(el poema que no encajaba en el poemario, ni tuyo ni mío)
when my arms freeze
and glue to my torso
you've got an idea what this
is all about
in a place of intentional bad light
I can only fake my eyes' movement
and pretend
that I don't know about
the memories
and
the time that your saliva was once on my face
just by my lips
my fingers just by yours
the time I was frozen falsely
there are chances somewhere else, someone else.
vendredi 3 octobre 2008
jeudi 25 septembre 2008
Birthday (esto va al principio pero no inmediatamente después del principio)
- AROUND MY THROAT AND AND...
- I think you should speak more
-hmm?
-I think you should talk more often, you should speak more
-Maybe I should
-You don't say enough...
-... there is something eeriely tranquilising in the up-side down Hanged Man, he floats while he's dancing, he's not hanged anymore
__________.______________.___________
"Happy Birthday," he said and handed a wrapped thin rectangle-shaped item to Andrew who smiled guessing already the content although it did not count really as guessing when achieved due to repetition.
-"Several Perceptions"
- Yeah, I thought you might like it
-Sometime I wish I had a book in my library without you name writen in the first page
-Books in Norway are in Norwegian
-They don't have books in English in Norway?
-They do, but I bought that one for me first
-Is it good?
-Yes, someone sets a ferret free from the zoo at some point
-Oh..... is that why you bought it?
-Mostly
-Sounds good, I'll read it. This is awkard.
- More people coming?
-Yes
-Even more awkard to me then.
-Laurent and Lou are coming.
-We'll drink until we forget that I wasn't here for time enough to create unconfortable silences
-I like them
-Maybe they are not
-What?
-Nothing
-...
-...
-...
-...
He was sure about Tristram's thoughts. He looked at him, he thought he could pierce through Tristram's wall of immutability. He studied all the calculated gestures, every glance controlled, Tristram and his subconcious kinetic appriopiateness, his re-readings of On the Road every time he was in a long train journey and The Waves read three times since he was fifteen when he would re-read when he turned in a multiple of 5. He was the same, Tristram was obviously feeling the unsettling sensation of his return numbness. He was afraid, the attempts of smiling deceive him thought Andrew. After studying him quietly he was ready to predict. He will rub his knees with his palms, he will stop when Andrew looks at his movement, the he will sip his cup of tea as not to talk, he will not sip, he will fake it, he will not want the tea to be finished, he will need to sip their silence dry. He will now ask something trivial. No. He will now bring a memory so they can laugh and forget the abyss Tristram created by imagining its existence
-Remember when you fell in
-The lagoon?
-Yes.
-...
-...
Now, he will say too happily, "That's the door, someone's knocking door" and smile honestly. Tristram, he created the unconfortable feeling thougth Andrew.
mardi 16 septembre 2008
Al Aeropuerto
-“Lo voy a solucionar,” le dijo a su hijo. Sabía que su padre no lo iba a hacer principalmente porque no podía, no había forma de solucionarlo. Le creyó de todas formas, siempre confiaba en él sin importar qué y es que parecía tan lógico todo, podía entender lo que estaba diciendo completamente. Sabía que su padre no podía arreglarlo pero no podía no sentirse aliviado después de escuchar su afirmación.
Quería apoyar la cabeza en la ventana y sacarse el cinturón de seguridad pero no lo hizo, estaba seguro que él lo iba a encontrar extraño y le preguntaría por qué estaba apoyando la cabeza en la ventana y la respuesta “porque tengo ganas” no sería satisfactoria. Aunque realmente nunca necesitaban hablar sintió la necesidad de empezar una conversación trivial ¿Quizás sobre el clima como dicen que hacen los ingleses? Afuera estaba nevando.
- “¿Son los Rolling Stones?”
- “Hmm, no sé, parece”
- “¿No era esta canción la de ese programa de la guerra de Vietnam? ¿Cómo se llamaba?”
- “Ah! Sí, ‘Misión del Deber’ aunque
Debería haberse llamado…
debería haberse llamado ‘El Llamado del Deber,’ ‘Call of Duty’”
No sabía mucho sobre los 60’s y 70’s como le hubiese gustado que él supiera, pensó que de cierta forma a él le habían robado su adolescencia, que no había vivido en ese tiempo realmente.
Habían razones para confiar en él, todas esas historias del “Antartic Dog” cuando se iba por tres meses y arreglaba tractores de nieve, desaprobaba como los otros atornillaban piezas de metal en un ala de algún avión ruso y mandaba a todo el mundo a la mierda con ingenio, eficiencia y rudeza, Dorian Gray, MacGyver y ¿Clyde? El no era tan rudo.
- “A veces no nos parecemos”
- “¿Qué?”
- “Nada, que, a veces no nos parecemos tanto”
- Ah, no
- ¿Cuando no estamos juntos quizás?
- Puede que no…
- …
- Ya hablé con la gente que tenía que hablar y con el abogado y está todo bien…
- ..bien encaminado… que bueno, que bueno que se estén solucionando las cosas.
