Not Yet
by
Eduardo Acevedo
Translated by Teresa M. Lorenz
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2008 Eduardo Acevedo
All rights reserved.
****
Contents
Thank you, thank you very much
I live beyond my possibilities.
How is it possible?
I have a prudent friend
who is living under those of his own
and if you want an explanation,
he concentrates more
on the back and forth movement
neglecting the limits.
But, who knows the limits well?
I must be a fraud
taking additional portions
with some illusionist art.
Or ingenuous,
without finishing the lesson
in the book of limitations.
I have even thought
that the Río de la Plata leaves
a strange sediment in the blood.
My possibilities
have that elastic quality
of being able to stretch marvelously,
exhibited by felines
or by female undergarments.
Even so, I go beyond,
finding out how things are broken.
Luckily up until now,
I don’t know who is paying the bill.
A flower in India
opens its petals
only once.
Each sailor has
his port and precise date.
Each lottery has
a winning day waiting for you.
There is a stone in Sumatra
and another in Brazil with your name.
There is love with a chair reserved
in each café.
There is a heroic gesture,
a saving minute,
a store with your happiness.
There is a fateful flight
dispelling destinies.
With such innocence
we let our opportunities pass us by.
With such resentment
we wait for our infinite turn.
I am recollecting
pending dreams
to make an inventory.
Or to make a wreath of roses
taking the place of the thorns.
A mattress of pending dreams,
a good stock.
They must be light dreams
to take everywhere,
wild card dreams
for any occasion.
If in the inventory
some repeated dreams appear,
I accept exchanges.
But that’s not to mention that
the passed-down dreams of another,
in exchange for my obsessions,
would serve me very well.
To build a ghetto with drug abusers,
setting them aside
as we already did with lunatics,
is impossible.
There are too many people in between.
We should allot resources
encouraging brilliant minds
to discover a pill
affordable to everyone
and without side effects.
That will naturally attract
the current clientele
and, not to mention, even potential ones.
Without destruction or physical dependence
and at the cost of a chocolate bar.
Got up depressed
and with a lot to do?
Take the pill.
No time for the lotus position?
Take the pill.
Since it doesn’t make you dependant
nor would you loose lucidity,
or have to deal with a middle man
-as I said before,
at the cost of a chocolate bar,
without sordidness
and habitual criminality-
it would be as familiar in our lives
as aspirin.
Of course there would still be doctrines
and masochists
opposing this instant happiness,
with the only valid argument
being that it doesn’t require much effort.
So that the weak,
unsuccessful,
or intolerant to this world
continue getting by
however they can.
I had a secret life
with a neighbor
some time ago.
In my childhood memories
her complicit image
and my silent infatuation appear.
Perhaps
only she would know
about our romance.
I was also the invisible
character of Salgari
accompanying Sandokan
through the southern seas.
As every child should be
while reading Salgari,
when his mom calls him to eat.
Lavish lives
in yearnings and intimacy.
Then during adolescence,
my endless secret life
of Casanova began:
lost in the prettiest one of the gang
while the traitor
preferred another,
I got even in our hidden life
with many a loving face.
And from there,
it was only one step to showbiz:
actresses, models
and other nymphs
passed through my dreaming arms.
When I began
to make decisions seriously
-when they seriously demanded
them from me-
I initiated my saga of detective-like,
conjectural lives,
following clues to the possibilities
that I did not choose.
Comforting secret lives,
where oftentimes
things were going better for me.
What also came was
the injustice of life,
trap-like situations where you
are the mouse.
And I unfold sibylline lives,
simulating lives
mocking with austere gesture
and flipping the bird from behind.
Maturing more slowly,
the intimate lives bloomed
with indisputable intuition,
resigned certainty
and talents refined to the shade.
Having said this,
don’t worry about some
of your likely sordid lives
my little Russian doll,
since we both are here
trying to figure out each other.
I knew that it would not be happiness.
I knew that someday it would come
as death would some day arrive.
I knew that I would finally see
your true face.
I knew that my dispassionate look
would not overlook detail.
I knew more than enough of this
and just to prove it,
look at my tanned skin.
I even expected an unforeseen turn,
some last weakness to discover.
I took for granted
disenchantment and relief.
Moreover, I even took into consideration
the cruel portion
of my empty heart
and for eventuality,
I rehearsed the role of having
some warmth about me.
A stupid thing to do, of course,
but better than just plain cruelty.
I felt all of these things
that I had predicted.
I felt life
a little uglier and emptier
than usual.
Why would you care, dear reader?
Euphoric, obsessed,
you will be in an unsuitable
state to read:
euphoria is enough for you.
Discouraged…? Indifferent…?
Perhaps something easy to read,
with the effort
of an intravenous probe.
In those cases,
I prefer television.
And with what matters to you,
why would you want to read it?
It’s better to search for it…
Perhaps anticipation, an image,
someone else’s grief,
unnoticed winks.
You need to eat and yawn,
a good dream.
If you needed to read,
you would be in trouble.
