Yo me pregunto que va a suceder. Yo me pregunto qué camino nos depara la vida y la muerte, el perdón y el olvido. Yo quiero saber en dónde estuviste, qué hiciste, cuándo y por qué. Quiero dejarte a la deriva y pensar sólo en mí; al menos esta vez. Tal vez caminar, encontrar ciertos espacios, entrar en sus territorios, en el planeta de todos y dar la vuelta a la página, gozando al máximo los exquisitos momentos de derrota y perdición. Atravezarte con la mirada, decidir cuándo y caminar sin despedirme. Necesito que me busquen y que me encuentren, que se pudran sus entrañas de desesperación, de malestar. Que lloren océanos porque hacia allí voy. Sola. Y mientras cierro la puerta de mmi reino el tiempo se paraliza. Un paso, dos pasos, tres, cuatro, voy descalza y no miro hacia atrás. El camino se borra mientras lo recorro, no hay nada que ver, lo sé, lo sé todo: soy todo. Yo me pregunto que va a suceder y por qué no soy parte de tu vida. Por qué me haz quitado la piel y los ojos, las manos, los pies el sexo y me dejas sólo píldoras. No importa, no me sirven las palabras cuando puedo volar y ver en que me he convertido. Hoy te visito mi más grande miedo, necesito de tu compañía en estos momentos difíciles de vacío total. Treinta pasos, treintiuno. No puedo, debo verme al espejo; debo recuperar lo que me ha sido arrebatado. Debo dejar de templar y escupir al suelo, escupir tu porquería, mi porquería. Respirar el olor nauseabundo del sacrificio, perder la razón una vez más y reir por todos, por mi madre, por mi hija y la hija de su hija. Somos señuelos, pistas perdidas en la catástrofe: carnada. Es el momento y el ahora, el día de la velocidad, del fuego, es año nuevo. Miro mi esencia a gran distancia, no creo en el hombre, en la mujer, no creo en Dios, en el humano. No creo en el cielo, las constelaciones, en el volúmen, las formas, los sonidos, el viento, los fluídos, en el tiempo y el espacio. Sólo creo en la máquina y su infinita estupidez. Me hago una con ella. Y todo se hace gris. Realizo mi último vuelo perdida en imágenes. Me suspendo en el vacío con la única convicción que me queda: que nunca más voy a aterrizar.
Entre una imagen linda y contar una historia, la disyuntiva está compuesta de innumerables interrogantes: ¿es posible hablar a partir de los recuerdos a pesar de que estos estén compuestos en esencia de imágenes? Tengo, por ejemplo, el recuerdo de su aspecto descuidado, su voz ronquita, su buso marrón… lo que me atormenta es la existencia de un diario, y no haber sido capaz de obtenerlo. Que esté perdido y quede así de aquí en adelante. No se por dónde comenzar y por dónde continuar; mis recuerdos no son una buena fuente porque son demasiado difusos, desenfocados. Puedo plantearme, probablemente, esbozar algún esquema arbitrario que sirva de señuelo para la salida de este laberinto.
La recuerdo echada en una cama de hospital con la cara pálida y los ojos perdidos, es posible que invente esto, pero podría decir que su ojo derecho era el más desorbitado, exactamente el mismo que mi madre tiene afectado por las tiroides y el mismo en el que yo sufro constantes orsuelos. Es posible que nuestro propio cuerpo sea una crónica de ella, es posible que nuestra materia cuente su historia, es sólo cuestión de entender su idioma y saber leer. Medio rostro de Rebeca fue destrozado traz su impacto con un vehículo de seis ejes, probablemente una buzeta. El impacto produjo que su cuerpo se eleve, gire y aterrize en una zanja al borde de la autopista. Después del impacto, Rebeca no murió inmediatamente. Se mantuvo con vida posiblemente hasta poco después de ser encontrada. Y entre el momento del impacto y haber sido encontrada transcurrieron poco menos de seis horas. Cuando intento imaginar sus pensamientos durante ese tiempo me doy cuenta de lo limitada que es mi imaginación. Es muy probable que no pudiera pensar más razonablemente, abriendo mucho más el espectro de posibles pensamientos. ¿Qué es el ser humano sin su racionalidad? ¿Qué queda? ¿Instinto? ¿Espíritu? ¿Energía? ¿Imagen? No es tan fácil. Todos estos conceptos son producidos a partir de un pensamiento racional, uno que designa, define y cataloga. Es probale que Rebeca haya visto la tierra, el pavimento y las ruedas de los vehículos a gran velocidad; y que al disminuirse el dolor su mirada se haya centrado en el cielo. Y que en él haya encontrado una nueva vida, una historia mejorada de su propia vida: con muchos altos y ningún bajo, con felicidad en todos sus aspectos. Y, al final, el cielo, la autopista y la tierra. Un final idéntico. Es posible que sólo luego de eso haya sido encontrada.
