In the North, close to God's boundary wall, enjoying a developed culture, the magic of technology, the latest achievements of human civilization, and under the influence of the drug that grants safety, health insurance, social security and freedom of expression, I lie in the summer sun as if I am a white man and think of the South, contriving excuses to justify my absence. Emigrants, travellers, refugees go by me, genuine inhabitants, bogus inhabitants, tax-dodgers, alcoholics, the newly rich and racists, all of them crossing in front of me as I sit in the North thinking of the South, composing spurious stories in order to cover up my absence and explain how I can't attend.
Yes, I can't attend, for the road between my poem and Damascus is cut off for postmodern reasons: these include the fact that my friends are ascending to God at a rapidly increasing rate, faster than my computer processor, while other reasons relate to a woman I met in the North who made me forget the taste of my mother's milk, and some are connected to the fishes in the fish tank, who won't find anyone to feed them in my absence.
I can't attend, for the distance between my reality and my memory confirms that Einstein was right and the energy produced by my longing equals mass multiplied by the speed of light squared.
I can't attend but I can be absent, yes, I can be absent with great skill. I've become an expert in recent times and I've acquired a diary where I make a note of the times I have to be absent and I have memories that haven't happened yet.
I can be absent as if I have never existed, as if I am nothing, as if air has never entered my lungs, as if I've never had enemies before, as if I'm concentrated memory loss, a coma transmitted like a contagious disease.
I can't attend as I'm currently busy with the cold war I fight daily with isolation, with indiscriminate shelling by darkness, with systematic depression, with the attacks of loneliness that target the kitchen, the checkpoints that stand between me and summer, the bureaucracy caused by the separation of the legislative and executive powers, the routine procedures of the tax department. You've talked to me at length about the war, now let me tell you a little about the peace that I enjoy here in the North. Let me tell you about gradations of skin colour, what it means when people don't know how to pronounce your name, about black hair, about the democracy that always favours the rich, the health insurance that doesn't cover your teeth because they aren't part of the body. Let me talk to you about the tasteless vegetables, the flowers with no smell, the racism masked by a smile. Let me tell you about the fast food, fast trains, fast relationships, slow rhythms, slow grief, slow death.
Will you believe me if I say to you that my shoes are tired, that inside me is a wolf I can't restrain once he's smelt blood? Will you believe me if you see on my body the marks of the bullets that have hit my friends there, while I'm sitting here in front of a computer screen? Do you believe in coincidence? My absence is a coincidence planned with extreme care, a well-considered random act. I've discovered by coincidence that it's no coincidence that coincidences happen, and in fact the coincidence is when they don't happen. The point is, will you believe me if I swear to you by music? I swear by music that a European residence permit prevents us from being shot but makes it more likely that we'll kill ourselves.
Fine, I'll tell you the truth. I'll tell you why I can't attend. It happened on a summer's evening when I met a sad woman on my way home. In her hand she carried a forest and in her bag a bottle of wine. I kissed her and she became eleven months pregnant…
That's not what's stopping me attending. I'll tell you the truth. Damascus caught me in bed with another woman. I tried to put things right, to say what happened was a spur of the moment thing, nothing more, and it wouldn't happen again. I swore by everything, by the moon, fireworks, women's fingers, but it was all over, so I fled to the North.
That's not what's stopping me attending. I'll tell you the truth. When I was a child I didn't know anything about the market economy. Now, after I've become a citizen of a first world country, I don't know anything about the market economy.
This isn't what's stopping me attending. I'll tell you the truth. When I was intending to come, my suitcase collided with an item of breaking news and my language was smashed to bits, the passersby grabbed hold of the pieces and I no longer had a language…
That isn't what is stopping me attending. I'll tell you the truth, I'm dead, yes, I died several years ago.
That isn't what's stopping me attending. I'll tell you the truth…
Translation: Catherine Cobham
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem