I give you my brain… Or would you rather have my heart?

Let’s start this with a confession. Some days ago I had a very strange dream… a standard dream… a very standard strange dream -all my dreams are strange-. Since that day, I’ve been trying to contact Freud many times. I dialled and dialled his number but was never able to get hold of him. I supposed he wouldn’t answer because my dream was of no importance, so I simply put it away in the dreams box. Oh, but there! This little piece of the dream would not stay in the box. It would jump out again and again to knock at my conscience’s door. All the noise this little dream scene made kept me thinking about brain and heart matters, what’s a brain for us? What’s the meaning of a heart?
I guess you’ll be curious to know about this rebellious scene of my dream. It’s a low-budget scene really. In fact, it has no special effects or anything flashy; a dearly loved friend of mine stars in it. In my dream, my friend says that he’d love to have my talent. And I answer –oh, shame!- I answer: ‘you’ll never have my talent, but you can have me’… It was a dream, ok? I ask for your mercy, don’t think me too proud. Anyway, that moment in my dream has kept me thinking about the different value and meaning we attribute to our heart and our brain. The way we use these two things in our language.

Let me give you an example. I read this sentence the other day: ‘she ripped my heart out and ate it’. Why doesn’t it work with ‘brain’, why wouldn’t anybody eat anybody else’s brain? I know, I know, because it would be disgusting. But if you think about it, eating any of the two – brain or heart – is just gore. You don’t have to explain me that heart stands for one’s feelings. It is a literary figure. Precisely, why do we give an aesthetic value to the heart and not to the brain? You can offer your heart in a poem, it’s beautiful, but would you offer your brain? I guess one of the fascinating things about hearts it’s their anarchic nature; no one can tell you what to feel. Al cuore non si comanda, you can’t rule your heart. When you have someone’s heart you can go and tell their brain: “hey, you! You think you’re the boss here? Well, that little engine that keeps you alive belongs to me!” The brain may be really powerful, but the heart follows its own paths. Then, why is it so difficult to let your heart loose when you write?

A month ago, when I was in Madrid, I had a very interesting conversation with two friends of mine who are writers. One of them says that for something to be good, it has to be written with your guts. Writing has to be a visceral process. When I think of it, I realise that many of the texts I consider good literature seem to be raw pieces taken directly from inside the writer. But are they good because they are ‘raw’ –and therefore they keep their natural colours- or are they good because they’re authentic? I vote for authenticity, I’m not so sure I like digesting raw food.
Ever since that conversation I’ve observed that many people make an equation between raw and good. Let’s make an experiment: think of two books and two films you consider masterpieces, there’s a high probability that they are about ugly things in life. For many people, a good book is one that talks about such serious matters that it slaps you every time you turn a page. Good films are those you would never watch while having dinner because their content would take away your appetite. Why? Why a comedy can be hilarious but not a piece of art? It is as though inside ourselves there were only thorns and no soft parts. Art reflects the artist, I agree with that. I also agree that a brainy work is not attractive. However, an artist can put anything in their work, wouldn’t it be nice to put guts –ok, you’re right, my friend- but also a bit of heart?

Underneath words

Someone talked about you today. They talked about what you like and why you like it. They described in every little detail the place where you live and they told me that I would love it. They assured me that I would feel happy if only I could walk the streets that you now call yours. I let them know about the promise I made to myself long ago to never ever follow your steps. They must have not heard me because they went on talking about the tepid evenings that open tenderly the way to your nights. They said that your city is not the biggest but it is certainly the most cosmopolitan and thriving. They explained all the reasons you have for keeping a smile on your face. They told me they were sure you would receive me with open arms… I tried to explain that you and me simply don’t fit into the same place, but I guess the plan was making to much noise for my words to be heard. Because you see, suddenly it was all about a plan, they were making plans for me to move into your space. They dared use ‘when’ instead of ‘if’, ‘when you go’ not ‘if you go’. ‘When’ became the oracle that predicted that sooner or later I would end up where you are. There was no cigar smoke, no crystal ball. There wasn’t a tarot deck, no conch shells. As though calling upon your phantom could be done without the proper material. I understood by then that it was better to quit any resistance so I took my hands off my ears and let the words carry me away to you.