Miró por la ventana de nuevo, quería hablar con él, ya habían hablado de la radio y de ese capítulo de “Conquest” donde mostraban como las herramientas de cultivo de los campesinos medievales eran armas efectivas contra un caballero. Abrió la ventana y dejó que entrara el frío y un poco de nieve, quizás sacar la cara, sólo se asomó, y no lloró.
Quería apoyar la cabeza en la ventana y sacarse el cinturón de seguridad pero no lo hizo, estaba seguro que él lo iba a encontrar extraño y le preguntaría por qué estaba apoyando la cabeza en la ventana y la respuesta “porque tengo ganas” no sería satisfactoria. Aunque realmente nunca necesitaban hablar sintió la necesidad de empezar una conversación trivial ¿Quizás sobre el clima como dicen que hacen los ingleses? Afuera estaba nevando.
- “¿Son los Rolling Stones?”
- “Hmm, no sé, parece”
- “¿No era esta canción la de ese programa de la guerra de Vietnam? ¿Cómo se llamaba?”
- “Ah! Sí, ‘Misión del Deber’ aunque
Debería haberse llamado…
debería haberse llamado ‘El Llamado del Deber,’ ‘Call of Duty’”
No sabía mucho sobre los 60’s y 70’s como le hubiese gustado que él supiera, pensó que de cierta forma a él le habían robado su adolescencia, que no había vivido en ese tiempo realmente.
Habían razones para confiar en él, todas esas historias del “Antartic Dog” cuando se iba por tres meses y arreglaba tractores de nieve, desaprobaba como los otros atornillaban piezas de metal en un ala de algún avión ruso y mandaba a todo el mundo a la mierda con ingenio, eficiencia y rudeza, Dorian Gray, MacGyver y ¿Clyde? El no era tan rudo.
- “A veces no nos parecemos”
- “¿Qué?”
- “Nada, que, a veces no nos parecemos tanto”
- Ah, no
- ¿Cuando no estamos juntos quizás?
- Puede que no…
- …
- Ya hablé con la gente que tenía que hablar y con el abogado y está todo bien…
- ..bien encaminado… que bueno, que bueno que se estén solucionando las cosas.
Miró por la ventana de nuevo, quería hablar con él, ya habían hablado de la radio y de ese capítulo de “Conquest” donde mostraban como las herramientas de cultivo de los campesinos medievales eran armas efectivas contra un caballero. Abrió la ventana y dejó que entrara el frío y un poco de nieve, quizás sacar la cara, sólo se asomó, y no lloró.
mardi 17 juin 2008
(Attempt)
(Este creo que sera el comienzo del cuento que llevo tratando de escribir desde el anio pasado y ya no sera 50/50 ficcion realidad, creo que se pondra mas y mas ficticio, escribo en ingles as a defamiliarisation process, necesito flitros y me siento comodo usando el traducir del ingles al espanol como filtro)
His first suicidal thought came after an idea hit him like a rotating red brick on his forehead making his neck bend backwards. With his fists tightly clutched in his brown worn out coat while looking at the snow spotted hills he listened to the announcement in Norwegian that possibly said something like "the train from Bodø will arrive in a few minutes to take you the hell out from Fauske," and right there he realised that not once he had stopped to think about anything. The Train from Bodø was coming and he had nothing but maps, diagrams, future conversation outlines and floating faces in his head. On that bench on that train station in the middle of nowhere he would end up his life and he would remain there as a memorial of 2007, the year when a young amateur backpacker realised there was nothing to think about. It would be constantly shit on by pigeons, vandalised by bored youths and people would take pictures by it with innocent vulgar visual innuendos.
He Looked around, the hills still had some snow and the wind kept constantly blowing making his sunburnt face ache.
"I'm so self-indulgent that I make myself sick" he thought.
He finally got on the train. He felt relief, not only because we would be warm for the next 17 hours on the train to Oslo. In a way he was happy he was going back home, he really tried to block this feeling, for ages he had tried to leave Scotland. He remembered his longs conversations with Andrew where he would listen to him patiently, it was alway the same, andrew thought ardently that Aberdeen was a trap, that its soil was knitting slowly and labouriously their feet to the ground. Andrew was too full of conviction and he moved his hands way to frantically, Tristram did not want to agree with him, not publicly, not aloud, not too comitted. He wanted to stoic and work his way out of Scotland quietly, he would nod at Andrew's statements and enquire "And then? What happens after you leave Scotland?" Andrew would sip his wine first maybe as to have more time to answer and would finally reply "Then I start living." The desperate cliche for an answer, Oh! there was going all credibility sinking in a pond of childish rebelious attitudes.
Tristram wouldn't say anything, Andrew had humiliated himself enough, or maybe he didn't, he wouldn't let Tristram's sourness to mess up with what he wanted, moreover, Andrew knew they both shared this longing.
For three months he had been rambling in Scandinavia. One day he noticed he had enough money to leave somewhere and he chose the remoteness that was closer and he fled to cease his longing. When he arrived in Helsinki he decided he wouln't have a future plan until one popped up. He considered joining a Sami community, becoming a bartender in Stockholm or trying to find his way on the small ancient Cod fishing business in any of the islands in Lofoten. He wasn't truly convinced by any and he was running out of money.
