All Love Letters Are Ridiculous

All love letters

are ridiculous

Diego Maenza

Translated by Gastón Jofre Torres

www.traduzionelibri.it

www.diegomaenza.com

© Diego Maenza, 2020

© Tektime, 2020

© Gastón Jofre Torres, translation, 2020

www.traduzionelibri.it

www.diegomaenza.com

All love letters

are ridiculous

Diego Maenza

Translated by Gastón Jofre Torres

INDEX

FOREWORD

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

EXALTATION

EPILOGUE

Abelard looks up at the sky. Smiling, satisfied, as he hasn't been for days, as he hasn't been for weeks. The clouds crowd in a hazy gray, foreboding. His nervous and excited legs lead him down the sidewalk, but his mind is imagining the imminent encounter with Eloisa, the love of his life. Under his right armpit he has the manuscript, squeezing it as if protecting it in advance from the coming storm. He feels the breeze brush his face, ruffle his thick hair, caress his cheekbones. Abelard looks down at the ground. Look at the trash that vibrates with the wind. His feet go down to the road, carefree, like his dreamy instinct, like his restless eyes that go astray again in the shapes of the cloudscape. That is why he does not notice the car that crosses the avenue quickly, that is why he does not listen to the last and useless moment the desperate horn of the imprudent driver. The metal of the vehicle impacts Abelard's body. Her skin rustles, her flesh lacerates, its bones are destroyed, its beaten anatomy is ejected several meters in the same direction that the breeze carries. Certain splashes of his blood are confused, mixed, integrated, with the vermilion hood of the car. The boy's head hits the pavement and causes trauma. The rain begins to fall, very delicately. The most carefree pedestrian, whose inquisitive nature of the human being will be more focused on verifying the circumstantial details than on directing his attention to the center of the incident (perhaps with the intention of materially taking advantage of the tragic situation), will be the only person who will notice the four words that head the manuscript that has ended up near a sewer, those four words that are already beginning to dissolve throughout the page due to the insipient drizzle, and that constitute the title of the work that yearns to publish the badly wounded young Abelard: Theory of affects.

CHAPTER ONE

To talk about her (I have always said and maintain it) is to talk about the least common creature. What could I say about her that does not sound like something hackneyed or an easy phrase, a hackneyed topic? The problem does not lie in the lack of anecdotes on which to speak. The complication turns out to be the opposite, because in fact there are too many things that I could comment on his life. The issue is that I will not do it because he will start telling this story. And I must take it easy. Detailing his life will be an interesting process, but it could be an inexcusable slip on my part to err for a moment. Perhaps some other more talkative interlocutor is the appropriate person to capture his essence with accuracy and objectivity; However, my claim is much more ambitious: I need, in this process, to reveal what she has meant to me. Where can I find the most crystalline source of truth if I can not find it in her? For her lips the lie is forbidden and this empowers her to do with me what she wants. Her struggle to be a woman has forged the most utopian animal that carries a desperate idolatry towards life. She likes loving... She likes loving me. To enter into details of her being would be to desecrate her. Have believers tried to describe their gods? But I must take the risk, even at the cost of not escaping the attempt unscathed. Her raw and stately character, the haughty breasts that draw curves in the air, the voice of sticky and sweet melody, the mischievous gaze pinching me in indelible caresses, her practical intelligence and generous spirit, the invisible claw of her hips hitting the wind in her peculiar way of walking, her sense of humor, the skillful smile designing her picaresque profile. This is her. The prototype of the perfect woman. A fictional being transmuted into reality. Her name is Eloisa.

My name was Eloisa and I am no longer young. Not after everything that happened. Even over the years and despite the youth of my cells, I found myself eaten away by a spiritual old age that I have preserved until today and that never left my veins. The body is sometimes the reflection of the soul and other times its torture. Because we were born in a time and in a space where beauty is synonymous with misery, although they insist on saying the opposite.

I was slim and beautiful, graceful and fragile like the gazelle that shows its slenderness without realizing that hungry hyenas and starving wolves lurk from the shadows.

Today, telling you this, young friend, I may even know what each of them thought at the time of the incident. The first, the fat one had looked at my thin, brown legs that were appealing for their voracious prey. The second one, the strongest looked at my nascent breasts, small buttons that protruded from my blouse and prompted the man to bite them throughout the work. And the third one, the young man was awakened by the luminous showiness of my turned and firm buttocks based on aerobics and contemporary dances. They were all pigs.

LETTER ONE

I draw you, as if outlining in the soft thicket of the rain an imaginary and perfect face whose precise dimples balance in parallel with the cheeks. I make you smile, making your pains and your customary obligations sleep. They handle your face like puppeteers of your destiny. I make you live a dreamed longing implanted in the depths of you.

