As I told you before, this is the previous version to that Roots you have (or not) been tearing apart as the ugly tale it is. This one is by far much better. I can tell. Because I can’t make it better by translating. Maybe I can’t write great novels but I’m sure I can at least write this entertaining pieces. Enjoy it (or not) by Merriam.
Velvet true p1 of 2
Drop, drop. In silk and fog, From putrid flesh, Pure beauty is given birth to.
There’s one. Then a new drop. Plop, plop, plop. Red and thick and sweet. The plastic tub in masonry red with characters from some Asian place that he couldn’t read in the beginning. It can’t be a pig or cow or dog. Human. It has to be.
The temperature and humidity perfect. A human sauna, a vegetal paradise. He is sure for he has adjusted the temperature and filled with water the aspersion and dripping systems’ deposits.
—No, no. Thank you but it has to be bark. Bark of it won’t work. Yes Spaegnum… Yes, yes. In cash, as usual. Thank you and till Thursday.
Sigh. He will have to go out again soon. Thankfully there are a lot of them everywhere. Impulsive and foolish. In love to those husky voices of girlish lips. Smoked eyes with make up. Ha, glass skin of someone in quarantine. Nonetheless, thanks to them he can provide for his baby. His red lips baby who has earned her name. Velvet true.
Next year? No. Perhaps if I keep trying? No. Maybe with a little magic? No. Numb, numb and numb. I plan but feel like slumbering. I think I might but feel like getting lost in reading. Why am I even typing? Why the need? Said someone. Why the need? I thought too. Will I be brave enough to face the bumping lights? Or am I coward enough to go on zombying like the last ten years of nothing? Don’t mind me. This is just a drama.
Una vez establecido lo que es una situación narrativa, que suena más bien como a invento chino al que no hay que hacerle mucho caso; voy a explorar (intentando crear más que buscando ejemplos) esto de las situaciones narrativas posibles para ver qué tanta es la posibilidad de manipulación de la información hacia el lector. Curiosamente, vienen en paquete de número mágico narrativo (el 3).
LAS DIFERENTES SITUACIONES NARRATIVAS
Hay situaciones en las que el “yo” narrador puede:
Solo contar
Los Piel de lobo bajaron por el río y, a veces, se llevaban el barco a cuestas cuando el agua era somera.
Percibir
Los Piel de lobo llevaban un ritmo constante rio abajo y chapoteando en el agua fría o marchando sobre las hojas que crujían, cuando el agua era somera.
Actuar
Adria se estremeció con el agua fría. Él ni siquiera cargaba el barco pero se mojaba más que los demás. Soltó un torrente de palabrotas por no poder tocar el casco del barco. Werenf lo tranquilizó diciéndole que ya tenía bastante con cargar con el peso de los nombres de todas las estrellas.
Prestar testimonio (un caso particular de tercera persona donde el personaje hace las veces de testigo).
Siempre que había que cargar el barco por un arroyo, Adria se mojaba mucho más que las botas… De hecho ni siquiera ayudaba cargando el barco, lo que siempre lo hacía decir palabrotas, pero era el único que se sabía bien las estrellas y el único que sabía cantar bien las sagas.
Combinaciones de las anteriores
Infiltrarse.
¿Infiltrarse? Sí, una infiltración presupone que el narrador no declara su “yo” al principio de la fábula pero se va introduciendo poco a poco y de manera imperceptible en ésta hasta que termina por decir (metafóricamente o no) “aquí estoy y soy tal”.
Dadas estas razones, es imposible afirmar que la situación narrativa siempre sea la misma. Y de hecho, con el head hopping que se han inventado los escritores en inglés; cambiando de capítulo cada vez que cambian de cabeza o de focalizador, añadiendo asteriscos en el caso de Terry Prattchet; la situación narrativa cambia prácticamente muchas veces a lo largo de todo un texto narrativo. No es de extrañar que Mieke Bal mencione que el caso de La jalousie sea uno muy extraño.
¿Se te antoja prestar testimonio en una situación narrativa con tendencia a alabar esta entrada en un comentario? ¿Suscribirte al blog para recibir más chorradas?
