The Holy Cross

Procesión en Santa Cruz

Procesión en Santa Cruz

The house and the body, cold, outside the siesta of La Mancha, the heat and the death of the dogs.  Air is stale.  Blood is still.  Life has stopped.  I relapse, stubborn, twisted and redundant.  I twist souls as if they were springs.  They break, stretch and jump.

Imperial gold over purple of holy passion, fringe, knows it all of death or of those who don’t know, those that couldn’t be, fatum as time goes by….  Behind the white walls, of fear a meter thick, decadent interiors, superimposed decades, generations of pictures that accumulate patina, sadness and distinction, I have seen it, they change from day to night, dolls and Christs with blue eyes, stunning, empty, porcelain bowls surrounded by real eye lashes, dead lashes in the eyes of Mariquita Pérez.

Outside, the shutters drawn, green shutters dulled by the sun, brownish ochre sometimes, that are hung over balconies concealing the interior.  One lonely town, deserted below the sun and a sky open like a well, deserted like the end, neither dead nor alive behind the shutters.

Inside the calm and the shadow, the naphthalene, the black and white photos, the routine of the awnings, of watering and hanging up the clothes, thistles, geraniums, grapevines, tiles and roof tops in the horizon, sparrows and bats, cats on the roof tops. The plum tree and the boredom, the anguish of Bernarda’s daughters, the black dresses, and subsequently grey, stored in closets and chests, the sparrow and bats flying over the roof tops, equilateral triangle of superimposed and broken tiles.  I draw geometric constellation, hippogriff and fig trees while Latin sounds and the church bell moves to and fro against the clapper.

In the house there are dead and a cave, and a kitchen where before there was a laundry, beds where there were torture tables, numbers inscribed over walls that show rural scenes that remind of Novecento, earth ware jars full of phantoms and more dead, oil and wine and dead, breezes in the gallery, perplexed dolls with eye lashes of the dead and little girls underwear, crosses, missals, prints and a picture of Franco.

Souls like springs playing the piano with clumsiness and hopelessness, the lute and catechism, souls like sad springs, punished for jumping, the laughter and the dead, the chambers, the rats, the salamander, the boys and the dead; blood semen sweat and placenta, fluids and breezes of the house.  Inside, after the phantasmagoric shadows are projected by the lights of the cars, behind the stabbings of the shutters, on the other side, the outside, where nothing ever happens because nothing can happen.

Inside the nightmare, the creak of the doors and the heroic fear of children, always in silence, the eyes fixed on the eyes of the crucified baby Jesus, smiling and victorious, the claws of the trees and the wailing of cats that breed on the roof tops, by the shadow of the chimney and the bats that plan prophetic suicides and blind to the fatum of the unborn, as time goes by…

The shop windows, trunks and galleries, braziers and ash, the dead, the moth and mythological spiders of immense robotic legs, the salamander on the wall, the rat in the chamber and the closet, inside and out contaminated, the patina and the sun, symbiosis ars natura stopped by a white wall a meter thick and more over by shutters suspended over cast iron railing, like the rim of the well.

Outside the suicides hang in the sun, from the branch of the evergreen oak, olive or fig tree; inside amongst the sea of wheat it is not easy to find a tree.

Inside, the drawer, in the closet, folded the flag awaits.

(Poem by María López ( translated by my good friend Zachary Payne)