esgarrifances

aquest escrit havia de formar part de la teoria dels blocs comunicants i, alhora, retre un homenatge privat a una data molt íntima: el nou de febrer. però hi ha successos que se'ns llencen al damunt, ens esgarrapen i destrueixen tots els versos que mai no s'han dit. per això, prenc l'ajut d'una escriptora única i deixo caure, plena d'esgarrifances, les seves paraules a les estovalles d'aquest camí.

The End

At the end

I have to move my sight up or down.

The path stops here.

Up is heaven, down is ocean

or, more simply, sky and sea rivalling

in welcome, crying Fly (or Drown) in me.

I have always found it hard to resist an invitation

especially when I have come to a dead end

a

dead

end.


The trees that grow along cliff-faces,

having suffered much from weather, put out thorns

taste of salt

ignore leaf-perm and polish:

hags under matted white hair

parcels of salt with the string tangled;

underneath

thumping the earth with their rebellious root-foot

trying to knock up

peace

out of her deep sleep.


I suppose, here, at the end, if I put out a path upon the air

I could walk on it, continue my life;

a plastic carpet, tight-rope style

but I’ve nothing beyond the end to hitch it to,

I can’t see into the mist around the ocean;

I shall have to change to a bird or a fish.


I can’t camp here at the end.

I wouldn’t survive

unless returning to a mythical time

I became a tree

toothless with my eyes full of salt spray;

rooted, protesting on the edge of this cliff

– Let me stay!

Janet Frame