jueves, octubre 15, 2009

only upon itself

Required reading for class: Maurice Halbwachs’ On Collective Memory.
Status: Read Partially.
Today, I felt the helplessness of being away. For the second time.
The first was five Sundays ago: Sunny outside. Beautiful sky.
I said, día de playa.
Collective Memory, again.
"One may say that the individual remembers by placing himself in the perspective of the group, but one may also affirm that the memory of the group realizes and manifests itself in individual memories.”
Today, it’s certainly not the weather.
It’s 50 outside, overcast. Cold for me. Too cold.
‘Your Caribbeanness must be dying inside’, says the random girl who I always run into on rainy mornings.
I smile.
A bridge in Harajuku. It was Sunday, then, too. Not too sunny. We were sitting on the floor—who's at my left, who at my right?
I’m sure the bag of seven tall beer cans was at my feet—empty.
I know Sam had his camera.
I know Juanluís said something funny.
Rubén was too happy.
We were partially drunk. At least, ¾ of us were.
The Japanese Youth smiled at the cameras, hiding behind enormous amount of make-me-up-into-someone-else. The guy from Philadelphia dressed as a weird, old lady, grinned. The beautiful girl in the pink dress being beautiful at the other end. The lady (or was it a guy?) who stopped in front of us and took a picture, thinking we were part of the performances. The breeze. The peace. The queer feeling of memory-making. Am I getting it right? What am I missing? How do they remember it?
Today it was certainly not the weather.
How many people went to the streets?
How many people got hit by the Police? How many people stayed at home? How many went to the beach? How many stared into their TV Sets feeling proud? How many frowned at the silver screens? How many talkers walked? How many walkers talked? How many pronounced stupidities? How many pronounced poetry? How many logged through the net from elsewhere and felt impotent? How many logged through the net from elsewhere and smiled—out of happiness, out of sorrow, out of anger?
My housemate helps me get my shopping bags inside. He saw me through the glass door on our second floor apartment. I stumbled upon a bag of Arroz Rico at Publix. The cashier lady asked me if I knew how much they were selling it for. It had just arrived, she said. It wasn’t registered. I shrugged. I went home, I sat down in front of the old laptop that lacks an F3 Key, and wrote something down. It came out in English.
The dream is based only upon itself, whereas our recollections depend on those of all our fellows, and on the great frameworks of the memory of society.

1 comentario:

desvalijados dijo...

bello, cabrón. bello el texto, cabrón te digo a ti, pero de cariño.