Felipe Granados
The Costa Rican writer and poet Felipe Granados passed away in August 2009 at the age of 33.
"I want them to know that I felt calm on the night that I killed god, I slept like a baby"
.....
He was from the province of Cartago in Costa Rica. He wrote articles that were published in the supplement Ancora in the national newspaper La Nacion and in the magazine SoHo, for which he was an avid collaborator.
He published one book of poetry entitled Soundtrack. The book reflects his great love for music, each poem being inspired by a particular song; from Queen, Nine Inch Nails, Radiohead, Jose Alfredo Jimenez, Miles Davis, etc. He was working on his second book according to an interview with SoHo at the end of last year.
Felipe died on the 26th of August in the Hospital Calderon Guardia. He was one of the most promising and creative young writers to emerge in the contemporary Costa Rican literary scene. Ironically, last year he published a piece of prose in SoHo entitled "The Last Day of My Life".
We shall leave you with this touching and haunting piece.
The Last Day of My Life *
I want them to know that I felt calm on the night that I killed god, I slept like a baby.
By Felipe Granados
The trembling voice asks me what kind of animal I would like to have been, I say a stuffed bunny that has lost its button eye because of so much affection from its owner, namely, a six-year old child like Juan.
The silence that follows speaks volumes. On the other end of the phone someone that deeply cares for me chooses their words...they can't...there is no way of saying this nicely.
I am going to die.
My last day should begin early, very early, trying to be methodical, practical, things that I have never been in my life. OK, one try. The last.
7:30 a.m. Writing that I don't want any ritual that passes through the hands of any of the known gods. I want them to know that I felt calm on the night that I killed god, I slept like a baby, without fear of hell or of that other great abyss that everyone calls heaven. That for me literature, or rather, books and writing, fulfilled everything that god gave to others: comfort, hope, punishment and a way – no better nor worse – of trying to explain how shitty life was.
8:00 a.m. I arrange to be cremated, three equal parts of me will each go to a different place: Irazu Volcano, the place where my first house was in the world and the Port. In these three places I was happy.
8:20 a.m. A cup of coffee and several cigarettes, I swore to myself that today at eleven I would quit smoking; I'll keep that promise, I will try not to think about other times, about other cups of coffee and cigarettes, de Cuenca already said it: nostalgia is a crude hobby.
8:30 a.m. I cry and I cry but I keep doing things, while taking a shower, while shaving, while putting on the miracle of clean underwear for the last time, I cry and I look at myself in the mirror to see how it feels to see the face of a dead man crying.
9 a.m. I wash my face, I leave my house to have breakfast with my children, Juan and Lucy, I kiss them slowly and I go.
10:00 a.m. Taking my pills, not forgetting my pills, even though they serve no purpose now, continuing the ritual of the pills, taking idiotic pleasure in doing something knowing that it is useless.
10:20 a.m. Arriving in San Jose. Walking down the flower corridor in the Central Market and thinking of nothing else but flowers.
10:40 a.m. Sitting down to converse with a stranger about nothing, about what he loves: soccer, politics, Latin American Idol, not falling in the temptation of judging him, not feeling better than the other, not feeling.
10:45 a.m. Looking for my favorite seafood stand and ordering ceviche, soup and shrimp.
11:30 a.m. Calling my mother on the telephone, saying thank you.
11:45 a.m. Quit smoking, keeping my promise, late, but keeping it. Returning to my house.
12 o'clock. Searching for the radio news when right at twelve “Hail Mary” by Perry Como is on and I remember when I was a kid and I used to put on my school uniform.
12:15 p.m. Finishing something that I have been writing.
1:00 p.m. Crying a little bit again and watching the Forrester Mansion for imaginary friends and laughing at Blu, laughing hard, if that is possible with Juan and Lucia in my bed.
2:00 p.m. Putting my favorite songs on.
2:30 p.m. Reading The Little Prince, the last monologue in Novecento and the final chapters of The God of Small Things.
6:00 p.m. Calling a friend, saying thank you.
6:30 p.m. Preparing a decent dinner for myself, and putting on nice clothes and treating myself like a king.
7:00 p.m. Not making peace with my enemies, not forgiving the crimes against me, not bribing the biggest dog of blame with any of these acts.
7:30 p.m. Eating dinner, having an ice-cream, relapsing with a cigarette, and not feeling bad.
8:40 p.m. Calling that number which I remember so well but haven't dialed for so long, hearing the voice on the answer machine and not saying what I have to say after the tone.
9:00 p.m. Putting on Nina Simone, a lot of Nina Simone.
9:00 p.m. Thinking about that fake astronaut that I once saw, thinking about what he said: “Being someone that was never prepared to live in this world, I think I will miss it”.
10:00 p.m. Taking the picture off the fridge where I am next to my children.
10:05 p.m. Crying myself to sleep.
11:00 p.m. I fall asleep.
12 o'clock. Dreaming about stuffed bunnies, one-eyed, but happy.
*Translated from the Spanish by Andres Alfaro
You can find the original from the magazine SoHo HERE.