On the train while crossing the snowy semi flooded moors where he thought the Arctic Circle was he felt that a sensation of self-sabotage was hauting him, he stared bluntly at the shoes of the man across, something in his shoes suggested fjords. He eagerly wanted to stop thinking that he was unvoluntarily sabotaging his plans of leaving Scotland. He thought of what he had managed to do. He thought of the strings he cut to free himself from Aberdeen. He quit his job, blatantly ignored his family wishes and he willingly got to not to miss his friends. Now, the next 50 hours were carefully scheduled like cut patterns on heart surgery.
In 17 hours he would be in Oslo in the early morning, in the afternoon he would fly to Glasgow, spend the night there and take a morning train to Aberdeen.
There were duties waiting for him in Aberdeen, Lucien's existence seemed to be getting more and more vague and Andrew seemed to be going mad. He thought that if he really tried he might make a difference in his friends' life for the very first time. For now, he was just crossing rocky hills crammed with pines.
"There is nothing wrong with a purposeless life," Lucien thought "for we live as if travelling on thunder, and that's a bless, and there is no time for stopping to finnish things since that would get us off the speed of life
His first suicidal thought came after an idea hit him like a rotating red brick on his forehead making his neck bend backwards. With his fists tightly clutched in his brown worn out coat while looking at the snow spotted hills he listened to the announcement in Norwegian that possibly said something like "the train from Bodø will arrive in a few minutes to take you the hell out from Fauske," and right there he realised that not once he had stopped to think about anything. The Train from Bodø was coming and he had nothing but maps, diagrams, future conversation outlines and floating faces in his head. On that bench on that train station in the middle of nowhere he would end up his life and he would remain there as a memorial of 2007, the year when a young amateur backpacker realised there was nothing to think about. It would be constantly shit on by pigeons, vandalised by bored youths and people would take pictures by it with innocent vulgar visual innuendos.
He Looked around, the hills still had some snow and the wind kept constantly blowing making his sunburnt face ache.
"I'm so self-indulgent that I make myself sick" he thought.
He finally got on the train. He felt relief, not only because we would be warm for the next 17 hours on the train to Oslo. In a way he was happy he was going back home, he really tried to block this feeling, for ages he had tried to leave Scotland. He remembered his longs conversations with Andrew where he would listen to him patiently, it was alway the same, andrew thought ardently that Aberdeen was a trap, that its soil was knitting slowly and labouriously their feet to the ground. Andrew was too full of conviction and he moved his hands way to frantically, Tristram did not want to agree with him, not publicly, not aloud, not too comitted. He wanted to stoic and work his way out of Scotland quietly, he would nod at Andrew's statements and enquire "And then? What happens after you leave Scotland?" Andrew would sip his wine first maybe as to have more time to answer and would finally reply "Then I start living." The desperate cliche for an answer, Oh! there was going all credibility sinking in a pond of childish rebelious attitudes.
Tristram wouldn't say anything, Andrew had humiliated himself enough, or maybe he didn't, he wouldn't let Tristram's sourness to mess up with what he wanted, moreover, Andrew knew they both shared this longing.
For three months he had been rambling in Scandinavia. One day he noticed he had enough money to leave somewhere and he chose the remoteness that was closer and he fled to cease his longing. When he arrived in Helsinki he decided he wouln't have a future plan until one popped up. He considered joining a Sami community, becoming a bartender in Stockholm or trying to find his way on the small ancient Cod fishing business in any of the islands in Lofoten. He wasn't truly convinced by any and he was running out of money.
On the train while crossing the snowy semi flooded moors where he thought the Arctic Circle was he felt that a sensation of self-sabotage was hauting him, he stared bluntly at the shoes of the man across, something in his shoes suggested fjords. He eagerly wanted to stop thinking that he was unvoluntarily sabotaging his plans of leaving Scotland. He thought of what he had managed to do. He thought of the strings he cut to free himself from Aberdeen. He quit his job, blatantly ignored his family wishes and he willingly got to not to miss his friends. Now, the next 50 hours were carefully scheduled like cut patterns on heart surgery.
In 17 hours he would be in Oslo in the early morning, in the afternoon he would fly to Glasgow, spend the night there and take a morning train to Aberdeen.
There were duties waiting for him in Aberdeen, Lucien's existence seemed to be getting more and more vague and Andrew seemed to be going mad. He thought that if he really tried he might make a difference in his friends' life for the very first time. For now, he was just crossing rocky hills crammed with pines.
"There is nothing wrong with a purposeless life," Lucien thought "for we live as if travelling on thunder, and that's a bless, and there is no time for stopping to finnish things since that would get us off the speed of life
jeudi 22 mai 2008
Ruidos
¿Seran ellos nuevamente? Puede ser (como había pasado un par de veces antes) que no, que el sonido viniera de una paloma o un ratón activando una de las trampas, que un pedazo del techo se hubiera caído o que fuera parte de una pesadilla. Pero lo más probable era que fueran ellos.
En silencio se levantó del suelo y se preguntó si era de noche. Había elegido dormir en esta pieza, porque no tenía ventanas, porque esto es en muchas situaciones una ventaja.