I don’t want to recover from this trance. As I feel the images coming and saying nothing. They just retire and lose and still prevail. I can see those pictures in the imposture of a memory, the memory of a dead which wants to remain throught the meanings of cultural reproduction. The past will be then just compose by our own possibilities of perceive the present. She is there while the unapprehensible turkish noise break down at the opposite border of the street, in front of my appartment in Cologne. What it’s on frame and what’s outside is the question of memory. Everything else are pieces, waiting to be ordered and reordered or just staying indifferent to everything, so far away as possible.
No soy lo que soy. Ante tus ojos soy sólo una representación y, con suerte, existo a la expensa de un sentimiento. Estas imágenes son todo lo qu tengo, no existe más allá; no existe meta ni camino. Sólo existe un camino falso que nos aproxima a la realidad. Y nuestra imposibilidad de tocarla.
No estoy satisfecho, no estoy contento: mi vida es una castración fría, seca y estéril. No puedo evitar la autoindulgencia, la masturbación. Esta vez, sólo esta vez, deseo que la voz se apague que no me hable y que todo sea negro, sólo esta vez en la nada. No puedo estar sólo; no puedo vivir por mi cuenta. Lo lamento, te he fallado. Perdón. Son las putas voces. ¡Cállense! ¡Cállense! Tengo dolor de estómago. Necesito un cambio radical, pero aun no estoy seguro de ser capaz de emprenderlo. Un cambio que modifique absolutamente todo y que mate a la voz, la elimine y me deje ser libre.
So there is my film. I’ve got two weeks to record those images from my hometown Lima, where I was supposed to find some amusement and inspiration from a very intimate moment of my childhood: the dead of my grandmother. I think I got sort of lost, I’ve had always problems of orientation. Anyway, there was my family, or part of it, my sister, my mom –who was moving from Bogota to Addis Ababa and using the opportunity to be for a while on town and have some of her and my step father’s stuffs back to Lima- and even my grandfather was there, who actually was the husband of the lately Rebeca. Also some uncles, aunts and cousins where there, and some friends aswell. They all where there but I was still lost. So I dedided to ask for facts. Not that was pretending to get some true out of it, was it indeed more like a kind of training, asking my family some unconfortable questions and then inmediatly trying to put some ice on the situation with some joke or any irrelevant comment. My family there, me here. Also I could go to some of the places I wanted to recall from my memory to this film, like the ex-home of my grannies or the place where Rebeca was driven over. Still I wasn’t that confident to go any further, probably because I felt more secure in those places, although they had brought out some of the woefully memories of my life. I was ok with that, in fact it wasn’t that painfull at all, all what really care was the movie; getting the story told. My granddad wanted to leave. Obviously he wasn’t happy at all with this visits on my account. It was actually very painful for him going back there and being forced to remember such a terrible moment he has tried so keen to forget. I didn’t feel guilty about it, maybe because I know he was a policeman so I guess he could afford it, or maybe because I deeply thought he deserves it. Nevertheless he is an old man, and I’m young, it wasn’t fair. Anyway I got my mom, she is younger than he and she looked so happy to help me find it out. Find my way out, not being lost. I had also the feeling she took it in a kind of therapeutical way, a kind of chance of tearing appart her own ghosts, I mean, the ghost of Rebeca walking around her psychis all over and over. Although I don’t have a good feeling, this pictures of cotidianity are too close to me, I can’t get any distance and for the first time I think I have no aesthetical shield to save my ass. This is the last weapon the human being has by the means of representation. I better look no longer and start to find a way of my own.