Starting a love letter is as difficult as starting a story that does not contain some deficient element that could reveal the writer's full satisfaction with his work. Complacency that, in my opinion, will never be filled, in the same way that it will not be in this love letter.

Transcribing feelings sometimes becomes an almost insurmountable difficulty. Protect the task of the sculptor who must make the fine nose of the model and its beautiful testicles sprout from the hard marble. Heroic is the task of the painter who, mixing his varnishes, achieves on the canvas the perfection of an ideal jaw, striking small breasts that contrast with the splendor of a vulva made up of hair. No less arduous and complex, if not impossible, is the work of the poet who, perched on his platform of lucidity, must bring to the ungraspable what is palpably comfortable, and in a paradoxically analogous case, return the thanks that without his intervention would be inaccessible.

I find myself with this wall at this moment, not as a painter, sculptor or poet, that I do not have so many faculties. I collide with this wall not as an artist but as a human being. My soul (I name this way the set of my few qualities, do not think beyond that) is proud to belong to the side that praises the condition of being human above all artifice of the world, no matter how sublime it may be. First of all we are human beings and as a human I express myself.

Sometimes I ask myself why I waste time writing. The answer cannot be simple. To report the ills that concern society? No, definitely. To dismiss personal problems by turning literature into a great psychological masturbation? Neither. To achieve fame and wealth, or to rejuvenate the way we use language (not the organ but the verbal communication system)? No. And I explain: My role model in his attitude is the Shadow Writer. I only think about writing and the rest doesn't matter.

Perhaps the answers are less pragmatic than is generally believed. I try to answer: I write to understand better my surroundings. Perhaps the answer is the same one that I give myself every time I question why I am used to reading: To become more human.

Do I become more human by writing love letters to you? Does love grow because I write a letter? Can love grow as babies or toads or rivers grow? Or could it be that when I write a letter to you little by little I am detaching (as if it were an infinite fractal) the pieces that constitute whole love and in this way little by little you are running out of my love? Does love diminish as an old man or as roast meat or as rotten fruit? Perhaps the only valid answer is this: Writing raises questions, irresolutions, in the same sense that trying to describe the marked smell of your hair makes me so confused, opaque compared to what my head spits on me. Or in the same way that your face becomes at this moment the word that escapes me, or like the praise towards your eyes that slips down my throat with the perplexity of someone who is ecstatic and no longer has pleasure for stories or poems.

No, it´s not that either. I do not know. I'm not sure.

Yours, Abelard.

AFFECT

Affect arises from the pancreas and is diluted by our bloodstream until it returns to the hypothalamus. It is amber in color that symbolizes happiness and the search for well-being. It is manifested in infrasound and with a floral smell. In the universal symbology it is represented by the Moon. In the Tarot cards I identify it with The Strength, which provides control and security. In the western zodiac I personify it with the sign Virgo, attached to spirituality, order and intelligence. In the Chinese zodiac I find it in The Rabbit, full of prudence, tenderness and harmony. Affect is Liquid and it goes to the North riding a Unicorn because it is virginal.

CHAPTER TWO

As it usually happend in the mating process of the human race, our lives were brought together by an arbitrary fate. She is fifteen years old and in the splendor of menstruation; I am fourteen and in the delusions of masturbation. It sufficed as a pretext an occasional encounter, a fair of the village and five of the most scandalous friends to start our relationship.

She was the most beautiful girl of the school and I was an aspiring suitor who began to stop studying because of the new philosophy of love.

For me, the beginning of our relationship was sweet. For her, not so much. The motivation of her approach was encouraged in an effort to maintain a romance not with me but with a relative. The irony (and why not say it, romantic) is that in the process she ended up falling in love with me. I conquered her or we conquered each other.

Perhaps she intends to explain the facts by resorting to complicated abstractions, which a fool would venture to specify in a couple of words. But I point this out, my goal keeps ambition.

Her overflowing joy against my constant battle with melancholy; her charisma and intelligence reflected in the contours of her brooding and vivacious eyes every time an idea addressed her or every occasion fumbling evasions by the depths of the imagination to excuse herself in front of her parents for our furtive dates, in front of my philosophical pretensions; her mania for dancing and my mania for writing. Everything was unjustifiable and yet, dear reader, beloved reader, you will understand that for us has been the most intense relationship that have sustained people in the world and I hope to communicate that impression properly.

Night fell with surprise at the end of the summer. I left the dance class that a young and beautiful European instructor had begun to deliver in the village and took place in evening hours on the premises of the institute where I studied. I remember that that day we had rehearsed a Turkish dance that I would never dance after the event. The mother of one of my mates offered to take me home in her car. I refused. I wanted to walk and clarify certain ideas of youth.