You are in trouble.
Trapped like me,
at the other extreme.
How many memorable twilights,
how many cats came to our lap?
When does the gesture,
the unrepeatable limit occur?
All right.
You want to repeat it
and I or anyone else
will please you.
With the genre and style that you prefer.
I promise that after I finish writing
I will tickle Cris.
And you promise that you won’t read
for a while.
That little soldier falling at first
was badly tuned into
his warlike instinct.
His war was short.
It cost him his life
and it probably was not his war,
distracted from his true concerns
in an unfortunate moment.
There are longer wars.
Some young romantic intellectual
accompanying Stalin
and bearing the stupidity and cruelty
for the rest of his life.
And growing older being bothersome to him.
The most fortunate ones,
choose our own wars.
It must have been breast milk
or a favorite lullaby
what made my temper
shift to the wrong side.
Precocious fighter,
it was advantageous to equally receive
and exchange blows
during childhood.
The bruises and resentment
quickly went away.
Now it is my turn
for everyday private wars
that are already withdrawn from innocence.
So many that are making
a career out of being a hero
only leave me
the vacancies of the villain.
There are also gladiators
who do not see the lion that eats them.
Champions in compliance,
they are distracted by the applause
and the shouting of the circus.
War is war.
There is no free war.
Every victory
passes on its bill
and the only one with anything left
is the victorious one.
I confess that it took me a while to understand
this very obvious arithmetic,
but since then
I have taken care of my reputation
in order to be able to flee gracefully.
Fashions
are funny alterations
of things passed
-graceless, they would not be fashionable.
In this liquid, changeable,
precarious and nomadic phase of the world,
I am exceedingly worried
about people discovering
my cave-dwelling profile
of twenty seven years uninterrupted
by a loving relationship,
along with another twenty years of labor.
What kind of nonsense
will such a mummified vision
be able to tell about life?
Since everything in this informative world
is known or can be known
even against our will,
it is better to be protected
with a timely self-confession.
My weak line of defense
is on luck’s side
-so what do you want from me?
I can’t help being lucky-
with happiness winning
the entire year’s cutoffs
by almost no margin at all.
My strong line of defense
is on money’s side,
which one must possess
in a respectable quantity
so as to be able to despise it.
I am simply in a loving,
accumulative phase,
with plenty of advantage over you
conceited liquid converts.
Public actions redeem us
from our customary private caddish tricks,
appeasing guilt and pursuit.
There is a certain practical indignity
that is making itself more public.
Weekly quarter-hour kindness
available to us all,
also counts,
so we should make it coincide
with a favorable opportunity.
If we add
your genuine comment to this
without the sophisticated theoretical reference points
to form an opinion even about bread,
-you must be very clever
or very ingenuously unsuspecting of it-
together with a generous impulse to not form an opinion
when the time is right,
then I say,
you can start feeling
an incipient sense of well-being,
that will give you confidence to exchange
that eternal action movie
for something more tranquil
like the history of the moth.
If you liked the book,
give it to a friend.
If you did not like it,
forget about it in some plaza
or café.
Cheer up!
it is only a book.
Tomorrow who knows…
perhaps it will be
your girl.
There are those who inquire
meticulously
before buying a car.
They test it out
with strength tests,
turning radius,
stability,
comfort,
economy,
resale value
and I don’t know what else.
There are those who save
their effort,
by getting advice from
a friend from the previous group.
Another large group
partially inquires
and after the purchase,
transforms into avid
information collectors,
validating their executed selection.
There is some kind of laziness,
arrogance
and stupidity in this behavior.
And some kind of confidence
in an internal radar
to make decisions
without a strong foundation.
I even knew of someone
that decided just to stick
with a used one
just for the heck of it,
for the first glance
at the headlights.
What instinctive confidence!
Although I do not remember well
if he was referring to his car
or his current wife…
The political animal in practice,
in trust,
in order to achieve election,
must lack the political virtues
that we, the citizens,
admire.
Those political virtues
that we citizens
do not possess,
but that we seek
legitimately in our
preferred political animals.
Thus, democracy
ends up being
an exercise of our imagination.
This sonnet wants to be presented
complying almost formally to all the rules
to such a magnificent bust directed,
aloof and difficult to achieve such tools.
With such filigree it's easy for mania to hate
dissuading phrases, impassioned by words
without an austere unglamorous break
with meter, as roughly accentuated as swords.
Although it would be foolish to deny
this celestial rhythmic beauty,
with seven centuries to be baptized,
choosing, without bother, will be my duty.
Vain words and rhythm with a celestial wand
and no hard work will correspond.
If we can listen
to a funny phrase
and someone
can greet us
with natural affection,
we are not lost.
Nor are we rescued,
but the day tilts up
slightly
toward happiness.
While he was thinking
that she was bored,
he felt at ease.
Now that he knows
her tranquility,
boredom
overcomes him.
Of whom do I speak
and of which relations?
It doesn’t matter very much.
It applies to any situation
where the despicable is acceptable.
