Writing, Ink and Time

I've been listening to Jorge Drexler's new album (commonly I would call it a CD) over and over again and one song in particular has hooked me in the last few days. Precisely the song that gives it its name, Tinta y tiempo . Linda, whose handwriting is wonderful and made me think so many things. I transcribe its translation below:

Tinta y Tiempo
Lo que dejo in writing
It is not carved in granite
Yo só suelto en el viento
Presentimientos
Pido lo que necesito

Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo

Pero me cuesta wait
Y cuando toca decantar
Slowly lo que siento
Yo get impatient
Luego lo vuelvo a intentar

Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo

Never if
Ni por qué
Ni cuándo
This voice
Yo no la
Command

Y al final, siempre ando a tientas
Sin brújula en la tormenta
Pero tras el desaliento
Each account
If you have to paint, you paint

Age and ink
Age and ink
Age and ink
Age and ink

I can do it
Never have you
Calibre
Heart
You will always
Por libre

Never if
Ni por qué
Ni cuándo
This voice
Yo no la
Command

Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo
Tinta y tiempo

(...)
(Tinta y tiempo)

Transcribing the lyrics now, rereading them, it seems almost unnecessary to comment on them, for they speak for themselves. But how can we not talk about it - even if briefly - if time is a recurring theme here and keeps returning; If the ink is written is another theme that fascinates me and continues to appear?

Writing, that voice that is not commanded. That which wants to be said, wants to speak, wants to name itself, that which impatiently bothers us. The writing that all the time tests the limits of the word, the limits of language. It is the writer who knows how to break them, who knows how to twist, stretch, renew, tangle, knead, unravel words to make them say what is decanted within him. To grope the words, so many times in the dark, to say the unspeakable, to expel it, to make room for it.

I think of the writer who is amazed when a character created by himself takes a turn that he did not want or had not imagined, almost like the reader who cheers for a destiny for a character. These stories have always intrigued me, because they seem to speak precisely of this voice that Drexler speaks of, a voice that does not command itself, a voice that traces its own destiny sometimes without the writer's knowledge.

It takes ink and time, time and ink. Time to decant, to elaborate, that voice over which one has no control, but which insists, imposes itself. Unconscious. Time to put in paint, paint to paint time.