Juan Trigos
The crow man denounces in his diary a conspiracy of the flowers. Superior consciousness –chlorophyll- wants to govern the planet, drugging humans. The floral intelligence is imposed by the instinctive weakness of ambitious people that only look for their own well-being and seek pleasure and money. Persuades –offering artificial paradises- to consumers just as drug dealers to enter the green labyrinth that takes them to transformation, back to states that appear less conflictive. Instead of a thinking humanity, earth shall be reigned by a mass of green beings, in reality just one that is multiplied.
The protagonist, to try to save his work and marriage, flees to bury himself at the ranch of his cousin Ramon, but instead of getting well he falls into a vortex of hallucinations. The fault of a committed crime during his adolescence forces him to split into a crow and two viceroys –white and black- which take him to live another life during colonial times. He loses his identity and turns into another being, man and crow which ends up into absolute regression converting into a plant, like the caretaker of the Ranch, Anselmo, another drunk man who wishes to stop having feelings and turns into a Jacaranda.
Juan Trigos (1941-)
Creator of the aesthetic literary style Hemofiction. Literature of search which reflects on the bleeding of the consciousness in multiple mirrors, where it contemplates with horror the thousand faces of personal infantilism, process which endures desolation and anguish, indispensable symptoms on the road to individuation, path of ascension towards human. To be, it is necessary to suffer an internal revolution, practically impossible to reach. Maybe, someday, the spiritual awakening leads man to paradise –another dimension of consciousness- which could mean the full responsibility of which most characters, created by Juan Trigos, run away from, precisely by humans. Hemofiction opens doors to the personal conscience of the author and, through expansive reflection, towards the intimate knowledge of the adult reader, who is capable to glimpse into ones own abysms. He stands against the europeanized concept of literature history , all class of paradigms that oblige copy and diminished positions in writers that start from a different spine for their creations and, for the same, do not belong, nor want to belong, to a universal abstract cultural sphere which tends to simplify the extreme richness of the soul. Hemofiction is serious literature, points towards the exit of the everyday insane asylum. Invents realities which seem like games where the spiritual depth is illuminated by experience. This extraordinary writer looks with pitiless objectivity the most darkest tendencies of the human being. The works which have given him fame, are all now united under the seal of Fontamara: Cuento del Perro Bailarín, Déjame que te mate para ver si te extraño, La Llorona, Mulata del Diablo, La Leyenda de Don Juan Manuel, La Diabólica Santa de las Tijeras, Callejón de las Ratas, Policías y Rateros, El Maniático Hombre de la Bacinica, Leyenda del Sapo Matón, Crímenes en la Profesa, Rincón de las Calaveras, Leyenda del Hombre Verde, Diario de un Cuervo Humano, Mamá es loca o está poseída, El Tapado, Castigo, Divino Placer, La Guillotinita, La Culpa, JuanCamaleón, el hombre mimético, Carne y Tripas de Gusano, Hijo de Tamalera, Confesión de una Muerta, Nuestra Señora del Rostro Rasurado, Araña Negra y Peluda, La Zarpa, Cuentos de Hemoficción, Leyenda de los Espíritus, Yo digo que soy yo, pero quién sabe, El Hombre-Reloj; and now in English: La Llorona, Let me kill you to see if I miss you, The Guilt and Diary of a Human Crow.
I
VICEREGAL SPROUTING
1
Lying down, feeling miserable like a chicken about to be sacrificed. My mother would breed them and as far as I know, they never experienced terror until they saw the knife. I have found feathers on the bed. Black feathers of crows. Also on my wardrobe and on the windowsill.
2
I am victim about to die. I shall never stop falling into the abyss of parcae, river of souls, abundant and somber. I wish to drown there. I wish that Mr. Death would invite me to join his ship to leave me on hell’s side. Time doesn’t count; the consciousness has been opened in a brutal way, big. I am able to hear the steps of a canary bird on the windowsill or to look at the pristine chaos, place from where the first amphibious emerged. I know that I have flown. I know that I have bumped into the wall in the back and have fallen in dismay. Feathers on the ground.
3
Lying down. On a strange bed in the ranch of my cousin Ramon –go there, buddy, ‘cause, get well –He said-. Your vice has gone too far and it’s hard to be with you. You immediately loose your instinct and end up walking on the roads of aggressiveness or sadness.
Night or day. Electric light invades everything: on the roof, lightening softly. Night table lamp, concentrating brightness on the right side of the bed, where supposedly most drunks get well. Canteen memoirs come through of useless discussions. Nauseous, millenniums making bitter throats –I’m going to throw up (puke)-, smelly traces of rotten bones and flesh –I’m going to give birth (be born)-, It seems as if I were a new person –modern man, wasted, infinite incoherent, the ties if reason were untied and the boat of deliriousness has weighed anchor, set sail. Since when? Since the world is the world, since time has started to run.
I know that at times I see through crow’s eyes.
4
Placing myself on the side, on the bed, I see my face in the mirror of the wardrobe. Who am I? Immediate person I am, but also an adventurer posing as prey in the troglodytic era. Hunter in forests and mountains, warrior painted with blood –me in diverse delirious circumstances-, today and yesterday get mixed in my language – shall I never leave this state? I go from human to crow without pain, smelling of feathers.
5
I have closed my eyes adopting a fetal position. Open mouth, deteriorated teeth of the present –my stomach pumps. Stomachic tremors.
I threw up with guilt. It contained sin: unpunished murder of the girl Teofila, hidden in the depths without depths of my former consciousness. Old consciousness without sovereignty goes adrift, pulsing sweaty dreams, dark nightmares where the sea intervenes and gives life to rancid sensations, dizziness. Vertigo awaits me willing to show what life has, vertigo to be, where we all shall fall –humanity- if our ways are not corrected. Do I dream that I spread open my black wings? I really open them and fly from the bed and back again. Dizziness. Puke.
