{"id":167445,"date":"2024-05-09T13:00:07","date_gmt":"2024-05-09T17:00:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=167445"},"modified":"2024-05-20T10:55:37","modified_gmt":"2024-05-20T14:55:37","slug":"anacondas-in-the-park","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/05\/09\/anacondas-in-the-park\/","title":{"rendered":"Anacondas in the Park"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Parque Forestal. Photograph by Arturo Rinaldi Villegas, via Wikimedia Commons<\/a>. Licensed under CC0 BY-SA 3.0 Deed<\/a>.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cPedro Lemebel, one of the most important queer writers of twentieth-century Latin America,\u201d writes Gwendolyn Harper, his translator, was \u201ca protean figure: a performance artist, radio host, and newspaper columnist, a tireless activist whose life spanned some of Chile\u2019s most dramatic decades. But above all he was known for his furious, dazzling cro\u0301nicas\u2014short prose pieces that blend loose reportage with fictional and essayistic mode … Many of them depict Chile\u2019s AIDS<\/small> crisis, which in 1984 began to spread through Santiago\u2019s sexual underground, overlapping with the final years of the Pinochet dictatorship.\u201d<\/em>\u00a0<\/em>Over the next few weeks, the<\/em> Review\u00a0will be publishing several of these cro\u0301nicas, newly translated by Harper, as part of a brief series.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

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And despite the man-made lightning that scrapes intimacy from the parks with its halogen spies, where municipal razor blades have shaved the grass\u2019s chlorophyll into waves of plush green. Yards upon yards of verde que te quiero verde <\/em>in Parque Forestal all straightened up, pretending to be some creole Versailles, like a scenic backdrop for democratic leisure. Or more like a terrarium, like Japanese landscaping, where even the weeds are subject to the bonsai salon\u2019s military buzzcuts. Where security cameras the mayor dreamed up now dry up the saliva of a kiss in the bigoted chemistry of urban control. Cameras so they can romanticize a beautiful park painted in oils, with blond children on swing sets, their braids flying in the wind. Lights and lenses hidden by the flower in the senator\u2019s buttonhole, so they can keep an eye on all the dementia drooling on the benches. Old-timers with watery blue eyes and poodle pooches cropped by the same hand that hacks away at the cypresses.<\/p>\n

But even then, with all this surveillance, somewhere past the sunset turning bronze in the city smog. In the shadows that fall outside the diameter of grass recruited by the streetlamps. Barely touching the wet basting stitch of thicket, the top of a foot peeks out, then stiffens and sinks its nails into the dirt. A foot that\u2019s lost its sneaker in the straddling of rushed sex, the public space paranoia. Extremities entwine, legs arching and dry paper lips that rasp, \u201cNot so hard, that hurts, slowly now, oh, careful, someone\u2019s coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

Couples walk by on the path, holding hands, gathering bouquets of orange blossoms on their way down legality\u2019s shining aisle. Future newlyweds who pretend they don\u2019t see the cohabiting snakes rubbing against each other in the grass. Who say under their breath, \u201cThose were two men, did you notice?\u201d and keep walking, thinking about their future male children, the boys, warning them about the parks, about those types who walk alone at night and watch couples from behind the bushes. Like that voyeur who was watching them just a little while ago. He watched as they made love in the sweetness of the park because they didn\u2019t have money for a motel, but they enjoyed it more than ever, there in the green outdoors, with that spectator who couldn\u2019t applaud because his hands were busy running full steam ahead, leaking out an \u201cAy, I\u2019m going to come, slow down won\u2019t you.\u201d So the woman said to the man, \u201cYou know I can\u2019t if someone\u2019s watching.\u201d But at that stage, \u201cI can\u2019t\u201d was a moan silenced by fever and \u201csomeone\u2019s watching\u201d just a sprinkling of Egyptian eyes swimming among the leaves. An overwhelming vertigo that bred a pair of bronze pupils inside her, in the eyes that sprung from her pregnancy. And when the boy turned fifteen, she didn\u2019t say, \u201cBe careful in parks,\u201d because she knew those golden eyes were the park\u2019s thirsty leaves. That\u2019s why the warning stuck in her throat. Maybe \u201cBe careful in parks\u201d sums up that green gossamer, that hurried drawing back of his young foreskin\u2019s curtain. That launching of himself into the park to wander over the gravel like an asp in heat, playing the fool, he smokes a cigarette so that the man following him can ask for a light and say, \u201cWhat are you up to?\u201d And, already knowing the reply, gently pushes him behind the bushes. And there, in all that damp, he kindles the curled pubic forest, his lizard tongue sucking on balls of wild hierbabuena. His fiery kiss climbing to the tip of that selenite stem. And while cars and buses careen along the ribbon of coastline, the boy hands over all the stagnation of his fragile fifteen years, years now shipwrecked like paper boats in the soaked sheets of grass. And who cares if the rustling branches tell him that someone is watching, because he knows how hard it is to see a porn movie in this country; he\u2019s watched before, too, and he\u2019s familiar with the technique, parting branches to join the park\u2019s incestuous trinity.<\/p>\n

