TRANSECRISE

TRANSECRISE belongs to the author´s adolescent phase; it was written between the age of 14 and 19 and includes tales, poems and other texts, difficult to label. In this work the author´s incredible imagination, built upon images which spring up from the collective unconsciousness of myths and symbols, stands out, and the latter make sense as they unfold into a linkage composed of raving thoughts. His writings unite surrealistic and poetic images to mystic ideas and magic ideograms, composing a unique whole, regarding both content and form. It expresses a timeless subjectivism, but may be comprehended also according to the period it was written in, the end of the sixties and beginning of the seventies, during which the adolescence of a generation, alienated and gagged by the dictatorship in post-64 Brazil, locked up in itself, went crazy, listening to the echoes of rebellion and youth in the whole world. His linguistic experimentalism also belongs to this period, in which grammar is used the other way round, through a discourse of language of an unconscious flow, where the words are associated even to sounds, structuring phrases without syntax rules, allowing for new vocables to appear, but with spontaneous and natural meanings. Transecrise brings forward a game of communication and solitude, a duality of sounds and silences, as presented by the preface.

A Tale from the book TRANSECRISE

A Tale from the book “TRANSECRISE”

Memories

To imagine is not having to correct later, we first have the experience in the world of images. I imagine a circle of pebbles limiting my space. I cannot get out of it, it´s my magic circle, my protection. At the same time as I´m in the centre I´m protected, I spin around the circumference like a madman, it´s my vice, my circle with no way out. How difficult it is to live among the stones! Every day there is this daily sun and sand, sky and darkness, day and night, moon and wind. Every day this day is squeezed between yesterday and tomorrow. And now it suffocates and asphyxiates in small doses: addiction. This lack of air makes me feel dizzy; this thirst makes me feel drunk. Oh, how I´d like to fall off this life´s merry-go-round, drunk! Yesterday, my days were nights of madness, a great feast in which I toasted to pleasure, to laughter, a fleeting moment of foolish fire. Today, my nights are like days of restlessness, during which I´m self-conscious, my fiery eyes are tired of seeing. I´m blind to future; I don´t want to see, to touch, to smell, to feel anything beyond this wall, besides this jigsaw-puzzle done in seconds, light-years and electrons. I wish I could get lost forever, so someone or some god would find me. I´m lost in the desert, but not wholly. I know that mirages are mirages, I perceive the reality of the sandstorms and know the sun burns inside my brain. My feet walk in circles dragging a shadow. In the meantime, the only thing left is a shout or silence and between them I prefer the company of silence, it´s more subtle, more welcoming, it spreads and rings more inside my ears. Sometimes I have the clear impression that my solitude is inhabited. (But I don´t want neither impressions nor gatherings). And, besides, my phantoms, or let´s say, my companions are more animal than human; they are owl´s eyes watching me at night, lighting up my track. They are snakes drawing ideograms and mandalas in the sand; they are hawks overlaying their shadows on mine; they´re my feet, two lizzards dragging themselves in the dunes. The other day I had the feeling that I slept (but I don´t want any more sensations!) and dreamed (but I don´t want dreams any more) with a cloud (but I don´t want any more clouds, or at least, I´d like to be or disappear like a cloud). I dreamed, or I thougth I did, with a pinkish cloud, floating ridiculously in the middle of a sky´s clean ocean. It even looked like a comic hope apologizing for its endurance, in spite of the sky, the bluishness and the wind. I don´t know exactly why, but I just felt like laughing and began to cackle until my body started trembling. And this infernal laughter, bearing the fruit of an infinite despair, rose to that pinkish cloud and destroyed it bit by bit. I saw its hoarse death-rattles perishing in space. And my laughter, now completely void of any hope at all, echoed around the Earth. And a transparent, hollow, empty and infinite smile, sprung up from my heart. And I think I woke up without knowing if it was a nightmare or a dream, without knowing if one may walk around dreaming, like a sleepwalker, through the deserts of paradise. Paradise and hell, both realities so close, inside me! The other day, if I may still count my time in days, or other which need not be counted… The other day, I knelt down in the sand and prayed. It was very strange. I prayed to myself. I lifted my arms up towards the sky and let them fall upon my knees, and thumping with my feet, I exclaimed: Oh God, why do you live inside me!? Why am I not a dull thought? Why does everything pulse inside me? Why am I not an indolent thought? Why does everything pulse and vibrate inside me, even when I silence and don´t walk? I prayed not knowing exactly to which closed door. I said everything my tongue dared to wish. And heard a deaf silence growing and little by little it filled itself with sound: of the sea, of a well, of a beatle, the hissing of a snake, silence… Oh! God! Once I found an altar along my path and there was still a sacrifice´s hot blood on it. I lay down upon it and saw my pulsing heart being wrenched out of my chest, I saw the priest showing it to the people, who after a clamour, knelt down and bowed their heads. I saw a river flowing down from the sky and light up a fire upon the altar. My body was consumed in this fire. But it was almost graceful: the incendiary fire crackling the crowd´s mistakes, purifiying it and my spirit opening its wings above the abyss. Since then I learned how to fall straight up. That is why I don´t tire myself, weariness is just a delay of hope. Today I´m already as cold as a stone, receptive and cold like a sacrifice altar. I don´t know quite if it is a duty or if virtue marches in that direction. I only know that I´ve learned not to wait, not to stop, not to have hope. I learned how to live beyond good and evil, for in this desert pidgeons and serpents live side by side and inside me wolves and sheep live together. Then I was wondering (I don´t know if I still think, I´d like not to think any more) that lambs are suitable for sacrifice and that a natural way of sacrificing them is to leave them at the wolves´ mercy. That´s why I felt (and would prefer to feel no more) my wolf devouring my sheep, piece after piece, without pain, without noise, without tragedy. Because, deep inside the lamb was scoffing, it was alive inside the wolf´s entrails, it continued alive in each of the beast´s cells. I left the shepherd without the sheep and he began to herd my wolf. One day he sacrificed the wolf on the altar to the god of fire. And the god laughed, because inside the shepherd, the lamb and and wolf still lived. So I stopped praying. I´m the shepherd lost in this solitary desert, I´m a shadow fighting alone against angels and devils, I´m the god who scatters smiles in the sand. I walk in circles on the earth climbing the spirals of time, until this space which I now occupy reduces itself to a black hole, in which things move the other way round, like a memory. And inside it I´m just a mirror of an abyss of light and darkness. Memories… (I wish I weren´t to be).

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