M. LUNA ROSSEL, ARTIST
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In Transit *



With the house on your back
like the snails.
Umbilical
and other cords
cut forever
with a razor
...even if you take with you
that little suitcase filled
with childhood memories
and your favorite terrors.

The past turning yellow
-if you are lucky-
between the pages of a passport
that has a photo you hate
where the person you used to be
looks awful.
With a handful of illusions
withering away in your pocket
you get tickets
to the end of this World
...or the beginning of the other.
You repeat the process countless times
because you save miles
for an infinite absence.
Indefinite, as they say.
A direct flight to oblivion
...or with a layover in hope.

Sometimes it happens
that you are forced
to take your life for a stroll
through a bloody imperative order
one morning like any other
without time to make a package
tied with thread
with grandpa's hugs
and white caramel
beat up Utopias
Alcayota marmalade
and a playground swing
where the pendulum
of your childhood
oscillated.
On this strolls
of an unexpected character
you often undress all daisies
playing love me/love me not
and there's no bread crumbs
pointing your way back.

In remote lands
of never ending horizons
sometimes
you miss the train
and take a bus
out of service
that leaves you at the rainiest
corner of abandon
There's no free cab on sight
when your days turn into a rotary
of alien dawns
where the sun
insist on coming out
from the wrong side
and the wily moon
is perpetually crooked...

Sometimes the streets have names
stolen to childhood
with tremendous grammar errors
that would make my grandma faint.
No matter how many phrases
you accumulate
in exotic languages
or how well you deal
with the prevailing jargon
it will never draw
the exact hue of your dreams
the subtle texture of your
unpronounceable soul
which gets lost all the time
in translation...

Perhaps your Visa expires
right on the day
you were going to bump
into the love of your life
around the most
unforeseen of corners
Another of those corners
of unknown smells
and colors
impermeable to your tears.
Where they don't sell humitas
nor empanadas de pino...

How many enormous airports
where, nevertheless,
your nostalgia doesn't fit.
How many hotel rooms
under a constellation
of borrowed stars
where the same dreams
of days gone by
walk on the pillow.
How many cheap souvenirs
and ethnic trinkets
Strange coins that appear suddenly
in the mysterious bottom
of the purse.

The search or the escape
of travelers
navigators
pilgrims...
Peddlers
of stale chimeras
dizzy sailors
and nomads without oasis
hand in hand with a blind guide
camping on the epicenter
of solitude
Hearts that beat
in unison
with silence and longing.

travelers
navigators
explorers
bums
tourists
fugitives
vagabonds
wanderers
runaways
immigrants
emigrants
exiles
refugees
illegals
officials
the landless
the homeless

Bouncing around at a loss
without a father nor a mother
nor a dog to bark at you
Sooner or later you realize
it doesn't matter
how many kilometers or miles
you pile up between your temples
between your fingers and your roots
you might end up cutting
the very branch where you are sitting...
And there would be need for a leap
of excellent trapeze artist
to come out unscathed
from such net-less flights...

How many years with life left in the air
runaway tightrope walker
the ups and downs of fortune
stamped
in the blessed passport
Crossing the imaginary borders
that surround fear
and feed hatred...
There's no longer a binnacle
or travel diaries covered in leather
neither letters where the ink
painted banishment blue...
Nor hasty postcards
which at least for an instant
would cast
the fragile contour of your shadow
over your native soil
where your silhouette vanishes
inexorably
day by day,
minute by minute...

Perhaps you will drop anchor
in some faraway port
and gather spiderwebs
for a while
Perhaps you will get used
to the tumultuous sound
of absence
Perhaps you will even get used
to the dead weight of distance
wrapping you up at night
The same ghosts
behind the door
the same fears
under the mattress...

With the house on your back
...like the snails.

-*-*-*-

* see "In Transit", in
"Wounded"series Portfolio.