Excerpt: 'Dark Desires And The Others' by Luisa Valenzuela
October 2, 1978
On the Eve of the Trip
You’ll think that I died, and something like that is indeed happening or has happened. You can’t tell anymore what’s alive and what’s dead, or rather, who’s going around these worlds, seemingly dying. Remembering is like being left hanging from something that you don’t have anymore — if you ever really had it — one reason to be more or less agglutinate, magnetic. Valid.
Remembering here and now, in my house in Buenos Aires, as if I were at the top of a mountain, and even further, as if I were lying at the bottom of the sea, which is where these things tend to happen. Sometimes yes and sometimes no. Sometimes the memories flow when it gets dark; they appear and they fade, they amaze us at the turn of a page and perhaps we should hurry to retain them. Perhaps we should offer more to memory, that form of madness.
I found a piece of paper. I found a writing pad — and I write and I write and I write. I’ll write until the ink runs out and there’s nothing left of what I care about to jot down.
Here there is order, calm. I don’t want to leave this house anymore. I don’t want to be distracted. I prefer to keep seeing objects that I’m fond of, encouraging the winds of inspiration, getting up early and sometimes running through the park to buy something to eat or more ink. Refill the cartridges. Cartridges of ink to write a bit, fire more shots, all made of words. And now — now that the phone isn’t working — how I long to stay here shut in between these caressing walls! I feel so good facing myself, facing mountains that look like water, but which are really wool, mountains woven stitch by stitch, only suggested. A small tapestry that will accompany me on my trip, though I no longer want to travel.
I’ll go all the same.