We walked through the sky
CAMINAMOS POR EL CIELO
Estaba deambulando ciego por el Paseo Desolación.
Sujeté en mis hombros el firmamento, arrastrando una obsesión.
He llorado cada día pero el llanto terminó.
Ahora hay luz en mis tinieblas.
Caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
He vivido un tiempo solitario, mi mente no dejó de hablar.
Me asaltaron tantos miedos y olvidé lo que es amar.
Tantas veces recompuse el alma y otras tantas se quebró.
Ella me tendió la mano.
Caminamos, caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
Tanta gente en los andenes esperando un nuevo tren.
Puedo oír sus corazones aun latiendo, al amanecer.
Cuando crees que todo se acaba vuelve a brillar el sol.
Siempre queda una esperanza.
Y caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
Voy a dormir un poco, estoy cansado; mis sueños dejaré llegar.
Cierro los ojos y me pregunto si mi sueño es realidad.
Voy con la mujer de los regalos, sus ojos son mi dirección.
Desde la ciudad de azúcar y su calor.
Caminamos, caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
Estaba deambulando ciego por el Paseo Desolación.
Sujeté en mis hombros el firmamento, arrastrando una obsesión.
He llorado cada día pero el llanto terminó.
Ahora hay luz en mis tinieblas.
Caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
He vivido un tiempo solitario, mi mente no dejó de hablar.
Me asaltaron tantos miedos y olvidé lo que es amar.
Tantas veces recompuse el alma y otras tantas se quebró.
Ella me tendió la mano.
Caminamos, caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
Tanta gente en los andenes esperando un nuevo tren.
Puedo oír sus corazones aun latiendo, al amanecer.
Cuando crees que todo se acaba vuelve a brillar el sol.
Siempre queda una esperanza.
Y caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
Voy a dormir un poco, estoy cansado; mis sueños dejaré llegar.
Cierro los ojos y me pregunto si mi sueño es realidad.
Voy con la mujer de los regalos, sus ojos son mi dirección.
Desde la ciudad de azúcar y su calor.
Caminamos, caminamos por el cielo hasta llegar a Orión.
I was blind and wandering along the Desolation Row.
I held on my shoulders the sky, dragging an obsession.
I cried every day but the weeping ended.
Now there is light in my darkness.
We walked up through the sky to arrive to Orion.
I spent time alone, my mind did not stop talking.
I raided many fears and I forgot what it is to love.
I recomposed the soul many times and many times it's broke.
She held me her hand.
We walked, walked up through the sky to arrive to Orion
So many people on the platform waiting for the next train.
I can hear their hearts beating at dawn.
When you think everything is lost, the sun shines again.
There is always hope.
And we walked up through the sky to arrived to Orion.
I'll get some sleep, I'm tired, I will reach my dreams.
I close my eyes and wonder if my dream is reality.
I'm with the woman of gifts, her eyes are my direction.
From the Sugar Town and his heat.
We walked, walked up through the sky to arrived to Orion.
I held on my shoulders the sky, dragging an obsession.
I cried every day but the weeping ended.
Now there is light in my darkness.
We walked up through the sky to arrive to Orion.
I spent time alone, my mind did not stop talking.
I raided many fears and I forgot what it is to love.
I recomposed the soul many times and many times it's broke.
She held me her hand.
We walked, walked up through the sky to arrive to Orion
So many people on the platform waiting for the next train.
I can hear their hearts beating at dawn.
When you think everything is lost, the sun shines again.
There is always hope.
And we walked up through the sky to arrived to Orion.
I'll get some sleep, I'm tired, I will reach my dreams.
I close my eyes and wonder if my dream is reality.
I'm with the woman of gifts, her eyes are my direction.
From the Sugar Town and his heat.
We walked, walked up through the sky to arrived to Orion.
(by J. Castro)
"I spent my childhood in a haze full of goblins and
elves, with a sense of space and time that was different from everybody
else's."
“I sometimes longed for someone who, like me, had not adjusted perfectly with his age, and such a person was hard to find; but I soon discovered cats, in which I could imagine a condition like mine, and books, where I found it quite often.”
― Julio Cortázar, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds
― Julio Cortázar, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds
To Dress A Shadow
The hardest thing is to surround it, to fix its limit where it fades into the penumbra along its edge. To choose it from among the others, to separate it from the light that all shadows secretly, dangerously, breathe. To begin to dress it casually, not moving too much, not frightening or dissolving it: this is the initial operation where nothingness lies in every move. The inner garments, the transparent corset, the stockings that compose a silky ascent up the thighs. To all these it will consent in momentary ignorance, as if imagining it is playing with another shadow, but suddenly it will become troubled, when the skirt girds its waist and it feels the fingers that button the blouse between its breasts, brushing the neck that rises to disappear in dark flowing water. It will repulse the gesture that seems to crown it with a long blonde wig (that trembling halo around a nonexistent face! And you must work quickly to draw its mouth with cigarette embers, slip on the rings and bracelets that define its hands, as it indecisively resists, its newborn lips murmuring the immemorial lament of one awakening to the world. It will need eyes, which must be made from tears, the shadow completing itself to better resist and negate itself. Hopeless excitement when the same impulse that dressed it, the same thirst that saw it take shape from confused space, to envelop it in a thicket of caresses, begins to undress it, to discover for the first time the shape it vainly strives to conceal with hands and supplications, slowly yielding, to fall with a flash of rings that fills the night with glittering fireflies.
