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14 January 2019
This month's topic: Time
Tiempo Contingencia (Time Contingency)


Time is a continuous negotiation with contingency.

Not the other way around.

The present that contains us is like an elastic membrane that expands or narrows the present gap we inhabit. Sometimes it suggests enlarged spaces of what appears to be endless, while at other times it is swiftly solved in saturated circumstances. Never-ending or brief, the two perceptions alternate in contiguous, irregular, irreverent spaces.

Time struggles in a hand-to-hand combat with the present.

Not the other way around.

Too often, life is relentlessly organised around the in-box and its adjacent folders. Communications – attempts – that pile up in a bottomless well. Urgent, reoffending, forgotten, outdated mails. News threads, links, attached files. Newsletters seldom or frequently published – like this one – waiting to be opened. Living in the opportunity of eventually being read. Preferring some attention. The right moment is always later on. If it finally arrives – as it does in this case – it may go unnoticed, it will probably go unobserved.

You are here. You’ve reached this point. It’s an achievement.

It’s not a guarantee.

From the first line to the present line, changes appear imperceptibly. From the first word to the present word, time passes; distance passes. The dent of the text along which the eye glides reproduces the altered sound of the interference.

Time pursues the convenience of writing.

Not the other way around.

The text is defoliated; it is diluted to define its non-conformism. The certainty of the faintness becomes increasingly evident as both text and life progress. The dissolution of these words is remarkable, to the extent that it compromises their legibility. These lines are not quite transparent, but almost. They remain in a vagueness pervaded by their discomfiture, without arriving at the absolute clarity of their absence.

The last recorded signs are but ellipses.

They evoke the aura of the unusual. They return to the enigma of white.

At the precise moment that a break in reality spills poetry onto everyday life, no mending is possible.

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