Guacamayo

Well, let`s get to the point. The image of that absent-minded friend who’s speaking to you, having a drink, smoking a cigarette and pouring the ash into her own glass only exists as a photosensitive reaction in the back of my eye. My head says that it is in an external position rather than an internal one, and I don’t think it’s fair because the foetus of the human, of the fish, of the chicken, of the snake is all eyes during its first phase. And I can open my head with both hands as if it was a melon to try to understand what happens through mental operations, but when I ask too much of my brain, it lovingly places an index finger on my lips and tells me, “Hey, shut up, I’m matter too”; and the fact is that you can’t ask a question with an unknown formulation to give an intelligible answer.

Anyway, the thing is that the final object (if any) does not arise from organizing the confusing vital experience into (another) a coherent narrative where everything’s perfectly integrated, but rather from emptying the question of formulation, of excuse, of inventiveness, of seriousness, of particularity, until clearing everything and find yourself face to face with the question mark in its purest state.