[it’s real when they say it]

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

[it’s real when they say it]

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

[it’s real when they say it]

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

It couldn’t be found because he took it with him.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

CHILDHOOD ISN’T SOMETHING YOU CAN HAVE.

although

YOU CAN LOSE IT

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

[it’s real when they say it]

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

[it’s real when they say it]

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.

[it’s real when they say it]

Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.

“Where does this blooming come from?”

From time.

“No. From your need to relive what you don’t even remember”.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

You weren´t crying about mother.
Were crying because can't get your shadow to stick on.
Anyway, you weren´t crying.
(Peter Pan, Act 1)

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch

it’s not a game. It’s the last time he’ll let us in late.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
© W// - Do Everything online™