—Those… I haven’t been able to reproduce them. There’s only one seller… — Actually the words I’m about to say might not be the same thought by the «parakeet» nose, though the feeling is the feeling one gets when thinking such things. «Fuc#$&_ bitch». The cup went resting upon its plate and the hand that has done the action goes to the healthy snack on a bowl on the table. It takes a strawberry.
—Maybe you can introduce us… I’d like to support their art… —Hihi— the hand of the other nose, covers the mouth. —I don’t know them… Ingrid gets them buying online. He has his own catalogue online. Posts on a blog or something like that. Poor little ones, they won’t last more than a week — the hand caresses the flowers. There are five and its roots haven’t been snipped so they can rest in the special plant gel… something is missing. The flowers look a bit withered.
— They’re so white; they’re called «ghosts»
The «parakeet» nose gets the shivers. «Nonsense» thinks her rational mind to put aside her fear, yet she can’t help the sarcastic comment.
—Pretty much fed on blood, eh?
She wears black, crosses the orange peasant bridge in the dark and stops at the curb. He has said he will come to pick her up. It’s 2 am, the best time for the orchids.
—One must feel an idiot feeling jealousy towards a bunch of stupid plants — she mumbles while jumping a little to keep cold, nervousness and feet cramps at bay. — Just because the formula is a secret, he doesn’t have why to behave this mysterious… — she looks at the highway, hopeful. She has already left her house in secret and walked 2 km so no one would suspect.
A «mushroom» * I’m sorry to say the author, me, distinguishes with great effort a Volkswagen beetle from a Mini cooper (old ones) but definitely will confuse a Tsuru and a Versta.* baby truck gets close in a funny way. Like an old man with a cane, very determined but very slowly. It comes up to her and stops. His nose gets out a little from the window and stares as soon as he opens the co-pilot’s door. —Ah… —her heart stops for a second; the sound is relief and ecstasy at the same time.
She gets herself in the vehicle and her wishes come true. A hand on her neck and lips on hers… he thinks nothing else but his beautiful babies. Anything else is just to feed them, to keep them alive. He licks his lips and remembers the little body on the back seat.
Happy, she allows herself to be ushered to the first story, to the bath with a shower, filled to the brim of a suspiciously red and smelly thing… Her instinct springs up, too late to process the data.
— Easy, it is just a mix of tomato and fertilizing — sweet protective smile, as he surrounds her waist and takes her closer to the bath, kissing her neck and whispering:
— Come, you can open the tap — Again, the voice is innocent, hurt, intention heavy. She nods as they go closer and she bends over the tap on the side leaning on the wall. Both manipulate the flux of time from that moment on. The tap, a round dented one allows the flow of something as dense so easily.
The flowers downstairs are hungry, they don’t feed on sun. They’re parasites, truly gorgeous parasites. Underground, their roots move towards the nurturing liquid filtering into. They’re ambitious and they’re hungry. Their roots pulsate to every drink like veins and arteries from a famined heart.
—Oh! — It is time to kill the character, when the readers expect it and know she will die? Probably… She waits and smiles.
tiempo de desgarrar
— Si la dejo, volverá
ahora, ahora, ahora…
A bunch of thoughts swirl in his brain. It’s not as he doesn’t want to kill her, he wants intensely to do it but, quality and available flesh of the kind is almost never at hand. It would be a pity not to save some for later. The prettiest ones become prettier flowers…
A tall and slim but attractive man waits outside the movies. She, 14 y.o., with a body with instincts and appearance enough to forget about the brain (more than skipping usage, one that skips calculating consequences); gets to it in a rush of self-steem.
— Hey do you have fire?
He holds his cigarette as an answer. Both of them get closer to each other and she aspires so the hot air gets inside the edge and lits the tobacco.
— Are you waiting for someone? — A hand brushes off the rebel hair ironed till it became a uniform curtain. Eyes staring at eyes.
— Mi novia.. I think she … dump. She stood me — Sigh/lonely smile/slightly shrunk shoulders, the flutter of a winning happy butterfly in her brain, thinking the score you get for getting a foreigner (no, not a red neck, a foreigner). — Ditch her, come with me — she takes his arm in between seduction and reticence. —Yo… love this country — he bends his head. He really loves the country, you can fuck someone’s life and if you do leave traces behind; you never have to worry about el forense (coroner) and detectives. Even better if you look like a failure. No one says anything about how you live your life.