I’m trying to find a way of my own but I’m too anxious. I want it now. As you can guess, I have no experience doing this, so there’s not much more to see than what you already do. This isn’t a great movie; probably is not good at all. In fact I’ve already told the end: she passed away. If I didn’t, you could have figured out. Anyway, you know it now: she died. End of the story; the rest is a big black screening. You can get up now and leave the place because that’s it. For now they who want to stay, don’t say I didn’t warned you. Everybody is free of doing with his live as pleased. Now then, let’s assume that’s a fact. You are anyway hearing my voice, in your situation my voice means power, you listen at it as you were in a mental hospital, getting instruction. The more you hear, the more you’ll be healed. It was funny to ask for the definition of madness among the people I know as I wanted to state Rebeca’s condition. I wonder which would be the institutional position of the peruvian psychiatry on this subject, if there is any. An anachronic position in order to find out her condition. I want to know wether they believe on psychiatry, if they agree with my definition, which is a relation of power based on order and morality. I believe this power is represented by the voice, the voice which heals, the voice which tells humanity what is right and wrong. A political voice.
I’m tired. I’m fucking tired and can’t understand why I’m always tired. Everything tires me out and, boy! I’m not old, don’t smoke, don’t use hard drugs, neither sick nor fat. I suggest this feeling or state of the body (being tired) to be the rhythm of the movie. It’s not sequences and montage in a sense of long takes and slow actions, it’s more the communication of this feeling towards an audio-visual format, which could be also transmited by short takes, rapid cuts and violent actions. I think it’s time to go to sleep for a while.
„Take your time and try to remember.“ This is the title I’ve choosen for the piece. I’ll go mentally back in time, collecting traces from my own memory: the traces of your house and your belongings; and scan them in video until getting dry. I’ve thought about making a book too, which would be based on the audio score. Book + CD. Everything that happens on audio must take be reflected in its printed pair, even the silences, by the meaninigs of poetry. I was also thinking in taking a foto of my face early in the morning, every single day for a long, long time, maybe years. I need some documented proofs of my physical changing. I don’t care about the movie right now because you can take care of it. You (Rebeca) are responsible for the rightly culmination of your film. I have by the way two question before I leave you in charge: Have you thought sometime that your body was made of glas or you were some sort of uncrowned queen? I know I’m putting a label on you as I ask, but sorry, I enjoy it! Did you wanted to dive your body in excrement in order to prove the love of your closest persons (me among them) by testing their tolerance to you in such a condition? Surely sounds like a weird thing to do but I find a logic in this action. If someone really loves you, he/she has to love your shit too.
I found myself on the search for Lalo, son of Rebeca, brother of my mother. He represented a very particular case in my family because as Rebeca’s most beloved child, he ended up on the wrong way: No future. No independence. I must stop here. I’m completely tired out. I don’t know what’s wrong with me but my energy is absolutely gone. My daily life is more and more one of a low batt devise. Low batt, beep, beep, beep, out.
So Rebeca will be interviewed. I must prepare the questions and get a costume. I’m positive this will bring something out, although I have to act quickly. There is no much time left and the narration is not ready yet. Long takes, I need long takes. I’m not happy with the handy shots, it’ll be better to try some kind of weight hanging on the camera. Let’s test it.
