Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

The world is an idiot, a box of broken teeth, and my molar that aches so, so much, the cripple cried, and ran, the tide of the wine cask ran. I’m the horn of plenty. Look at my shorts. Your mitt is lovely. It doesn’t kill flies. But it does scare them away. There is a musketeer. But where are the other two? King Lear moans, moans, moans. The sun will come out amidst the storm. There must be a light, something that brightens it up. No, no, no, no, why should a fly have life. And you, Cordelia, no breath at all. What happened? The lion ate the mice. And the cat went wild. And the child who walked naked amidst the storm moaned. It’s grief. The procession. The carnival. It’s a concert. An orchestra. A fire. It’s the Apocalypse of the Proverbs. It’s the Psalm. It’s the Book of Job. Without a beginning. There’s an intermission. No, and no, and no. It can’t be. Yes, it is. It can’t be. She is dead. Dead. Dead. Cried King Lear. King Lear cried. Cried. Cried. Blind. Blind. Blind. Amidst the storm. Amidst the trumpet. Of the jubilation. Of the court. Of the world. Of the sovereign. Of the powerful. Of this tragedy. He cried. King Lear cried. Cried. Cried. Dead. Dead. Dead.

This is not a book. I did not read it. I lived it. I lived it from road to road. I came across the fortune-teller on the way. And the magician too. And I found a door closed. And gates. And guards. And cowards and killers. And street spectacles. And New York City. And the moon. And the sun. And thunder. And love. And death. And trains. And visionaries. And war. And the atomic bomb. And I found my ears. And I found my soul. My self. My poet. My stars. My comets. And I wrote. And I got drunk. And I loved. Loved most of all the mills and lions of Cervantes. And I loved César Vallejo. And I lived in Paris, Rome, and Madrid. And I locked myself in a room to write. And I also ate. And I was hungry and cold. And I fell in love. And forgot. And I’m ready to do it again. And I’m determined to finish this book with another life. With another affirmation of life. With another great, big Yes. Throwing junk on the ground again. And exploding. Let it explode. Yell. Jump. Let them out. Let them out of these pages. Let them get drunk. Let them love. Live. Sleep. And love. And rot too. And above all, die.

Just a moment, please. If you wish, ladies and gentlemen. And shepherds and shepherdesses. If you wish, idiots and drunkards and buffoons, to laugh or lament, it’s worth your while to buy me. My name is Giannina. If you wish to sneeze or blink. Or if you wish to feel happy. Or if you wish to whistle. Or if you wish to see a show. Or play gin or poker. Or get drunk or cry. Read Profane Comedy . If you wish to become shepherds. And true shepherds. If you wish to find your way. Or if you wish to get lost. Or if you wish to return home. And find your soul. Read Pastoral of Profane Comedy . If you wish to complicate your life. And if you wish to calm down. Read me. Read me. Love me. Love me. If you still believe in childhood. If you’re still five years old. Or if you have grown up. And you still have dreams and hopes. Call me by name. Call me Giannina. My phone number is 5-4-3-2-1. My address is New York. This is an ad. An ad turned into a book. A book turned into a character. Like the quenepa. And the nispero. Like the soul. Like the dream.

5-4-3-2-1. Hello! Hello! Giannina. Yes, it’s me. Who is speaking? Hello! Hello! Yes, it’s me. Giannina. And I’m furious. How dare you mention my name in the ad for Profane Comedy ? And to give my phone number. I am already speaking to lawyers. You are facing a lawsuit. You have used me. Now just a minute, Giannina. Listen, what will my colleagues say? What will clowns, buffoons, and drunkards say? Let them say whatever they please. You and I know very well that you are not Giannina. You are Giannina. You are a fortune-teller. You are a drunkard. You are a buffoon. You are not Giannina. You are a shepherd.

Now I wish to speak to you from the bottom of my soul. I wish to speak to you of water jugs. And shepherds. I wish to speak to you of pipes and flutes. And flocks. And the gathering of sheep in my soul. I wish to speak to you of fountains. And wells. And water. There is so much water in the world. And there are so many meadows and valleys. And so many forts. And frontiers. I wish to speak to you of the lover. And his lover. And the question put to creatures. And green pastures. And pomegranate juice. And countrysides. And mountain. And the wine cellar. And the bed of lions. And the flowers of St. Francis. I wish to return home. I wish to arrive at the dwelling of my soul. And I wish to raise the diapers of dawn. And I wish to return to every sunrise. To turn on the lights. So they shine. And fountains return to water. There is a maiden. And there is a deer. And a stag. And morning is rising. And shepherds are leaving at the break of day. And night shepherds are singing. And baby birds are singing. Nightingales are singing. And snails are singing. And there is sea. And land. And mountain. Now I wish to speak to you at the break of day.

I just got up. Just after the break of day. When the sun starts burning the memories of the hours. When hours have ceased existing. When there is no time. When seasons no longer follow one another. When there is no spring or hell or heaven. When it’s night and when it’s still day. When it’s day and already night. And it’s three a.m. I am pure. I am a splash of light. I am lifting the ball of the sun. I am dawning with light. I am full of fire and heat. I am alone. Light is the edge of water. The frontier of day. There are beasts pissing on the beach. There are socks splashed with water. There is a white shore. And a ball of fire playing with the shore. There is a naked boy swimming in the water. There is a violet sunset streaked with silver. There is a jagged rock. There is a cavern of hermit crabs. And some tracks. And some shoes. Red ones.

I am the shepherd of water. The shepherd boy of dawn. I have a golden beetle. And I have a snail. Oh woe, woe’s me! Music has invaded my beaches. Flooded my banks. Surrounded all my infinities with water. My sheep have run off. Have fled from the flock. Have left the earthquake of my home. And left me alone. Left me painted in the landscape of memories. But I have returned to my soul. Barefoot and hidden. Like a duende I have returned. Like an elf I have returned. Running. Fleeing. From the lie of love and memory. In the vineyard. In the wine cellar of the river. In the bottle of wine. Devouring nuts and collecting cards and stamps and albums. And dreaming. And remembering. And gathering seeds. And crossing forts and frontiers. Besieging time, which is Shepherd and Shepherd and Shepherd. And melancholy. Melancholy. Melancholy. And memories are. Still. Still. Still. I was shipwrecked. But I saved myself. And I sang epigrams and eclogues and odes and sonnets. And I’m still singing to sirens. And hearing their song. And writing the symphony of water. Of earthquake. Of storm. Of peace. My hell. My shepherd. My torture. My treasure. My sun. My sun. My do-re-mi. And my fa. And my soul. And my love.

On the top floor of the Empire State a shepherd has stood up to sing and dance. What a wonderful thing. That New York City has been invaded by so many shepherds. That work has stopped and there is only singing and dancing. And that the newspapers — the New York Times , in headlines, and the Daily News —call out: New York. New York. New York. Listen to it. Hear it on the radio. And on television. Listen to the loudspeakers. Listen to it. The buffoons have died. And the little lead soldier. Shepherds have invaded New York. They have conquered New York. They have colonized New York. The special of the day in New York’s most expensive restaurant is golden acorn. It’s an egg. It’s an apple. It’s a bird. Fish. Melody. Poetry. And epigram. Now there is only song. Now there is only dance. Now we do whatever we please. Whatever we please. Whatever we damn well please.