lunacanibal

2 DE ENERO. MARTES.CUARTO MENGUANTE.

Una vez, hace ya tanto tiem-po que parecen siglos, unviejo indio que sola merodearpor las cercanas del presidio,me cont acerca de las creen-cias de sus antepasados: mecont sobre la luna canbal ysobre mujeres que cantancomo canarios. La Luna,mujer de cara quemada, eligea sus vctimas: a los conde-nados a morir en batalla, losilumina con su luz carmn; alos que morirn de enferme-dad, los proyecta con su som-bra grana. Por las noches, siento que laenorme luna roja me observa.Destinado estoy a ser devora-do por ella. Desde entonces,sueo con una enorme lunaroja que chorrea sangre. Unaluna hipntica que enfurece

a las jauras de famlicoshombres lobos cuyos aullidoshacen estallar mis tmpanos.

9 DE ENERO. MARTES. LUNANUEVA.

Tengo un sueo recurrente:durante un eclipse de luna,la tierra se recubre de cad-veres y la luna se dedica acomer sus cuerpos desmem-brados.

17 DE ENERO. MIRCOLES.CUARTO CRECIENTE.

La luna quiere llevarme.Debo estar continuamentedespierto para que no lo hagacuando estoy durmiendo.

24 DE ENERO. MIRCOLES.LUNA LLENA.

La luna es venenosa y txica,por eso evito a toda costa sertocado por sus radiaciones.Mis compaeros no lo saben

Entre los smbolos, la Luna-mujer, cuyo nombre era Kreeh, era el eje de las creenciasde los Selknam. Ella creaba el drama del pasado mitolgico a travs de su transfigu-racin de una sobrenatural mujer terrestre a un ser celestial (...) Luna entra en eclipse para demostrar que aun mantiene su ira contra los hombres. Sucara se vuelve roja con la sangre de aquellos sentenciados a muerte en una prximabatalla. Hasta la misma Tierra parece cubrirse con su sangre. Durante un eclipse, laLuna devora a los hombres que ha condenado a morir en batalla o de otra manera.

Anne Chapman.

DIARIO DE LA LUNA CANIBAL

DIARIO DE LA LUNA CANIBAL - BELEN GACHE - I BIENAL DEL FIN DEL MUNDO - USHUAIA - ARGENTINA - 2007

PENAL DE USHUAIA, 1940

pero yo s que ellos han sidoenvenenados en su contactocon los narcticos rayos deluna.

31 DE ENERO. MIRCOLES.CUARTO MENGUANTE.

La luna, traidora, me ocultasus mltiples rostros. Suscaras todas falsas: sumisa,monstruosa, indiferente. Enocasiones, se vuelve hacia nos-otros con su faz enardecida.Cuando est furiosa, su iraslo puede ser mitigada de unamanera: con embriagadorasmelopeas.

8 DE FEBRERO. JUEVES. LUNANUEVA.

Desde las lejanas tierras de mipatria, Gibraltar, he navegadopor los seis ocanos y los cincocontinentes. He visto mares deaguas color esmeralda y aguasnegras como mis pecados. Lalibertad era mi bandera. Ahorami nico horizonte es estemuro.

16 DE FEBRERO. VIERNES.CUARTO CRECIENTE.

De noche no puedo dormir yde da estoy exhausto. Quizses mejor as: la ltima vez queconsegu conciliar un febrilsueo, so con mis vctimas:sus caras eran blancas y

redondas y no tenan ojos ninariz ni boca. Slo eran discosplateados. Me despert gritan-do y mis gritos se perdieronhaciendo eco a travs de lasmontaas muertas.

23 DE FEBRERO. VIERNES.LUNA LLENA.

La luna llena mi celda con suatmsfera fosfrica y su vene-no luminoso.Casi todos los penados aquson esclavos de la luna, pli-dos y ojerosos como ella. Sloalgunos pocos aun le ofrece-mos resistencia. La luna mequiere hacer su esclavo, inten-tando que caiga yo tambin ensu eterna amnesia.

