Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

A scene. A fate. A crawl. A mitt. I blow on the candles. And cut a piece of cake. I blow on another candle. And eat my cake. I see my mother sitting all along the family grounds. I see billowing flags of love moving up and down all along the national grounds. And in a hidden corner a night shadow smells fishy. Smells burnt. Something was burning. The mother asks: What burned? The boy shows his baby teeth. The boy’s mitt, catching butterflies, comes and goes along the family grounds. I blow out the candles once and for all. To see if everything ends. The world’s birthday. The frisky ol’ goat turned sixty. This took place in a park. In a forest with big trees. With roots. With bridges. With brushes. With deaths. In a forest. Seated. A birthday was painted. Two birthdays. Three birthdays of green seasons. Green. Green.

Sunsets repeat themselves throughout my life. Railroad tracks come and go, decrepit with years. Throughout my years. A tree falls. A war breaks out. A lion dies. And I roar, roar. Or creak, creak. Throughout my life. Many violent deaths. Many happy years. Along the streetcar. Looking over its length. And its width. Long or short. Short circuit. I cut it all along. Cut. Shorter. Shorter. Longer. Longer. The movie film. Reduced. Increased. To nothing. To utter nothingness. In shadow, in dust, in nothing. Nothing.

Repeat yourself, universe. See if you dare to repeat yourself once and for all. Spring shouted beside itself. And turned into summer. See if you dare to kill winter. And summer repeated itself. See if you dare to stay young once and for all. And youth repeated itself for generations and generations and generations of green seasons. Green. Green. Am I still green? Where is spring? What’s this tale about? What’s this story of green seasons about? Green. Green.

What’s it all about? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Spring laughed. And gave a bud. Fall laughed. And plucked a flower. Winter laughed. And snow fell. Summer laughed. And I fainted from the heat. What’s it all about? Ha, ha, ha, ha! What’s your death about? Look at me. And stop asking questions. Shout: I don’t understand it. And rot. Or die. Or paint, said the painter turned into a forest of bitterness that was still painted green. Green. Green. And bitter. Bitterness. What’s it all about? Heh, heh, heh, heh! And envy laughed. I’m happy. Happy. Happy. And just then it set off an orgy of capital sins ending with these lines by Rimbaud:

— Oh! tous les vices, colère, luxure :

— magnifique, la luxure…

A tree is still a wonder. And I’m amazed that it is — said the architect entangled in pure reflection. The first floor is the one that leans farthest out the window of life. The chimney is like dust, smoke, wind. He goes on and on and on thinking about the chimney. He smokes a cigarette. He lights it. How strange. I’m lighting it. There’s only one power here. It’s the power of wind. It’s the power of water. It’s the power of generations. Of grandparents. And of great-grandchildren. And of my ball of the world turning another year older. And of the song to nothingness. You show me your teeth. They’re baby teeth. And I create a world for you. Like ostriches. A dream of a night reeking of sulfur. And a new season is created, a fifth season. That knows nothing. That ignores everything. That passes everything. Like life itself. It is created. Over the four seasons. A new season. Or the song of nothingness.

It is a cry I hear. A hidden clamor. Like that of a beast. Like that of a camel that became a lion. It is my birth. I am the boy. I am the clamor of silence. I am its pallor. And its hidden tremble. Death filled this puddle with such a scream. Leave me alone — cried the boy. And he played dead. This has been a dead cry. A cry that seems dead. It seems that death turn into deaths. They are born. Born. They grow. Grow. They seem. Leave me alone — he cried. And still seemed. I repeat. Seemed. Only seemed. And piano. Piano. Pianissimo. Always. Always. Always. And forever. He seems to be alive. He looks like death. It seems that death always remains. As if it were alive. But it is dead.

Let’s say that sometimes things are different. But they are. And it’s better to do it right the first time. Than to have to go back and fix it. Proverbs are too. Or traffic signs. Stop. And the same boots of destiny still are. And the same butterflies. The boy laughs as always. Showing his seven baby teeth as always.

