Empire Of Dreams Part 2

III. The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

1. Death of Poetry.

Withdrawn into the peace of this desert, Along with some books, few but wise, I live in conversation with the deceased, And listen to the dead with my eyes.

-Quevedo, From the Tower.

The Adventures of Mariquita Samper.

I was trudging along after filming part of Profane Comedy-said the Narrator-when suddenly I saw The Intimate Diary of Solitude was already playing at the Arts Cinema. I bought my ticket. The usher handed me the stub. I bought some popcorn and sat down to watch The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. I looked around the Arts Cinema. It was s.p.a.cious and comfortable with four escape doors: Exit One. Exit Two. Exit Three. Exit Four. Though each door walked a character from The Intimate Diary of Solitude. A total of four characters took up the front row. And although there were only four, or five, or six characters, they multiplied, doubling and tripling as the scenes progressed. I ate a piece of popcorn. Fell fast asleep. And didn't wake up until the lights came on. And then I immediately began to write the first scene of The Intimate Diary of Solitude, ent.i.tled The Adventures of Mariquita Samper.

Epigraph: "A closed mouth catches no flies."

My name is Mariquita Samper. I work at Macy's. My job is to make up people who don't like to make themselves up. I'm an artist. I'm the makeup artist of the characters of this fiction that separates fantasy from reality. And I'm shocked by the things that happen. A lady asked me to paint her dog's nails. Lady, I said, I'm Mariquita Samper, Macy's makeup artist. Not a canine pedicurist. Wuff! Wuff!-barked the dog. And I was so sorry. Then a guy with a perfume tray pa.s.sed by, and a perfume that reeked like "a barking doesn't bite" pervaded the store. I caught a whiff of sirens. Saw toys tooting. And a whole pack of police dogs came charging at us. Yes, it's Macy's, the World's Largest Store! Yes, it's New York. I ran for my life as soon as I heard the threatening sound of the pack of police dogs. Perfume and makeup went up in flames. Not so reality and fantasy. I took a cab to Caffe degli Artisti. And headed straight for the ladies' room. Took off my high heels and false lashes. Wiped off some makeup. Left some rouge on. Dried my lips. And ordered a campari and soda. That's when my friend, the French professor, arrived. I was a bundle of nerves. I kept gazing into his eyes. A professor and a Macy's makeup artist. I forgot to mention that my name is Giannina Braschi. And that I agreed to play Mariquita-said Giannina Braschi-for commercial gain. And she flashed Mariquita's gold tooth as she laughed. I've written books while making women up. I write on their faces. I illuminate their shadows and discover their craters and even their volcanoes that suddenly erupt. I write wrinkles on the faces of October and on the memories of November. Oh, Uri, Uri-for that was the French professor's name. Uriberto Eisensweig speaks with a French accent. It's not really an accent. It's a speech impediment called sticky tongue. Uriberto p.r.o.nounces his r's like h's. His little catch is like Mariquita's red freckles. Like her red-dyed hair. Like her gold tooth. Uriberto is bearded and hairy like a monkey. I write these black pages on his black beard. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. And we left the cafe with the campari and soda in hand, as Bengal lights glared all over the menu and the makeup of the open book that is being written. Uri showed me a line. An oblique line at the back of the cafe. And it suddenly turned into the Narrator who was sitting to our left. No, please, not this nightmare, not again. If I haven't arranged the date in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. If Uri is not yet Uri, and Giannina is not yet Giannina. Suddenly everything fades. Everything escapes. Everything turns to solitude. Solitude is a well full of water. Here in this well-as I open my front door. Oh, Uri, Uri. Longing for Uri. A void. Enormous. Smooth. Smooth. Like a piece of clothing. In a building where clothing is bought and makeup is sold, a TV screen appears. The Narrator is screening Mariquita Samper. Suddenly there is no way to measure the distance between the Narrator screening Mariquita on TV and me climbing the stairs to my apartment. The doorman opens the car door. Mariquita steps out of the car. The doorman carries her packages. Mariquita smiles suggestively. Lifts her skirt a bit. And leans toward the TV. The Narrator tries to penetrate the intimacy of her heart. But there are so many doors that open and close. There are so many TV sets that turn on and off. And there is a white dove that escapes from Mariquita Samper's heart and turns into a handkerchief when she stares at it. Her eyes glaze over as she follows the flying handkerchief. She opens her purse. Looks for something inside. Can't remember what it was she was looking for. On her way to the station, looking for a nickel, she finds her train ticket. On the train that takes her around the circ.u.mference of her solitude, she stares at a landscape of water. She looks out the window that delimits the borders of her solitude and sees the handkerchief's wings waving: goodbye-goodbye. Then Mariquita looks away from the window and looks at the open pages of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. I really like this phrase-she says. And she underlines it as I underline the same phrase that Mariquita Samper underlined while reading the adventures of her own solitude. She opens her purse, takes out a compact, and powders her face. She dabs some rouge on her cheeks and paints her lips. It's been exactly one hour since she repeated everything that she read in the book. The train pulls into that station where I can still distinguish the day she fell in love with me from the day I left her. But it's already midnight, and I'm still watching The Adventures of Mariquita Samper on TV. Suddenly, I'm back in the theater buying popcorn. Suddenly, the white dove flies out of the TV movie screen and sits on my hands. Suddenly, the dove widens the distance again, and Mariquita is back on the screen feeding the dove my popcorn. Mariquita gets off the train. Runs to 6th Avenue and 34th Street. Goes up to her apartment. Looks for another nickel. Takes the elevator. Goes down to the street to mail a letter to the Narrator. Takes the subway to 3rd Avenue on page 15 and stops to think in the heat of her solitude. She powders her forehead again, and her face glows like a ball of fire. She hears the sirens of fire trucks drowning out the sound of a transistor radio. The Narrator turns up the volume of The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. He feels his hand picking up speed with every word he writes. And the rhythm of life and writing accelerates. The car driving Mariquita down the highway can hardly stop like the Narrator writing this diary. The world is a great grammatical system. Mariquita re-underlines this phrase that reminds her of the white dove flying away. Goodbye-goodbye-she repeats. And some red Bengal lights interrupt the rhythm of her blood. She opens her purse, and there at the bottom is a phrase she forgot to underline. This crossword puzzle of things blinds me and erases distance. Then the Narrator wrote that Mariquita was about to go to bed. And as soon as he wrote it, Mariquita began to nod off. And she took a cab home. The doorman took her packages. Mariquita went up to her apartment. The Narrator turned off the radio, and Mariquita's image slowly faded from the TV screen. But the Narrator left Mariquita's picture on the screen of his solitude. He thought that his script should be written in her diary. And that the diary was slowly repeating what was already part of the solitude of Mariquita's heart. He turned off the light. And she went to sleep in order to maintain the distance that she covered between the contents of her dreams and the intimacy of her solitude. But, before going to bed, he set the alarm clock of life to awaken Mariquita's solitude from a deep sleep. He rested his head on her diary's pillow of solitude. He got up an hour later, half-asleep, and watched The Adventures of Mariquita Samper again. I am not through yet. Don't limit my existence-Mariquita told the Narrator. She got out of bed and began to sing. All I need is love. Love. Love. And she drifted back to sleep. She got up an hour later and sang it again. And quit her solitude for good. She read the intimate diary of her solitude again. All I need is love. Love. Love. And she continued arguing with the printed words of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. A party. A disco-she said. And on saying, "All I need is love," she started dancing, flooding the words with music and joy. The blaring disco that Mariquita had just discovered in her heart woke up the Narrator. Mariquita yelled to him, "All I need is love. Love. Love." And she continued correcting every page of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. She drew a heart on one of them. And a star on another. She laughed at the distance that her hand crossed at the bottom of her coat pocket. She revved up her diary's roaring engine. She laughed at the TV screen where the Narrator had tried to limit her existence to a parenthesis between one phrase and another. In addition, she had erased the line that she had underlined and replaced it with: All I need is love. Love. Love. When the Narrator reviewed the pages of his diary, he found that Mariquita had limited his existence. And had replaced him with a revolution of mad rhythms. Rhythms of love. Love-Mariquita called it. Love. She had let her hair down. She had smeared black ink all over her diary. She had, at length, fallen in love. Or in the words of solitude, she had written the first fragment of The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

