Coses velles

[...] Isn’t it too bad about old things, old schools,

Old dishes, with nothing to do but sit and wait

Their turn.

John Ashbery

Reclama la meua atenció el record

fred i aliè d’unes quantes coses velles.

Molestes com una taca fortuïta

són acurats revelats fotogràfics,

fulls notarials que fan rebrotar moments

d’una vida que creia fugida de mi.

És evident que aquestes coses velles

cremen com un cos viu, absorbeixen 

tota la realitat passada i la tornen a expulsar.

Em resulta reconfortant, amb tot, 

saber que són objectes que encara posseeixo,

guardats en els dalts d’algun armari

o en caixes polsoses, a casa dels pares.

Deixen anar una llum pulcra que implica

la meua pell. Estic començant

a preguntar-me si aquesta pròrroga

verídica del meu pensament

d’adolescent és el que em provoca

capes infinites de paràlisi al cervell.

No deliro ni desitjo tornar a la meua fragilitat.

Sempre hi ha alguna cosa falsa

en aquest impuls d’alternar dues veus

que furguen les ferides obertes del meu discurs.

Un ordre delicat en procés de descomposició.

De La degradació natural dels objectes

Premi Jocs Florals de Barcelona 2004.

Barcelona, Proa. 2004.

OLD THINGS

[...] Isn't it too bad about old things, old schools,
Old dishes, with nothing to do but sit and wait
Their turn.
John Ashbery

Cold, remote memories of a few old things
call my attention. Annoying like chance
stains, they're picture-perfect photographs,
notarized documents that make moments
from a life I thought gone from me resurface.
It's clear that these old things kindle
like a living body and soak up past reality
to spew it back out. I find it comforting, though,
to know they're things I still own, put away
on a top shelf in the closet, or in dust-gathering
boxes at my parents' house. They give off
a even stream of light that has to do with
my skin. I'm beginning to wonder if this
actual deferment of my teenage self isn't what
causes the endless layers of idleness in my brain.
I'm not delirious nor am I trying to recover
vulnerability. There is always something fake
about this urge to use two different voices
to dig in the festering wounds of speech.
A frail order in the process of going to waste.

From The Natural Decay of Objectes.

Barcelona: Proa, 2004.