Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

I was walking as usual in the wide and foreign land of New York City when I saw from afar Bengal lights that erased distance and landed me in a building. I saw the Arts Cinema of The Intimate Diary of Solitude . Then I entered a magic world. I wound a music box, and out came Uriberto and Berta, Mariquita, and the Narrator — all dancing. I closed my eyes slowly to feel the fire of death. A few seconds later, I felt Death of Poetry was already over. I immediately pressed the elevator button. And its gigantic doors opened. I saw a skyrocket blast off on television. Then I dropped to my knees and prayed. I almost felt new. I had dreamed of constructing a big building in which many languages would be spoken. And I dreamed of a kingdom of steel. I saw some little butterflies, and I saw a bee and a grasshopper in the middle of them. I pressed a button and wound a music box. For a writer like myself — said the Narrator — to wind a music box is to fill a gas tank. And to allow a skyrocket to blast off in the middle of a phrase that suddenly finds itself stuck in traffic and to see from afar that memories get confused and their feet become cotton and foam comes out of their mouths. A few seconds later, I repeated a sound I had heard in the streets of New York. My hand trembled as I quoted the sound of night. I nearly died. Died from solitude. Actually, nothing had changed. The Intimate Diary of Solitude was full of people. The walls were covered with graffiti. It was all a photocopy or a recording from a long time ago. But I found the waves of the sea as I entered Rosaries at Dawn. I should have repeated the movement of the waves of the sea until I reached the farthest horizon. I pulled up the covers and lay down to sleep. I didn’t want to go ashore. I should have dived directly into the closest and the farthest. People make mistakes — I told myself. They don’t think of the sea as a building. But I’ll prove that the waves of the sea reproduce the movement of life. In the city of The Raise everything repeats the rising momentum of the waves of the sea. Everything is gold sand and water flooding the gaze. I’m writing the movement of storm and sea, not poetry. I had fallen asleep with my eyes open. I had dreamed a pure dream. And I had left that dream free. I had pressed another button without the slightest feeling of guilt, and I had seen what I never had imagined I would see. As I was lying on the tomb of my bed, I envisioned the inside of The Building of the Waves of the Sea . It wasn’t hard to go through the revolving doors. I put on my galoshes and raincoat, and through the revolving doors, I slid into the labyrinth of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. The first thing I noticed were the mannequins of Mariquita and Uriberto, Berta, and Honorata Pagan in the display window. It felt strange knowing that my manuscript was behind the facade of this building. It was almost as if the building’s architect could go through its revolving doors and slide through the kingdom of his dreams. There were stores on every floor. Selling nickels, clowns, buffoons, shepherds, doors, nights, days, and doormen. It had the facade of New York City. And it looked just like an empire. Selling the movement of the waves of the sea. The way I saw it after it went up — said the architect — it looked like the island of Manhattan submerged in the movement of the waves of the sea. Although I had always dreamed of building an empire, it was rather strange to finally stand before it. I chatted with Uriberto and Mariquita at Caffé degli Artisti. Then I left and took a long subway ride across the city of my dreams. I went into another building. I needed to enter Book of Clowns and Buffoons . Now it was perfect. At least now I knew why the magician had destroyed the circuses. And why the fortune-teller had predicted that one of the drunkards would finish Profane Comedy after he freed himself from all of death’s dreams. I made many mistakes, or laid many eggs, as Mariquita would say. But you learn from your mistakes. Some of the shepherds in Pastoral needed finishing touches. I redid their faces — said Macy’s makeup artist Mariquita Samper. Sometimes the floor even shook. I spent hours in perplexity and pain. I feared that I’d die before I had sculpted all the wrinkles on the face of my building. I’ve spent many years building the life and death of these characters and of this poetic universe. I never knew that after the construction of Profane Comedy would come the realization of The Intimate Diary of Solitude . But the death of the shepherds in Pastoral and Song of Nothingness gave birth to The Intimate Diary of Solitude . With a helmet on my head and a drill in hand, I was a contractor. I called my employees together and told them that I wanted to build The Intimate Diary of Solitude . I paid them monthly with gifts. All the work was the artistry of dreams. I gave them instructions. A concrete ideology was unnecessary. There are no ideas in the world — I told them. We are not Marxists, or capitalists, or feminists, or whatever else is in fashion. If anything, we are workers for the empire of the poet-artist. And if we can identify with anything, it is with revolution. For which we had to destroy and rebuild ourselves. Our revolution is not about self-complacency. It is about constant self-criticism. We detest all kinds of egocentrism. We detest power, success, and especially the opportunists of the world. We are honorable men. And we are honored by work and the finished product. We do not love gods. We detest the infinite and immortality. We create the empire of the world and the empire of death. Life is born from death. From the death of Assault on Time came the birth of Profane Comedy , and from the death of Profane Comedy came the birth of The Intimate Diary of Solitude . And what will be born will later die. The dying will reach the limits of the undying. This is the poet-artist’s doctrine that made the construction of The Intimate Diary of Solitude possible. This doctrine has the movement of the waves of the sea. I was born on an island, so every character acting in any show in this building also depends on the movement of the waves of the sea. We imitate the nature of the sea. Our building is a mirror of the life of the sea. My eyes have been lost in the movement of the waves of the sea ever since I was a child. My art is a product of this solitary movement that produces both storms and days of great peace and tranquility. It’s summer for me on the island of Puerto Rico even though it’s winter for us on the island of Manhattan. I am an Odysseus. And I say, as Odysseus once said, that the greatest feeling is going home after a long journey through the city of dreams. My art is the art of exile. I’ve raised The Building of the Waves of the Sea so I wouldn’t feel further removed. I’m proud of having been born in this building and of having built each one of its stores. I wish you were as happy as I am. I make happiness work. I am the producer of happiness. That’s why I’m giving you all my stores. I’ve created the sea, as well as movies, love, happiness, grief, clowns, cards, The Raise , the city of dreams, Caffé degli Artisti, Manifesto on Poetic Eggs , poetry, prose, night, day, elevators, doormen, sadness, solitude, joy. Mention whatever you want. I’ll give you more things yet. I’m not done building this building. I’ve created three symphonies and have six left. I’m still gazing at the facade of my building. Forgive my rejoicing. It’s not egocentrism or pride. It’s joy. I’m the architect of this world, and I’m still not done with it. I think that all art is representation. Come to my place. You’ll see I live alone on the 7th floor, and from there I see all that the world represents. It’s winter outside. And it’s warm inside my building. I’m still sliding with my galoshes through the city of my dreams. I’m about to go through other revolving doors into the bank of The Intimate Diary of Solitude .