Sobandose brazos y piernas en silencio, trató de captar algún sonido que viniera de algún lugar. Si estaban abajo, pronto encontrarían una trampa y el tendría tiempo de escapar. Si estaban en el mismo piso tendría que improvisar.
"Paloma", pensó. Se dio cuenta que tenía los ojos muy abiertos, que hace unos minnutos, quizas, no pestañeaba. "Cuando no hay luz abrimos los ojos para escuchar mejor" pensó. Lo había leido en su adolescencia y se le quedó grabado siempre. O quizas no. Quizas lo había inventado hace poco. Le pasaba a veces que se daba cuenta que pequeñas cosas de su vida, las transformaba en programas de televisión, películas o libros, o radionovelas; y luego se daba cuenta. ¿Debía preocuparse? ¿Que mal hacía? ¿Había algún-
TAK
Un grito de dolor horrible. Corrió a oscuras por el pasillo, siguiendo la derecha, y al doblar por la ezquina recordó sacarse los calcetines y ponerselos en el pantalón. Cruzó a la pared contraria y gateando lentamente avanzó.
Detrás de el, una luz, delante, trampas, una caida de 4 o 5 metros y quizas uno de ellos abajo. Por la ventana ya quebrada se colaba algo de luz artificial.
"Noche"
Al llegar a una de las ventanas, aún gateando, sacó uno de los calcetines y lo llenó con pedazos de cemento que perteneció a las paredes o al techo, o a una de las personas que rompió el vidrio del edificio. Amarró la "pierna" del calcetín y miró hacia afuera. La luz de la linterna estaba ya en la penultima pared, tendría uno o dos minutos para saltar. Pero tenía que esperar. Abajo otro de ellos dobló la ezquina del edificio.
Le dio dos vueltas al calcetin por encima de su cabeza y lo lanzó por la ventana. Tres pisos y dos segundos más abajo un hombre con la cabeza sangrando. Había leido alguna vez "a half brick in a sock better than..." ¿swords? ¿arrows? Cuando los usas deja de ser gracioso, después de todo incluso si te acuerdas. Salto, vuelta, sacar zapatos y calcetines, echar en el morral.
Correr.
En silencio se levantó del suelo y se preguntó si era de noche. Había elegido dormir en esta pieza, porque no tenía ventanas, porque esto es en muchas situaciones una ventaja.
Sobandose brazos y piernas en silencio, trató de captar algún sonido que viniera de algún lugar. Si estaban abajo, pronto encontrarían una trampa y el tendría tiempo de escapar. Si estaban en el mismo piso tendría que improvisar.
"Paloma", pensó. Se dio cuenta que tenía los ojos muy abiertos, que hace unos minnutos, quizas, no pestañeaba. "Cuando no hay luz abrimos los ojos para escuchar mejor" pensó. Lo había leido en su adolescencia y se le quedó grabado siempre. O quizas no. Quizas lo había inventado hace poco. Le pasaba a veces que se daba cuenta que pequeñas cosas de su vida, las transformaba en programas de televisión, películas o libros, o radionovelas; y luego se daba cuenta. ¿Debía preocuparse? ¿Que mal hacía? ¿Había algún-
TAK
Un grito de dolor horrible. Corrió a oscuras por el pasillo, siguiendo la derecha, y al doblar por la ezquina recordó sacarse los calcetines y ponerselos en el pantalón. Cruzó a la pared contraria y gateando lentamente avanzó.
Detrás de el, una luz, delante, trampas, una caida de 4 o 5 metros y quizas uno de ellos abajo. Por la ventana ya quebrada se colaba algo de luz artificial.
"Noche"
Al llegar a una de las ventanas, aún gateando, sacó uno de los calcetines y lo llenó con pedazos de cemento que perteneció a las paredes o al techo, o a una de las personas que rompió el vidrio del edificio. Amarró la "pierna" del calcetín y miró hacia afuera. La luz de la linterna estaba ya en la penultima pared, tendría uno o dos minutos para saltar. Pero tenía que esperar. Abajo otro de ellos dobló la ezquina del edificio.
Le dio dos vueltas al calcetin por encima de su cabeza y lo lanzó por la ventana. Tres pisos y dos segundos más abajo un hombre con la cabeza sangrando. Había leido alguna vez "a half brick in a sock better than..." ¿swords? ¿arrows? Cuando los usas deja de ser gracioso, después de todo incluso si te acuerdas. Salto, vuelta, sacar zapatos y calcetines, echar en el morral.
Correr.
samedi 5 avril 2008
To the Park
He had rediscovered that song for the third or seventh time. He could feel the sun heating his scalp under his messy recently washed hair and he noticed that the lyrics where perfect, or at least moderately accurate. He looked south and saw a thick dark clouds, he didn't know if those had already passed or were coming now, it had rained in the morning but he wasn't used to the cloud movement of that city even though he had been living there for a long while.
