I don’t know if you remember this Nina. I was Hamlet, in a world far from history, at one of the impalpable untraveled corridors of life, avidly, imperiously and enquiringly asking myself whether to be or not to be, when suddenly, I looked up as if staring at a hoist horizon of opalescent stunning appearance, and I saw you as the most comforting, sensitive and extraordinary of facades. Yes, I found myself wondering in those instants whether to be or not, whether getting on or not with existence or denial or whether choosing the contents of absolute, or by the indefinite unsuspected shape of nothing, when I saw you there, in the middle of the discontinuous figments of a feverish pulsating tide of heartbeats. There, at one of the galleries of such enormous modern theatre where my soul began someday a while ago to be pursued by the soft silky breath of dreams and where I’ve been practising as a director, as a lead actor and occasionally as a skilful gifted playwright, more exactly whenever fragrant inspirations of vaguely forbidding muses want me to.



What was the first thing I thought when I saw you for the first time? Well, I thought you, with your gleaming amber eyes and pearly skin, were as beautiful and hypnotic as those aforementioned vaguely forbidding muses, as pretty as the most flirtatious and fickle of the Sylphs. What was the second thought that came to me then? That I had to become someone completely independent and concrete as well as physically situated in this complex universe as an entity that is immerse in life’s very own sudden character, and in the refulgent glow of sidereal eyes of this earth. In other words and to make myself be better understood, I thought in resuming doing what I was doing: acting, which I did until the last second of the performance, until the very last moment of that dexterous dramatisation. The next day, before starting off the respective function, I saw you again at the same place, in other words, the same box seat. In that instant I told myself “Focus! Set yourself to delve in the outmost dense, burnished and intangible ocean of the staging”.



I remember, come to think about some details relating to you, that my workgroup and I were going to portray Reasons of Being a Starless Firmament during that new afternoon function of that day. That was a musical about detectives and mafia members, inspired in the life of Al Capone and the head of the operations to bring him down and leader of the Untouchables, Eliot Ness, and was supposed to be the only performance of the day at that vast modern theatre. Ten minutes to start, however, and just after doublechecking it was you who were the one in the dream suite and not a delusion of my insufficient and moderately tactile senses of my inner self, I abruptly changed my mind. Out I got, thus, filled with euphoria, and told the audience of that huge up to date theatre, that marvellous foreshadowed afternoon, that besides playing the work on detectives and mafia, they’d be able to appreciate, as a brief and juicy treat at the end of the evening, a small piece of Romeo and Juliet. Such performance of Romeo and Juliet supposed itself, because of the speed of the decision taking it to stage, in a uniquely distinctive way. It was initially meant to be a performance of Romeo (me) talking to an imaginary Juliet at a perfumed imaginary balcony (or at least that was the idea). Said Juliet wound up being you. Yes, you, with your amber eyes and pearly skin, because you directed to me several rogue, unfinished, flirty, extremely sensual however discreet smiles, which, as soon as I received deep down in my core, and in that zone of the soul where an imperishable enchanting flame made me feel like I was in the most sublime eternal of paradises.



Nowadays, even though we’ve barely greeted each other a few times in person, I find myself writing a play I’m planning on performing with my theatre group especially for you. I’m already aware you’ve become a big admirer of my work, enjoyed my part as Oedipus with a recently self-inflicted blindness, as brave Jason looking for the Golden Fleece, or Dante Alighieri going through the different circles of hell with the invaluable company of Virgil. I also know you like it very much when I, in the middle of a performance, recreate a life unusual to me, untimely and overwhelmingly turn to you, to the point I’m familiar with the exact way of your favourite fine elegant twists which I make before a multitude of people, and in which my soul appears to be possessed by the haughty and imperious presence of a clear open shimmered night as if it’d been covered with different kinds of nudity. Because that’s precisely acting: fiction; a kind of pretence seeking to get to the bottom of the most real thoughts and the most sensitive clarified hearts. That’s just what performances are: an impacting illusion, a reality, a charade which, in my case, turns out to be the most mystical, moving, magical and veracious of all realities.

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Observing Reality Through Desire (Fragment).
© Miguel Ángel Guerrero Ramos