How to listen to Victor Jara
to push imaginary boundaries
hearing Victor’s distant voice evaporating in hot summer breeze
in a tumbling car
I feel my weight on a bumpy road with my sweat crawling down the back of my spine
it feels like I am stuck here forever- then my numbness makes me disappear
it is one humble feeling
tiny and grand
Alive in the air
particles of moist dust tickle you and reassemble
everything seems to make you recollect all the lost feelings of your teenage years
everything you have achieved to get out of your skin is gathering up again
I hate this place for having to call it my home. I forgive this place.
But how many realities do you have?
Which one precedes you and which of them makes you?
Who needs to speak your language
Who needs to see your land
How to push boundaries?
Like scrapping off your skin
and letting in the dust
that holds every secret magical
Defining and re
the meaning of otherness
It is always
Made up in your mind
made of Sand
I try listening to Victor Jara. In every place I go. It doesn’t alway fit and I curl up in my own self.
Paris yes you are trying to embezzle me with your shy alleys
Your scenic roundabouts
But I discovered without the grip of the heart you are nothing but dim light
The grass of your home country is where you feel the loneliest.
The grass is always greener elsewhere but here the rot is all mine
the messed up shit welcomes your soul to surrender, finally
because sometimes it has the power to hold you without judging you
to love you and you have nothing to prove.
Nothing to level-up to.
You are not my child anymore, I do not recognize you but I love you. Stay here on my land, you can stay. Stand here instead of kneeling elsewhere.