Lluvia—
Empezó como siempre,
igual que tantas
dietas. Nos sentamos adentro,
como niños, e hicimos cosas tranquilas. Los cauces
de los ríos
explotaron e inundaron los pliegues de medio
país; arrastrando
a la gente en botes a pedales,
e impulsándolos a
través de las catedrales para salvar gatos. Un muchacho
que limpiaba el desagüe
de su abuelo fue sorprendido inmóvil
mientras las
aguas llegaban al récord establecido en 1692.
Imagínate.
Equipos móviles vistieron sus impermeables más sombríos.
La casa tenía
más pisos de lo que imaginábamos. En veinte años
jamás habíamos
pasado tanto tiempo en una habitación. Yo no tenía ni idea de
tu miedo morboso a las semillas de naranja, o de que los novelistas franceses
te resultaban
agobiantes. En el séptimo día, completamente roncos,
nos dedicamos a
dibujar en las paredes y a montar escenas.
En nuestro
delirio todas las acciones parecen juegos de roles —
proteicos capítulos
contra el lodo, los animales que éramos —
y la lluvia, una
emisión constante en cada longitud de onda,
nos enseñó todo
lo que sabemos sobre el tango. Solo
cuando nos quedábamos
demasiado escasos de metáforas era lluvia, nada más lluvia.
Pensamos en el
niño ahogado, viendo
al agua taparlo
y sellarlo, con toda su contemporaneidad prometedora.
¿Era un lunes
por la mañana cuando el jardín se volvió
generoso con babosas, asombrado de sí mismo? Nuestras
manos unidas
fueron los
últimos sapos en el arca. Caminamos, necesitábamos noticias.
Tiffany Atkinson, Berlin, 1972
De Catula et Al, Bloodaxe
Books, Northumberland, 2011
imagen de Andreea Anghel© – Missing, en Uno de los nuestros
Rain—
It started unremarkably,
like many regimes. We sat like children
making quiet things indoors. The rivers
burst their staves and soaked the folds mid-
country; they were schlepping people out in pedalos,
and punting through cathedrals saving cats. One lad
clearing out his granddad’s drain was still caught
when the waters lapped the record set in 1692.
Imagine. News-teams donned their somberer cagoules.
The house had more floors than we knew. In twenty years
we’d never spent so much time in one room. I’d no idea
you had a morbid fear of orange pips, or found French novelists
oppressive. On the seventh day, completely hoarse,
we took to drawing on the walls and staging tableaux.
In delirium all actions feel like role-play –
protein-strands against the ooze, the animals we made –
and rain, a steady broadcast on all wavelengths,
taught us everything we know about the tango. Only
when we grew too thin for metaphors was rain just rain.
We thought about the drowned boy, how he watched
the lid of water seal him in, for all his bright modernity.
Was it a Monday morning when the garden was returned,
tender with slugs, astonished at itself? Our joined hands
were the last toads in the ark. We walked, we needed news.
like many regimes. We sat like children
making quiet things indoors. The rivers
burst their staves and soaked the folds mid-
country; they were schlepping people out in pedalos,
and punting through cathedrals saving cats. One lad
clearing out his granddad’s drain was still caught
when the waters lapped the record set in 1692.
Imagine. News-teams donned their somberer cagoules.
The house had more floors than we knew. In twenty years
we’d never spent so much time in one room. I’d no idea
you had a morbid fear of orange pips, or found French novelists
oppressive. On the seventh day, completely hoarse,
we took to drawing on the walls and staging tableaux.
In delirium all actions feel like role-play –
protein-strands against the ooze, the animals we made –
and rain, a steady broadcast on all wavelengths,
taught us everything we know about the tango. Only
when we grew too thin for metaphors was rain just rain.
We thought about the drowned boy, how he watched
the lid of water seal him in, for all his bright modernity.
Was it a Monday morning when the garden was returned,
tender with slugs, astonished at itself? Our joined hands
were the last toads in the ark. We walked, we needed news.
