LAGUNAS DE RUIDERA (12-15/09/2025)
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A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.
Un lugar pertenece para siempre a quien lo reclama con la mayor fuerza, lo recuerda con la mayor obsesión, le da vueltas desde su interior, le da forma, lo entrega, lo ama de forma tan radical que lo rehace en su propia imagen
https://whisperdownthewritealley.wordpress.com/tag/joan-didion-holy-water/
A/ah is the water vowel
A/ah is the first letter of the universal poem
A/ah is the letter that stands for the repose of the soul
Language is filled with water, he says
Listen as the liquid syllabes of flowing language
carry off lingering moments of the stream
Listen to the stream laugh and the laughter stream
Listen to the round words roll over stones
Speak to the river an it will teach you to speak
Feel whispering onto your face the beauty born of murmuring sound
water is every where in every thing
water is every thing in every where water is all
Water weeps with everyone
Water flows in the air between us
water flows on the ground beside us
water flows deep underneath us
water flows with us
in every breath (breathe) water
in every heart beat (feel) water
Water recycles
the same water
in the first beings
flows in our bodies
We are all made of re-cycled water:
water re-cycled since the beginning of time
To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out—since our self-image is untenable—their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no rôle too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rôles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.
It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one’s sanity becomes an object of speculation among one’s acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves—there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.
Ma beauté, ma douleur, me seraient incertaines.
Je chercherais en vain ce que j’ai de plus cher,
