#submissiondrafts

I would have liked to start this novel the way Jose Martí begins “Simple Verses/Versos Sencillos”.

v   

  In my life, it seems as if everything is another life. Not knowing. Not understanding. Not living. I am living the life that I am making for myself now… and that comforts me a little. I find it different to digest the notion of being free in public spaces- I have tall, thick legs. Proactive… Provocative in false bravados- self-confident within. These legs take me places- Even if this life isn’t my own.

v     

Why does impermanence break me? This world… Nothing is ever permanent:

People, places, love, sex, touch, and even the pencil I used to write on these pages… To me, it seems as naïve to believe in the faith of poly-tune or mono-tune lexicons- An everyday language. A silence into a shout- And to those that tend to whisper late at night: Please… try again- The lie is worth it.

v   

             The thing about diaries is that you really cannot tell someone how you really feel- except: You actually can.

v   

           What seems to be true about the spaces within pages is that they tend to fill up the emptiness of paper- Much the same way that spaces in life tend to be filled and then… one writes them away in their peculiar syntax- And sometimes… It seems like you really make empty filled-up with something: A void with oozing love.

v   

                Pencils are a work of art: I lose them. Spend more money on new pencils. Replenishing. And repeat, again- over and over- Syntactical synchronicity does not occur unless a writing utensil is present- Intertwined with the fingers that shed ice cold tears that went dry- yet still felt for a period that you had winter within.

v  

                I would have liked to start this novel the way Gabriel Garcia Marquez begins “The Most Handsome Drowned Man in the World”…

v  

                There’s nothing so ill-advised as to attributing metonymic value to inanimate or imaginary things- Especially ordinary things like language. - It can be sordid or verdant- The task is to dissect the synecdoche into a mere nothing- except that language is everything.

v  

           Writing is a manifestation of that which belongs to something that is difficult to say: As hollow as one feels… writing is a catharsis. An eloquent word- phrase- all at the stroke of a pencil.

v   

We all have hollows within- in some ways. It’s like we need to fill in a part of ourselves that inexplicably tends to feel like is whole.

v   

                Only two melancholic and poignant lines remain &… The likelihood of it to ascend or transcend seems to dilute at the passing whim of every second.

v  

                       Faces in the crowd all around permeate perpetually…

           Paranoia in elusive metonymies that allow me to somehow transcend the darknesses engraved within and outside.

v   

Trompe-l'œil?

                       Raison d'être?

v   

                   I have a theory: concepts are myriads…. sometimes full of wonder- always innate with meaning. Awe- lovely- flowery things- I’d like to try [less than] the latter.

v   

                          Physique sometimes elapses sensuality- It’s like the body is a perfect flowery things- It is dead. It is alive. It is withered. And it is throbbing- Like the blood that circulates. It travels distances- I wonder what it is like to throb the same way as flowers do when they sprout from the earth?

v   

 Spring: It is raging. It is fluid. Re-used. Rushed- Recycled- Yet, it is subtly patient.

v   

           “I never belonged to that world”. Sometimes… it feels like I never belong in any world.

 v   

              I lie in intermittent spaces I float in-and-out- and it always complicates my life. Where do I begin? Where do I go? Where do I begin? [I belong in] A world- someplace where kindness lives. I wonder.

v   

Hide and seek is the figurative language of joy.

v   

           The world of dreams… It must be an interesting one. – Revelations- Appearances- Presence- Destinies- What of the minds that make us who we are? – Terrified to Jubilant.

v   

Physical injuries- scars- reverberating lacerations-pain and pleasure: They are all temporary.

v   

Connections… even those are temporary- They matter- That is undeniable. The real question is: How much?

v   

I would have liked to end this novel with Wallace Steven’s “The Snowman”.

v   

           We all have hollow phantoms within ourselves- Like we have voids to fill- Like we are empty- Like we are in need of something to fill us in.- Like we are stretched thinly- And we are cut in some way… Like there is no hope to stay in shape- to stay in place. - That which we seek cannot be found sometimes in avoidance.

v   

 Life is about sustaining breath- Novels and poems sustain mine- In such a way that permanent inscription of myself lies within the confines of these pages.

v   

Is there a way for language to mean something? Nothing and everything?

v   

                 Trying out someone else’s belongings… books- clothes- personalities? They are markers of identity. Do we feel safe when we embody what others have as our own?

v  

                                               I sometimes feel like my lips are not mine.

v  

                                      The places… the streets- these crowds… This ever changing world… It has value. Si no siento valor en mi mismo pongo el valor en mi maleta- mis audifonos- la poesia- Y los pasos que camino en esta vida…

v   

                  I have been dealt too much moral accusation by part of loved ones… Like my life is supposed to be some fixed moral compass… Spare me? I have some free will to follow- Free will to channel- No matter what the form consists of, free will… please come to me.

v   

                       I like to think that somehow anomalies make sense… No matter how or what their forms consists of.

v   

                       Will my words somehow fill in some voids in another man? In another poem? In another book? A blueprint. [His] Full-fledged freedom to explore the empty spaces in between my lines… and those occupied as well.

v   

                               The same way I cross paths with a new poem is equal to a sheer amalgamation of joy.

v   

                               Can we convince ourselves of our worth? Of Ourselves?

v   

                               The wonder of libraries: They open up new worlds.

v   

                               Is Illness indistinguishable? As if nothing really lies ahead…? As if there were only dead-ends…? I wonder.

v   

           The trials and trails I leave behind me often reverberate nuisances, sadness…, and perhaps even disappointment.

v   

                         Recovery is always possible. It comes in many shapes, ways, and forms:

Somehow, somewhere, there will be lights dancing to your night skies. There will be hope- Shining hope. Do not forget- These faces in the crowd- This hand that writes- This body that sinks and rises- These and many more-

                                               They are all en ‘El Presente’.

v