There was someone talking today. They thought they were talking about a place, a city. They didn’t know it was clear and plain they were talking about you.

Debajo de las palabras.

Hoy me hablaron de ti. Me contaron lo que te gusta, por qué te gusta. Me describieron con detalle el sitio donde vives y me aseguraron que me encantaría, que me sentiría alegre andando por esas calles que ahora son tuyas. Les conté la promesa que me hice hace tiempo de no pisar nunca, jamás, por donde pisas tú, pero no debieron escucharme, porque siguieron hablando de la tibieza que te acompaña al principio de la noche, la que da paso suave a tus horas de oscuridad. Me dijeron que tu ciudad no es la más grande, pero sí la más cosmopolita y viva. Enumeraron los motivos que tienes para no borrar tu sonrisa y me aseguraron mil veces que abrirías tus puertas para mí… Intenté explicarles que tú y yo no cabemos en el mismo lugar, pero mis palabras se vieron acalladas por el ruido que hacía el plan. De pronto, todo era un plan. Se atrevieron a hablar de mi entrada en tu espacio como si de una cosa hecha se tratara. Pusieron mi figura entre los edificios y los árboles que ahora son tu paisaje. Como oráculo infalible usaron ‘cuando’ en lugar de ’si’; ‘cuando vayas’, no ’si vas’. Y te aseguro que no fue con arrogancia, sino con la convicción de que tarde o temprano acabaré donde estás tú. Así, sin puros ni bolas de cristal, sin tarots ni caracolas, como si tu fantasma no necesitara algún tipo de introducción. Entonces comprendí que era mejor no poner resistencia, quité las manos de mis oídos y dejé que las palabras me llevaran hasta ti.    

Hoy me hablaron, convencidos de que hablaban de un sitio, de una ciudad, sin saber que estaba clarísimo que hablaban de ti.

Tú-rismo

¿Cuándo pasaste a ser un punto en el mapa? ¿Cuándo, de ser mi mundo (muy a tu pesar) pasaste a ocupar un lugar discreto en el polo? 

Me pregunto si todos estamos destinados a ser puntitos en el mapa de los demás. Banderitas que terminan por amarillearse y caer. Una serie de alfileres que marcan los lugares que visitamos… O que queríamos visitar. Sabes que contigo me habría perdido en la exploración, me habría ido a la expedición sin retorno. Y es precisamente esa disposición absoluta la que hoy me mira con ojos de plato, sorprendida de que te me hayas quedado en los márgenes. ¿Importa? Creo que no, hay más banderas tanto en tu mapa como en el mío, y de todas formas, el río siguió corriendo y el poblado quedó ya muy atrás.

Y sin embargo, recuerdo que en la época en la que tu bandera estaba en la tierra del fuego, alguien me dijo que el paisaje está en los ojos del viajero, no en el lugar. Que lo que veía en ti, en realidad estaba dentro de mí y por tanto podía encontrarlo en muchas otras tierras. Busqué de ojos para dentro. Y encontré lo que estaba en mí, lo que efectivamente llevaba en mi capazo y podía transplantar -casi- en cualquier pampa. Así que me di a la siembra, con una convicción (frágil, es verdad) de que las nuevas plantas acabarían por desterrar tu empecinada raíz. No voy a contarte cómo regué los brotes, a estas altura deberías saberlo. No voy a decirte cómo las capas de barro se fueron superponiendo en mis manos. Una sobre otra, y siempre, al menor movimiento, se abría una grieta y ahí estabas tú, en el centro del mundo.

Hoy estás tan al margen que necesito algo que te recuerde, es necesario el detonante para acordarse de que un día, en el agujero ese grande de este mapa viejo, estabas tú.