My crying crowned insomnia with thorns. I was getting old. In fall, faith was almost ready to dry and finally they took me out. I knew that a part of me was already terminated. 

7 THE DELIRIUM

Heaven brought Benjamin back, when I looked to myself again in his eye’s pupils darkness managed to dissipate. We abandoned Europe and its terrors. In 1941, México fecundated me as an alchemist during Winter. Since my arrival, this country hugged me with corn and amaranth love. Its colors were the outer memory of the new architecture of mine.

And of course Eva, that Swiss woman who loved artworks born from lack of hope. She performed as my sister and producer. Intellectual class glamour in the body of a millionaire female. Muse that inspired myriads of visions. We used to spend hours analyzing art and consciousness. She smoked while my brushes licked the purpose of making her mine. Equal naked reflex bloomed orchids to dress the skin of my spectres. Centuries of sighs trapped beneath the skirt came out from her throat. Bodies moaned under the moon like pearls linked by the needle of a jeweler. She used to submerge in my womb. Making my land wet with her wings. We were mesmerized by perverse spirit chants. Possessed by thirst known only to those who had drank the poison of the flowers.

As if somebody led the steps of my body, I abandoned myself to the erotic turn of the soul, to the place in which equilibrium meant just a mirage. Ferocity of desire left me in a desperate top of insomnia, and a book appeared to save me. A knitted web of printed lines supported the falling of my acrobatism. From Freud’s hand I entered Apocalypse. I needed to fill my emptiness with reasons. Loving Benjamin had no longer sense, and in a black flapping, just like that, we fulminated it.

8 STRATEGY

I devoured everything Freud signed. I flooded myself in his boxes of answers, I arrived to the lakes of Jung and Adler constellations. Fountains of light to exorcize conscience. My pains at last had gotten a name. As I comprehended, my cupules were bursting. Loom of my infancy recovered its luminosities. I learned to accept me in Dementia. Between intimacy and mirror I devoted to energy. I contemplated myself differently. I recognized my planet.

Then, Psychology regained my original vocation for science. She took me to my mother´s eyeballs, to the maps of her consumed face by erosion through the time waves. Her perfume trembled my bones when her embrace made me feel petite. It occurred in Venezuela. I was just thirty nine. My brother worked on a campaign against malaria and I went there to illustrate it.

I came from México escorted by the white hand of Jean Nicolle, an eye-cat pilot with mouth of summer. While I was working, he was flying over the jungles, my body and the mountains. I lived under the flavor of my mother´s hands, in the middle of stories and chants curded by the years. Paths that had separated us were now making us remember. Journeys through the tunnels of microscope were the daily exorcism to insects that even then had populated my dreams of torments. When the campaign ended I met Nicolle in the shore of The Amazonas. We navigated through the groves of mangrove-trees and we fondled the savage heart of Earth. We went to The Orinoco to look for gold  that could pay our coming-back, but its river bed was tarnished by vacuity. Despite all this we achieved to return. The farewell was raw, I intuited that I would never see gardens in my mother’s eye-glasses again.

9 CONSCIENCE

In México I reached the age of forty. I stared at myself in the lips of the mirror, and they whispered how much I had changed without realizing the speed of time. My body had acquired different dimensions. My being evolved without my permission. My thoughts had tints of maturity and always of insanity. I loved the dreams I had already fulfilled. Above my hands the resolutions that had been taken me marched naked. I didn´t know exactly when I forgot that my womb could develop passions. I asked myself why I hadn’t gotten pregnant. Why my blood hadn’t multiplied and consequently, performed metamorphosis mutating into the ink of enchanted Surrealism.

I cried for the laughter of sons that never hugged me. Girlish sensations assaulted the wells of my canvas. A Never’s and Would’s revolution. Chaos oscillation, a Holocaust. The soul bounced, and came out of the chest returning suddenly to the bottom of my body. The desire of painting constituted my unique excuse. Abortion existed or was imagined. The void inundated all of my senses. My howl went through the walls of my temple. I changed my lineage for transcendencia on Art. I went crumbing on myself as my chest knots were dissolved. I forgave myself. My soul turned lighter in an earthquake of weeping and ancient pain. Ages went out through my body.

Friends were the open window, Gerzso and his divine power over space enchanted my soul like a wind angel with his flute. In his breath the forms, the laws, the instincts were fragmented. Octavio´s ink provoked ecstasy labyrinths in drops of poetry over the paper. With Arreola the space was made history. Beside them, I rode with the evolution, the music, the now time.

10 LIGHT

With Leonora I shared my being. The search. The discovery. We opened together channels of the spirit and went over the magic pavilions. We sculpted images picked up in orchids’ tunnels. On secret rites we made ourselves sisters. We entered the woods and drank the designs. In her my being was unfolded. We went through the Shadow, shared the fire, decoded the sacred divinations. We wove with our own hands the duration of space to find consciousness in signs. Love appeared with the name of Walter swinging on the moon. I stopped being errant to settle myself in the fatherland of his bed. With the destiny in his skin I planted my story. I assumed myself free. I reconstructed my being between his arms. I experienced that special kind of love that had been pursued all through the galaxies. I just wanted to paint, to name with my fingers the colors that Heaven hadn´t yet. My painting seduced galleries, conquered souls of collectors.

I´d been told that success intoxicates the senses and that certainty could strangle you. Thus fame dazzled and its shine would make equilibrium to darken. That you could turn deaf of delirium. Reality diffracted and at the window, the images impersonated the abyss. That a Still Life couldn’t resurrect.

My entrails became art-makers. Success was the result of Day´s journeys with early rising coldness, of my trip to white light and black light, my pain sublimated on watercolors, the translation of the orgasm and its visions. I lived just for creation. For the daydreaming travels to a land that could be only of my own. The place to weave a house with roots of universe. To spill myself in comet´s instants, dismember chaos and navigate the skies of enchanted kingdoms.

It was Autumn, I´d started to paint at dawn, a smell of cinnamon impregnated my heart´s home , and a violin floated on silver liquid steles. I worked on the project Forest Music. Brushes danced bewitched by rays of aphrodisiac moon. Time was breathing.

With spiritedness under a silence outline, I was penetrated by sharpened chords. In absorption by tunnels towards Cosmos, color shot forth like a waterfall between my fingers. A pain in the chest moaned, strangled my sun, I drank the desert. An ink scratch got encrusted on my canvas to decapitate Reason just with one blow. A mortal wound looked at me with no eyes, caressed me without skin and a meteor rain spilled from Heaven up to my back. Walter came or had gone or always had been inside. Matter-departure. A light screamed from between the crevices of time. Hour of the already consecrated ascension. I went inside and through the temple of my body. My life had arched so to rise the soul to Heaven´s mountains. Goddess covered me beneath her mantle of silence. On October the 8, 1963, my heart ended believing it was dead.  

**Guiomar Cantú(Esta dirección de correo electrónico está siendo protegida contra los robots de spam. Necesita tener JavaScript habilitado para poder verlo. ) es escritora y artista multidisciplinaria, egresada de la Licenciatura en Literatura Dramática y Teatro de la Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). Sabersinfin.com agradece a Guiomar Cantú la autorización para publicar el presente trabajo.