Manuel López Ramírez, DEBRIS

DEBRIS

Manuel López Ramírez

Many years later, he/she is back.

Crack-ack-ack. Neck turns 90 degrees to look at the door. There he is/ There she is. A moment of adjustment. There he/she is. Wheels and gears to the right. The engine must find a crevice for what just entered.

The cups of white wine. The bowties and high heels. The tulips at the center of each table. Crack-ack-ack. Still processing.

It is decided that it should all go on as normal. One in a crowd of millions. The show must go on.

The one with a pit and the one with a swelling. All is moved to combine. Crack-ack-ack. Legs stagger and arms push others by the waist. The machine must ensure its own survival.

Yet there he/she is. One in a crowd of infinity. The silverware. The warm yellow haze of nights past and present. He/she wonders if he/she ever really left. Crack-ack-ack. Arms bend around her/him to go on with their evolutive duty. The engine must find a crevice for what just entered. But it must not touch.

Crack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

The system glitches:

How you’ve changed, they say. How you’ve changed, they say. How you’ve changed, they say.

Is it that they don’t remember? The show must go on. That one with the beard and the one with the long hair. Match detected. Crack-ack-ack legs, crack-ack-ack arms. The machine must ensure its own survival. Malfunctions are expected, the system must learn how to deal with them.

How you’ve changed, they say. How you’ve changed, they say.

They haven’t really forgotten. Difference has always existed, but times have changed. Reactions must shape themselves to ensure the safety of the machine. He/she cannot alter the course of the engine. Arms and legs must make something new. Replace hostility with curiosity. Crack-ackack. Processing.

It mustn't be easy over there. How are you? But, really, how are you?

The opera in the speakers. The ringing bells of laughter. The one in blue and the one in pink. Crack-ack-ack. Push puzzle pieces together. He/ she cannot interfere. Keep him/her out of this. Keep asking questions. Increase the looks. Now take them away. The show must go on. The system must learn how to deal with malfunctions. Best to drive them out completely.

In the dark, everyone slithers in-between. The air turns in slow spirals up and down, left—right—to—fro. Neon lights wet with body salt. A boundless crowd of open mouths. Loins and hearts make their own rules here. They like to dance. They say they like to try things. Loins and hearts make their own rules here. He/she’s here.

¿Who are you? I’m nobody. ¿Can I love you? ¿Are you nobody too?

Everyone slithers to each other. He/she tries to. Eyes look with suspicion. Arms move in circles and out of sync. Thousands of hands on him/her, driving him/her hither, thither, downward, upward, like blasting winds of no repose. Some let go after the first touch, as if he/she were on fire. Some hold on hard, with shame.

Hands grope to question, hither, thither, downward, upward. Blasting him/ her closest to the orange tones which form at the end of the hallway, at the very end of his/her field of vision. Yet pulling him/her away from those summer days which can be seen at the end of the hallway, at the very end of his/her vision.

The infinite hallway, at the periphery of bowties and white wine, comes to an end which all are unknowingly trying to get to. There, there are promises of once-in-a-lifetimes and clothes spilled on the beach. He/she knows of those who have reached. The special ones. Those that do not stir questions, whose body is fought over—not with—by the hands. Those who are a single thing, not two.

Because it is true that these hands, eyes, arms, are the debris of the great machine. They carry it deep within them.

(He/she has a dream:

It is not far from me, about five steps away. Everything is pitch-black, except for the white light coming through the tiny little space at the

bottom. Tiny yet big enough to let blazing white-hot light cut through the dark like the sharpest of razors. I stand five steps away from the door and the light that comes through the tiny little space at the bottom cuts through me like a knife and lights a path so hot to step on it means to light myself on fire. Five steps away from the door is me and the shadows, deep, infinite, as cold as space. Me and the shadows or me, the shadows, are five steps away from scorching heat. Five tiny, immense little steps.)