DISORIENTATION

WORDS

The icicle that used to hang above the window has melted. What will my son look at, now, when in the early morning he draws back the curtains and searches, with the naive smile that only exists in childhood, the sharp cutting edge that once pierced the silence of his confinement, filling it with the translucent promise of the imagination? Will he observe the brown bare horizon, swept by an icy wind? Perhaps the roofs of the distant farms, that lie hidden from each other between the hills of this treacherous land? Or the birds that sleep their winter in the dry armpits of the trees? He will scrutinize for sure the emptiness that lies beyond, because not even soot remains on the inside.

What about myself? I gaze at him, his back, the soft hair on his nape, his thin legs, his breath fleeing from me. I’m not far, just a few steps behind, leaned on the door of the room. And yet he doesn’t turn to meet my eyes, not at least while there is still a bit of brightness outside. And at night, when he lies asleep, curled up in a ball on another big bed, I look at him again, his cold feet, his clenched fists, his lips murmuring unpronounceable words. Absent from me.

What rocky looks must be these, not to dare confront each other directly! Maybe it is because they are in a mess with the remains that lie in that suitcase, which is never closed and yet never empty, while inside its chaos a trickle of broken water escapes wounded from a sock.

MOVIES

After this our exile, Patrick Tam, Hong Kong, 2006.

Leaving behind most of what used to be ours, not because it was heavy, but because we won’t need it where we are heading for. In fact, we could even do without our clothes, if it was not indecorous; also without our memory, if it wasn’t being a coward; even without our own family, if it hadn’t its own life, and decided not to stalk us wherever we may go.

There’s no responsibility at all in the fact of having a child, the irresponsible thing would be not having it and so sentencing the ego to its pure total annihilation. We have the right to love it, to hate it, to escape from it. We are not indispensable, essential, not even important. Nevertheless, we are supposed to have a loyalty that enslaves us and distorts us.

If we want to run, we must stop. If we long for a drink, we must share it. If we need to shout, we must do it in silence.

I’m lost, disoriented, fed up. You can do whatever that pleases you, even hating me or blotting out my name from your memory, but if you persist in being by my side, you must know that that is your decision. Be a man, and face the consequences.

Oh! And let me wreck myself whenever I want, please.

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Mother & Son, by Desártico.