Life and Works of Berta Singerman.

Backstage all the characters of The Intimate Diary of Solitude are getting dressed. The TV is on, and Mariquita Samper is dressed up as Berta Singerman. New York. New York. It's the year 2000, when Berta Singerman forfeited her American citizens.h.i.+p and went to live in Moscow out of love for Uriberto Eisensweig. In this show, Uriberto Eisensweig is exactly 30 years old, 20 years younger than Berta Singerman, which makes this the toughest role that Mariquita has ever played in her entire life. Mariquita had to gain 30 pounds and age considerably. She had to draw crow's feet around her eyes. In reality, Mariquita is 30 years old, the same age as Uriberto. In reality, Uriberto and Mariquita have been in love all of their lives. Judging from the looks of both protagonists, they're in the prime of their lives. One is Capricorn and the other, Aquarius. December 30th and February 5th. A fortune-teller had already predicted it: "You'll marry five times without having married at all"-she told Mariquita in New York. "You'll forfeit your American citizens.h.i.+p. You'll fall in love five times with the same man, and you'll think five times that he is a different man. You'll understand that the same man also fell in love with five different women who were the same woman. But while making love the fifth time with the same man who was a different man, you'll reach the peak of your artistic career. And the fame of your myth and your story will make you s.h.i.+ne as the greatest artist produced in the brief history of humanity." We are in the year 2000, when Berta Singerman turned 50. My name is really Mariquita Samper, and I'm from Puerto Rico. I live in New York City. My name is really Uriberto Singerman, and I'm playing the role of Uriberto Eisensweig. Mariquita also goes by the name of Berta Eisensweig, usurping my name, or taking Mariquita Singerman's or Berta Samper's. Name games are all the same. After all, every name is a usurpation of a fragment of my life and works. Every name is a different name in another history of humanity. I was just telling Uriberto Eisensweig that it's not easy being Mariquita Singerman and playing Berta Samper because it's not easy being in two different versions of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. In spite of what the writer of this diary thinks, I am very far away from Uriberto Eisensweig and New York City. In spite of what might be or is, I'm simultaneously in New York and Moscow. It's exactly midnight on a winter night in New York. Here I am in perfect sync with the time and date of New York and Moscow. And here I am, in the year 1985, recording these pages of history. How many lies are told in the name of art and literature! I was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico. I grew up near the waves of the sea. They showed me that lies are true. And that I should come and go as I please. Like s.h.i.+ps or waves, I'm constantly moving from place to place. I don't know how to stay still for a single instant. I'm an unbalanced woman by nature. And like the waves of the sea, I'm always resisting attacks and insults. I'm vulnerable in love affairs. I'm always, or almost always, something different, and I'll never figure it out. Today for instance, I got a Christmas present. I opened it and there was a s...o...b..ll inside. Sometimes I cry just to cry, and sometimes I laugh just to laugh. I'm fickle with my affections. I rejected the sea a thousand times. I repeat that I left Puerto Rico at 18 never to return. I crossed all of Europe in two years. I returned to the sea and wound up in Manhattan. I've lived longer here than anywhere else. I'm an artisan of life by nature. Now I understand what I used to understand a long time ago, although I'm not sure I remember what it was. I'll never forget what I remembered as a child, and I entered its secret secretly. Now that I have this s...o...b..ll, I ask myself if life is a s...o...b..ll. I was 23 exactly 23 years ago. The truth is, I landed in Moscow yesterday, and today I'm 50 years old. Wasn't that what the Narrator wanted me to say? I'm sorry, but I'm only 30 even though you make me look like I'm 50. I doubt that the readers are as stupid as you. I'm also sorry that I believed that I fell in love with Uriberto. You wanted me to fall in love with him. Didn't you, Narrator? Too bad Uriberto doesn't exist. I'm sorry to deceive you, reader. On the other hand, I'm also Uriberto Eisensweig. I'm sorry to be simultaneously what I write. The Narrator is also a product of my imagination. What I write seems unreal, but it's true. I want to lie, but I don't. And sometimes I cry just to cry. I am a man who has had many loves in his life-said Uriberto Samper. But he immediately corrects himself and says, "Sadly, a single love so confused is more than enough. Don't you think so, Mariquita?" As soon as I came to New York, I fell in love with a book. After I wrote a.s.sault on Time, I immediately wrote Profane Comedy. I left for Puerto Rico. Returned to Europe. Changed my name more than twenty times. And grew rich with lies. I pretended you were Uriberto and I was Mariquita. I walked around New York City dreaming of making that great trip to Moscow. I renounced my American citizens.h.i.+p. I landed in Moscow. I gave more than 100 poetry readings. I read "This is the Child Mother of the circus." I read "Eggs are months and days too." I acquired the wisdom of Poems of the World. I became a fortune-teller, a magician, and then, Shepherd Giannina. I defended memory. I preached of poetic eggs. Everyone thought I was mad, and the ma.s.ses adored me. I turned poetry into a circus of lies. I've lied all my life. I'm a liar by vocation and history. I made up this story as I was walking alone in New York one day. It was easy. I burst out laughing at life. I'm such an idiot! And I started to cry. In reality, I'm 30. In reality, Uriberto is Uriberto and I'm Berta Singerman. In reality, he is 30 and I'm 50. In reality, we haven't seen each other in five years. I met Uriberto on a street in New York this year. The truth is that I haven't spoken with him and he hasn't spoken with me in five years. In reality, it was the Narrator who insisted that I tell the truth. But the truth is: I always lie. I'm so much happier since I broke up with Uriberto. I'm glad you left me. Sometimes I'd like to see you. I'm not always happy you left. Sometimes I still write about Uriberto and Mariquita when I should be writing about Uriberto and Berta. It's not easy to tell the truth when you're writing lies. But this is just another angle of the diary narrating my solitude. Uriberto is alone. So is Mariquita. Berta is the only one who dreams of companions.h.i.+p. Berta fell in love with the same man five times. She changed his personality. She made each man live in a different place. They all believed Berta was the woman of their lives. They all believed Berta Singerman's lies. But Berta didn't know how to love anyone but herself. Berta was another lie. But sometimes I dream of living her life. Berta died the day she discovered that all of this was a way of telling solitude that she was still accompanied, when in truth, she was alone writing another lie in The Intimate Diary of Solitude..

