Palaces city, Full Moon of December, 24th, MMVII

Fecha: 2008-05-14 04:04:28por: Iris Atima (info@irismexico.org)

December is this image
of rain falling with train murmur,
with a diffuse scent to fine coal and field.
December is a garden, is a square
sunk in the city,
at the end of one night,
and the vision in flight of arcades
And the immense eyes
- firebrands enlarged-
in the brown face of a child
shaking just as a wet sparrow.
In the hand he maintains some red,
elegant, flaming shoes like an exotic bird.
The sky is black and gray
and a rose in its ends,
the light of the streetlamps a yellowish rest.
Under a rain blow, crying, I cross,
Innoble like a rag, wet until the horns.
"Of the bad year". Jaime Gil de Biedma

That you have many Merry Nights, jeune femme Elisa (1)... Greetings Darkling...
I dedicate you the underground experience on which is melted the own and the other people's life...

Dark tranquility (2) sountrack in the waiting room of supper... A shooting in the heart of the city lands through the news 10:30. The birth place lights, blind instantaneous disposable cameras as the table cloth and the service of the table for 12 people, 13 with me. I know it, my presence is like a Limbum, between the spectator, the absentee, the deceased and the disciple, perhaps relative? The gremial attention - of which I exile me voluntarily- focuses in the murders of the soap opera in turn: "the bullet luckyly did not touch any artery"...

Then I read the newspaper... Don Miguel León-Potilla says of the Animals of the New World (3), and in the pre-Hispanic calendar: "one of the signs of the twenties of days had by name coatl, serpent. And in the Gods universe Quetzalcoatl occupied a very special place, Serpent with quetzal feathers". The first Mexicans also described diverse types of serpents, even those with two heads "and also others that seemed to fly". Tlilcoatl, "black serpent", was a very astute animal "that knew how to catch its victims". And perhaps the most beautiful, is huitzitzilin, "thorn that makes noise like bells", the hummingbird, colibrí, chupamirto, chuparrosas. The surprise of those who did not know them, came to find out that, when arriving at the winter, they entered on lethargy and seemed that there were dead, but, when returning the spring, they came back to life. Some missionaries friars compared this with the resurrection, that is a belief of those who are Christians."

For the adoration I did not bring gold.
(I show my undressed hands here)
For the adoration I did not bring myrrh.
(Who would carry as much bitter science?)
For the adoration I brought an incense grain:
My heart burning in praises.
"Brightness of the being", Rosario Castellanos.

To whom to dedicate the adoration, tonight blessings?, to the God children that we strip and glue his broken members with transparent adhesive -that we had to clean of the carved wood table-, to later to place them in the pastoral stage scene made in the USA or China?, to the relatives who confess without rush or guilt that lack certain memories?, to the feather serpent, the one of two heads?, to the lack of justice and peace in the tenth anniversary of the massacre of 45 innocents and the broken virgin of Acteal? (4), to month 12, to the arcane 13 without name, to crucifixion and resurrection, to menstruation, gestation, to maternity, to birth, the spring, the moon, the sun?, to our dead and revived heart with pulsations of the word? Yes, perhaps to all, to death and life, that orgasmicly dance in front of our eyes and in multiple altars.

After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.

Behind a tree,
It ights on the ruins
Of a white city
Frost, frost.

Where are they gone
Who lived there?

Bundled away under wings
And dark faces.

I am sick
Of it, and I go on
Living, alone, alone,
Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves
Of Chippewas and Norwegians.

This cold winter
Moon spills the inhuman fire
Of jewels
Into my hands.

Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
Darkens,
And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins
Of America.
“Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960” James Wright (5)

I descend to journalistic obituarys, next to the Bayer of Mexico condolence by the death of Mr. Rubelio Esqueda Nava, Juan Domingo Argüelles mentions Miguel de Unamuno (6): "the man of inside, the intra-man when becomes a reader, contemplator, if he is living, has to become reader, contemplator of the personage to whom goes, simultaneously reading, doing, creating; contemplator of its own work. The man of inside, the intra-man (and this one is more divine than the Nietzche tras-man or over-man) when reader becomes by the same author, that is actor; when he reads a novel becomes novelist; when read history, historian. And all reader who is man of inside, human, is a reader, author of what he reads and is reading. This that now you read here, reader, you are saying it to your self, and it is as yours as mine. And if it is like this, then is that you are not even reading it ".

Dear Elisa, I suppose that we share the addiction to the epistle because we are contemplative; kaleidoscopic readers and writers. Is the divine woman, the internal woman, the one that can destroy the world and construct it again like an author, and a creator. For that reason your letters, that I take as mine and you kidnap from Marc Augé, Michel Maffesoli, Ma. Conception Delgado, Zygmunt Barman, Michel de Certeau, Jaques Derrida, Francisco Gallardo... This that you read Elisa, I say it by echo, like when I mention the news, "- the drama of a bullfigther tonight, caught a bull tonight, three times, 10:30." I write it by intuition and wisdom, because I have Full Moon eyes in my finger tips, they use the keyboard as waiting room, airport, boarding room, landing strip, soul luggage reception band... I invent identities in transit that remember something that you have listened, and that in which at some moment you have journeyed. When we read ourselves in the Snow White stepmother mirror, real and virtual, of ink and electronics, to ask to us, how will it be the Merry Night and the outcome of the personages and of us?...

Much more depressing is the world in December
suicide is walking around
much, much more aggressively ...


If I get rid of this winter
and of this illness
and of this death,
I know for sure that when summer comes
I shall be longing for
December.
“Poetry, in December”. Dorin Popa.

Palaces city, Full Moon of December, 24th, MMVII.


This letter is part of the project “Identidades en tránsito” made by Elisa Mendoza and Vamp. http://www.identidadesentransito.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/dtofficial
Miguel León-Portilla. “Animales del Nuevo Mundo”. (New World Animals) Editorial Nostra. Edition náhuatl-spanish.
Humberto Ríos Navarrete. “Aniversario de la matanza. Tres días de ceremonias”. (Slaughter anniversary. Three days of ceremonies). Milenio. Política. Pág. 09. 20 of December of 2007. "the martyrs were massacred in the church the 22 of December of 1997 in Acteal, Chiapas. The killers also broke the image of a virgin, who surrounded in a blanket, is protected in a niche of the old hermitage. In the center of the community, is a signboard: "the color is in our blood... the memory we take it in our heart. Acteal against impunity. All by the life, justice and Peace". There lack to be fulfilled 27 apprehension orders against the presumed guilty."
http://www.eliteskills.com/analysis_poetry/Having_Lost_My_Sons_I_Confront_The_Wreckage_Of_The_Moon_Christmas_1960_by_James_Wright_analysis.php
Juan Domingo Argüelles. “Leernos en el dolor”. (To read us in the pain) El Financiero. Cultural. Columna “Remedios contra el estrés”. Pág. 39. Mexico. 20 of December 2007.


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Fecha: 2008-05-14 04:04:28por: Iris Atima (info@irismexico.org)