Agua Viva Read Online Free PDF

within it. It is linked to the root that
penetrates inside us into the earth. All that I write you is taut. I use stray
words that are in themselves a free dart: savages, barbarians, decadent noblemen
and gangsters. Does that mean anything to you? It speaks to me.
    But the most important word in the language has but two
letters: is. Is.
    I am at its core.
    I still am.
    I am at the living and soft centre.
    Still.
    It sparkles and is elastic. Like the gait of a glossy
black panther that I saw and that walked softly, slowly and dangerously. But not
caged—because I don’t want that. As for the unforeseeable—the next phrase is
unforeseeable to me. In the core where I am, in the core of the Is, I ask no
questions. Because when it is—it is. I am only limited by my identity. I,
elastic being and separated from other bodies.
    In truth I’m still not quite seeing properly the thread
of what I’m writing you. I think I never shall—but I acknowledge the dark in
which the two eyes of the soft panther shine. Darkness is my hothouse. Enchanted
darkness. I’ll keep talking to you and taking the risk of disconnection: I am
subterraneously unreachable by my knowledge.
    I write to you because I don’t understand myself.
    But I’ll keep following myself. Elastic. This
forest where I survive in order to be is such a mystery. But now I think things
are happening. That is: I’m going in. I mean: into the mystery. I myself
mysterious and inside the core in which I move swimming, protozoan. One day I
childishly said: I can do everything. It was the pre-viewing of one day being
able to cast myself off and fall into the abandon of every law. Elastic. The
profound joy: the secret ecstasy. I know how to invent a thought. I feel the
commotion of novelty. But I am well aware that what I write is only a tone.
    In my core I have the strange impression that I don’t
belong to the human species.
    There is much to say that I don’t know how to say.
The words are lacking. But I refuse to invent new ones: those that already exist
must say what can be said and what is forbidden. And I can sense whatever is
forbidden. If I have the strength. Beyond thought there are no words: it is
itself. My painting has no words: it is beyond thought. In this land of the
is-itself I am pure crystalline ecstasy. It is itself. I am myself. You are
yourself.
    And I am haunted by my ghosts, by all that is mythic,
fantastic and gigantic: life is supernatural. I walk holding an open umbrella
upon a tightrope. I walk to the limit of my great dream. I see the fury of the
visceral impulses: tortured viscera guide me. I don’t like what I just wrote—
but I’m duty-bound to accept the whole section because it happened to me. And I
have much respect for what I happen to myself. My essence is unconscious of
itself and that’s why I obey myself blindly.
    I’m being antimelodic. I take pleasure in the difficult
harmony of the harsh opposites. Where am I going? and the answer is: I’m
going.
    And so when I die, I’ll never have been born and lived:
death washes away the traces of the sea-foam on the beach.
    Now it is an instant.
    Here is another now.
    And another. My effort: to bring now the future to here.
I move inside my deep instincts which carry themselves out blindly. I feel then
that I’m near springs, pools and waterfalls, all with abundant waters. And I
free.
    Hear me, hear my silence. What I say is never what I say
but instead something else. When I say “abundant waters” I’m speaking of the
force of body in the waters of the world. It captures that other thing that I’m
really saying because I myself cannot. Read the energy that is in my silence. Ah
I fear God and his silence.
    I’m myself.
    But there’s also the mystery of the impersonal that is
the “it”: I have the impersonal inside me and isn’t something the personal that
sometimes floods me can corrupt or rot by the personal that sometimes floods me:
but I dry myself in the sun and am an