Apuntes multilingües y narraciones librescas de días volátiles,
cuyo soundtrack incluye un playlist para la certeza viajes con destino incierto
Sadly, It Makes Sense/ followed by The Manic Street Preachers Afterlife
"According to a spokesperson for Manic Street Preachers, guitarist Richey Edwards' legal status has been changed from "missing" to "presumed dead". Edwards went missing from a hotel in central London on February 1, 1995 aged 27. His car was found near the Severn Bridge, and it is believed Edwards took his own life."
"A lawyer representing Richey Edwards' family has stressed that changing the guitarist's status to "presumed dead" was "not the same as an acceptance that he is dead". Should Edwards ever return he would be a very wealthy man, since Manic Street Preachers have been paying 25% of all royalties into a special fund ever since his disappearance in 1995."
"The Marxists, Situationists, pseudo-bisexual-BAD POETS avec eyeliner, pseudo-leopardskin BAD POETS sans eyeliner, and the rest of the Cult Of Nothing should accept, for the last time, that with Richey went all feeble hopes of purity and guitars and profound graffiti."
Pete Doherty
Meanwhile, The Manics are recording a new album with the "lyrics left to us by Richey. Finally it feels like the right time to use them"
***The Manics Afterlife:An Antinecrological Note
Upon the Death of Richey Edwards
& Its Dialectic Impossibility
Wether he is actually dead or [hidden somewhere] laughing at all of this, Richey Edwards was [or should I say is?] aware of every cliché in it.
However, I still find appallingly enticing this undead status in which Richey is kept, as if a sort of aura would be cast upon the Manics solely by the slightest hope that he's alive.
Even "presumed" sounds as a comfortable adjective beside the unspeakable word. In the narrative traced by the Manics, Dead has not been the only unspeakable word. Richey, in an interview, once mentioned he had not thought about the "S" word that would have made him jump off a cliff few months later.
Richey left behind him a misty path, plenty of unspeakables and denials. It was the matter of urban legends what Richey was dealing with. It has been like that since plawright Cristopher Marlowe died in 1593: a young, androgynous man, who holds on his shoulder the double reputation of being both a genius and a lover of excesses meets his self-determined destiny in the darkest of ways available.
Marlowe may have not desired death. However, he didn't acknowledge he was opening new paths not only in poetic drama but also shaping paradigms of sexual identity and public persona. As Marlowe was being stabbed he established a new type of tragedy [off-stage, this time] in which fame, youth, talent, gender, scandal and mystery are the main clusters. Richey was aware that he was following a patern of, let's call it stardom, already trodden by many before him. His contribution to this rise -and-fall-type of tale is, doubtless, to not die at all, but to keep himself amidst life and death, redefining the conditions of stardom afterlife.
Every Manics' record since Everything Must Go is pervaded by a mournful ethos that is expressed through songs that show an increasingly, though restrained, desire to become open elegies. At some extent every new Manics' album should be named Everything Must Go, the kind of phrase to say during an unending farewell. A farewell to a hero whose truely great deed is making his own agony a never-ending departure that is also the fittest vessel for his whole legend.
As Manics keep going on, the legend is enlarged and Richey becomes, each time more clearly, the distinctive icon of a band hardly recognizable if compared to that which recorded an album as clever, zeitgeistish, ironic and angst-plenty as The Holy Bible. It's impossible to say that Richey is dead without implying that the Manics are so alive, but not otherwise. If the Manics are alive as a band it turns impossible, at least dialecticly, to accept that Richey, as a public persona, is dead.
However, I still find appallingly enticing this undead status in which Richey is kept, as if a sort of aura would be cast upon the Manics solely by the slightest hope that he's alive.
Even "presumed" sounds as a comfortable adjective beside the unspeakable word. In the narrative traced by the Manics, Dead has not been the only unspeakable word. Richey, in an interview, once mentioned he had not thought about the "S" word that would have made him jump off a cliff few months later.
Richey left behind him a misty path, plenty of unspeakables and denials. It was the matter of urban legends what Richey was dealing with. It has been like that since plawright Cristopher Marlowe died in 1593: a young, androgynous man, who holds on his shoulder the double reputation of being both a genius and a lover of excesses meets his self-determined destiny in the darkest of ways available.