She sleeps on the co-pilot’s seat. The road has been long but the promise of new experiences has never stopped people like her. Besides, the previous was more than enough to dare.
He opens his door and gets out from the vehicle —Almost there — he whispers when she opens her eyes and looks at him pleased… The princess and her prince ( don’t laugh, whomever writing this can’t help princesses invading 0-12 y.o. feminine mentalities).
He takes her to the bath in the first story. He introduces her inside and undresses her little by little. There’s no point in getting dirty clothes you will remove to make use of the flesh. — Cold— she’s awake but will let the other do. She ain’t scared and the hands over her body are true. He stops and hugs her. It’s a hug wrapping her around, like a boa before the final squeeze. His mouth on hers and his chin on her shoulder (technically I made a mistake there; it shouldn’t be the shoulder but the blade bone). She won’t have air or time to scream. The knife has been there from before, under the bath and the cut is so exact that the blood comes out in a gush. The lack of air from the kiss and the bleeding are a drug, a one use drug. Later, beauty will consume itself, with its more tortuous peak cycle being in the kitchen.
At dusk, they are bright in ghostly light as the wind rocks them and the sister schooless moon rises to the moving shadows. They’re small spectres forgotten among the green tribe. Only rhizome of desolated milky green and a whiter flower atop. Despite the red labellum.
The sky has become sorta white. Tasteless. Worthless. And it doesn’t matter how bright the stars. My heart can’t beat to their sight. Moon light? Blind. Rose scent? My nose is dead. The touch of a lad? I’m numb to fail. Rise and rise, The smoke. Nothing. Some exiled name from remain, Cause there were records of none. Burnt in the same cage of demise. Cinders behind. Without a teeth brush or shoe to put behind glass.
Una situación narrativa no es inmutable…. ¿Qué es una situación narrativa?
Mieke Bal expone como gramaticalmente hablando, la primera persona no es diferente de la tercera persona en la narración. Ambas pueden sostener esta suerte de “yo” digo a lo largo de toda la narración. Lo que ya comprobé al crear oraciones sobre una tribu que ni siquiera tiene una historia propia.
Dependiendo de si se trata de un personaje narrador, un narrador externo, acciones perceptibles o no perceptibles y del focalizador; es que tenemos una SITUACIÓN NARRATIVA.
Las situaciones narrativas podrían parecer una absoluta pérdida de tiempo si no es que mantenerlas puede variar el efecto de manipulación sobre la información ofrecida al lector. En Introducción a la narrativa, Mieke Bal
Un narrador externo no es igual de íntimo que la confesión del “yo” de un narrador personaje en primera persona. Y si a esto le sumamos que el narrador externo puede tomar un enfoque parcial tanto sobre la información que nos ofrece de un personaje como la que ofrece sobre sí mismo (siempre terminaremos por considerar que el narrador sea un ser individual pese a que, en teoría, sólo es un agente que escupe signos gramaticales); podemos cambiar lo que se piensa de la narración. Porque no sabemos QUIÉN narra y no podemos establecer su relación con la trama así que nos vemos orientados a tomar partido.
UN NARRADOR ADECUADO, UN FOCALIZADOR ADECUADO Y UN TÍTULO SUGERENTE
El ejemplo de Mieke es el de La jalousiede Alain Robe-Grillet. En ese texto narrativo (para hablar con propiedad tomando en cuenta el objetivo de la narratología), que no he leído así que confiaré en Mieke Bal; se mantiene un narrador externo con focalización externa y no perceptible… El narrador nunca se nombra a sí mismo, siempre focaliza desde su punto de vista sin tomar en cuenta otros personajes y por la parte de lo no perceptible (en teoría otros personajes no pueden mirar dentro de la cabeza de los demás personajes), quiere decir que habla solo de pensamientos y emociones y no de acciones. Por esta razón es que la mayoría de los críticos CREEN que el personaje anónimo que narra es un marido celoso… Si a la focalización adecuada se le suma un narrador adecuado y un título sugerente; es de esperarse un efecto en particular.