He got in the bus, went upstairs and tried to understand things. He felt utterly happy, he had never tried to run away from his house or hometown but to be this far felt right. He still wanted to go back but right now to live in this big dirty city and not near the mountains of the West fitted perfectly. This was not the moment for silence and fresh air neither for hot afternoons sitting on the porch and pointless walks by the mysteriously yellow sanded shore of the lake, at his 26 years old he was meant to take a bus to the park if he wanted to be in a moor or near some woods. Something had been creeping in him slowly halfheartedly for years and in that afternoon it stopped without any apparent reason, in that moment he thought that there was never a point in being upset and unhappy, that all those mornings he stood in bed without moving did not make any sense but that thing would find its way through his breath or rather through his pores.
The daylight was particularly yellow when he got off the bus and the clouds where equally confusing for him. He followed the path and he realised that one could get a really nice view of the churchtower of Trinity Church from there. While he walked there he thought to whom he should show his discovery, he should go back in the same path as to study what is the best spot to reveal this finding, he didn't know many people, after a while he abandoned this fancy. He looked for a nice place to sit in the heather, it was not easy for there were many children and dogs running around, he didn't want to disturb their paths, it felt incorrect and he was scared of them both. He sat down and took a chocolate filled croissant from his backpack, he gave it a bite and felt slightly disappointed of the metallic alcoholic taste of the filling and the proceeded to read his physics books.
He felt a little bit stupid when he was struggling with the fact that nothing with mass could move at the speed of light because of the way acceleration work in the Theory of Relativity, it should be easier, it shouldn't be a matter of numeric speculation, he always had problems in believing blindly in something. The light wasn't yellow anymore and he could suddenly feel a minute breeze crawling from his shoes into his left foot and upwards. He felt the necessity of exercising his knuckles more often as to make his fingers warmed up by hiding them in his palms for few seconds. Suddenly a drop in his book was absorbed by the page he was reading making the word elsewhere look awkward. He looked up, after all this were new clouds coming again, or were the same that in the morning? was that possible? Physics should say no, by meteorology was rebellious and the truth is that he did not really know. He packed his things carelessly and left. On the bus home he noticed he had forgotten to look for the best spot to look at the churchtower protruding from the middle of the path of oaks and holly.
dimanche 30 mars 2008
Sombras (parte 2)
- ¿Y como te has sentido? - preguntó Gabriela una vez que se habían sentado en las sillas de la ventana que daba a la calle en la heladería.
-Bien, con mucho más ánimo ya- Dice fran con una sonrisa.
-¿Duermes bien?
-¿Lo dices por las ojeras?
-No, no...
- Ayer me desvelé un poco, pero en general duermo bien...
-¿Muchas pastillas?
-No, no muchas en realidad. Cada vez menos, y nunca para dormir. Me cagan los sueños ¿sabías?
-No, no sabía- Dice Gabriela con alivio.
-Si. Ayer soñé que estaba en un cementerio flotante--¿has visto ese video de gorillaz donde la niña va en una isla que tiene un molino?
-Si, es bueno.
-Era como esa isla, sin molino y con un cementerio. Una reja negra grande...
-Tu idea me recuerda el cementerio de venecia...
-pero yo no la podía abrir. No se por que no podía; de hecho ni siquiera lo intentaba, porque no podía.
-Asi es como funciona todo.
-¿Como?
-Si crees que no puedes, no lo vas a lograr.
-Claro, pero eso no funciona al reves; no hay viceversa para lo que dices.
-¡Por supuesto que si! Si de verdad crees que vas a hacer algo, lo haces. Todos los entrenamientos son una reafirmación para la voluntad de algo que podías hacer desde el principio- Dice Gabriela con una sonrisa que le cubre la mitad de la cara.
fran y Gabriela rien, fran mucho más rato.
-¡fran!-Dice Gabriela con verguenza o preocupación-¡Para fran!
-Perdón...es que hace tiempo que no me reía. Además no podía parar de pensar que si-
fran vuelve a reirse, pero poco esta vez.
-que si alguien de mi familia te escuchara diciendome esas cosas te retarían mucho. "¿Como se le ocurre meterle esas ideas en la cabeza? ¿no se da cuenta que es enfermito?"
-No eres enfermito.-Dice Gabriela seriamente.
-¡Ay, no te pongas tan grave! Además es un poco como piensan en mi familia. Siempre cuidandose de que no vaya a volverme loco de nuevo.
-fran...
-Hey, eso tenemos que aceptarlo todos; estuve loco. Porque si no lo aceptamos, entonces tenía razón, las cosas son mucho más terribles de lo que creemos y yo me pasé un tiempo horrible en el manicomio y drogado por pastillas cuando salí del manicomio solo porque no entendieron mi punto de vista...
-¡fran!
-¿Muy pronto para hablar de esto?
-No es eso-dice Gabriela con cara de frustración- es que...
-No me tienes que dar explicaciones. Es incomodo para todos, creo. Pero tampoco te puedes tomar las cosas tan en serio. Si yo no me rio...-dice fran con voz muy grave- ¡Ah! Acabo de encontrar un punto debil en tu teoría de "creer es poder". Según tu, si yo creía todo eso, entonces eso era verdad. Pero no era.
-Es que ese es el punto, fran. Yo creo que de cierta forma si lo era.