By Julio Cortázar, from Around the Day in Eighty Worlds,
copyright © 1966, 1967, 1974, 1975, 1984 by Julio Cortázar
Translation copyright © 1986 by Thomas Christensen
So you are discovering the story while you are writing it?
That’s right. It’s like improvising in jazz. You don’t ask a jazz musician, “But what are you going to play?” He’ll laugh at you. He has a theme, a series of chords he has to respect, and then he takes up his trumpet or his saxophone and he begins. It’s not a question of idea. He performs through a series of different internal pulsations. Sometimes it comes out well, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s the same with me. I’m a bit embarrassed to sign my stories sometimes. The novels, no, because the novels I work on a lot; there’s a whole architecture. But my stories, it’s as if they were dictated to me by something that is in me, but it’s not me who’s responsible. Well, since it does appear they are mine even so, I guess I should accept them!
Letter To A Young Lady In Paris by Julio Cortázar (excerpt):
Andrea, I didn’t want to come live in your apartment in the calle Suipacha. Not so much because of the bunnies, but rather that it offends me to intrude on a compact order, built even to the finest nets of air, networks that in your environment conserve the music in the lavender, the heavy fluff of the powder puff in the talcum, the play between the violin and the viola in Ravel’s quartet. It hurts me to come into an ambience where someone who lives beautifully has arranged everything like a visible affirmation of her soul, here the books (Spanish on one side, French and English on the other), the large green cushions there, the crystal ashtray that looks like a soap-bubble that’s been cut open on this exact spot on the little table, and always a perfume, a sound, a sprouting of plants, a photograph of the dead friend, the ritual of tea trays and sugar tongs … Ah, dear Andrea, how difficult it is to stand counter to, yet to accept with perfect submission of one’s whole being, the elaborate order that a woman establishes in her own gracious flat. How much at fault one feels taking a small metal tray and putting it at the far end of the table, setting it there simply because one has brought one’s English dictionaries and it’s at this end, within easy reach of the hand, that they ought to be. To move that tray is the equivalent of an unexpected horrible crimson in the middle of one of Ozenfant’s painterly cadences, as if suddenly the strings of all the double basses snapped at the same time with the same dreadful whiplash at the most hushed instant in a Mozart symphony. Moving that tray alters the play of relationships in the whole house, of each object with another, of each moment of their soul with the soul of the house and its absent inhabitant. And I cannot bring my fingers close to a book, hardly change a lamp’s cone of light, open the piano bench, without feeling a rivalry and offense swinging before my eyes like a flock of sparrows. Letter To A Young Lady In Paris
Andrea, I didn’t want to come live in your apartment in the calle Suipacha. Not so much because of the bunnies, but rather that it offends me to intrude on a compact order, built even to the finest nets of air, networks that in your environment conserve the music in the lavender, the heavy fluff of the powder puff in the talcum, the play between the violin and the viola in Ravel’s quartet. It hurts me to come into an ambience where someone who lives beautifully has arranged everything like a visible affirmation of her soul, here the books (Spanish on one side, French and English on the other), the large green cushions there, the crystal ashtray that looks like a soap-bubble that’s been cut open on this exact spot on the little table, and always a perfume, a sound, a sprouting of plants, a photograph of the dead friend, the ritual of tea trays and sugar tongs … Ah, dear Andrea, how difficult it is to stand counter to, yet to accept with perfect submission of one’s whole being, the elaborate order that a woman establishes in her own gracious flat. How much at fault one feels taking a small metal tray and putting it at the far end of the table, setting it there simply because one has brought one’s English dictionaries and it’s at this end, within easy reach of the hand, that they ought to be. To move that tray is the equivalent of an unexpected horrible crimson in the middle of one of Ozenfant’s painterly cadences, as if suddenly the strings of all the double basses snapped at the same time with the same dreadful whiplash at the most hushed instant in a Mozart symphony. Moving that tray alters the play of relationships in the whole house, of each object with another, of each moment of their soul with the soul of the house and its absent inhabitant. And I cannot bring my fingers close to a book, hardly change a lamp’s cone of light, open the piano bench, without feeling a rivalry and offense swinging before my eyes like a flock of sparrows. Letter To A Young Lady In Paris
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