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?
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