Life pains me — said the philosopher. Newspapers pain me. Days behind nights behind days. Seas behind seas behind tides pain me. Buildings behind parks behind doves pain me. Businessmen behind money behind usury pain me. Waves behind histories behind people pain me. Behind skeletons behind shadows. Behind phantoms of shadows. Behind eyes. Behind falling tears. “Flow without sorrow, tears, falling.”

Another flash of chaos or death, said anonymous. All is semblance. All is shadow. All is stone. Or dream. Or nothing. I have seen the boots of destiny rising. I have seen the shit of destiny rising. I have seen the bootblacks of destiny rising. Rising over the same boots of death. What is this? What is still creeping and crawling? Shoes tremble. Or boots. Tremble. And build fires. Matches of fire. And I keep repeating myself. I, the unknown, the mute, the invisible. I can’t understand anything. I don’t want to understand anything. There’s nothing to understand.

I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it, noted the spokesman. It’s three, it’s four, it’s five. And suddenly three, four, and five disappear. And the sixth character appears. A telegram appears, or a letter. The father appears. And grandparents appear. And great-grandparents and great-grandchildren. And baby teeth keep chasing me. Or suddenly, yes, suddenly, I miss the butterfly. And I can’t find it. The butterfly has died. And the boy laughs. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. And everyone thought. Could it be the butterfly. Could it be fate. Could it be the architect. Could it be the mother. Could it be the hostess. Could it be life. And so be it, they said. And they repeated: amen. For the rest of time. And they started creating, building, dreaming, drinking, laughing. Also for the rest of time. And inventing episodes, dramas, sorrows, scenes, and nostalgias. They started looking in ecstasy at the infinite. And pointed out four seasons of the year. Yes, they pointed out spring, summer, autumn, winter. And surprised at themselves again they showed their baby teeth. Some were drinking milk. And cognac — others. And whiskey — others. And others said: amen. And so be it for the rest of time.

That’s the way it goes. Just think, I was a powerful man. Now I’m a bootblack. Just think, I’ve also got a baby tooth. It’s the only one I’ve got left. I’ve been turning with the wheel of fortune over the roads of the world for more than sixty years. And now my boots, ah, my boots are too tight. They don’t fit me right. And soon, either the mitt or the teeth of destiny will say once more: I don’t understand. Or feel it. But that’s the way it goes. First, a child. Later spring. Or fall. The prince kisses Sleeping Beauty. I wake up startled and stunned. And I see how leaves fall. And we’re back in winter or summer again. That’s just the way it goes. And the three or four of us will disappear. And the tenth or the seventh will come. And click. Clack. That’s the way the wheel of fortune turns. A powerful man. And a bootblack. That’s the way it goes.

I don’t mean to philosophize or preach — said the teacher. But would you believe that I can still dance. And I like to dance. I have died many times. But I bounce back. Just like a ball. And I dance. I die. Or I believe that I’m dead. Then I discover that death is only a new movement. A new birth. A sacred yes. And I show my baby teeth. That’s why I’m the teacher. Just think, it all boils down to nothing. But there are things I just don’t understand, and I’ll never be able to understand them. I don’t want to understand them. I place my hand on my head. I don’t care to understand them. I’d rather own them. Put on my boots. Wear them until their soles tear. Until they’re ruined. I’m a bootblack. But I don’t clean my own boots. I get them muddy and wear them out. Which confuses the big shots, now even more than before. They still can’t figure it out. How they shine. How my boots gleam whether they’re dirty or clean. How they’re mended. How they sparkle and gleam. Without looking clean. Without the bootblack cleaning them. And now I understand it all. I see it all so clear. Clear. And they started dancing. Hostesses. Teachers. Bootblacks. Architects. I don’t understand it. It’s clear. The sky is so bright. The star. The boot. The bootblack. I understand it all. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it. Yet I understand it. All. All. All.