1 DE MARZO. VIERNES. CUARTOMENGUANTE.

En mis noches de insomnio,escribo a escondidas de laluna. Ella no debe enterarse.Ella quiere los papeles siempreblancos, plateados, brillantes.La luna siempre escribe continta blanca. Yo tapo el papelcon la sombra de mis letrasnegras.Escribo para mantenermelcido y no dejarme caer en elensueo hipntico. Escribopara que, si alguna vez meolvido, recordar quin era.


9 DE MARZO. SBADO. LUNANUEVA.

En la luna no hay atmsfera yest considerada geolgica-mente muerta, tan muertacomo esta prisin. En otraspocas, pensaban que la lunaera un espejo. Si esto fueraas, supongo que en la lunahabra otra prisin y, en ella,otro penado como yo. A vecespienso, en cambio, que soy yoel que est en la luna y, all enla Tierra, hay un penado quese me asemeja.Aqu estoy, encerrado en el findel mundo, lejos de todos losdems hombres del planeta.

17 DE MARZO. DOMINGO.CUARTO CRECIENTE.

La nieve que corona las mon-taas alrededor del presidio esla venenosa espuma de la lunaque invade la tierra. Pronto lle-gar hasta aqu; pronto taparel presidio con su blanca ynociva sustancia y terminarapor ahogarnos.

23 DE MARZO. SBADO. LUNALLENA.

La luna ilumina mi celda y nohay un solo lugar donde esca-par. Se refleja en los charcosdel agua ptrida en el piso, enel vidrio de mi ventana. Yotrato de parar su invasintapando su pequeo crculo

plateado con la tinta de mipluma. As, al comenzar a cla-rear el alba, el vidrio de la ven-tana amanece tapado conpequeos eclipses de tintachina.

30 DE MARZO. SBADO. CUARTOMENGUANTE.

Los carceleros de nuestra sonespas de la luna. Las nochesde luna llena entran en nues-tras celdas y nos obligan a per-manecer con los ojos abiertosmirando a la luna. As inten-tan hacernos caer en la hipno-sis lunar.

7 DE ABRIL. DOMINGO. LUNANUEVA.

Recuerdo que, en otros tiem-pos, en el cielo haba una lunade mbar con sus mares de-siertos y sus crteres de az-car; con su amanecer de plata,a la vera de un ocano helado.Recuerdo cuando la luna erauna flor de achicoria, con sussemillas esparcidas por elviento. Son estos realmenterecuerdos? Los estoy imagi-nando? Los habr soado?

15 DE ABRIL. LUNES. CUARTOCRECIENTE.

Escribo la historia de mi vidaen papel de cigarrillos, conuna letra tan, pero tan peque-a que nadie podr nunca


leerla. El papel de cigarrillosno es como el que suelen can-jear aqu dentro los prisione-ros. Es un fino papel de armar,realizado con arroz, que le can-je en una ocasin a un espade la Gran Guerra y que lusaba para intercambiar men-sajes secretos atados a laspatas de las palomas mensaje-ras. Escribo rengln sobre ren-gln y los cien pequeos foliosya contienen varios tomos demi existencia, escritos unossobre otros, en letras cursivas,retorcidas como hormigas quese desbandan al patear unhormiguero. En los recreos delpenal, cuando salimos alpatio, miro hacia arriba y sos-tengo mis textos con lasmanos extendidas, en esperade que alguna bandada depjaros pueda llevar la verda-dera historia de mi vida a tra-vs de los cielos.

22 DE ABRIL. LUNES. LUNALLENA.

Por las noches, cuando todosduermen, yo escribo a oscurassobre las paredes de mi celda.All escribo verdades y denun-cio injusticias; acuso traidoresy develo secretos. Por lasmaanas, cuando intento leermis textos, slo encuentro lapared cruzada por rayas sinsentido.

29 DE ABRIL. LUNES. CUARTOMENGUANTE.

Me visita el fantasma ptrido yamarillento de un pirata muer-to y me cuenta sobre sushorribles crmenes y sus org-as de sangre. Me cuenta sobresus monedas de oro y sus trai-ciones. Me cuenta acerca delas voces de las sirenas que,intentando robar el alma de losmarinos y devorar sus cuer-pos, lo atrajeron a l y a suscompaeros desde el fondo delas aguas. Seran las narcti-cas voces de las sirenas o eranlos gritos de las gaviotas?