-Bien, con mucho más ánimo ya- Dice fran con una sonrisa.
-¿Duermes bien?
-¿Lo dices por las ojeras?
-No, no...
- Ayer me desvelé un poco, pero en general duermo bien...
-¿Muchas pastillas?
-No, no muchas en realidad. Cada vez menos, y nunca para dormir. Me cagan los sueños ¿sabías?
-No, no sabía- Dice Gabriela con alivio.
-Si. Ayer soñé que estaba en un cementerio flotante--¿has visto ese video de gorillaz donde la niña va en una isla que tiene un molino?
-Si, es bueno.
-Era como esa isla, sin molino y con un cementerio. Una reja negra grande...
-Tu idea me recuerda el cementerio de venecia...
-pero yo no la podía abrir. No se por que no podía; de hecho ni siquiera lo intentaba, porque no podía.
-Asi es como funciona todo.
-¿Como?
-Si crees que no puedes, no lo vas a lograr.
-Claro, pero eso no funciona al reves; no hay viceversa para lo que dices.
-¡Por supuesto que si! Si de verdad crees que vas a hacer algo, lo haces. Todos los entrenamientos son una reafirmación para la voluntad de algo que podías hacer desde el principio- Dice Gabriela con una sonrisa que le cubre la mitad de la cara.
fran y Gabriela rien, fran mucho más rato.
-¡fran!-Dice Gabriela con verguenza o preocupación-¡Para fran!
-Perdón...es que hace tiempo que no me reía. Además no podía parar de pensar que si-
fran vuelve a reirse, pero poco esta vez.
-que si alguien de mi familia te escuchara diciendome esas cosas te retarían mucho. "¿Como se le ocurre meterle esas ideas en la cabeza? ¿no se da cuenta que es enfermito?"
-No eres enfermito.-Dice Gabriela seriamente.
-¡Ay, no te pongas tan grave! Además es un poco como piensan en mi familia. Siempre cuidandose de que no vaya a volverme loco de nuevo.
-fran...
-Hey, eso tenemos que aceptarlo todos; estuve loco. Porque si no lo aceptamos, entonces tenía razón, las cosas son mucho más terribles de lo que creemos y yo me pasé un tiempo horrible en el manicomio y drogado por pastillas cuando salí del manicomio solo porque no entendieron mi punto de vista...
-¡fran!
-¿Muy pronto para hablar de esto?
-No es eso-dice Gabriela con cara de frustración- es que...
-No me tienes que dar explicaciones. Es incomodo para todos, creo. Pero tampoco te puedes tomar las cosas tan en serio. Si yo no me rio...-dice fran con voz muy grave- ¡Ah! Acabo de encontrar un punto debil en tu teoría de "creer es poder". Según tu, si yo creía todo eso, entonces eso era verdad. Pero no era.
-Es que ese es el punto, fran. Yo creo que de cierta forma si lo era.
samedi 29 mars 2008
a vague and rather free account of a simple afternoon (Draft, I don't know where I'm going with this)
He opened the second bottle of wine of the evening, his friend was leaving the next day and that bottle had stayed closed for long enough now. There was a certain air of minute festivity in the air, something between a specially cooked lunch and christmas. It was dark already and he put the rabbit back in his cage, Ian looked at him doing that, certain pets confused him and rabbits were one of them, although it's technicly a hare, he thought.
The conversation went on in the same kind of randomly ramified pattern like suppossedly human evolution did and it occasionally went back to Michael saying how much he enjoyed music, he decided to put a Sublime DVD to explain and show Ian how simple and perfect Sublime was. Ian never really talk much to Michael about the music he liked to listen to, he thougth that this might have drawn a discussion about different types of music which could have only ended in the agreement of both that it was just a matter of taste, he would not have been able to bear that, it was too much of a cliché even for two drunk friends.
- I think one of the reasons I hate football is because I couldn't play, I was too fat
Ian pictured that, a young Michael with blond curly hair, tired, breathing violently, frustrated. He empathised with him, he hadn't been fat but he sucked at football as well, he told him that he also was the last one to be picked and how the team that was forced to pick him didn't give a damn about showing their disconformity.
Michael told him that he was in a grammar school and he was constantly picked on by his classmates because he was fat and he didn't really fit in that school because it was too posh, even the teacher would bully him at time until one day he told one of the teachers to shut the fuck up and too lick his ass, his parents then were stronly suggested to move him into another school.
Things were not that different for Ian, he explained Michael that he was a bit thick in primary school and that his classmates used to call him a retard and passed his chair around to smell it because they said it had a horrible smell. From that moment on, he went on, he had lived only to prove himself he is not a retard, he also felt extremely anxious when he had to deal with people, faces terrifyied him, the possibility of reviving those years seemed likely to happen everytime someone new looked at him.
Ian felt a bit ashamed that he hasn't been through completely yet, not as Michael, he still struggled with the burden of fear of the mockery of children more than ten years before, he thougth that it was either because to destroy the confidence of someone by laughing at his lack of intelligence was more corrosive or because he was stucked, he tried to dismissed the second option.
