Casa se busca

Hybrid between prose, poetry, self-fiction, memory and postal chronicle, Casa se seeks to compose, like a mosaic or puzzle, an emotional self-portrait. Sometimes a destructive will of objects seizes me. I call it that because calling it clumsiness is humiliating and inaccurate and I prefer to call it will even though I don't understand it, even though this impulse is not assimilable to intention or consciousness. It is more than just awkward. I spill water and slip on the wet floor, I throw the wine on the computer and the speaker, I tear the books when I want to show them, I stain the new shirt with oil and I add the salt badly, as if it does not matter. I want to fix the leaky faucet and I make a flood. I bang on the window that won't close until it is out of joint. I am impatient with things that I assume should be transparent, functional, and yet fail. It is a kind of platonic impatience, a fury at the body, the consideration of matter as a resistance, an obstacle. As if he did not already know that the vibratory instrument is matter, it is matter that allows music to exist. As if he still believed in celestial music.