The Things That Happen to Men in New York!.

The things that happen to men in New York! This is written as an exclamation. It is, of course, an exaggeration-says the Narrator. These things don't only happen in New York. They happen in Havana and Berlin. They happen in Madrid and Moscow. And they don't only happen to men. They happen to women too. I thought it was strange that I couldn't find the men's room-said Mariquita Samper. I asked where the ladies' room was-said Uriberto Eisensweig, dressed up as Berta Singerman. After I left the restroom-said the Narrator-I sat down to watch The Things That Happen to Men in New York. Maybe this is why I'm always changing my name. I don't like being called Mariquita Samper when I'm really playing Berta Singerman, and I'm a lesbian. Mariquita, the fairy drag queen! Backstage, Mariquita Samper dresses up as Uriberto Eisensweig. And Uriberto Eisensweig dresses up as Berta Samper. Don't you know that I'm Uriberto Singerman? And that Uriberto Samper is none other than Berta Eisensweig? Listen, sir, to the things that happen to men in New York! Mariquita: "It is I, Uriberto Eisensweig!" Suddenly, the curtain falls. Apparently, the public likes The Things That Happen to Men in New York-says the Narrator. Why else would they applaud so much? Deep down, they're asking for an encore. Uriberto gets a bigger hand when he plays Mariquita Samper. Bravo! Bravo! Encore! Listen, lady, to the things that happen to women in New York! They think that they're women, but they're men. They think that they're men, but they're women. Backstage is Mariquita Samper's mother. I don't want you dressing up as Uriberto. What thrill do you get from scandalizing people? Mama, don't you see them laughing? Don't you see them having fun? Deep down in every man there is a woman. Deep down in every woman there is a man. Things are men and women. Apples look for pears. And pears love peaches. Listen, sir, to the things that happen to pears in New York! Nothing new. We already knew that men like pears. And that peaches like oranges. We also knew that an orange is an orange. And that an apple is a peach. I didn't know that-says the apple's mother. I thought my daughter liked peaches. But pears? Gentlemen, ladies-she says, placing her hand on her head. I didn't know that happened to women in New York. Ladies, gentlemen-says the pear's father solemnly-I didn't know that it would happen to my son. But the things that happen to men and women!-sing the pear and the peach. The apple and the orange join in the chorus: Oh, the things that happen to men in New York! Oh, the things that happen to women in New York! Bravo! Bravo!

THE END of this scene.

And THE END of another daily episode that I live in New York.

Signed: The Narrator Everyone says that truths are lies. Everyone says that lies are true. But I'm the only one who knows that I'm alone writing another cheap illusion. And with a tear in my eye, with a tear that gives me away, I laugh at the irony-writing The Intimate Diary of Solitude really takes its toll on me.

The Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry.

Her name was Anna Mayo. It took her a while to figure out how to become a part of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. But she seized the perfect opportunity. An ad appeared in The Intimate Diary of Solitude's newspaper. WANTED: journalist to write a column on the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry. Anna Mayo immediately called Uriberto Eisensweig and told him that she'd apply for the position. Uriberto Eisensweig owned the newspaper and wanted his favorite girlfriend, Mariquita, to be crowned the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry. I admit it's true, but I wouldn't put it in writing-says Uriberto. It must be painstakingly planned so that no one knows that she is our pick. Mariquita Samper had to lose 20 pounds. She developed a sweet tooth after having played Berta Singerman. The newspaper and magazine photos, as well as Anna Mayo's chronicles detailing her incredible beauty and extraordinary grace, all pointed out that Mariquita was a bit chubby. To improve her looks, she dyed her hair red and had fake freckles surgically implanted on her cheeks. Mariquita definitely looks like a charm queen with that red hair and those wonderful freckles-wrote Anna Mayo over and over again. Burning the candle at both ends, Anna Mayo spent day and night publicizing Mariquita's beauty, and day and night Mariquita radiated coquetry. She laughed all day and all night long. Men stopped to stare. But she kept her distance. In order to become the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry, she had to be alone. That's what the reign of beauty's solitude was all about. It wasn't hard to seduce the readers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Anna Mayo and Uriberto took care of that. Reviews appeared on Mariquita's remarkable versatility. You have to overlook her little defects. After all, she can afford the few extra pounds. Besides, you can't blame Mariquita's beauty for the weight of Berta's solitude. Suddenly, everyone bowed to her in reverence. She was proclaimed-Her Majesty, the Queen. Anna Mayo was also proclaimed-Journalist of the Year. The Intimate Diary of Solitude was the most widely read newspaper. And Uriberto, in his role as the owner, made millions. They met at the Narrator's house to celebrate their triumph. It was sensational. Overnight, Berta Singerman and Uriberto Samper's beauty and popularity flourished. But an enormous burden of solitude followed their fame. They were worried. They were accomplices. Backstage they reconsidered everything. They bounced it around. They didn't like it. It looked too much like reality. There is no queen in this story. Mariquita stepped down from her throne. Uriberto confessed he wasn't in love with her. Anna lost her job at the newspaper. Something is missing here-said the Narrator. You don't know how to pretend. What's wrong with Mariquita being proclaimed the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry? Nothing's wrong, Narrator, but I don't want to be the Queen of Solitude. The Narrator dropped the curtain on this episode, stamped it cancelled, and scribbled out this fragment of The Intimate Diary of Solitude in black ink.

Gossip.