I took the longest alley that borders the teak trees and wraps the road in darkness. The stars protruded without timidity and a large moon made the stones shine like magic static fireflies.

Fate wanted the three birds of prey to emerge from the gloom. The big man approached me with the mask of an archangel. He did not say words and he woud never do so during that anguish night, but stood in the middle of the road and opened his horizontal arms to stop me and I realized he was the head of the group. The other two silhouettes appeared. A young, thin man and not so tall, with an adolescent complexion, wore a skull mask. He said You can't pass, and the sound of his voice confirmed his youth. The tall individual was covered by the mask of a goat. His voice was thick as his stomach and he also chided me by ordering me not to scream.

My body felt the paleness of fear. My thoughts as well as my body were paralyzed. My hair stood on end when feeling the forced contact with those three beasts. As if that fat goat had been a witch and his threat had been a spell, no matter how hard I tried I couldn't scream.

LETTER TWO

The morning I woke up with that kind of revelation that told me that I was really in love with you, I found myself startled. Perhaps I do not have the precise image and I am unable to describe the exact sensation, but the memory emerges almost clear, like a déjà vu waiting to be captured. At that moment she was just a friend to you, a circumstantial mate who you visited in your free time as the more adequate distraction to any teenager.

The other revealing morning, in which I suffered your epiphany, was when you gave me that innocent kiss. When I came home I fell down in the hammock and while the short wind touched my happy face, the memory of your touch evoked my almost epileptic feelings, in internal shocks like insects flitting my chest or candy worms poking my bowels.

Mornings... Maybe they are foreboding, or something like signs. The mornings at the institute were not pleasant if I did not find your presence at recess, even if it had only been for the occasional babble that emerged from your mouth, because I had to (as I once told you) take out your words with a scoop. Adequate metaphor to define your reality at that time when you were a pale boy and very quiet. The important thing was to perceive our figures sitting on the sidewalk, with my legs together and my hands on my lap, and capture the lifting of my hairs interacting with the rhythm of your movements, as two magnetos strangers, who wanting to attract, only rub each other in a sway of tension. Those days I began to fall in love with you, with your long pauses of silence, with your gaze projected to the horizon in search of ideas and that encouraged me to explore the enigma of your prudence.

It was one morning when you waited for me in the pouring rain. You insisted on going to the meeting, without realizing that it was better to escape the flood and postpone our meeting until the rainbow exit. It was the morning which gathered us in the park of the village, in the corner christened with a fancy name and we'd use as a key on subsequent occasions, having always kept in mind that each couple has dubbed it with a name according to their relationship. It was one morning when you brushed my breasts with the impudence of your hormones. It was one morning (I want to dream it like this) when you caressed my buttocks over the fabric of my hateful denim pants.

It was one morning the first time we made love, although our love had already been made long before. Perhaps because at that time we only had those spaces in the early hours of the day, when the dawn was breaking and we woke up eager for the moment of meeting again. And then the afternoons would come, which may not be so premonitory, but very special. When noon was approaching and I was jubilantly getting ready for meetings in the city.

Our love was maturing, and we matured together with it, these sad lives and remorseful for the distance, but happy because despite everything we felt close.

I remember the time when we did not have a phone and we sent messages thanks to a notebook and a momentary accomplice. And after all this happy remembrance, our contemporary situations come to my mind, these ones which we are building and destroying. A Russian man says that even the great reformers of the society have been criminals, because when they enacted new laws, they abolished the old ones preserved as sacred. For this I say that to keep on building, we demolish some things, exorcising our shortcomings, practicing a debugging in our relation to not let her die.

Maybe I can't fully understand you, it's most likely. But here I am, trying to tell you that I want to interpret the codes of your brokenness and take a path holding our hands. Perhaps not a radical, immediate solution, but one that serves to adjust the balance of this relationship that is teetering like a castle of cards on the seat of a full-fledged locomotive.

This letter is a symbol of my engagement. I feel bewildered because I warn that I have demanded too much to you and in your circumstances you have not been able to satisfy my whims, not because you did not want it but because the nature of your sadness has absorbed you and I have not been able to warn you until now when the day is breaking, after this dawn of anguish.

Maybe the mornings are foreboding. Because just now the image of a hypothetical future arrives, with your warm body resting next to mine in a morning hug, in an awakening that is very dreamy, when the dew has distilled the sweat on the nearby herbs and the first twilight of the day bring out the warmth of the sun that is not from the sun but from our awakening.

