Borges and I

Hello.

Here is a fascinating piece of writing that explores the notion of self. We must think about identity as an entity comprised of many different landscapes, plateaus, and embankments. It's textured, cultured, precise, vague, gray, and purple.

The "poem" by Jose Luis Borges explores this notion. Check it out.

Jorge Luis Borges
"Borges and I"


The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.

Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

I do not know which of us has written this page.


Check out the video.



Here is a reading of the piece in Spanish. There is music. There is Spanish. It's so beautiful in the Spanish. Please listen. Dream in Spanish, in Spain, as Spaniards.



Here are some of your pieces written in the spirit of "Borges and I."

Epstein & I

Epstein is the one who likes to sing. I, however, am the one who likes to act. She sings like nobody is listening and I act like the whole world can see me.

I don’t understand how we’re friends, while Epstein loves to be herself on the stage, showing the world who she really is, and I love to be someone else, someone I can hide behind . She can walk onto the stage with such confidence, free to be herself, while I enter left stage, my knees shaking hiding behind the costume that has been made to fit me.

Sometimes I sit in the front row of her concerts, once again questioning our friendship. Epstein displays such great confidence, the type that makes me feel like a failure, the underdog. As I look out into the audience from the stage, the lights blind my eyes, and I can’t see if Epstein is sitting there; sometimes I don’t think she is. I can see why, I never get the lead roles, I’m always the maid or the sister who doesn’t add to the plot. Epstein is the main character, herself, all the spot lights are on her. I am lucky if a single pair of eyes is on me.

Although we’re friends, I constantly am reminded how much better Epstein is.


Hollingsworth and I

The other girl, the one who goes by the name of Hollingsworth, lives the artistic and strategic life. I simply pass through the halls, going from class to class secretly waiting for the long walk up to the art studio. Hollingsworth gracefully lets her wrist sway around the canvas while the peaceful colors blend together in a warm sweet harmony. I see the light dancing over a field of grass and my hand starts to tremble with the want and need of a charcoal pencil in my hand. While I feel a sense of fear in showing others my art, Hollingsworth feels nothing but pride and a sense of accomplishment. We use the same hand to paint and draw, the same eyes to see and the same heart to love; yet I am unsure of who encompasses the true skill of an artist.


Barnard and I

I play so much better than Barnard. I play with soul and passion; he play’s only what he reads on the sheet of music. When I’m playing, I feel the music running through my fingertips, but I know that Barnard cannot feel the same. Barnard only feels the strings on his fingertips. Yet he has an advantage you see. He holds great skill in his ability and plays with agility far tantamount to mine. I envy his muscle memory, his ability to seemingly be completely focused on something else, and still make beautiful noises. But he is focused on the guitar, too much so in fact. I play with feeling and with an image of the sound in my heart. Barnard plays only with an image of the sheet of music in his brain. Yet I lack Barnard’s ability to translate something into music. I can only dream of playing out my feelings and passion on the beautiful fret board of the guitar. Only by working together can we make a successful duet.


Deleon and I

Deleon, the one who is said to walk with a chip on his shoulder, always seems to walk with me. He is of my complexion and shares my reflection. In many instances he and I can live in harmony but I can not make sense of how such opposites can coexist. I’ve known him since before I knew myself. Deleon could’ve very easily spoken my first words and taken my first steps, yet I don’t recall how he came to be. As the years drift by like butterflies in a spring afternoon - our ties appear to be flying in different directions. The farther we stretch apart the more my character builds. There are still times when Deleon may be quick to make an assumption of someone due to their gender, class, race, religion, or sexual orientation. His thoughts always mingle with my own but I make sure to correct him in his thinking. I challenge him to think beyond physical traits and I push Deleon so much that he is inclined to complain of his brain being close to eruption. That just shows how critical I make him think. Each day flashes before our eyes and every morning is a new beginning. Deleon may very well be with me for the rest of my life but the truth is, Deleon is the yang to my yin, and without him I would disappear.


Beckwith and I


Beckwith steps out of the tent. I squint as the sun is rising over mountains in the distance. I stand for a while and look around me. Beckwith takes in the amazing view that he had not noticed the night before because they had gotten in after dark. I pull my eyes away from the mountains and start to help take down the tent. Beckwith then begins to pack up and get everything ready to go. I help check around the campsite to make sure we have left no trace and we are ready to leave. Beckwith takes one last look around and then concentrates on descending the ledge on which they had slept.



English and I

English is a blank canvas with flying emotions and intense creativity. She has this sort of confidence inside that is like non other and when determined, can accomplish any one thing she singularly puts her mind on. When distraught, English uses only a few tools to build up that confidence and inner strength once again. Her paintbrush, scissors, paper and glue, not only keep her from distress and unseen feelings, but can erase any trouble or concerns she is faced with. Its as if she is paining out the worries and pain, cutting away the fears, heeling the paper-cuts and gluing all the love and good spirits into her soul. I wish I could be English. In some absurd way I’m just like her, however when digging to the details, I have layers and layers covering my inventiveness and my ability to change things that English does not. When the wheels of stress and anxiety run over my sensitive being, the inner sensations take me away. As hard as I attempt to create a bulletproof shell to keep firm on the outside, I fail. I fail at a lot of things. But don’t we all. English likes to think not. English has an astonishing sense of self with an optimistic outlook on life. She loves to live it and no matter what may collide with her plans or lack there of, she has a method of drinking a half full glass of water every day of her life. I have true difficulty drinking that glass of water. Sometimes I manage to swallow in one gulp. I’d like to think I can always do so.



My strategy to push all those unwanted senses away is to use my originality and artistic abilities, just like English does. I like to think we are one in the same. I’m also found of the idea that she envies me, as much as I do her. I like photography, confusing writing; the feelings of butterflies in my stomach, making others feel good and traveling to exotic places. I am terrified of insects and hurting people, I am afraid of death and scary films. I love smiles. I hate upset and the feeling of anger and disappointment. We share those hates and loves and fears. English lives life to fullest. And in that we are the same. I cannot tell if I bounce of her, or if she bounces off of me. I cannot tell if she acts in such a positive way because of my sporadic negativity, or if I look to her because of it.