Loop. Brenda Lozano

the whole afternoon at the conference, I have three sad postcards. A poet with a centre parting and limp eyelashes blinks slowly, putting on a deep voice to read one of his recent poems. A charmless fiction-writer who reveals his insecurities – that feverish pursuit of acceptance – with everything he says. And Robin syndrome: someone always wanting to be next to Batman (the acclaimed writer or the festival organiser or the superstar publisher).

      I asked Jonás over the phone if he thinks poets in all languages put on a different voice when they read their poems out loud. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but it reminds me of that poem you showed me once, by the poet who made lines, zigzags, waves. There are some poems you can’t read out loud, my love, and those ones are the most like certain conclusions of physics. The points where poetry and science meet. Science often reaches Dadaist conclusions, you know. Poetry and science at those twin points can’t be read out loud.’

      There are various signs in the hotel foyer. One of them says it’s forbidden to enter with balloons. No smoking, no pets, no inflated balloons. A friend points that sign out to me, puzzled. ‘It’s not what you think,’ says one of the organisers. ‘If a balloon bursts in here, we all fall to the floor thinking there’s a shootout.’

      Drinking beer on the same balcony, with the good news that someone’s got hold of some mezcal and plastic cups. We’d all been at a terrible reading, of a terrible book. Someone produces the book. Another person reads passages out loud, imitating the author’s voice. We revel in the endless stream of sexual metaphors. It’s like the fount of all bad poetry, a great feast of it, or something.

      Jonás has gone to Lisbon with his sister, and their father has stayed in Spain with a cousin of their mother. This morning I got a text message: ‘Luckily we ran into your granddad, he says what are you on about, you’re wrong, the bookshop you recommended isn’t there any more. He took us to eat those famous custard tarts, which were really good, by the way.’

      Now that I think about it, sexual metaphors are astonishing. Especially bad metaphors, astonishing like the bearded lady’s circus act. Bad poetry is astonishing because it’s so monstrous. It has all the features we recognise, and yet that hypertrichosis too.

      Today I talked to two poets, one bad and one good. Maybe some company is better indoors and some is better outdoors. A bad poet might be good company in the street, but in a living room what you want is a nice long conversation. There are exceptions. My friend Luis Felipe is a good poet, and you can talk to him both in the street and at home. So the previous assertion should be taken as another artificial plant and my comment about Luis Felipe as an artificial flower.

      I came back to my room to read for a bit. I found this from William Hazlitt: ‘All that part of the map that we do not see before us is a blank.’

      Is the violent part of the map a blank?

      Mexico City, seen through the aeroplane window, is bigger than the ball of plasticine a child has just squashed onto the map of Mexico this evening. We make the world to the measure of our hands. But everything has a scale.

      Violence has scales.

      Any drawing, painting, photograph, lithograph, any picture of a bird, small or large, however rough the likeness, conveys the idea of freedom. Birds are a symbol of freedom.

      An open notebook is also a symbol of freedom.

      There’s a bird on the Mexican flag. The eagle devouring the serpent. I wonder if the flag contains any clues.

      ‘Fly away with me.’ If I could turn into any bird I’d choose a swallow. Have you noticed that swallows normally form pairs, Jonás?

      Now I’m one of those planes we hear from the apartment on Sunday nights, now I’m flying over the city. From up here it doesn’t seem like Wild is the Wind. Instead, Mexico City looks so docile. And the country looks so docile, too, on the map on the aeroplane screen.

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      We argued on the phone.

      It’s hard for me as well, Jonás. Believe me. I never met her. I’m trying to support you from here. Through you, through your dad and Marina, I love her too. Believe me. If I could do something I would. Believe me.

      I’m going to try something. Let’s see if this notebook works. Ana? Ana, can you hear me?

      Ana. Ana, dear Ana. I love your son. I would have liked to meet you, to call you on the phone, to chat. Really? Me too. Of course, I would have brought you a book. Yes, absolutely, we’d be in the kitchen. Jonás tells me it’s the place you like best. I like being there too, it’s beautiful when the afternoon light comes streaming in through the big windows. We had lunch in there last Sunday. Yes, Rosario has it all under control. There are often containers of food in the fridge from the day before. I’ve learnt some of your recipes from Rosario. By the way, the Catalan crème brûlée we had last Sunday was delicious, how do I make it? Thanks, I’ll have a look in the drawer. The house is tidy. Marina’s really well. Relaxed and well. Yes, all good with him. Jonás – Jonás? Honestly, I don’t know. I think he’s afraid of being abandoned. But how can I explain that you didn’t abandon him? How can I explain that I’m not about to leave him, that I don’t want to leave him?

      Do you think I could go anywhere?

      Where?

      Am I getting closer or am I getting further away?

      Do these stairs go up or down?

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      This evening, walking down the grassy central reservation with my headphones on, I listened to the David Bowie version of ‘Wild is the Wind’ and had a metamorphosis. I started to sing, and all of a sudden my voice faltered. I felt an itching in my shoulders. Feathers were sprouting from my arms, my feet stopped touching the ground and at the same time I got smaller. I turned into a swallow. I flew over the grass and across the road. I looked down at the trees and the traffic lights; I saw the office windows and power cables from above. I flew over the park. I looked down at the patios, the cars, pedestrians dotted here and there. I flew over the trees and through the branches, I saw a parked rubbish truck, I paused on a nearby cable. And what if tomorrow I wake up transformed into a person? I love flying. It doesn’t mess up my hair, and my feathers suit me perfectly. It feels so good to fly. And oh, I can go so fast. I love being a swallow, I really do.

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