7 DE MAYO. MARTES. LUNANUEVA.

Escucho los arrtmicos pasosdel guardia-crceles rengo.Noche tras noche, recorre elpasillo hacia arriba y haciaabajo, una y otra vez, pertur-bando mi afiebrado sueo.Una maana le pregunto aotro recluso: Cmo puedesdormir? Los pasos del guardiacrceles rengo marcan lossegundos como un reloj fatdi-co.Puedo ver el rostro de mi com-paero teirse de espanto:Quien recorre el pasillo no esel guardia crceles rengo: es elfantasma de un presidiariomuerto que jur vengarse desus verdugos.


14 DE MAYO. MARTES. CUARTOCRECIENTE.

La luna ciega mis ojos y ya casino puedo escribir. Mi papel esuna brillante luna rectangularque penetra mis pupilas consus rayos y las pulveriza. Yano quedan colores en mis ojos.Ya no percibo ms que el colorblanco.

21 DE MAYO. MARTES. LUNALLENA.

La cabeza me estalla con inso-portables cefaleas. Tengo lasmeninges inflamadas, platea-das, fluorescentes, radiactivas.

Mil agujas se clavan en mi siencomo letales estalactitas luna-res.

29 DE MAYO. MIRCOLES.CUARTO MENGUANTE.

Escribo mil veces en la paredde mi celda con tiza de polvode luna las siguientes trespalabras: CEFALEA, HIPNO-SIS, SELENOFOBIA.Estoy solo en esta soledadrefulgente, falsa y eterna, y nopodr morir hasta el fin de losdas. Aunque puede ser muybien que ya est muerto.


* El artculo que figura en la portada fue publicado por primera vez por laantroploga Anne Chapman, bajo el ttulo de Lune en Terre de Feu, Mythes etrites des Selknam en Objets et Mondes, La revue du Muse de l'Homme, tomo12, 1972, Pars.

I BIENAL DEL FIN DEL MUNDO - USHUAIA ARGENTINAMARZO/ABRIL DE 2007

EL DIARIO DE LA LUNA CANBALBeln Gache

Instalacin sonora - Seis canales de audioEspacio: pasillo de la Presidio de Ushuaiahttp://www.findelmundo/lunacanibal

El diario de la luna canbal se basa en los fragmentos del diario personal de unrecluso imaginario del Penal de Ushuaia (Tierra del Fuego), escrito en 1940. La dureza de las condiciones climticas y el aislamiento geogrfico en los lti-mos mrgenes de la Tierra, reforzaban la seguridad de este presidio, al cual ibana parar personajes desterrados de todos los confines del mundo. El mismo fun-cion entre los aos 1904 y 1947 y estaba destinado a delincuentes de la msalta peligrosidad. El ttulo de la obra remite a la mitologa de los Selknam y a la antigua creenciasegn la cual el crecimiento de la luna se deba a que esta se alimentaba de lasangre de los hombres a quienes elega para ser muertos.

CRDITOSTextos: Beln Gache

Traduccin: Tamara Stuby - Beln GacheVoces:

Versin en espaol: Gabriel AlmendrosVersin en ingls: Pablo Ragoni

Grabacin y edicin: Gabriel Almendros

Belen Gache es escritora. Ha publicado las novelas Lunas elctricas para las noches sin luna(Sudamericana, 2004), Divina anarqua (Sudamericana, 1999) y Luna India (Planeta, 1994). Sunovela La vida y obra de Ambrosia Pons fue finalista del Premio Herralde de Novela (Barcelona2005) y del Premio Planeta (Buenos Aires, 2006). Ha publicado el ensayo Escrituras nmades, dellibro perdido al hipertexto (Gijn, Trea 2006). Ha realizado trabajos de literatura experimental ypoesa electrnica como El blog de los sueos (2007), los Wordtoys (2006) y El diario del nio bur-buja (2004). Su libro de poemas El libro del fin del mundo (2002) incluye un CD con obras inter-activas. Ha participado en ARCO (Madrid), la Bienal de Mrida (Mxico), FILE (San Pablo), el PremioICI Multimedia de Video Experimental (Buenos Aires), Hypertext 01 (Aarhus, Dinamarca) y pre-sentado sus obras en el Museo Tamayo (Mxico, DF), en el Museo de Arte Moderno de Buenos Airesy en la Fundacin Telefnica de Buenos Aires.http://www.belengache.com.ar