Marlowe may have not desired death. However, he didn't acknowledge he was opening new paths not only in poetic drama but also shaping paradigms of sexual identity and public persona. As Marlowe was being stabbed he established a new type of tragedy [off-stage, this time] in which fame, youth, talent, gender, scandal and mystery are the main clusters. Richey was aware that he was following a patern of, let's call it stardom, already trodden by many before him. His contribution to this rise -and-fall-type of tale is, doubtless, to not die at all, but to keep himself amidst life and death, redefining the conditions of stardom afterlife.
Every Manics' record since Everything Must Go is pervaded by a mournful ethos that is expressed through songs that show an increasingly, though restrained, desire to become open elegies. At some extent every new Manics' album should be named Everything Must Go, the kind of phrase to say during an unending farewell. A farewell to a hero whose truely great deed is making his own agony a never-ending departure that is also the fittest vessel for his whole legend.
As Manics keep going on, the legend is enlarged and Richey becomes, each time more clearly, the distinctive icon of a band hardly recognizable if compared to that which recorded an album as clever, zeitgeistish, ironic and angst-plenty as The Holy Bible. It's impossible to say that Richey is dead without implying that the Manics are so alive, but not otherwise. If the Manics are alive as a band it turns impossible, at least dialecticly, to accept that Richey, as a public persona, is dead.
***
"Stay Beautiful"
[that's, at least, how you'll remain]
from Generation Terrorist (1992)
[that's, at least, how you'll remain]
from Generation Terrorist (1992)
After All April Is Not So Cruel At All/ Poema Nuevo
Es el calor, pero no es sólo el calor.
.
Empiezo a escribir un poemario de manera inesperada. Todo empezó con una mirada sorpresiva a la que me acerqué sin otra intención más que llenar de endorfinas cada mililitro de mi torrente sanguíneo; ya era hora de volver a sentir esa sensación, esta vez sin los errores del pasado. Fue así como me arrojé al espacio de incertidumbre, un abismo poblado por probabilidades… y caí… y mientras caigo tengo la certeza de que estoy flotando.
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En situaciones así la gente acostumbra recurrir a la música. Yo recurro a la música para todo. Sin embargo fue la pintura el arte que esta ocasión desencadenó el incendio en mi mente. Se me ocurrió mirar uno de los tantos retratos alegóricos que le hizo Dante Gabriel Rossetti a Jane Morris, en especifico uno que se reproduce en el tomo II de la antología de Oxford. Al momento en que contemplé la pintura empezó a crecer una ficción en mi mente y la realidad, una vez más, se volvió un mero instrumento estético. Cuando sentí peligro de ser ridículo pensé en el principio de despersonalización de T. S. Eliot y llegué a conclusiones pseudo-platonicas (en referencia al mundo de las ideas) que, a pesar de mi afinidad por las corrientes de pensamiento gramatológicas y anti-logocentristas, me hicieron sentir calma, sobre todo cuando mi devraye tomó un rumbo hacia Bataille y el ocultismo, como un salto de oca que te da la certeza de los augurios, pero no hay momento de más seguridad que aquél en que se tiene la convicción de que todo lo anterior es producto de vivir bajo un epicureísmo esteticista llevado al mayor extremo posible: no planear la vida más allá del propio instante, exprimir el aliento de cada segundo y hacer del proceso mismo de vivir una obra de arte.
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A la semana siguiente fui a la nueva exposición del MUCA-CU, que no tiene nada que ver con el prerrafaeilismo que llena mis fantasías. Al atardecer de ese día la realidad se rebeló y me dio algo más que objetos para la idealización estética. Encontré alguien que llena de alquimia los días, la pieza restante de un rompecabezas en el que encajan poco a poco las piezas.
A la semana siguiente fui a la nueva exposición del MUCA-CU, que no tiene nada que ver con el prerrafaeilismo que llena mis fantasías. Al atardecer de ese día la realidad se rebeló y me dio algo más que objetos para la idealización estética. Encontré alguien que llena de alquimia los días, la pieza restante de un rompecabezas en el que encajan poco a poco las piezas.
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Quedan por escribir mucho versos inesperados para completar este poema.
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