The next day Michael left Ian in the train station where he would catch the connection to the airport, when he finally arrived to his house late in the night he took out the lunchbox that Michael's girlfriend's mother prepared for him, while eating his ham sandwich he thought of that lady that prepared that for him without really knowing him, he thought of the other gifts he got from Michael's familiy and the beer and wine and food he ate. Having all these in mind, he went to bed, and when he put his head on the pillow he cried, he felt as if something had broken inside him, something made of glass maybe or chalk, he couldn't pinpoint that.
no se que estoy haciend
The conversation went on in the same kind of randomly ramified pattern like suppossedly human evolution did and it occasionally went back to Michael saying how much he enjoyed music, he decided to put a Sublime DVD to explain and show Ian how simple and perfect Sublime was. Ian never really talk much to Michael about the music he liked to listen to, he thougth that this might have drawn a discussion about different types of music which could have only ended in the agreement of both that it was just a matter of taste, he would not have been able to bear that, it was too much of a cliché even for two drunk friends.
- I think one of the reasons I hate football is because I couldn't play, I was too fat
Ian pictured that, a young Michael with blond curly hair, tired, breathing violently, frustrated. He empathised with him, he hadn't been fat but he sucked at football as well, he told him that he also was the last one to be picked and how the team that was forced to pick him didn't give a damn about showing their disconformity.
Michael told him that he was in a grammar school and he was constantly picked on by his classmates because he was fat and he didn't really fit in that school because it was too posh, even the teacher would bully him at time until one day he told one of the teachers to shut the fuck up and too lick his ass, his parents then were stronly suggested to move him into another school.
Things were not that different for Ian, he explained Michael that he was a bit thick in primary school and that his classmates used to call him a retard and passed his chair around to smell it because they said it had a horrible smell. From that moment on, he went on, he had lived only to prove himself he is not a retard, he also felt extremely anxious when he had to deal with people, faces terrifyied him, the possibility of reviving those years seemed likely to happen everytime someone new looked at him.
Ian felt a bit ashamed that he hasn't been through completely yet, not as Michael, he still struggled with the burden of fear of the mockery of children more than ten years before, he thougth that it was either because to destroy the confidence of someone by laughing at his lack of intelligence was more corrosive or because he was stucked, he tried to dismissed the second option.
The next day Michael left Ian in the train station where he would catch the connection to the airport, when he finally arrived to his house late in the night he took out the lunchbox that Michael's girlfriend's mother prepared for him, while eating his ham sandwich he thought of that lady that prepared that for him without really knowing him, he thought of the other gifts he got from Michael's familiy and the beer and wine and food he ate. Having all these in mind, he went to bed, and when he put his head on the pillow he cried, he felt as if something had broken inside him, something made of glass maybe or chalk, he couldn't pinpoint that.
no se que estoy haciend
mardi 11 mars 2008
Sombras(parte 1)
Fran cerró la llave de la ducha. Sabía que el shampoo no tardaría en llegar a sus ojos, pero necesitaba el silencio para escuchar. ¿Había escuchado algo o lo había imaginado? Concentrandose bien pudo escuchar la musica de las casas vecinas, a esta hora del dia programadas por las nanas que cuidaban a los niños. Pero el ruido había venido de su casa, de eso estaba seguro. Cuando ya no pudo soportar el chorrear del shampoo y sin haber escuchado la continuación de algo que pudo haber sido una puerta cerrandose o unos pasos volvió a abrir la llave de agua y se enjuagó.
Intentó recordar mientras se secaba cuando habían empezado esos ruidos que sonaban cuando se sentía más desprotegido; al bañarse o en medio de la noche. Varias veces había seguido escuchando golpes suaves, sonidos de movimiento después de despertarse, pero el terror lo paralizaba en la cama. Después de un rato el ruido cesaba y con el puñal que le había regalado su abuelo recorría la casa sin encontrar nada que le diera una pista.
Se vistió con ropa limpia dentro del baño, cruzó la puerta que daba a su pieza y el movimiento de las cortinas lo desconcertó. Había dejado todas las ventanas cerradas. Pero era imposible que alguien hubiera entrado, las ventanas tenían barrotes para ladrones y rejillas para animales más pequeños. Salió de la pieza al otro espacio de la casa; el living comedor cocina americana. Las ventanas estaban abiertas ahí también.
Los ruidos habían empezado hace poco, pero ¿como estar seguro? mientras tomaba las pastillas su vida era una masa informe, nada importaba realmente. Quizás los ruidos estaban, pero no le importaron nunca. Pero claro, quizas los ruidos nunca empezaron, y eran parte de su paranoia.
Después de todo, antes de las pastillas sus problemas eran mucho más que ruidos. Todavía sentía miedo al recordar esa sombra que se acercaba en las noches, que le tocaba la cara o que lo despertaba ahogandolo con la almohada. ¿Estarían volviendo las alucinaciones? Pensó en una alternativa a las dos vidas que había vivido hasta ahora. Luego pensó otra y desarrolló un plan.