Yours today, tomorrow and forever.

CHAPTER THREE

Our story started in high school. An exalted girl with her thunderous voice who complained to the rector. It was the graceful Eloisa. Thin, with her waist made of porcelain and her angelic face, his bow at rear and her charisma embroidered by the youthful energy. When we met, little by little, a closeness disguised of friendship brought us together. The most important moment of the breaks was being able to see her and greet her with my glance. The mornings insisted on turning me next to her. Gradually my illusions flickered; sometimes, exalted, it did not fit me, because she chose me to talk at break; other times I was sad, because she spent her minutes in the hubbub of her group of friends.

One morning, after leaving the institute and after having participated in some games of a fair that had been installed in the town, I walked through an alley not so common in my tours with the intention of heading home. I heard shouts behind me. In the distance, a gang of girls in scruffy uniforms were beckoning me to approach them. A park smudged with sand offered us its ground as the only seat. The comments full of puerilities (of which I was oblivious) of those nymphets prevented me from participating in the chat. I shone in my silence and they directed their glances at me. Tell her, a freckled girl told me, looking at Eloisa. Nerves took over my skin. I remembered that a week ago I had awakened with the clairvoyance of being in love. I pretended to repeat a lovely speech that I had prepared some days ago, but the words flew to a dimension impossible to cross. I laughed demurely. It was when I heard the expression: Talk to her now. Eloisa’s closest friend had said it and this stimulated me to speak. I looked at her. She sat cross-legged on the position of a lotus.

I did not have to spend more than a minute for a short kiss (short in terms of body but substancious within us) to be present under the expectant eyes of the girls. The youth crying of the companions who had been suspended in front of my declaration of love rumbled rhythmically, mysteriously unanimous, as prepared with priority, unvealing the consummation of the ritual when touching her mouth with mine and extinguish finally the lip virginity of her dear friend.

I was once a virgin. I always thought that he would be the first man I would give my purity. That tingling sensation came to me every time I finished reading his love letters, smart, passionate and ridiculous, as all love letters should be. After all we’ve had a relation for few years.

But I have strayed from the subject, dear friend, and since you insist on knowing my story I will proceed to try to finish it.

If there's anything it does not erase from my memory, rather than the visual record, it is the smell of his body. If someday they asked me to identify any of them for the nature of their build, I am sure that I would be wrong in my exploration than if I did because of their smells.

The silent man, who with the passage of time I preferred to give the name of dumb, had a particular smell of machine oil, as if his work had been to lubricate all day gears of complicated mechanisms. The rotund reeked of stale onions, a stench emanated from his armpits and intensified as drops of sweat fall from his forehead over my face. The young smelled of cinnamon, but at times marked in the environment a nauseating fragrance of marinated seafood.

The onslaught of the fat vermin was the most egregious. Supporting the weight of his gross and repulsive corpulence was the least compared to feeling it in my guts.

LETTER THREE

Does it suffer more who waits for the caress of its love, or that sadness that does not have anyone to wait for?

The poet

A Frenchman claimed that love letters are written starting without knowing what is going to be said and ending without knowing what has been said.

Whenever I write to you, I try to do it with a fixed idea that I am gradually developing. This is not something I invented, but I've extrapolated from a theory of the story, according to which the first three lines have almost the same importance that the last three. I have understood this formula as the definition of writing, in any field.

But let's get into the matter. An African philosopher has delved into the theme of love, and in her work which is entitled Depth of the amatory arts she draws us showing the passive side of the desire which reaches its climax when it is satisfied and the diligent character of love as source activity. She condensed it into one powerful phrase:Love is infinite dissatisfaction. There is no more irrefutable truth.

This is the thesis that she develops throughout her work, sometimes a little hyperbolic, it is true, but never without charm. The interesting part is that phrase. Desire, according to her, culminates when it is satisfied. We wish something and when we get it, it is the end of the story.

But when the desire is linked to love, it is difeent: It is possible that the desire can route to love; the beloved, irrefutably we wish it, adds the philosopher.

Today I want you to feel that through my words I can caress you, and not with the prosaic friction that the delights of modesty pay us, but, but with these indelible caresses.

As the bards immortalize their loved ones, this humble practitioner would wish to glorify yourself with songs that refresh your youthful thirst and with poems that lull your afternoon. Say how much I am in love with you, virginal goddess, almighty, the owner of my love, the slave of my love, as the slave women of the Old Testament, with a candor of cosmos as Proserpina, infernal queen, or some pagan goddess. You are the Musa of poetry. You: a thousand women in one. A thousand goddesses in one. My Pandora, my Eva, my Mary Magdalena so purified for the kisses of Jesus.