I BIENNIALOF THE END OF THE WORLD - USHUAIA ARGENTINA

MARCH/APRIL2007

THE DIARYOF THE CANNIBALMOON

Beln Gache

Sound installation - Six audio channels

Ushuaia Penitentiary corridor

http://www.findelmundo/lunacanibal

The diary of the cannibal moonis based on the fragments of a personal diary of an

imaginary inmate at the Ushuaia Penitentiary (Fire Land), written in 1940.

The toughness of the weather conditions and the geographic isolation in the last

margins of the Earth reinforced the security of this prison. Exiled from all margins

of the world, delinquents of the highest danger ended their days in this prison that

was active from 1904 to 1947.

The title of this piece of work relates to the Selknam mythology and to the old

belief according to which the growth of the moon was due to the fact that she fed

herself with the blood of those men whom she had chosen to be killed.

CREDITS

Texts: Beln Gache

Translation: Tamara Stuby - Beln Gache

Voices:

Spanish version: Gabriel Almendros

English version: Pablo Ragoni

Recording and editing: Gabriel Almendros

Belen Gache is a writer. She has published the novels Lunas elctricas para las noches sin luna

(Sudamericana, 2004), Divina Anarquia (Sudamericana, 1999) and Luna India (Planeta, 1994). Her

novel La vida y obra de Ambrosia Ponswas shortlisted at the Premio Herralde de Novela (Barcelona

2005) and the Premio Planeta (Buenos Aires, 2006). She has published the essay Escrituras Nmades,

del libro perdido al hipertexto(Gijn, Trea, 2006).

She has worked with experimental literature and electronic poetry developing works such as El blog

de los sueos(2007), the Wordtoys(2006), El diario del nio burbuja(2004). Her book of poemas El

libro del fin del mundo(2002) includes a CD with interactive works. She has participated in ARCO

(Madrid), the Ushuaia Biennial (Argentina), the Mrida Biennial (Mxico), FILE (San Pablo), the

Premio ICI Multimedia de Video Experimental (Buenos Aires), Hypertext 01 (Aarhus, Denmark) and

presented her works in the Tamayo Museum (Mxico, DF), The Fundacin Telefnica (Buenos Aires)

and the Museum of Modern Art of Buenos Aires.

http://www.belengache.com.ar

MAY 14TH. . TUESDAY. WAXING

CRESCENT MOON.

The moon blinds my eyes and I

almost cannot write anymore.

My paper is a shining rectan-

gular moon that penetrates my

pupils with its silver-plated

rays and pulverizes them.

There are no more colors in my

eyes. I can no longer perceive

any color other than white.

MAY 21ST. TUESDAY. FULL

MOON.

My head explodes with unbea-

rable migraines. My meninges

are inflamed, silver-plated,

fluorescent, radioactive. A

thousand needles pierce my

skull like a thousand lethal

lunar stalactites.

MAY 29TH. WEDNESDAY. WANING

CRESCENT MOON.

I write these three

words a thousand times with

moon dust chalk in the walls

of my cell: MIGRAINE,

HYPNOSIS, SELENOPHOBIA.

Im all alone in this gleaming,

false and eternal solitude and

I wont be able to die until the

end of all time. Though it may

very well be that I am dead

ready.

* The article that appears in the front cover was first published by the anthropologist

Anne Chapman under the title Lune en Terre de Feu, Mythes et rites des Selknam, in

Objets et Mondes, La revue du Muse de l'Homme, tome 12, 1972, Paris.