It was all a fraud-declared other newspapers, as they slung the mud at Mariquita and Uriberto. Everybody knows how rumors get around. You don't have to search the world over to know that it's all cheap talk, but it really takes its toll-said Anna Mayo in one of her chronicles. Mariquita had to pay a steep price to become a beauty queen. Let's not talk about Berta Singerman's forfeiting her American citizens.h.i.+p. Not to mention the truth about The Things That Happen to Men in New York! What a scandal it was to find out that Uriberto was Mariquita! Even poor Berta Singerman, who had loved him so much, though that she gave him too much love and too much pa.s.sion only for him to become Mariquita. True, Mariquita won the prize for beauty, charm, and coquetry. But it cost her a fortune. She had to pay in freckles, and now she can't dye her hair black. That was just another piece of gossip that rained on Mariquita's glory. Even now, a while later, people still talk of Uriberto and Berta's daughter. They wonder if she is anything like Mariquita Samper. That's another story in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. That's another theatrical scene. Now they're saying that Mariquita is the love child of Uriberto and Berta's scandalous affair. She had to lose her innocence. She dresses like a goody-goody. She dresses like a sweet-sixteen. But a playboy seduces her. And Mariquita, lily of the valley, has lost her virginity-again! It was Uriberto, Uriberto the playboy-wrote Anna Mayo in one of her gossip columns. In no time, gossip was rolling like a s...o...b..ll. Uriberto first took Berta as his lover, and then he took his own daughter, who is also named Mariquita Samper! But I thought Uriberto was Mariquita. But it turns out Uriberto is Mariquita's father and that Mariquita is not Mariquita. It's just another piece of gossip running around New York. Even history repeats itself. Berta had a daughter named Mariquita. And Mariquita had a son named Uriberto, who was a professor before he became Mariquita. Then Mariquita became Berta Singerman. Then she forfeited her American citizens.h.i.+p and went to live in Russia. Then two Mariquitas and two Uribertos fell in love. There were generations and generations of gossip. Other fragments of The Intimate Diary of Solitude were written. Other articles were written too. But gossip became fantasy. But gossip became reality. The gossip about Uriberto and Mariquita bore Mariquita Singerman and Mariquita Eisensweig. As well as Uriberto Samper and Uriberto Singerman. The race of gossip reproduced, and Anna Mayo was born. Generations of gossip reproduced, and solitude was born. I used to think that gossip made up the race of solitude-wrote the Narrator in Anna Mayo's intimate diary. I also thought that Mariquita's solitude is just gossip. Even Uriberto's solitude is gossip. And so is Anna Mayo. The newspaper, The Intimate Diary of Solitude, is gossip too. After all, it went bankrupt because Anna Mayo ran out of gossip to tell. Even though my gossiping hand writes alone, I'll never run out of solitude's gossip, even if I'm stripped of meaning. I mean life. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Portrait of Giannina Braschi.

Dear Narrator:.

I've got a really big problem. No one takes me seriously. They all love Mariquita, and when I tell them that I'm Mariquita, they just laugh. Everyone thinks that I made up the race of beauty, charm, and coquetry just because I made up the race of gossip and the race of solitude. No one wants to see Portrait of Giannina Braschi. My friends call me up and say, "Mariquita, Mariquita, what's the gossip of the day? What's going on in The Intimate Diary of Solitude today?" But they don't know that I am an autobiography. They don't know that I am Portrait of Giannina Braschi. My friends have told me I owe my existence to their gossip and their lives. And they're right. I'm only called Giannina when Mariquita dresses up as Berta Singerman. I'm only called Giannina when Mariquita falls in love with Uriberto-Berta Singerman once said through Mariquita Samper's mouth. You know something-and I say this only to the reader-these friends of mine do exist-although I'd never tell them that. They're not figments of my imagination. I see them every day, or at least once a week when we get together at Mariquita's to laugh at The Intimate Diary of Solitude. My friends are Uriberto, Mariquita, Berta, the Narrator, the race of gossip, and The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Little by little, you'll meet my other friends who widen the circle of my solitude even more-said the Narrator. You already know Anna Mayo, the journalist famous for writing the race of gossip and the race of the Mariquitas and the Uribertos. But you still haven't met Honorata Pagan, the fortune-teller who predicted that Berta Singerman would forfeit her Russian citizens.h.i.+p. This fortune-teller, named Honorata Pagan, was also the one who told me I had no right to complain if they confused me with Mariquita. "Giannina, you're a celebrity. But your friends believe more in your lies than in your autobiography. You chose to be the author of this work. You chose your profession. So it's your own fault if they don't take you seriously. And so what if your friends love Mariquita more than you? Frankly, you already know that she is more beautiful, more charming, and more coquettish. She has a new love to talk about every day. And what do you have? Just a pen and paper to write your Intimate Diary of Solitude." Honorata Pagan's fame skyrocketed even before her predictions came through. Whenever I went, she went with me. Uriberto consulted her on some of his love affairs. Honorata had told him, "Uriberto, you will deflower Berta Singerman's daughter-your own daughter, Mariquita. You will be an incestuous father." What Honorata never got to tell him is that it would happen on stage. What she never got to tell him was that her prophecies were also fiction. Enough of your lies, Mariquita. I'm going to do Giannina's portrait. I'm going to turn Mariquita into Giannina Samper. But don't whine and complain when you're the punch-line, Giannina. Don't complain when you're Mariquita, Giannina. That's when the portrait of my intimate solitude became part of the diary. The painter was Vita Giorgi. I met Vita at a Soho gallery where Berta was giving Uriberto a show. On exhibit there were all of the portraits of Mariquita from the time she lost her virginity at 15 until the time she became the first Puerto Rican to forfeit her American citizens.h.i.+p and live in Moscow. And a new character was introduced there. An impudent, devilish clown by the name of Giannina Braschi-said the Narrator. With a furrowed brow and a hoa.r.s.e throat, she burst out laughing like thunder or a steep cliff, and Mariquita Samper leaped out of the Portrait of Giannina. Even though I was by myself, I imagined that Mariquita and Uriberto, Berta Singerman, Honorata Pagan, and Anna Mayo, Vita Giorgi, and the Narrator, the race of gossip, and The Intimate Diary of Solitude were all around.

Mariquita Samper's Childhood.

She was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, like her mother, Berta Singerman. Uriberto Eisensweig and Berta Singerman had a daughter named Mariquita Samper-according to the Narrator. Mariquita was the illegitimate child of Uriberto and Berta-he added by way of gossip. The fact that Mariquita was born on her mother's 50th birthday was also scandalous. And that, from day one, she was born independent of her parents. I don't like dependence-she said. Mariquita was born talking. And the whole world was shocked. Not only was she born talking. She was born rocking from north to south, and from east to west. Mariquita was a child prodigy. She sang, read, laughed, cried, spoke, ate, wet, p.o.o.ped, burped, and napped. She was a child prodigy like her mother-said Berta. After her father raped her when she was 15, Mariquita fell in love with another guy, also called Uriberto. It was he who told her that she should write the script of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. The Narrator chose Mariquita as his protagonist at first sight. Although Berta had taught Mariquita to be foolish, Mariquita wasn't frivolous like her mother. Mariquita and Berta were very different. Berta was much more frivolous than her daughter-said Giannina. I, having lived in both of their bodies, affirm that there is no comparison. I would go so far as to say that Berta wanted to destroy her daughter. But it was Mariquita who destroyed Berta-said the Narrator. And she destroyed her because she did nothing to destroy her. No, nothing except steal her lover-said Giannina. And what do you call that? Nothing? I would agree-said Mariquita-that I did absolutely nothing. Life took care of it all. You know-said the Narrator-that life takes many turns. And those turns bring many surprises-said Mariquita. Berta made me suffer, but I got my revenge. I stole her lover and then dropped him like a hot potato. I fell in love with another Uriberto. Forfeited my Russian citizens.h.i.+p and went to live in New York. Acquired American citizens.h.i.+p. And disgraced my mother and father. Then the Narrator suggested I write a book ent.i.tled Mariquita Samper's Childhood. He'd pay me a million dollars for the rights. I'd have to say that I had a miserable childhood. In short, I portrayed myself as an orphan. My parents are thugs-I said in Mariquita Samper's Childhood. Of course, I became a heroine to the American public. Little Orphan Mariquita. Daughter of those filthy thugs who stripped her of her American citizens.h.i.+p. And yet, in spite of all its lies, the book was a best-seller in the U.S. and Russia. Remember-said the Narrator-that Mariquita had asked for asylum at the Russian emba.s.sy. She wrote a letter to the Russians stating that she wanted to be a communist. She had been mistaken. She had realized the value of Russian citizens.h.i.+p, especially as a Puerto Rican. My confusion lies in the fact that I'm a sad colony. Don't you see that I'm Berta Singerman? Don't you see that I'm confused? Don't you see that I don't know who I am? The Russians immediately granted Mariquita political asylum. And this was the story of Mariquita's childhood in The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

