Iba bien pero al revés: By Paula Leuro y Andrea Infante | Curated by Carolina Cerón
“(...)This street is endless, I’m getting even more lost. These furniture are so useless, so impossibles. These guts written with things, with stuff that are things, and are called things. And there are other things that are these showcases inside the showcase. A bit of things. The poetry is like a furniture, it's known. Building a piece of furniture is like building a text, it's known. The furnitures are made by pieces, like the texts.”
Thursday, April 21, 2022
I'm walking in one direction, step on a tile, and it spits black water at me, not just one, but that one. I walk in the rain, not the rain itself, rather the one that begins, I mean; it starts raining, and the tile spits at me. It doesn't start raining, but it ends. It starts and ends at the same time. It ends and starts. It's an indecision in which it's raining, I'm getting wet, and on top of that: lost. No, not lost because I'm heading up towards 11th Street. I see a scene, a transitional space, a suspended moment. Someone is moving in or maybe someone is leaving. It's an interlude. But I'm still lost, and I don't know why, since I was heading up to 11th Street. Of course, a street, especially a street one is ascending, is a place where one can be lost. But I can't stop looking at this and thinking about who might be there. Whether you go down or up those stairs. I can't stop thinking because they put translation signs there, like in the movies. Why would they put that there? Like a screenshot when watching a movie on a cell phone. I check Google Maps every twenty meters, take it out of my bag, and it gets wet, always the same. It can't be, but it is. This street is infinite, I get lost more and more. Those useless, impossible furniture. Those entrails with things written on them, with things that are things and are called things. And there are other things that are those showcases inside the showcase. A bit of things. Poetry is like furniture, you know. Building furniture is like building a text, you know. Furniture is constructed in pieces, like texts. I step on another tile, and it spits at me again. When I'm not wandering the streets, I go home. Then I close my eyes, and time passes effortlessly. I don't think it exists. This street is infinite, I get lost more and more in this straight-line labyrinth. Something is frozen, but it's moving. Either I arrived too late or too early. I'm going in the opposite direction! I was doing fine, but in reverse. The street was reversed on Google Maps. Maybe, after all, not just the map: in me too, in my head, everything was reversed. I must readjust my sense of direction: it's easy, you just have to put my head where I have my nape. It's because 11th Street was actually reversed. Now, yes, the inversion is complete, absolute. The rain was reversed, and the tile too; it's good that I was never really walking or looking for 11th Street. It's good that I was never anywhere.
Carolina Cerón
