Reina María Rodríguez


ski sauvage

    there's a cabin on a mountain. the sky's foam gives the mountain a cool, transparent atmosphere. the air around the mountain is sonorous, pious, legendary, prohibited. the entrance to the mountain is prohibited. the mountain has its place in the soul. it's the horizon of something and it retreats ceaselessly. it gives the sensation of an eternal horizon . . . and I describe that painting with tears, because the painting strikes my heart. it feels how my thought unfurls across the painting, a space that's ideal, absolute, but in a space with a form that could be incorporated into reality. there I fall out of the sky . . .
the black line (more abrupt) is the one that ruptures our equilibrium with those skips that cause us to deviate from continuity. you preferred the red one. because, like me, it was a river of blood that's feared--it can wash you away. it allowed us to keep going along above our boots toward a tenuous slope--to glide and pretend--that we rupture the air pockets with our lungs and that we open, with our bodies incarnate, the illusion of a form. swift, across the immense whiteness that turns purple-blue with the desperation of the after. after this love? after this ocean? after this metaphor? to glide and to fall on the frothy snow, bathing ourselves in light, in champagne, in red algae . . . we've suffered so much from wanting to open up the line at the edge of the object, the feeling, the word, the border. the border of nature is black and we'll brain ourselves in an attempt to cross it (the skies where we used to commit suicide in reverse, toward infinity, against gravity). the bloodstained hills under the snowy peak that cut into my left leg when I scraped against it and I, rather than suffering from the wound, describe its pain (aesthetics) of disaster. against all protection--unprotected--looking in the mirror at the fissure from which I bleed, first sniffing, touching the bubble that appears and later, from that complicit height, to always watch the body, shrunken and dark from the act in which we've participated as an incident, not as a choice. of the different lines of escape, we've taken one as a way--not as an end--and this red, lyric line allows us to concentrate our sensations in the structure of a feeling, to throb with the explosion of a word (wrapper) that encloses and protects our desire. the poesis of this watery line allows me to pretend that this human landscape is one of snow. and it's inside. without the difference of the (my) intermediary, I assume it as an (I). but I'm tired of the drawing and I throw it away (the boot bucks and drops its binding and I don't fall). does a difference exist, or is the self in the difference? that's how I can repeat the fall incessantly. but the space comes and goes. does the writing move away from itself (the motion of the stroke enters the very motion of the text), from life? the difference is choice. the difference doesn't exist at the center (each thing is the same thing). the difference is peripheral and I like to wander, to split those oblique borders that seem to determine some structure of feeling between these trails of complexity that the artist chooses for his blue, his green, his black gravity. the trails aren't in the context, they just mediate the interior and the white surface of the mountain (his page). Mont Blanc as end and death. and the metaphor (paperweight with snow made from blanched wheat that whirls around without melting) is the real fiction. every man is alone in his determination. and this is nothing more than the tone that assaults him when he makes a choice in time. not in space, his space, which is instant and repetition. we've sensed it at different heights (the yellow espeletia seem like forests, as we court the shadows of the trees). over the appearance of this reality, a fixity: we're imprisoned between the gray air of the paperweight, its green pines, and the border that is the sky and is made of glass. from here, the fable: the sentence constructed to save ourselves from not coming back from the black hole, its dark line, the most dangerous point of escape. (my feminine discourse is syntax; the stapling of the tapestry in which I capture the night). the bell sounds its last peal with horror, it opens and that's my fatal moment to intervene, to glide, frightened (to create inside us spaces for life, spaces that didn't exist, that didn't seem to be able to find a location in space). you were expecting a story. dare to discern whether you've ridden on a ski sauvage, between the leisure and the soft caress with streaks of the obscenity that is writing.

    -- Translated by Kristin Dykstra and Nancy Gates Madsen