The Raise.

Chewing gum and blowing a really big bubble, I dreamed and dreamed until I suddenly popped the bubble with my fingers. Then I started chewing with more zest and zeal. That was Mariquita Samper talking. Giannina Braschi told me that she'd put me on TV. I told her I wanted to go on the air, blow a big bubble, and pop it. That's how the cast of The Intimate Diary of Solitude would be introduced. I jumped and jumped for joy when Giannina accepted this number in her video. Uriberto, Berta, Giannina, Vita, Honorata, Anna, and the Narrator were there as viewers of The Gum of Life. Missing were Montserrat Nissen and Brian Pecanis. They had just finished making love. They turned on the TV and were watching The Adventures of Mariquita Samper. Mariquita was gone in a flash, and Brian seized the moment to lay a kiss on Montserrat, who was madly in love with her darling. You are my darling-Montserrat told Bran. And she sighed deeply. In the middle of the kiss and the sigh, the phone rang. d.a.m.ned phone-said Montse-doesn't give us a moment of privacy. Even though we're the lost lovers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Montserrat answered the phone. h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Yes, Montse. This is Mariquita. Did you see me on TV? I'm calling to let you know that we're giving the Narrator a party. He just got a raise so that he can make a more extensive cinematic production. He won all sorts of grants. They're crazy about his cinematic novel. Of course-said Montse as Brian kissed her again. And Mariquita laughed. Hey, Montse, what's the matter? You're not paying attention. I'll call you back when Brian is not touching you in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. How did you know that we were making love? It's a cinch to guess your luck, Montse-said Mariquita. I'll call you later. I'm busy too. I've only got five seconds before I go on the air. We'll chat then. Bye, Montse. Five seconds later, Mariquita was back on TV. Montse-Mariquita said suddenly. Since it's so hard to talk by phone, I'm letting you know that the party won't be at the Narrator's house this time, but at Vita Giorgi's. I'll see you at eight o'clock, Wednesday night. Please bring five bottles of wine. Anna, Berta, Giannina, Honorata, Uriberto and, of course, the Narrator will be there. The camera zoomed in on Mariquita's smile, especially her gold tooth. My luck has changed for the better since I gilded my tooth. The Narrator cut out the scenes of the gold tooth and the raise. He had these prophetic words inscribed in gold letters on a big poster: "Making money is turning solitude into a diary. In other words, it's s.h.i.+t." Look out, Montserrat, something is missing. What's missing is a king-size bed to celebrate the love of the lost lovers of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Good idea, said Mariquita through the TV screen. A water bed. I'm going to pierce it so they'll drown when it bursts. You're wis.h.i.+ng me dead?-asked Montse. No, Montse, you're not the one I want dead. It's the Narrator and Uriberto even more. I'm fed up with both of them. I want to be as free as my white dove. Do you want some popcorn? She flashed her gold tooth again and stretched her hand through the TV screen, and Brian took the popcorn and fed Montserrat through another kiss with popcorn and solitude, Mariquita, solitude. Then the lights went out. And only G.o.d knows what took place on the water bed that Mariquita popped with the pin of love in The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

Manifesto on Poetic Eggs.

Success-said the Narrator-is the first poetic egg. Success and money. I don't wors.h.i.+p you or respect you in the slightest-said Mariquita Samper. Your eggs aren't poetic eggs. Your briefcase and plastic smile don't fool me. A pack of police dogs should rip you to shreds. I object-said Uriberto Eisensweig. I object-said the Narrator. You've just laid a poetic egg. This wasn't written in the official script. But it's written in my heart-said Mariquita. Do you think you fool me? If you want to cash in on a novel, look for one of those cheap novelists who go around selling my dreams and poetic fantasies for big bucks. I wasn't born to be your puppet. I'm not here to make you wealthy with lies. I was born to tell the truth. All this c.o.c.k-and-bull that novelists like you have told-stupid Narrator-has nothing to do with what really happens at the margins of existence. What about the crazy old bag lady in Central Park who digs through garbage cans looking for food? No one mentions her. Who the h.e.l.l cares about Montse and Brian? Who gives a d.a.m.n about your Intimate Diary of Solitude? I'm happy to say, n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n. But it worries me that Little Orphan Mariquita should be paid a million bucks for telling her asinine official story. It's about time I flushed all this s.h.i.+t you've made me write. I'm not egocentric, you know. It's easy to recognize egocentric writers like you, Narrator. The first thing they do is establish "how-to" doctrines. What they're really after is power. Power and money. And they have a very strange way of looking at me, Mariquita Samper. They minimize life and the world. They're not lyricists or bohemians. They're propagandists, pus.h.i.+ng pamphlets and doctrines. What's the matter? You didn't expect a Macy's makeup artist to say these things? Subversive? I'll always be subversive because the subversive always speaks the truth. What chapter were we on, Narrator? Read it all back to me to fulfill your literary ambitions. How much is missing from the chapter on poetic eggs to satisfy idiots like you? How many pounds of makeup must I put on to fool life? And, for the record, I am free. I chose to be a Macy's makeup artist. I love to smear my face with lies because the more pounds of makeup, the more life weighs, and the more revolutionaries like me will write revolutions and manifestos on poetic eggs. I flash my gold tooth again. And lie down to sleep. But I'm immediately awakened by solitude. Dear Narrator, your diary has me locked up in this solitude that says nothing of the intimate reality of life. Have you seen how black people dance in New York City? Their dance is like the dance of love. All I need is love. Love. Love. On the other hand, I maintain the form of poetic discourses and novels, but I'm introducing a subversive element. This subversive element is my heart, which contains a little golden worm that never lets me sleep peacefully and always tells me, "Mariquita, always walk to the left. But don't go so far as to lose sight of my heart's dance." After trudging through the city streets and watching all the lies, I go home at the end of a day of deep solitude and write the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs. There go the drooling writers and pamphleteers. Of course they make money. Of course they eat well. They talk with their tongues hanging out, just like you, stupid Narrator. Boom! Boom! He's dead. He's dead. Mariquita has killed the Narrator. Revolution in The Intimate Diary of Solitude. He's dead. He's dead. But he's not dead. He has just told me that he doesn't like aggressive women like me. He has just told me that there's too much resentment in my words. And he has just told me that I also say, "Boom! Boom!" and don't kill anybody. After all, I'm not a feminist. I don't have to be a feminist to call myself Mariquita Samper. I'm sustained by my name and my person. I'm an egg and nothing more. When I go home at the end of the day, they tell me that I've insulted my mother's memory. When I was a child writing poems and pitching them into the basket, my mother would say, "Mariquita, don't throw away what you write. Have some respect for yourself." She was right even though she was wrong. My mother wrote piles of s.h.i.+t and thought all of it deserved the name Berta Singerman. Her self-esteem overstepped the boundaries of fantasy. Berta thought she was more important than what she wrote. Her queen-bee att.i.tude said it all. She never dreamed Mariquita would make fun of her. It never occurred to her that Mariquita lacked self-respect because she had so much respect for the writing of mankind and life. I don't matter. I'm just a machine writing the world and life. What matters is the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs. And this manifesto is anonymous. It was written by rain, wind, blood, and pain. It was written by Mariquita's gold tooth. Her red freckles and red hair are more important than Mariquita Samper. You just don't matter, Narrator. To quote your poster, "Making money is turning solitude into a diary. In other words, it's s.h.i.+t." A golden bird in my heart dictated these prophetic words. I read them before you in this conference of absent writers of New York. This is all bulls.h.i.+t. And I denounce it. I won't be taken for a fool. I've been playing Mariquita Samper for too long. I quit! I'm leaving The Intimate Diary of Solitude forever. When I smile my Mariquita-smile, they say-How pleasant she is! She is truly the Queen of Beauty, Charm, and Coquetry-but now that I'm writing the Manifesto on Poetic Eggs, Oh! Oh!-they say-Watch out! Beware! Her eggs must be destroyed! They're eggs-they say. They're eggs. They're not poems. Not novels. Not plays. Not masterpieces. We must yank out her gold tooth. We must dislodge her freckles and cut off her red hair. No! s.h.i.+tty lecturers, you won't destroy me! Mariquita ran away with her poster and her Manifesto on Poetic Eggs after dictating a death sentence to all the lecturers, writers, and novelists who had written The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

