[XCIV]
Si muero, sobrevíveme con tanta fuerza pura
If I die, survive me with so much pure force
que despiertes la furia del pálido y del frío,
that you awake the fury of the pallid and the cold,
de sur a sur levanta tus ojos indelebles,
from south to south raise your indelible eyes,
de sol a sol que suene tu boca de guitarra.
from sun to sun let your guitar mouth sound.
No quiero que vacilen tu risa ni tus pasos,
I want neither your laughter nor your steps to falter,
no quiero que se muera me herencia de alegría,
nor my inheritance of joy to die;
no llames a mi pecho, estoy ausente.
do not invoke my chest, I am gone.
Vive en mi ausencia como en una casa.
Live in my absence as if it were a house.
Es una casa tan grande la ausencia
It is such a grand house, absence,
que pasarás en ella a través de los muros
that in it you will pass straight through the walls
y colgarás los cuadros en el aire.
and you will hang the pictures in the air.
Es una casa tan transparente la ausencia
Absence is a house that’s so transparent
que yo sin vida te veré vivir
that, lifeless, I will see you live
y si sufres, mi amor, me moriré otra vez.
and if you suffer, love of mine, I’ll die again.
Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada. Cien sonetos de amor, 1924, Pablo Neruda y Herederos de Pablo Neruda
1994, Random House Mondadori
Cuarta edición en U.S.A: febrero 2004
[English translation is mine.]
(c) 2020 JMN
EthicalDative 
Alternatives to Fact
“I think that perception and comprehensible information based in truthful reality is what has been burned to the ground,” he says. “Answers are lit on fire like burning leaves in the wind. Nobody really has any facts.”
Never at a loss for words is George Condo. He calls his style “artificial realism” or “psychological cubism,” to give you an idea.
I keep returning to his remark that “nobody really has any facts.” The context is the viral divisiveness which is steadily gutting the American dispensation. Condo applies his wizard painting skills to the holocaust of perceptual consensus with gripping effect.
Having ditched Manhattan for the Hamptons to shelter from Covid, Condo pokes “truthful reality” in the kisser from his artful isolation. It’s as if the smithereens from serial explosions in the schism factory are landing on his picture plane. This-is-what-I-see-in-my-head contrivances confront the viewer with McEnany truculence: Look with these eyeballs, not yours.
The difference is that Condo’s disorienting figurations, modeled in loopy forms and luscious colors, are disarmingly engaging.
(Nadja Sayej, “George Condo: ‘Change can’t just be an idea or a slogan — it has to get real,’” theguardian.com, 11-6-20)
(c) 2020 JMN