P. G. López Ilich

Viajando desnudo a China y sin salir de casa (II)

Observing our breath:

I don’t know. I don’t know why am I writing in English, when I haven’t spoken in Spanish since I came to this Buddhist Chinese monastery over a week ago. I don’t know why am I writing not sitting down and I haven’t titled this Word document as ‘Insert a title’, like always, but as ‘I don’t care’. I don’t know why am I writing, when the frustration that came with not being able to put to paper all my experiences this and last year was bigger than Donald Trump’s ego.
   I don’t know, but I feel. I feel grateful for knowing all the people in my life, those in the UK, in Spain in and outside my home-region, and all over the world. I feel that they are here with me, lying on this bamboo mat, as I am there with them enjoying the tickling of their breathing on my beard, their gentle touch on my knee, them pressing hard against me when we hug. I feel that my heart is a relic box, and I’m just but the blessed priest of the Church of Pablo. Every time my heart pumps, and it pumps approximately eighty times per minute of every hour of every day of my whole life, you nourish me. My cells survive on oxygen and sugar, but live off the love and warmth that the relics, your relics, infuse my blood with.
   I don’t know what to write about. I’m just letting it out and have always been suspicious of this type of writing. Maybe I need to push, push harder, like as if it wasn’t dilated enough, but you’re both willing to go for it. Maybe I should shut up and think, or maybe I should screw over my sleeping schedule and write at night, LIKE I ALWAYS DO. I START writing AT 01AM AND HAVE SOMETIMES FINIS

HED AT 5AM. I don’t know what’s going on, but it is no time to stop now.
  My crotch and thighs are getting hotter and hotter because of my laptop. I shouldn’t probably miss vespers, (guess I’ll have my own) you want to know why? I’m addicted to intense experiences. I thrive in writing when I’m boiling but can’t and don’t want to stand up and turn on the fan, I thrive in fighting off mosquitoes, I thrive in… not knowing how to finish this sentence and accomplishing the rule of three but HAVE to keep going.
   It has been a year and four months since I did this last. I’ve always been clear on the fact I write for myself even if I share it, despite the autobiographic nature of my writing. I’ve only written something for someone else once. That has been, as some of you know, Behind the velvet curtain, a thirty-three paragraphs and a thirty-three line poem on Love, who I dedicated and wrote for, in an act of full gratitude, to the five women that I’ve interacted with in a romantic-sexual sense. This time, I am writing for my staff colleagues.
   If you ask why, I shall imitate one of those renown Zen masters and throw a shoe at you. And yes, this is a koan.
   I came back from that pseudo-meeting to find I was missing one of my flip-flops, and couldn’t find my set of bowls. I walked outside listening to the great Sufi singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. I found my bag of bowls on top of the table we put the food on. I wonder then, what really nourishes me: is it food or the act of eating itself?
   My other flip-flop was under my bed. Given the bed has always been associated with your most private place, does that mean that I and only I have the key to being comfortable with myself? Do I only need to literally step out of my privacy to find the key to being comfortable? Or maybe I have always been but never realised? I shouldn’t have found my flip-flop under the bed, but a mirror.
   I embrace Ara.
   I embrace Colin.
   I embrace Jake.
   I embrace Kim.
   I embrace Michael.
   I embrace Naomi.
   I embrace Sam.
   I embrace Yoshi.
   I’m sliding down on my bed. I don’t like writing like this, or maybe I do in the same way I like eating bittermelon. It tastes bad but is great for you, and reminds of you of what bitterness is. I feel like breaking the laptop, because maybe what I want to say can’t be expressed with words, but it can be expressed in one way:
You, at last, have managed to make me write. You, at last, have made Me. You, at last, have made me not only to find Truth, but be a messenger of It.

Publicado la semana 28. 09/07/2018
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