2. Rosaries at Dawn.

What matters most of memory.

Is the precious gift of conjuring dreams.

-Machado, Solitudes.

The Building of the Waves of the Sea.

I was walking as usual in the wide and foreign land of New York City when I saw from afar Bengal lights that erased distance and landed me in a building. I saw the Arts Cinema of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Then I entered a magic world. I wound a music box, and out came Uriberto and Berta, Mariquita, and the Narrator-all dancing. I closed my eyes slowly to feel the fire of death. A few seconds later, I felt Death of Poetry was already over. I immediately pressed the elevator b.u.t.ton. And its gigantic doors opened. I saw a skyrocket blast off on television. Then I dropped to my knees and prayed. I almost felt new. I had dreamed of constructing a big building in which many languages would be spoken. And I dreamed of a kingdom of steel. I saw some little b.u.t.terflies, and I saw a bee and a gra.s.shopper in the middle of them. I pressed a b.u.t.ton and wound a music box. For a writer like myself-said the Narrator-to wind a music box is to fill a gas tank. And to allow a skyrocket to blast off in the middle of a phrase that suddenly finds itself stuck in traffic and to see from afar that memories get confused and their feet become cotton and foam comes out of their mouths. A few seconds later, I repeated a sound I had heard in the streets of New York. My hand trembled as I quoted the sound of night. I nearly died. Died from solitude. Actually, nothing had changed. The Intimate Diary of Solitude was full of people. The walls were covered with graffiti. It was all a photocopy or a recording from a long time ago. But I found the waves of the sea as I entered Rosaries at Dawn. I should have repeated the movement of the waves of the sea until I reached the farthest horizon. I pulled up the covers and lay down to sleep. I didn't want to go ash.o.r.e. I should have dived directly into the closest and the farthest. People make mistakes-I told myself. They don't think of the sea as a building. But I'll prove that the waves of the sea reproduce the movement of life. In the city of The Raise everything repeats the rising momentum of the waves of the sea. Everything is gold sand and water flooding the gaze. I'm writing the movement of storm and sea, not poetry. I had fallen asleep with my eyes open. I had dreamed a pure dream. And I had left that dream free. I had pressed another b.u.t.ton without the slightest feeling of guilt, and I had seen what I never had imagined I would see. As I was lying on the tomb of my bed, I envisioned the inside of The Building of the Waves of the Sea. It wasn't hard to go through the revolving doors. I put on my galoshes and raincoat, and through the revolving doors, I slid into the labyrinth of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. The first thing I noticed were the mannequins of Mariquita and Uriberto, Berta, and Honorata Pagan in the display window. It felt strange knowing that my ma.n.u.script was behind the facade of this building. It was almost as if the building's architect could go through its revolving doors and slide through the kingdom of his dreams. There were stores on every floor. Selling nickels, clowns, buffoons, shepherds, doors, nights, days, and doormen. It had the facade of New York City. And it looked just like an empire. Selling the movement of the waves of the sea. The way I saw it after it went up-said the architect-it looked like the island of Manhattan submerged in the movement of the waves of the sea. Although I had always dreamed of building an empire, it was rather strange to finally stand before it. I chatted with Uriberto and Mariquita at Caffe degli Artisti. Then I left and took a long subway ride across the city of my dreams. I went into another building. I needed to enter Book of Clowns and Buffoons. Now it was perfect. At least now I knew why the magician had destroyed the circuses. And why the fortune-teller had predicted that one of the drunkards would finish Profane Comedy after he freed himself from all of death's dreams. I made many mistakes, or laid many eggs, as Mariquita would say. But you learn from your mistakes. Some of the shepherds in Pastoral needed finis.h.i.+ng touches. I redid their faces-said Macy's makeup artist Mariquita Samper. Sometimes the floor even shook. I spent hours in perplexity and pain. I feared that I'd die before I had sculpted all the wrinkles on the face of my building. I've spent many years building the life and death of these characters and of this poetic universe. I never knew that after the construction of Profane Comedy would come the realization of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. But the death of the shepherds in Pastoral and Song of Nothingness gave birth to The Intimate Diary of Solitude. With a helmet on my head and a drill in hand, I was a contractor. I called my employees together and told them that I wanted to build The Intimate Diary of Solitude. I paid them monthly with gifts. All the work was the artistry of dreams. I gave them instructions. A concrete ideology was unnecessary. There are no ideas in the world-I told them. We are not Marxists, or capitalists, or feminists, or whatever else is in fas.h.i.+on. If anything, we are workers for the empire of the poet-artist. And if we can identify with anything, it is with revolution. For which we had to destroy and rebuild ourselves. Our revolution is not about self-complacency. It is about constant self-criticism. We detest all kinds of egocentrism. We detest power, success, and especially the opportunists of the world. We are honorable men. And we are honored by work and the finished product. We do not love G.o.ds. We detest the infinite and immortality. We create the empire of the world and the empire of death. Life is born from death. From the death of a.s.sault on Time came the birth of Profane Comedy, and from the death of Profane Comedy came the birth of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. And what will be born will later die. The dying will reach the limits of the undying. This is the poet-artist's doctrine that made the construction of The Intimate Diary of Solitude possible. This doctrine has the movement of the waves of the sea. I was born on an island, so every character acting in any show in this building also depends on the movement of the waves of the sea. We imitate the nature of the sea. Our building is a mirror of the life of the sea. My eyes have been lost in the movement of the waves of the sea ever since I was a child. My art is a product of this solitary movement that produces both storms and days of great peace and tranquility. It's summer for me on the island of Puerto Rico even though it's winter for us on the island of Manhattan. I am an Odysseus. And I say, as Odysseus once said, that the greatest feeling is going home after a long journey through the city of dreams. My art is the art of exile. I've raised The Building of the Waves of the Sea so I wouldn't feel further removed. I'm proud of having been born in this building and of having built each one of its stores. I wish you were as happy as I am. I make happiness work. I am the producer of happiness. That's why I'm giving you all my stores. I've created the sea, as well as movies, love, happiness, grief, clowns, cards, The Raise, the city of dreams, Caffe degli Artisti, Manifesto on Poetic Eggs, poetry, prose, night, day, elevators, doormen, sadness, solitude, joy. Mention whatever you want. I'll give you more things yet. I'm not done building this building. I've created three symphonies and have six left. I'm still gazing at the facade of my building. Forgive my rejoicing. It's not egocentrism or pride. It's joy. I'm the architect of this world, and I'm still not done with it. I think that all art is representation. Come to my place. You'll see I live alone on the 7th floor, and from there I see all that the world represents. It's winter outside. And it's warm inside my building. I'm still sliding with my galoshes through the city of my dreams. I'm about to go through other revolving doors into the bank of The Intimate Diary of Solitude.

