Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

Behind the word is silence. Behind what sounds is the door. There is a back and a fold hiding in everything. And what was approaching fell and stopped far away in proximity. An expression falls asleep and rises. And what was over there returns. It’s a way to put the world back in its place. And something comes back when it should remain remembering.

But if I ring the bell, water jumps and a river falls out of the water again. And the body rises and shakes. And the rock wakes and says I sing. And a hand turns into a kerchief. And twilight and wind are companions. And this twilight appears amid lightning. Outside there is a bird and a branch and a tree and that lightning. Above all, there is noon without form. And suddenly everything acquires movement. Two travelers meet and their shoes dance. And breeze and morning clash. And the seagull runs and the rabbit flies. And runs and runs, and the current ran. Behind what runs is life. Behind that silence is the door.

Hello. Since you came back late I forgot that I’d written you a line, but I remembered that the line from the book had picked up a paper you sent me so that I’d jot down a memory for the book. You’ve forgotten the commas again. No, I haven’t. They forgot to end memory with a period. I remembered memory when I could no longer write to her. But then I was afraid to insist. She hasn’t come back yet. If she doesn’t come back, I’ll have to erase page five. Memory was on the guest list. But I forgot her telephone number. Then I walked to eighth avenue of page three and suddenly met forgetfulness. I crossed the avenue on page ten and saw the horizon of page three and erased the night. Now I’m on the day of page five. Forgetfulness dropped by unannounced. I wasn’t expecting to find you on the way. I thought you would stop by on page thirty. But you’re early. I’m sitting to the left of this book. We talk.

A letter comes and visits me. Puts its legs up in the living room. Wanders about speechless. Suddenly it explodes and another shape appears. Welcome! It flees swiftly, and I see two, three, four, five, seven, five hundred letters. Suddenly I hear the word river and water runs in another river’s space. I repeat river two, three, four, five, seven, five hundred times, and cold imprisons twilight. Then this letter’s twin slope trembles. There is no return without reaching bottom. The letter is born of life. That’s where its limit began. I discover the world underneath.

Letters are not letters because they dream. Something barely traces them, like a hand. These letters are not signs of another sign. The letter’s rhythmic beat, when counting syllables, is life spelling its memories. And we stop at letters, hiding in the darkness of their syllables. And we say, I’ve lived five years in this letter. Here I forged a first syllable and a last silence. I forged enigmas and secrets too. From my letter, the way was born. And from my letter, the beginning and the current of other letters attached their syllables to the name. And I tell myself: each letter is an old memory and a silence.

No lagoon is darker or clearer or fuller of mountains or planes than the first letter of your name. I said that I was made entirely of letters, and I used to say that the horizon would turn clouds into other signs, revealing other letters. But I didn’t say that behind all those letters the horizon cuts the edge of my hand.

Everything I’m searching for is underwater. There are no flat surfaces there. I’m not searching for the oblique or what glows at night. By day I escape all insinuation, all effect and consequence. I love water, but I run away when it brings an ambiguous current. I know something about what flows, what comes, and what sometimes touches. That’s when water, turned into rock, sings. And when it reaches the mouth of the river, it knows that point is called calm. No stories or tales are told there.

I must admit that everything I see today is cloudy and round as a crystal ball. Now I feel the current advancing from never and changing into the always of your port. Port hoping to become more of a port when it plunges into my water. As if it had no other outlet than to sail through the water. And, of course, everything is a welcoming farewell.

Sit down. Think and look at me. Not at me, I’m not the one who wants to see you sitting down. Look at the truth. I don’t want to see the sea. Calm down. Give me your hand. That’s the way the sea calms down. Sleep. Now feel how the waves calm down. And tomorrow the landscape will change. Rock, water, sea. What’s the use of sitting down? Quit hinting that the gaze will close again. Rid your body of the past. Breathe. You’re sailing again, and you’re only thirty. Understand me. It’s not youth. I’m leaving. You want to go. But we stay.

Behind the word is silence, and behind that silence is forgetfulness. I didn’t understand the silence or that letter which thought that line, because I couldn’t remember the forgotten. And there, far away, the horizon. I fell silent. Silence fell and the work spoke. They spoke. I stretched out my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me I had to begin anew? Behind what sounds is the door.” And I grew sober. I raised my hand and pointed to another silence and another line. “Behind the word is silence.” I lowered my hand. And then there were doors, silences, forgetfulness, letters, lines.

I’m speaking. Speak to me. I hear you. I’m in a hurry. I need for us to make love. In a looser way. Open your arms. If you see me correct a verb, write me an accent and make me shut up. I don’t want to interrupt your quiet time. But give me a call or drop me a line. I have to ask accents their permission. Someone took my accent, wrote a comma, and left. Left me alone. Tell your word I can’t inhabit it today. It will have to be tomorrow. Listen. You have to obey the meaning of the phrase. “And what does it mean to speak?” I said to you. And I grew sober again. And you said, “Now you laugh,” without telling me you had to close your eyes when you slept. And you said, “Now sleep.” And when you called me again, I closed the door halfway. “Open up,” you said. And I shut it with a period.

The day jumped today. I’m upside down, it said to me, and I answered, help me take the ceiling down and put it in the street. Then bring the ladder over here and lay it on the floor. If this is how the world is, I said to myself, so be it. But then the phone rang, the alarm rang, the clocks all rang, and everything escaped. Even my shirt wanted to breathe. Open me, it said, and I obeyed. It’s already been two days of surprises. Yesterday I wanted to break away and I escaped. My hand was placed elsewhere. Your rebellion, you explained, is that you pick up the pieces. Yes, everything should stay in its place.

But we have to go, we have to run. We should go back to what you warned me about. But what goes around comes around. It came round and flew. It came back in asleep and then sat down. What was asleep was shaped like a hand. Suddenly it ran to the opposite corner and escaped. Are there hands? I asked. There must have been hands if we were caught up in hellos and goodbyes. Goodbye. Pleased to meet you. But the hand came back. And everything escaped.

The day is not okay. It’s like saying that I touch the table and find it in the same place where I couldn’t find it on the day that was okay. And today is a nice day for a walk, but I’ll stay here. And it’s okay for the windows to be open so the wind comes in. And for the table to come out with me for a stroll because it wanted to learn to walk. I doubt it’ll find its way back because when we left the street wasn’t in the same place, and I think the day was annoyed with me because I told it that nothing had changed.