tradiciendo el Introito al Teatro de Cuentos

ufano trujamán tradice lo no dicho

pato...::...junto a siniestros secuaces de ...::...madero

ningunaparte

ningunaparte

ningunaparte

ningunaparte

ningunaparte

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ellaUTél

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presentan:

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la tradicción del Introito

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Marbleous Jumble

The Maker of Texts for Infants
was commissioned to tell the fabulation about the dreamer
who though not born a bird cherished the stubborn dream of flying.
For such a purpose
he travelled to the Path of Souls to gather the desert voices.
Writings began to arrive. But something happened: the Text Maker
was not telling a children’s story although, at times,
he created that illusion.
The book never appeared in the Children’s Literature Catalogue.
No manuscripts were sent to the General Library either.
All the explanations proved to be absurd.

Introit

1. Paths in the Deserts

They say that they say that in the beginning the lands of the earth were empty, that the universe was all deserts.
Until one day in the old, old times there appeared (who knows by virtue of what hodgepodge magic) the inhabitants of history. And it was these makers of shadows and memory who gave life to things and inhabited them. Maybe perhaps perchance this is why the word named them, for ever after, livitants.
Many desert livitants acquired the art of growing at one site: they founded villages, invented artefacts, and nominated their roots. But there were others who left their villages to break new pathways.
They tell that they tell that by roaming on and on these livitants modelled their lineage with what they found in the nooks of dusk, in the blazering stars, or in the warm intimacy of someone's destiny.
And they say that they say that these livitants gave birth to the craft of telling stories on every corner and with all the voices. These livitants, these story tellers, these wayfarers of paths and villages, history called fablers


2. The Fablers

Nowadays almost everyone knows that fablers travel around the world telling stories they harvest at dawn or breed between dreams and squalls. It is also known –yet not by everyone– that each fabler traipses through the endless deserts trying to find, in the depth of their soul or in the dim illusion of the horizon, a dream village.
They say that they say that this village will be the end of their journey, and there they’ll teach their livitant craft till the Nowhere Wind summons them to flight.
Among the many, many things fablers know quite well, there is one which marks their fate: One cannot get to the dream village at once, but taking a step today and another one tomorrow; leaving behind the waving hand, the farewell gesture, and the melancholic homage to what has been lived.
One cannot get to the dream village at once, but taking a step today and another one tomorrow; seeking into the future, beneath each trace, the definitive one... as long as eternity eterns.


3. When a Fabler Arrives

They say that when the fablers reach the village even the wind stops its whistling to hear the choir of trips and stories threaded into the sound of their coming feet. It is also said that fablers are neither young nor old, that they wear large worn-out overcoats or gull-winged robes. Scarves and rucksacks hang from their backs, and leaning out on the balcony of their jackets, drowsy puppets, unwound clocks, books of yesteryear, or music boxes are a common sight.
Fablers roam as if by custom, without difficulties, naturally led by the earth.
On arriving at a village, they contemplate the trees and the swinging shade cast by leaves, the lost splendour of the train that will never run again, the tower, the belfry, and the post office, until they stop by the geraniums in the town square.
Doves and sparrows come to meet them when bread crumbs and seeds picked up along the way start pouring from their pockets.
Then, engulfed in a cloud of wings and trills, fablers escort the twilight to the very heart of the village.


4. Bread & Water

As sunset serenades round the corners of the village, fablers visit every house and entrance corridor, each stairway and vacant lot, knocking on the doors and ringing the doorbells. On being welcomed, they ask for a piece of bread and some water to fill their mugs. In return, they offer tales —stories found throughout the time in the deserts. They recreate the voices from other lives, other conquests, and other obstinate struggles. This volume of flowing words, this wandering through labyrinths of exotic geographies has always been called the fabulation of tales.


5. The Mug into the Sky

And they say that they say that the ritual of telling stories begins when the fabler flings his mug into the air, releasing sparkles that flash among his fingers.
Thus, the time the mug takes to reach the ground will be the time assigned to relate a story. One could ponder upon the brevity this moment entails, but should not minimize the magic contained in that act. I know of some livitants who claimed to have waited whole days waiting for the mug to fall down. And I maintain it as well: what is released in the creation of the story cannot be measured in terms of possibilities but in virtue of that which is desired.And the content of those tales is the very heart’s desire beating upon the following paper plains, or in the voices of the story we are going to tell…