed quickly behind an abandoned truck in the spa parking lot. Then he occupied a table in the nearest taguara, without repairing the crowd and strident music, accompanied by a very cold beer. He was happy to reread his old friend. Why had you forgotten in an old shelf and now I recover without proposing it to me?
Now he found the portrait of himself, his own voice singing the long verses of the multiform I of Long Island.
There is something in me – I don’t know what it is – but I know it is in me.
Crispous and sweaty -serene and cold then my body is made, I sleep – I have.
I don’t know him – he doesn’t have a name – he expresses it
A word that has not yet been pronounced,
that is not in any dictionary, in any language,
In no symbol.
Those words, now his, reminded him of the loss in each of us of that rare enthusiasm and of the calm attention in each thing of this world for more vile and insignificant. Only the free verb could return the cordial relationship with reality, with what he believed the humble purpose of poetry and not that eager universe of verbal artifice that consecrate the illusion of an art conceived for the gloat of conceited people.
Who plays this book, plays a man
(Is it night?, Are we the two alone together?)
It’s me whom you have and who has you?
From these pages jump to your arms – he calls me death.
He understood (apart from the fact that the reading of a book also depends on the reader’s years) many of his youthful nonconformist acts, he understood his reluctant to lock himself in classrooms and, in some way, the cause of his bad grades in dissected subjects to fill inpaper and fragile certainties human intelligence.
When I heard the wise astronomer, when the demonstrations and numbers were put in columns before my eyes, when the celestial and diagrams were shown to me, to add them, divide and measure, when I listened to the wise astronomer to give his applauded lesson in the classroomThat soon – atmpplicably – I felt fatigued and sick, until I got up and sliding outside, I went out to wander alone, in the mystical night atmosphere and, from time to time, I raised my sight to the stars in perfect silence.
He preferred to escape from the high school to roam the suburbs with his companions. Other times he went to a park alone and lay down in the grass to look at the movement of the clouds, playing with thick smoke puffs;He did not cause him to be with anyone, but he didn’t feel sad or lonely. It was at that time when he began to realize some absurdities: the routine;his education prescribed in the tough Constitution. The agreed reality was made a farce, whose actors are taken so seriously that each of their actions seem saving of a world always to the garete.
Have you never had an hour,
a sudden divine flash, which has precipitated and done
Build all these bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These anxious commercial projects – these books,
Politics, art, love?
An hour of total annihilation?
He knew, passing from one page to another without any order, which he was reading in himself;He accepted the timeless hug of the old poet who said goodbye announcing the great individual, fluid as nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, armed with all weapons: the reunion began with that other that sometimes was hinted in dreams. He also launched his wild graznido on the roofs of the world, because the gift, the inexplicable gift of being here is too short to grant it to the imposter who struggles to dominate us. He recalled that once in a car by position he visited him the astonishment to see a woman breastfeeding her son. Whitman, in one of those poems that are usually judged in his work, confirmed that splendor of the trivial.
I see the child who sleeps in his mother’s lap, the mother and the child sleep – I observe them long in silence.
That whose life is to walk towards yourself can express (or not express it, if art does not seduce or ignore it) multiplicity, the orb variety. He has laughed at a bar with the sailors of remote countries, he loves a unique woman who is all women, he is the informer and betrayThe man who watches the bushes of his garden … His contemplation is the same as that of the young woman entangled in her uncertainties and to whom chance or a grace of destiny led him to read a decisive page in his life.
I feel to contemplate all the pains of the world, and all oppression and all shame, I hear the convulsive sobs, secrets, of young people in conflict with themselves, repentant of their actions, I see in the stream the mother outraged by her children, who dies abandoned, exhausted, desperate, I see the woman outraged by her husband, I see the infamous seducer of the young women, I observe the gate of the jealousy and of the disdainful love who tries to hide, I see these shows on the earth, I see the effectsOf the battles, of the plague, of tyranny, I see the martyrs and prisoners, I observe hunger in the sea and the sailors throwing lots to see what will die to save the lives of the others, I observe the humiliations and degradations imposedfor the proud to the poor, to the blacks;All these things, all endless vilerges and agonies.
conclusion
And he returned to the city he had fled from. He knew, since that afternoon of dialogue with the poet who declared his vanity and transcendence, that for the eyes of the lover of this miracle that we are and that we insist on destroying there are no privileged symbols or lost paradises;Only the human being who endures the calculation and forgets the heart of the world turns living into a succession of musty days. Perhaps this young man would say his great rejection and intimate devotion. If it does not, the universe will not be altered by it;Maybe contribute a verse or live in silence its disharmony. His life will be a perennial folly and a passion without value in the ideas business. For now he is here, in this Caracas of outraged rivers and lost rights, walking with his devotions, his fears and demons, knowing mortal and eternal to full hands.
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