(Un)consciousness is an organ. And I will say this and continue to think that we know almost nothing about its way of proceeding and organising, of synthesizing and disconnecting.
That well-known room where I was staying allowed me and the guide to continue to go further. And before that happens, even before the relaxation inducement, I wonder how far we could go if we didn't resist. Is resistance nothing more than the fear of the unknown, the rationalization of things, the attachment to materialism and conventions, or not?
Before the induction was even halfway through, I was already totally relaxed. A heavy and inert body, leaning into the abyss of my consciousness. I can say as well as that, after this further regression has been completed.
I raised my forearm to my forehead, where my thin, battered hair clung to my sweat-soaked forehead. The fat didn't allow me to move much, nor did the heat or the arrangement of the costumes, in fact it all came down to obstacles. Thirst was my greatest disease.
Where is it? Do you recognize someone? Do you recognize yourself? Can you describe to me what you see, what you feel, what you wear? The familiar voice that wanted answers continued to ask questions to which no answers had yet been opened. I was thirsty. In front of me, the horizon appeared dwarfed by the cereals and streaks of sky that blurred from the horrible heat. Among the cereals, I guessed the river, already weakened from the painful summer, with narrowed and almost dry banks, compared to previous years. I was not allowed to lift my body to see around, much less to go naturally to the source that would quench all that thirst, which was already suffering. I am thinking now of the saying of the sloth that died of thirst on the banks of a mighty and fertile river. This was the opposite of the saying. I was prevented from reaching the river, running the risk of making an attempt on my own life. The overseer would martyr me, harass me, if I did. My body would have been in my late 6th year (it was not possible for me to be precise, perhaps I was illiterate).
She worked in her heads, in a skirt of plisses, worn that had once been of someone more affluent in terms of possessions and fat. It was neither grey, nor black nor white, it was already faded, without any colour. Grimy as much as my long nails and about two centimeters high. Loaded with dirt and leftover cereals and garbage, scratching my neck, cleaning myself, not knowing what is being done to us, when we can do nothing. More than existing, surviving.
Others like me, squatting and of the black race, remained in the same occupation, longing for that river. And if we could all satisfy such a desire, we would drink that whole river and nothing would be left, neither lichens, nor silt, nor pebbles of fine sand, nor leaves of undershrubs which was all there was. I don't know if the cereals were coffee, barley, oats, or others. They were tall and green, slender. They smelled good and we had to hit them with a kind of rectangle, with two abrasive tips at the ends, , with which we held the same. I did it and every time I rested, I felt the sweat running down my thighs, uncomfortable, like urine. Necessities were also made in this way, in that same position. When did we rest?
Maybe at night, but it was slavery, I had no doubt about that. I didn't ask myself the name, it had to be a short, coarse name that was easy to understand. And since I was that one, it would be natural to have the name and not ask myself. Or even have no name at all. On one of the occasions when I tried to stand up and dare to reach this river, which had already become a Celestian sight, I was thrown to the ground by a huge, coarse leg in a thick, dirty garment. As dirty as your profession. A concealer for lifting me up, obeying my basic needs. If I still don't drink, I die. The overseer had a young, aggressive face. It's rude. No hint of compassion or friendship. We were animals, for him, work animals. He inflicted all kinds of ailments and aggressions on us. He was once again my husband of this life. He crushed the boot of his foot against my white flesh, brushing his legs as if they were floors that needed to be regularized.
I screamed, I cried in pain, I believe without ever a sound, such was the fear of greater reprisals. But the tears were real inside the room where the therapist and I were aware, of each other and especially of images that could well be films already seen or unconsciously stored suggestions of aroused feelings. Yes, it could all be fiction and I was seeing my skills as a film director wasted. The pain was still there, really, even today I feel a fine pain near the hip bone and femur. I asked, between sobs, for the therapist to take me from there, to a safe place, where nothing could harm me, where my thirst would evaporate or be supplied. That has happened. If I had to geolocate that site, I would say it was in Argentina, Chile, San Salvador, or Brazil. And I don't know these parts of the world.
It could be Cuba, I've been to Cuba. I don't know. I only have the feeling of the coordinates and never the certainty of anything. Doubts that will remain or that will abandon me for the lack of how to feed this web of images, where I always meet people from this life with whom I have enormous conflicts. Case of my husband and my eldest son. Madness?
It will be for sure, because right after that I find myself in the skin of a short, ghastly, slender man with hunger, with bushy and united eyebrows, black with dirt and genesis, eyebrows where I feel itchy - could there be ticks or lice on them? - and fear of pressure. The pressure of others who push me into the abyss. The abyss begins with dust in the air, from a dry, red, arid land, Two iron blades open, the shouts of the crowd are heard outside these gates, and I see animals, bulls and pitchforks luxuriously dressed, and my clothes are those of a wretch, shorts up to the knee dirty and stinky, below my knees a cloak of thick black hair, smeared with that dust and dirt of weeks and some chanatos of the folklore type equally worn. The color hidden by the dust. In my eyes there is fear, a fear above all, as if death were waiting for me, to be celebrated by the screams I heard and did not understand. I felt that I was going to surrender those rich pitchforks, as if I were a kind of reward for the bravery of the animals. They kept pushing me from behind and I didn't even dare to look at them, such was the fear, but there were a lot of arms. Here was the destiny of the man that I was, to ensure that the end of those hideous spectacles would not stain blood on the robes of sequins and satins. Alone and with no choice. The doubts multiply as the body recovers from the fall asleep and the therapist asks me for time. Search within yourself for answers.
And if you don't find them yet, leave the channel open, sometimes they come as signs. They happen without you expecting it. And I believe that the unplanned trip to Verín, to a castle in Monterrey, the scene of wars of other times, where the religious spaces belonged to Franciscan orders, will prove this. And from there I collect images and references of Santiago de Compostela. This is where my paternal family - my grandmother - comes from. I can tell you that my head continues to rummage over these lives that I have never seen in movies, that I may well have built up over the years and that may still be ghosts of other times, gnostic memories of an old soul, with no greater consciousness than this one. That of knowing that time is an organizer built by us that justifies spaces and epics, in an attempt to understand life.
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