| Portraits of Salseros |
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| The Invisible Man |
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Written by Sandrès, translated by feliz |
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| par
feliz |
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He is not an attractive man. He’s the type of person that you don’t even see as he goes by ; some, cruel, would say that he’s insignificant. He is the shadow of his own self in filtered light, vacillating, shuttered. It is difficult to guess his age because nothing in his appearance seems to want to speak : his clothing is not there to stand out, his hairstyle is so absent as to be without qualification… his eyes are more intimate with the ceiling than with anyone present, and he is best defined by his evasiveness.
I’ve only seen him alone, never with friends. But he dances, or mimes movement to the music… his body skips to a different rhythm, as though motivated by minor seizures. Sometimes while watching him I think that he must know how to dance, but that the music sounds different in his ears, that the beats trip his consciousness on other tempos. He is carried away by the music, and as he sweats from the laboring pleasure of his dance, his hair in plastered rivulets on his forehead, one can almost forget the profound sadness that weights his shoulders, a solitude so striking that no one can mute it. When he soaked with the sweat of his movements, he sinks into a dark corner to dry. Methodical, he takes a step to the side, and freezes, in analysis of his movement. A furtive glance to his feet, and his arm strikes out, claws, and maims the air, to fall…and to freeze, the analysis of motion, and then he throws himself into a turn from which he almost can not escape. Suddenly, feeling the weight of my regard, he takes several small steps whose logic only he knows completely, to stop himself from drowning, to save face. In the hung time of a glance, I’ve never been able to capture his face. The tension of battle of a laugh repressed twists his lips, where a smile rests briefly, no ceasefire this… when the music stops he is already gone and has disappeared before anyone notices that he was ever there. I believe that no one, except for me, has noticed that the invisible man has come, and is already gone.
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