Theda

Theda Bara

Reality is an invention - Joel-Peter Witkin

The affirmation that reality is an invention invites us to question what is meant by "reality."  Is reality what we are told to believe, and so someone else's invention?  Or our own invention based on collective and private images, stories and feelings we have about those stories?  Or is it a cultural convention and identification that disintegrates on closer inspection?  This unstable place is the reality I believe Witkin is referring to.  It is at times whimsical, yet there we are being strung along, moved like marionettes.  There is however, a deeper reality, it is deeper than language, story, image and feeling.  We like moths must go straight into the flame to experience this cessation, this original reality... when we are knowing from this deeper reality, the images, stories and feelings may be perceived as poignently and even comically rough and imprecise.  Laughter comes easily when you are free.

Wallflower (La tímida) - Anne Sexton

by Jinn Bug, Self Portrait

Wallflower

Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you—

Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my breasts are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.

I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place—
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor—
I'll never know.

  --Anne Sexton

 

La tímida

Ven amigo,

tengo una antigua historia que contarte--

Escucha.

Siéntate a mi lado y escucha.

Mi cara está enrojecida de tristeza

y mis senos están hechos de paja.

Estoy sentada en la silla con respaldo tipo escalera

en una esquina de un escenario pulido.

Les he perdonado por morir a todos los viejos actores.

Uno nuevo entra con las mismas líneas,

como grandes protuberancias blancas en su boca.

Los bailarines entran de entre los bastidores

en parejas pefectas.

Miro hacia arriba.  El techo es perlado.

Mis muslos se contraen, sellando con un nudo su tesoro.

Al fondo, la novia vestida de seda cae al piso.

A su lado el heroe alto en túnica roja de lana

menea el fuego con su bastón de marfil.

El quarteto de cuerdas toca por si mismo,

suave, suavemente, mangas y arcos enresinados.

Las piernas de los bailarines saltan y se afianzan.

Yo misma tengo piernas pequeñas y rígidas,

mi espalda es tan plana como un libro

y cómo llegué a este lugar--

las pequeñas rosas febriles,

las islas de aceitunas y rábanos

los alegres pasatiempos de las salas formales--

jamás sabré. 

-- Ann Sexton

(Translation: Lorena Wolfman)

  

 

ciruelo

mientras más vivo
más segura estoy
de ser una planta

quizá una enredadera

y que el universo es
un ciruelo en flor

y todo lo que vemos
son sus pétalos
volando en el viento

-- Lorena Wolfman

plum tree

the longer I live
the more certain I am
that I am a plant

perhaps a vine

and that the universe is
flowering plum tree

and everything we see
are its petals
blowing in the wind


--Lorena Wolfman