Yesterday I didn’t write a word. I don’t know why I’m still writing in english given that I’m not really capable. It’s pretencious. Anyway I need some practice since my intention is to tell the story in english. How come? Not completely sure, though. Maybe because is the globalisation tongue with a larger tolerance for orthography and grammar mistakes. It is just assumed it’s not your mother tongue. I wonder if I can really tell something, if there is something to be told. This topic should be clear. I don’t pretend to honour Rebeca making a hommage of her. It’s all about me. It’s my fantasy; her story is just my raw material. Does it make sense? I say it once more: is my story, not yours!
Where is the time gone to?
Roll it. Simulation is the weapon of choose. To performe is to survive. I can’t tell wether we are getting somewhere or not, but I’m sure we can simulate. It could be just a matter of being catched up, but then, then! It’s time to change the strategy and perhaps let the mask fell down or maybe find out another way of simulation. So that’s the point where reality begins pretending unreality and the madness stops being mad and rescues the reality from its delirium tremens, reaviling the simulation. I’m glad I’m doing this. But I’m afraid not of my lack of capacity of doing the job but of getting the job done and then turning the page. Because then is when reality will kill the simulation for good. That’s what really worries me. I hope the madness will never go away.
So then, mommy is comming. Finally. From the very first interaction she’d make me feel like a kid again. I’m pleased, though is not so alright since I intend to get a morbid side of her which is inevitable linked with painful memories. Maybe she won’t be open enough to scout on this side but I’m quite sure she will be. I expect to get morbidity, the problem is to do the first step. I can’t. I can’t because I’m a little kid. Maybe David Petrov would say: „it doesn’t matter just do your thing and say what you wanna say.“ The fact is Petrov was way more talented and intelectually gifted than me; way more cinema-man. On the contrary I’m an ordinary art student, skilled enough to write ordinary texts and work in an average movie while feeling like a kid, running away from trouble, sleeping early today and going to work tomorrow. Mommy is comming and I hate unstability.
Now that girl over there, she has no control of herself. She’s being deeply hurt. And yet she’s going on like if nothing happens. But nothing is about the same as before. It just doesn’t make any sense, rather takes more of imagination. She thinks „if you are yourself you won’t get hurt.“ Well she’s wrong. It’s a matter of time til she makes herself up.“ Not easy, though, she has no control of herself. Neither do I. I can’t help starring at her. I lost her glance.
Mother I’m leaving you. Mother if this isn’t the time to leave then when?
Better start from the begining. I got it. I got what I needed. The story is there, the pieces are there. She got missunderstood, besides she didn’t really care. Two elements are the esence of the whole: obsetion for the power of velocity on a road, in other words, for inminent collition of the machinal body against the human body; and the facination for the home expressed in its physical presence i.a. in the building itself. Both elements are finally confronted towards the end of her life. For now I’ve nothing more to declare.
It was a moment of peace. The reason you ceased fighting, the way you did it, was a matter of time and was rather clear. Of course the struggle inside was going on in an inappropiate manner, of course, but you always knew there wasn’t any other possible end, didn’t you? Of course.
There is a subject on the facial traces. As I look my mother I want to scan all her expresions, her spirit and make them data. But what I desire the most is to scan my subjectivity upon her. I believe it’s possible through uncontrolled technical failure, caused perhaps by the impossibility of fulfil this desire, finding out a new subjectivity, the one of the devise. It is hard to tell. I hope you can finally find yourself throught my technical mistakes, maybe we can finally get a chat from the uncontrol.
Your daughter is gone. She said good bye, I said good bye. It’s difficult to define but she goes on bringing out memories, like finding life everytime she have thoughts about it. I see it like trascendence, you know? The kind you get after thinking on something else, something superficial. And then you got your entire life in retrospective with a new worth, like pulder gold you let fall throught your fingers. That kind of feelling is what I rediscover in your daughter. She knows it. So then we said good bye to each other but it wasn’t like a true farewell, rather than a new way to bring some forgotten things aout. An opportunity.
One phrase to record. Good bye mom. I will miss you. I don’t know who or which movie said that saying good bye is like dying a little bit. Good bye. And now, at the naked face of the facts, I shall ask: are you the one instead?