Traducción de "Háganme un lugar en su corazón."

Cita bibliográfica: Fadanelli, Guillermo. La polémica de los pájaros. 1st ed. Mexico: CONACULTA, 2007. 69-70.

Make me a place in your hearts.

Every day I am more distant from the organized culture. I do whatever is possible to join in, but it is never enough. Let’s say that sometimes I throw out my intelligence to a manhole, but not even then I am accepted. And I ask myself: what happened that you cannot make friends? Where is your fucking common sense? I do not want to be left out, especially when the words in vogue are relationship, interaction and relaxation. Could someone please invite me to a writers’ party? I want to know how they are. Could someone please invite me to present their book? I could say marvelous things about it, don’t believe me? Check this out: “The works of John Doe has an essential characteristic, the one of transmitting to us the original sense of poetry.” It is not bad. I know how to behave, I am nothing out of common, I won’t molest the maids, nor throw out the whiskey to the rug, nor make fun of you when you began to talk about poetry. I will integrate myself. I swear. But someone has to give me a chance to show my refinement. How should it not? Occasionally I dream with having long conversations about art with a specialist. Sometimes, I wake up terrified the same specialist would not talk to me. And I find myself so alone. And my old friends, those who consumes the curvature of their asses writing too so many magazines and newspapers, why don’t they call me? We could play with Barbies: your doll’s name is Kafka, mine is Henry Miller. Would it not be charming?

I have been too detached, I have disregarded my public relationships to infamous levels. I have been sometimes mean to the cult ladies, those that, to intimidate the menopause, they read The Flowers of Evil. But I am willing to change, I am decided to move to the other side of the border and write a manifest about the Chicano’s avant-garde; in fact, I have the intention of hanging a boy scout’s backpack to my shoulders and search the center of the world, the Paris of the present. And when I come back to my country, I will tell to my countrymen from where the world flows: “Look, that light that stands out from the darkness; that, my dear countrymen, is the light of progress”. I promise to rehearse all the bullshit, just so they make me a little place in their hearts.

A society where no one attempts to fuck over their neighbors? A society where only the apathetic participate. Impossible, everybody has a project, everybody desires to add a little more of their filth into this world. Well then, from now I will abandon such apathetic utopia and I will show more enthusiasm to the activities organized by the Estate: I will ask for scholarships to continue my creative activities, I will write discrete eulogies to consecrated authors to see if in the future they do me a space in their sanctuaries of creativity, I will go to mass to read poetry, I will write essays about dead writers, I will stop writing about the 69 to dedicate myself to reflect about the epic academic movement of ‘68, I will prostrate my ass in front of a microphone to read at loud my bullshit, I will change, my friends, I will change ; but, how should I do it if you do not take me in your arms?

Traducción de "¿Se acabó el vodka?"

Cita bibliográfica: Fadanelli, Guillermo. La polémica de los pájaros. 1st ed. Mexico: CONACULTA, 2007. 32-33.

Has the vodka finished?

I will receive the end of the century with vodka and cereals, only that; I am not an addict of the fin-de-siècle mythologies nor to the millenarian predictions; to me the end of the century happened long time ago, if not, why is there such kind of convulsed letarge in which we survive everyday? If we look a bit inside the chest of modernity, we will find that all of its objetcts and myths have inscribed the mark of the end of the world; I refer that everyone else look like they were infected with the virus of velocity. Is it not the idea of the avant-garde the announced suicide of linear time? And the habit of compressing history, of making it dietetic, is it not also a clear sign of obesity? The dead body is now like never in its expansive stage: It has to be put on diet!

The apocalypse is now or never, is it not a little ridiculous to wait until the last day of the milennium, and fulfill literally the rols of historical jesters? "Is ridiculous but necesary", say some, meanwhile, I will be lying in my bed, bored of others enthusiasms: lying, like I am now, waiting, wishing that Tyson continue biting: Come on Tyson! Who said you cannot bite? From what part of those white's asses blooms such prudery?

Lying while I am witness of how the beautifull and sunny banana republics discover democracy. Nothing more and nothing less than democracy; fuck, particularly I would rather prefer another type of name, maybe penicillin, autopsy, menopause, amputation: Limited forms of disgrace, nicknames to a morbid society; either way, there is no other path, the citizens require to be organized and governed embodying the democratic mass, I do not blame them nor condemn them, I wish them to live in peace, to dance harmoniously under the dawn of a new age; in that way I will manage to live without being bothered: a parasite, if you wish to call me, the adjectives I give them to you. Is it not a great alibi to live in the shadows of the civil herd?

I do not have many years left in me and I wish to live them in peace, lulled in the catchy jingle of the democrats. Is the vodka finished? Tyson, please, eat the ears of all those whites moralists, and of the balcks that follow them! Dammit! Where is the fucking vodka?