Mariquita Samper's Financial Statement.

I confess my financial state-said Mariquita Samper. I confess all that could have been different and was different. I confess all the things that I believed to be different from what they really are. All of Profane Comedy's poetic eggs have const.i.tuted the fortune of The Intimate Diary of Solitude. Would you believe-Mr. Banker-that in Book of Clowns and Buffoons I went bankrupt? I thought I'd lose my mind. I had to take a sabbatical after I wrote it. I took a year off. And then I went back to work. I took out a loan for $2 million to write it. I ask myself-Our Father who art in heaven-if the financial statement of other writers is like mine. I have been mistaken so many times. And I confess my mistakes. All my losses have turned into enormous gains. Did you know that I lost all my earthly possessions for love? Or that I've already finished writing The Building of the Waves of the Sea? Or that I've just laid some more eggs because I thought that the building would come earlier? But see how strange poetic architecture is. You erect a building with the site in mind. And then you find out you're wrong. What is never wrong is the poem's logic. The building had chosen its own site even though I had thought it would exist somewhere else. The poet of a.s.sault on Time used to call it the mandate of things-and I think she was right. Things choose their s.p.a.ce. Things rule the world. They are in charge, even though you'd like to think that you can order them around. Of course-Mr. Banker-egocentrics don't understand this logic. They impose their own logic on poetry. And that is the basis for the explosion or the schism between the worlds of writers like Mariquita Samper, who obey the mandate of things and who are enslaved by writing, versus the writers who impose themselves on things. Of course, added the Narrator through Mariquita Samper's mouth, when you read the Berta Singermans of the world, you feel that they're derided by the very things they're trying to ride. They're killed by irony. That's why they never reach the category of deathless. Do you know what happens to them, Mr. Banker? From wanting to be above things, they end up underneath them. The writer who doesn't write, but allows writing to write itself, leaving things as they are, and erasing himself from the map of existence, remains ironically within them. This theory comes from the poet-artist's theory of the perishable. Only what is fated to die is capable of living. Only what dies lives. Why do you think Christ was killed? They killed him to prove that he wasn't a G.o.d. But in killing him, they immortalized the perishable and transformed man into a G.o.d. Remember Vallejo's verses? "The day I was born, G.o.d was sick." He also said, "There are blows in life like the hatred of G.o.d." Note, Mr. Banker, that Vallejo deprives G.o.d of his immortality. He humanizes G.o.d. Imposes death upon him. Imposes the perishable. G.o.d is sick, as I am. G.o.d hates, as I do. And in doing so-believe me, Mr. Banker, in humanizing him, what he does is immortalize his humanness. I'm not interested in G.o.ds, Mr. Banker, I'm interested in human beings. And yet, the G.o.ds envy my death. G.o.ds can't create as I do because they're immortal and incapable of dying in order to be reborn. That's why they can't create different things. They're condemned to live the dream of the imperishable. I've told you many times that I'm a golden worm. I declared I was an egg in Poems of the World. Now I affirm that I am that egg. I've died many times, Mr. Banker. I've been destroyed time and again by the mandate of things. And I'll be destroyed over and over again. If I keep creating or laying eggs as I've done up to now, I'll have no choice but to be ready to die in order to be ready to live again. Amen. Forgive me, Mr. Banker, for mistaking you for a priest, but aren't you supposed to have economic healing powers? And I-Mariquita Samper-am just about broke. I'm a nickel. I'm the body of Empire of Dreams. I'm money. And I confess my financial statement. It's in pretty bad shape, eh, Mr. Banker? You remind me of the stupid Narrator. Allow me to pay you with a check. I still have something in my account. I'll see you tomorrow, same place, same time. Rest in peace, sinner. Rest in peace, Mr. Banker. And let me leave you. In peace. In peace. In peace.

Requiem for Solitude.

Have you noticed how the characters in this book have disappeared? It's as if only the sea were left remembering the dreams of all these characters. A while ago, when I was at one with the sea with all my thoughts in its waters, I saw how the end of Empire of Dreams was filmed. All the characters of a.s.sault on Time, Profane Comedy, and The Intimate Diary of Solitude were standing in the water. Holding burning torches. Illuminating the night. I couldn't make out their features because their faces were besmeared with makeup. But they spoke. Or rather, they made noises that caused the movement of the waves of the sea during the spectacle of the night. I'll never forget how there was no light except for the torches. Torches that looked as if they were suspended in midair because I couldn't see anyone holding them. All the characters were sighing or groaning or screaming or crying. They looked like souls torn from their bodies. And it wasn't because their bodies were torn from their souls, but because their souls had been torn from their bodies. And, above all, they wept. They were like abandoned echoes. Like the echo of seash.e.l.ls. Let's keep in mind that their voices simulated a chorus of echoes. And the idea of a chorus is essential. Because I felt they were singing Requiem for Solitude. And I felt they were living all its movements. Solitude is not a voice, just an echo. When I say that it's just an echo I don't mean that it imitates, but that it projects the voices of solitude with an unwonted repercussion. These characters were dead. And yet they had come to life. They were suddenly feeling the fire of death over the movement of the waves of the sea. They were bringing death's movement to their own movement, slowly, while the s.h.i.+p of fools sailed on. I'd dreamed of bringing to this rhythm a final dance that would invade the maritime continent of this book. But I'm not even sure what my writing is capable of writing. I'm the hand that writes the writing of the world. Other fragments that I haven't even noticed have pa.s.sed by me over the waves of the sea. I'd like you to listen a while longer to the writing of the reading of this book. I still haven't found in the waves of the sea the end of the movement of the last wave in the outlet of the ma.n.u.script of life.