Por eso es que conviene saber que no basta con especificar si un narrador es “yo” o “él” porque gramaticalmente no existe ninguna diferencia al escribir. Tampoco es suficiente con imaginar que mi personaje “yo” hable de sí mismo o mi personaje “yo” hable de OTROS.
¿Le darás una focalización de genialidad a esta entrada con un like? ¿Prefieres agregar una primera persona Narrador personaje con un comentario?
Published in this blog December 19th, 2020 Translated September 2023
Continuation and part 2 of 3. Tear it apart.
Roots 2
The light coloured tile floor and the «welcome» rug over a weird shine of the spotless tiles. He goes out to the noon sun, crosses the cobbled path between the house and the fence in exactly 7 steps.
The jeans become a straight Mediterranean nose, curly black hair brushed backwards in a gel excess and tunnel eyes. Dark, mysterious and lighted at the bottom by life vitality that swallows breath down (for pragmatic effects, the video camera goes up panning from the legs to the face, please).
—Hi. Ready for hard work? — shining stars among tulips in a VIP smile, inviting, magical. —Kome… in… Please. Would you like a glass of water? — composed poker face, ancient. He comes forward to open the house door, knightly, as she crosses through the fence door/bashes her black lashes over a green light of eyes.
—Of course! Thank you.
She’s wonderful. A prized cactus before dawn. But first he has to lure her so she comes back.
The white fingers contrast against the red plastic and the ice; a hand takes the dissected fingers along the rest of the arm on a cutting board. The hand works with its twin to cut following the bone and retire this from the meat. Besides other parts that aren’t worth the effort; the cut out hands will end up in the grinder. The fleshy meat will be cut and refrigerated to use when needed. He might need 4 to 5 more people.
She, black hair in a pony tail, washes her hands and smiles pleased; before taking the glass of water being given. —To your orchids! — It’s him now whom smiles, dunking his nose in the glass… Eureka! —Guld… You like to.. co… Come? To the inaugural day? Guld you open the tab? — The tinted in doubt tone of someone who knows his poor hand. —Shall we have the first today…? — puckered face— I have to keep working —guilt/reproach tone — tomorrow?
A negation gesture, he goes around the bath (in the first story) with his eyes fixed to the tiles, to where she has sat on the edge. He caresses the bath’s edge as if he couldn’t see her and takes her face, closes his and whispers to her ear:
—I must prepare the loam: weed off the grass and leave it drying. Mis bebés (In English in the original)… These orchids come from the dezert and are more difficult than any ofher…
He, in sun shades and long sleeved plus the exotic addition of a fishing hat, weeds off the grass a garden area connected to the bath’s plumbing. If you top preparing the loam with carrying it in buckets, it is a bother. He reminds the first time he saw them. White as spells under moonlight, in a corner of his wife’s favourite garden. He does remember too his wife with her lover… Actually he only remembers the moans. —Haaa haa— He pulls the grass with more strength than before. And smiles in the middle of his frenzied activity.
—In her flesh I found beauty
He takes out about 20 centimeters of soil in an area of about 5 X 5 meters. The sun is a debt on a bank account minus the job but he, keeps till he finishes the task. He fills with sand…this is one of the few times we can see his eyes shine in a bridled excitement some would call passion and others madness.
«They always have orchids, I really hate that» Very unkind thoughts coming from a powdered «perroquet» nose (a little bit hooky but small and graceful)[1]— Oh, thank you! — Sweetened tone whilst the hands belonging to this nose take a white porcelain cup of tea up to the lips. The round table has two bamboo little carpets on it and on them a tea set on a tray. A glass pitch with white orchids of a single red petal[2] separate her from another nose. A tanned and freckled nose straight from the bottom and that looks very determined. This nose owns a pair of thin straight lips glossed up with glitter.
[1] For a more effective description towards a nice imaginative exercise, you can imagine this was video recorded at nose height and panning down
[2] Orchids posses three sepals and three petals. One of said petals looks different and is called labellum.
—I can’t believe these are from your green house! —These aren’t mine — Mysterious smile. — Oh, can I ask where did you get them?