Maybe watching is like assisting a murder, strangling the victim\u2019s voodoo doll until it drips its rattlesnake poison down your fingers. The watched scene is repeated behind glassy irises, a carbon copy in the tear ducts, like generous handouts to satisfy the hunger of anyone watching. That\u2019s why the park\u2019s humidity melts the adolescent into an anonymous pervert. That\u2019s why each night seeps into the crisscross of his feathers and he doesn\u2019t mind coagulating with the other men, who snake along the path like lost anacondas, like cobras with jeweled hoods who recognize each other by the urgent stoplight of their rubies.<\/p>\n

Laborers and students, office workers and seminarians\u2014they all transform into ophidians who shed their uniforms, their dry skin, tribalizing desire in rattles of opaque becoming. Their steady gazes hold something abject enough to accumulate a Sahara, an Atacama, dusty salt-flat fields that hiss in the parched trident of their tongues. Barely a drizzle of semen fraying the lips, a silvery strand of drool shooting straight to the burrowed heart of a nest ribboned with toilet paper, which absorbs the leaking tears. Nests for a clutch of condoms that collect in the meadows like stuffed cabbage rolls of polyethylene, waiting for the sun to ferment them in the magnolias\u2019 saffron mulch.<\/p>\n

At night the parks blossom in a dew of lonely pearls, a shower of rice that spills in the circle jerk, an ecosystem of passion that surrounds the consummating couple. Collective masturbations that recycle childhood games in their frenzied handiwork: the toboggan, the swing set, the seesaw, hide-and-go-seek in the dark with fraternities of men, rudders erect, who cling to each other as the cartilage adds up. Cock in hand, hand in hand and cock askew, they form a round that collectivizes the rejected act in a carousel of fondling, in a blindman\u2019s bluff of touches and grasps. A tribal dance where anyone can hook their caboose to the midnight express, its rails the warp for a cocoon woven in the penetrating and being penetrated beneath the swirling acacia trees. An ancestral rite in a milky ring that reflects the full moon, bouncing its light into the centrifuge of shyer voyeurs whose hearts throb in the tachycardia of brass knuckles between the weeds. Nights of ring-around-the-rosy that break off like a pearl necklace at the police\u2019s whistle, at the siren\u2019s searching purple, its blinking strobe that bloodies the party, breaking it into flashes of buttock and scrotum. At the clean thwacks striking the law into the hollow drums of their backs, to the safari rhythms of bigoted phallacies. They dodge beatings as they try to get away but fall to the ground, pants shackling them, hands covering their stunned sexual gladioli, still leafless and warm. The flashlights scour the weeds, lashing at haunches camouflaged by the cool velvet of violets. Trembling beneath the hydrangea bushes, the rookie closes the zipper biting into his pelvis\u2014he\u2019ll change his underwear when he gets home. Someone makes a run for it by zigzagging between the cars on the highway, gunshots trailing him all the way to the bridge. In a suicidal leap, he flies over the railing and falls into the river, its waters swallowing him. The body turns up days later in Parque de los Reyes, tangled in muck on the banks. The newspaper photo makes him look like a skinned reptile left for dead on the rocks.<\/p>\n

The stratified recreation areas inside Santiago parks are successfully pruning daytime desire. It\u2019s no longer so easy to slip in a squeeze under the public eye, and so city dwellers will continue to seek the lapping cover of darkness for reigniting human touch.<\/p>\n

This cro\u0301nica will appear in<\/em> A Last Supper of Queer Apostles<\/a>\u00a0by Pedro Lemebel, which will be published later this month by Penguin Classics, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group. Translated by Gwendolyn Harper.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cFuture newlyweds who pretend they don\u2019t see the cohabiting snakes rubbing against each other in the grass. Who say under their breath, \u2018Those were two men, did you notice?\u2019 \u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2476,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-167445","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nAnacondas in the Park by Pedro Lemebel<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 9, 2024 \u2013 \u201cFuture newlyweds who pretend they don\u2019t see the cohabiting snakes rubbing against each other in the grass. 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