I was tormented by the Renaissance and then by Gothic style and
then by the Renaissance again.
For an entire month I would, as if on automatic pilot, visit old
places, constantly thinking about new ones. Things you neglected
tend to get back at you later. Inevitable acceleration exhausted
me completely and at the same time I was surprised
to see the predellae, the antipendia, the cradles, no longer
able to move away any further as I traced the thrusts of a sharp spear.
But now I am less interested in attributing anything to a specific
school, this concern has refracted imperceptibly and obliterates
its own traces, the interior, the alcove, and the wound
having remained unnamed. I was persuaded
by an angel holding up a cup to catch the blood flowing from the side.
And inside the bar a gloomy thin blonde with a lousy makeup, wearing a cheap
slip, holding a shower head in her hand, instead
of this lovely, perfectly proportioned diva on the poster,
a cigarette butt, a throw-away lighter, all those
God-have-mercy-upon-us little secrets. Within this airless
space I must admit I am surrounded by a motley group.
While the light on the gravestone was alabastrine. Are the spirit
and the letter the same, alas?