DIARY OF THE CANNIBAL MOON - BELEN GACHE - I BIENNIAL OF THE END OF THE WORLD- USHUAIA - ARGENTINA - 2007

te papers, with tiny, but such

teeny-tiny letters that no-one

will ever be able to read them.

These cigarette papers arent

like the ones that prisoners

usually trade in here. They are

made out of fine rice paper,

that I once traded with a man

who was a spy in the Great

War, who used them for sen-

ding secret messages, fastened

to the legs of carrier pigeons. I

write and rewrite line after line

and the one hundred small

sheets already contain several

volumes of my existence, writ-

ten in twisted cursive letters

that look like ants scattered

about after their anthill has

been kicked.

During our recreation time, in

the courtyard, I look upward,

holding my texts in my outs-

tretched hands, awaiting some

flock of birds that might carry

the true history of my life off

into the sky.

APRIL 22ND. MONDAY. FULL

MOON.

At night, when everybody else

is asleep, I write on the walls of

my cell in the dark. I write

truths and I denounce injusti-

ces; I accuse traitors and reve-

al secrets. In the morning,

when I try to read my texts, I

find the wall covered with sen-

seless scratching.

APRIL 29TH. MONDAY. WANING

CRESCENT MOON.

I am visited by the putrid

yellowish ghost of a dead pira-

te. He tells me about his horri-

ble crimes and his bloody

orgies. He tells me about his

gold coins and treachery.

He tells me about the voices of

the sirens, calling out to him

and his companions from the

waters depths, trying to rob

the sailors souls and devour

their bodies. Were they the

narcotic voices of the sirens or

might they have been the sea-

gulls cries that he heard?

MAY 7TH. TUESDAY. NEW

MOON.

I can hear the arrhythmic

footsteps of the lame prison

guard. Night after night he

walks up and down the corri-

dor, disturbing my feverish

dreams. One morning, I ask

one of the other inmates:

How you can sleep? The foots-

teps of the lame guard mark

the seconds like a fatidic clock.

I can see the fear in my com-

panions face:

The one that walks the corri-

dor at night isnt the lame

guard: it is the ghost of a dead

prisoner who swore he would

take revenge on his executio-

ners.


spellbinding dream, I will be

able to recall who I once was.

MARCH 9TH. SATURDAY. NEW

MOON.

There is no atmosphere on the

moon and it is considered geo-

logically dead, as dead as this

prison. In other eras, people

thought the moon was a

mirror. If that were true, I

think there would be another

prison, just like this one, on

the moon and that inside it,

there would be another priso-

ner just like me. Sometimes,

what I think instead is that Im

the one who is on the moon

and that out there on Earth,

theres a prisoner who resem-

bles me. Here I am, locked

away at the end of the world,

far removed from all the other

men on the planet.

MARCH 17TH. SUNDAY. WAXING

CRESCENT MOON.

The snow that crowns the

mountains that surround the

military prison is the poiso-

nous foam of the moon inva-

ding the Earth. Soon it will

reach all the way here; soon it

will cover us with her white

noxious substance and will

wind up suffocating us all.

MARCH 23RD. SATURDAY. FULL

MOON.

The moon lights up my cell and

there is not a single place

where I can escape from her.

The moon is reflected in the

pools of putrid water on the

floor, in my windowpanes. I try

to stop the invasion, covering

her small silver-plated circle

with the ink from my pen. As

dawn breaks, the windowpanes

are covered with small Chinese

ink eclipses.

MARCH 30TH. SATURDAY.

WANING CRESCENT MOON.

Our jailers are the moons

spies. At night when the moon

is full they come into our cells

and force us to remain with our

eyes wide open, staring at the

moon. This is how they try to

make us fall under the moons

hypnosis.

APRIL 7TH. SUNDAY.

NEW MOON.

I remember other times, when

there was an amber moon in

the sky. I remember its desert

seas and its sugar craters. I

remember its silver dawn, on

the shores of its frozen ocean. I

remember when the moon was

a chicory flower, its seeds scat-

tered by the wind.

Are these really my memories?

Have I only imagined them?