Don’t be afraid to use it
in various circumstances.
It is just like the color black,
which mixes well with everything
and suits everyone well.
I wonder if there is any section
of the newspaper
less desired to write
than the obituary?
I doubt it.
They are the forensic scientists of medicine,
the chimney sweeps
of domestic occupations.
Of course,
it is a first impression,
perhaps awkward,
as first impressions
seem to be.
The good man
only has to find out
and write about
the good things
done by the deceased.
And in that slant toward
the good side,
he can calmly
let his mind loose, and even invent.
Anyway,
who can even dare
to speak badly of the deceased?
Nothing is more comforting
and touching
than writing your own
obituary beforehand.
And if you fill out
your epitaph for the gravestone well,
the world will be at your feet.
We should not reread
the work that
pleased us long ago.
They have been improving the style
and there are subtleties of spirit
suiting us better each time.
We even recall phrases
that would be disappointing
if we found them disfigured
in the original text.
We shouldn’t even see
our old sweethearts again
after a long time
has elapsed.
The gentleman and the thief
are characterized
by their interest
in going unnoticed.
The gentleman
doesn’t cause trouble,
which makes things easy.
The thief hassles
the victim,
the insurance company
and the police
that want to catch him.
The gentleman receives
without asking for it,
what the thief
obtains by force.
What a strange comparison!
It’s like comparing an umbrella
to a blind hen.
But the fact of going unnoticed,
gives the thief
a certain distinction.
Ramona please
clear the table,
except for the drinks.
Shall I get this salad bowl?
Shall I get this plate?
And what about this dish…?
Darling, you light up in that dress
when you walk.
You don’t see it in yourself
but you are happy
pleasing others.
And when you go up on stage
to seduce us with your acting,
you won’t even be able to see yourself
eliciting the gleam
of your altruism once again.
Worn out at night,
when you feign that ecstasy
you will pleasantly deceive
your husband
for the second time around.
Nor tomorrow
will you feel it with me
and it’s a pity
that you cannot see yourself.
When I am tuned in,
I don’t expect anything.
That is to say,
I don’t demand an agreement,
acceptance or joy.
I don’t expect any action
to please me.
It would be pleasant if it happened
but I don’t expect it to.
Let’s be clear,
neither do I expect contempt
nor an unusual stupidity.
I don’t expect free discourtesy
or violence.
I don’t expect treason.
Of those who are always around me,
I don’t assume anything
beyond
their known weaknesses.
And I don’t get accustomed
to their hidden surprises.
You could have been any other woman
in this earthly garden.
How much beauty there is
circulating around the streets.
How many indifferent looks there are
seeking something.
How many corners
to run into, suddenly.
How many strangers
with the necessary things to disturb me.
To chose each other amongst
so many favorable possibilities,
was an accident of attention.
This blessing could have
just as easily been a tragedy.
Cheers! To the great solar plexus,
crowned with glory by the vagabonds
and the sympathetic that wander around there,
you naturally
don’t understand a word.
Don’t expect to find the sacred plexus
in some liturgical act
with incense and sacred canticles.
Without knowing it perhaps, you
have poked around the sidereal plexus
with horoscopes,
astral charts
and more seriously,
in some glimpses of the other world.
But the great stranger
is your orbital plexus.
A real shame,
considering its responsibility
in the interchanging
of vital plans.
Don’t worry about those rare concepts:
you are alone and feel alone
surrounded by people.
You brush past, squeezed in traffic jams,
trains, elevators and gatherings,
feeling isolated.
Your life seems to be like those comic strips
progressing with consecutive pictures
that don’t touch, interlace
or overlap each other.
Imagine yourself in Paris
-if you’re already in Paris,
imagine yourself in Rome-
entering a fourth-category
piano concert
on a rainy afternoon
and leaving arm in arm
with a crazy, old soloist.
You, then, have interlaced
your vital plans with the weirdo
and with Julio Cortázar,
thanks to the fact that your orbital plexus
connected with theirs.
Do you want to sweep aside your solitude,
your isolation?
Do you want to know who in the hell
your neighbors,
or your coworkers are?
Don’t give it a second thought,
for it is very simple to solve:
just like thieves are quick to say to you:
it’s either the money or your life!
you can tell them:
it’s either the orbital plexus or the pubis!
Those who commit suicide
take life in general, and
their own in particular,
very seriously.
Such disinterest
for both
should include
a similar deception.
But those who commit suicide kill themselves
and they must have their reasons.
Nobody knows
what will come afterwards,
except that it is a lot of time
to not bother
with this brief performance.
Laziness in doing some things.
Or simply
laziness of life.
Anything interesting
quickly drives laziness away.
Anything exciting
conquers even fatigue.
There are some who are passionate
and tireless, with the fear
of being infected by laziness.
Tirelessly bored,
one day they will forget their fear
and will slump into laziness.
Bored with inactiveness,
one day passion
will save them.
And they will rest
in the kingdom of leisure.
The brilliant phrase,