The Movement of the Waves of the Sea.

How strange-said Mariquita Samper. And she went to the kitchen and turned off the light. Then she turned off the light in the living room and the dining room. Leaving only her desk light on, she looked down, closed her eyes, concentrated on one spot, opened her eyes, and saw that her pen was writing on that spot of the page. You see, I've felt lost watching the movement of the waves of the sea. I've touched the heart of a star. At other times of my life, the rising sea only gave voice to waves that came by storm. I've always written about the waves of the sea. They always a.s.sumed different voices when speaking to me. Even when they sensed that the fury of calm had come after the storm. Peace is airy. In the wake of the waves, everything can sound the same or entirely different. I often considered writing the fragment I'm writing right now, but it never came out this way. I'm afraid to lose what I'm writing. Things are what they are when they have already stopped being what they are. It's so strange. I'm writing this whole Empire of Dreams on my water bed. Sleeping. And writing while kneeling. Praying. But to write dreams as I'm doing now is to let the poetry-writer run and flood me with dreams and memories. I've never believed in time or dreams. What do people mean when they talk of existence? What is the basis for saying that I exist? What is the basis for saying that everything continues when everything is dead? In what book or fragment of world history is it said that men exist because they die? Has anyone really gotten close enough to existence to be able to say that anyone who exists without a notion of death exists without a notion of life? A curious idea just occurred to me. I'll let things swim over the waves of the sea for now. You shouldn't force the movement of the waves of the sea. Be at the mercy of things. Do you mean to tell me that if a wave knocks me down and drags me away, I should let it? Yes, you should stay wherever it leaves you, so you'll discover distance. Then I'm only a puppet of destiny. Maybe all of Profane Comedy's clowns and shepherds came about this way. To be at the mercy of the waves is to be at the height of existence. To allow things to exist. I said that it was all so strange. Now I don't feel like swimming over the waves of the sea or under the waves of the sea. Do you know what I'm doing now? I'm floating. To survive is to float. Wait a minute. I don't like this stuff about surviving. I don't want to be above life. I want to be even with each moment of my life. And what do you think? To be floating with life is to be even with life? I could never do this before. And I'm not sure that in the near or distant future I'll be able to do it again. I'm not even sure that I'll be able to write another word. In my life everything is fortuitous. Everything is gratuitous. I used to impose order on things as part of my discipline. Now I let the sea's lack of discipline impose its discipline on me. It's all so strange. As a child, I devoured books. The same pa.s.sion I had for reading I now have for writing. Now my reading has become my writing. I write the same way that my eyes penetrate someone else's line. By writing, I'm reading what I write. By writing, I used to read my past, my present, and even my future in my writing. Even when I walked along the sand of the beach this summer, I felt that I was reading as I was contemplating the sea in the wandering of my eyes. It was as if the infinite were momentarily condensed. The infinite isn't divine-it's human-absolutely quotidian and real. Even as I was writing this fragment, I felt that my grounds had been invaded. My writing's point of reference had nothing to do with my reading's point of reference. But my life has always been full of sudden changes. And I've had to include those changes in my writing. In the morning, I run through part of my building. Take a subway to another world, to another building. And then head back to my building as I'm walking through the life of the other building. Running through the city of dreams. I almost always know when I can and cannot write. Some books are written in anguish or despair. This book is written when I'm feeling lost. But even that lost feeling is lost. It's misplaced or transformed. In order to write how the sea moves, I've had to cry and I've had to suffer. As I was walking around New York City alone today, I walked into The Intimate Diary of Solitude. I had a cup of coffee at Caffe degli Artisti. I watched some clowns and buffoons who were performing the poem of the fortune-teller and the poem of the magician. Then I got lost in the labyrinth of dreams. I no longer felt my name was Mariquita Samper, let alone Giannina Braschi. I felt like losing myself on the seash.o.r.e. And I lost myself in all the waves of the books that I've written. I didn't know where I was. This happens to me often. I came across Uriberto Eisensweig, who asked me to go with him through all the stores of my building. So I went. He changed his costume and dressed up like a shepherd. He asked me how he looked. I said he didn't look right. After being Uriberto you can never be a shepherd again. And yet, there were many other men who dressed like shepherds, clowns, and buffoons, and their costumes suited them well. The difference was obvious. We were in other periods of our lives. I feel I can now represent the movement of the thoughts of my solitude. The dislocation that I feel when I'm writing is part of the intimacy. Intimacy, deep down, is solitude. A toy began dancing in my diary. I didn't notice its movement when I was writing these pages in the building. It's true that things are beautiful when they work. Art is function. Forgive me for having danced so much. I always excuse myself. But my excuse is a way of imposing my way of thinking. Or of letting things impose their mandate. My handwriting adapts itself to the architecture of each one of my books. Let them dance. Or let them show the power of their movement. Only then will you notice the flash of their explosion. Soon they'll stop singing. And they'll die. Like the waves of the sea. And they'll rise again. Don't let them lie still forever. I've just run out of gasoline. At the end I always have to stop at a station. And fill my tanks. All that begins is an ending. And I say as a sailor once said in a romance of the solitude and the sirens of the sea: I only sing my song to whomever follows me.

About the Author.

Photo Copyright: Michael Somoroff.

Giannina Braschi is one of Puerto Rico's most influential and versatile writers of poetry, fiction, and essays. She was a tennis champion, a singer, and fas.h.i.+on model during her teen years before discovering writing. She lived in Madrid, Paris, Rome, and London before settling in New York, where she taught at Colgate, Rutgers, and City University. With a PhD in Golden Age Spanish literature, she has written on Cervantes, Garcilaso, Lorca, Machado, Vallejo, and Becquer. Author of United States of Banana and Yo-Yo Boing!, Braschi's cutting-edge work has been recognized by the National Endowment for the Arts, the NY Foundation for the Arts, El Diario, PEN American Center, the Ford Foundation, Danforth Scholars.h.i.+p, Inst.i.tuto de Cultura Puertorriquena, and the Reed Foundation. She writes in three languages-Spanish, Spanglish, and English-to express the enculturation process of Hispanic immigrants-and to explore the three political options of Puerto Rico-nation, colony, or state. Braschi dedica