Or maybe I dreamt them?

APRIL 15TH. MONDAY. WAXING

CRESCENT MOON.

I write my life story on cigaret-


toxic, and so I avoid being tou-

ched by her radiation at all

costs. I know, even though

they dont, that my compa-

nions have already been poiso-

ned by being in contact with

her narcotic moon rays.

JANUARY 31ST. WEDNESDAY.


The treasonous moon hides

her multiple faces from me.

Every one of her faces is false:

submissive, monstrous, indif-

ferent. Sometimes, she turns to

us with her face aflame. When

she is furious, there is only one

way to mitigate her anger: with

drinking binges.

FEBRUARY 8TH. THURSDAY.

NEW MOON.

From the faraway lands of

Gibraltar, my mother country,

Ive traveled upon the seven

seas and across five conti-

nents. Ive seen emerald waters

and Ive seen black waters, as

black as my own sins. Freedom

was my flag. Now, my only

horizon is this wall.

FEBRUARY 16TH. FRIDAY.

WAXING CRESCENT MOON.

I cannot sleep at nighteach

one is eternaland during the

day I am completely exhaus-

ted. Maybe its better this way:

the last time I managed to

negotiate a feverish sleep, I

dreamed of victims, mine: their

faces were white and round

and they had no eyes, no nose

and no mouth. They were only

silver-plated discs. I woke up

screaming and my desperate

screams became lost echoing

their way through the dead

mountains.

FEBRUARY 23RD. FRIDAY.

FULL MOON.

The moon fills my cell with its

phosphoric air and its lumi-

nous poison. Almost all the

inmates here are her slaves,

pale with dark circles under

their eyes, just like her. Only a

few of us are still putting up

some resistance. The moon

wants me as her slave, she is

trying to make me fall into her

eternal amnesia as well.

MARCH 1ST. FRIDAY. WANING

CRESCENT MOON.

During my sleepless nights, I

write. But the moon mustnt

find out that I am doing so. She

wants the sheets of paper to be

forever white, silver and shiny.

The moon always writes with

white ink. I cover the whiteness

with the shadow of my black

letters. I write to remain lucid,

to not fall into its hypnotic

trance. I write so that, should I

someday forget, lost within its


JANUARY 2ND. TUESDAY.


Once, long ago, so long ago

now that it seems to have

been centuries, an old Indian

that used to roam around on

the outskirts of the military

prison told me about his

ancestors beliefs: he told me

about the cannibal moon and

women who sang like cana-

ries. The Moon, a woman with

a burned face, chooses her

victims: those who are con-

demned to die in battle, are

illuminated with her carmine

light; upon those who will die

of disease she casts her crim-

son shadow. At night, I have

the feeling that the enormous

red moon is watching me. I

am destined to be devoured

by her. Ever since then, an

enormous red moon that

drips blood appears in my

dreams. It is a hypnotic moon

that infuriates the packs of

ravenous werewolves who

shatter my eardrums with

their howling.

JANUARY 9TH. TUESDAY.

NEW MOON.

I have a recurrent dream:

during a lunar eclipse, the

earth is completely covered

with corpses and the moon

busies herself with eating the

dismembered bodies.

JANUARY 17TH. WEDNESDAY.

WAXING CRESCENT MOON.

The moon wants to take me

away. I must be constantly on

the alert, so that she cannot

do so while I am sleeping.

JANUARY 24TH. WEDNESDAY.

FULL MOON.

The moon is poisonous and

DIARY OF THE CANNIBAL MOON

Among the symbols, Moon-woman, whose name was Kreeh, was the axis of the

Selknams beliefs. She created the drama of the mythological past through her trans-

figuration from an earthly supernatural woman into the celestial being (...)

Moon enters into an eclipse to demonstrate that she maintains her anger against the

men. Her face becomes red with the blood of men who will be doomed in a coming bat-

tle. Even the earth may appear as if it were soaked with their blood. During an eclip-

se Moon is consuming the men whom she has condemned to die battle or otherwise.

Anne Chapman.


USHUAIA PENITENTIARY, 1940

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