Intentó recordar mientras se secaba cuando habían empezado esos ruidos que sonaban cuando se sentía más desprotegido; al bañarse o en medio de la noche. Varias veces había seguido escuchando golpes suaves, sonidos de movimiento después de despertarse, pero el terror lo paralizaba en la cama. Después de un rato el ruido cesaba y con el puñal que le había regalado su abuelo recorría la casa sin encontrar nada que le diera una pista.
Se vistió con ropa limpia dentro del baño, cruzó la puerta que daba a su pieza y el movimiento de las cortinas lo desconcertó. Había dejado todas las ventanas cerradas. Pero era imposible que alguien hubiera entrado, las ventanas tenían barrotes para ladrones y rejillas para animales más pequeños. Salió de la pieza al otro espacio de la casa; el living comedor cocina americana. Las ventanas estaban abiertas ahí también.
Los ruidos habían empezado hace poco, pero ¿como estar seguro? mientras tomaba las pastillas su vida era una masa informe, nada importaba realmente. Quizás los ruidos estaban, pero no le importaron nunca. Pero claro, quizas los ruidos nunca empezaron, y eran parte de su paranoia.
Después de todo, antes de las pastillas sus problemas eran mucho más que ruidos. Todavía sentía miedo al recordar esa sombra que se acercaba en las noches, que le tocaba la cara o que lo despertaba ahogandolo con la almohada. ¿Estarían volviendo las alucinaciones? Pensó en una alternativa a las dos vidas que había vivido hasta ahora. Luego pensó otra y desarrolló un plan.
samedi 8 mars 2008
The Shopping Bag
Through Talbot Street people seemed to simply appear, women with scarves, short old polish women, youths with ignorant arrogant looks, and then he appeared from under the green rail bridge. Walking fast although he was not in a hurry he could feel minute -maybe invisible to the eye -perspiration drops between the border of his hat and his forehead; he did not wanted to take out his hat, he had not washed his hair in while, he was too self-conscious as to walk without his hat.
His left hand was getting tired of holding the shopping bag with things he would not eat. While he strangled slowly his fingers with the plastic handle of the bag he was thinking rather too serious on what to do with the contents of the bag, the first and easiest option he could think of was to simply put the bag in the closest dustbin. Somehow the idea of doing such a thing started appearing most apalling and the moral revoltion caused by this idea was creeping in accelerating speed throughout his rather hypersensitive sense of guilt.
The best thing to do then was to give it to one of the beggars in the city centre. The city was very crowded, it was a sunny day, and he had to insert himself into one of the people flows in the right sidewalk of O'Connell street, he felt dragged by the multide thinking that he stopped walking either the movement of the rest would take him somewhere or that he would died runover by too many Dubliners.
He got to cross the river and in the bridge he saw the first beggar, he was sitting on the floor looking down between his knees while holding and empty cardboard cup in front of him. He considered the posibility of giving him the bag for too long and he finally got to a decision it was too late and the people ebb had took him too far, he was crossing the street now, he thought that if he wanted to do that he would need to be quicker in both the spotting of the candidate and the selection of it. He saw an old man with an odd hat sitting in a what seemed to be an empty wooden box of apples or maybe fish, he try to stop but the velocity of the people in front and behind him was to high, he had to wait until he got to the street light in the corner to go back, he saw that the old man had an open suitcase with old random clippings and some even older objects, there was a sign written in a piece of cardboard with a black marker, it was something about being proud of being Irish, or was it that he was praying all the time for the happines of everybody in the world? maybe both, but the words written did not suggested that he was begging, there was the possibilty that was not under any circumstances asking for anything, therefore giving him the bag would become an insult, a sign of prejudism, social paternalism and snobbery that would ultimate upset the poor old man that was just praying for the world and feeling proude of his irishness, he did not want to upset that man, that would upset him as well.
The quest continued with some other unsuccessful attempts until he saw a rather young man sitting on the sidewalk with a dog, that man was certainly not irish he thought so that reduced the chance of running into another nationalist, but again he could not stop, he really tried, there was frustration and guilt arousing, how could an invisible -possibly inexistent -urban force be stronger than him. He had had enough, he stopped turned around, bump into one or two people, ignored some mumbling insults, walk streight in the direction of the young beggar and ask him if he would like to have some bread, apples and milk, before hearing an answer he handed the bag, the young man said something he did not understand well, could have been a "thank you" or a "fuck you", he did not care, he could not be bothered, went into the flow and let Dublin guide him.
His left hand was getting tired of holding the shopping bag with things he would not eat. While he strangled slowly his fingers with the plastic handle of the bag he was thinking rather too serious on what to do with the contents of the bag, the first and easiest option he could think of was to simply put the bag in the closest dustbin. Somehow the idea of doing such a thing started appearing most apalling and the moral revoltion caused by this idea was creeping in accelerating speed throughout his rather hypersensitive sense of guilt.
The best thing to do then was to give it to one of the beggars in the city centre. The city was very crowded, it was a sunny day, and he had to insert himself into one of the people flows in the right sidewalk of O'Connell street, he felt dragged by the multide thinking that he stopped walking either the movement of the rest would take him somewhere or that he would died runover by too many Dubliners.
He got to cross the river and in the bridge he saw the first beggar, he was sitting on the floor looking down between his knees while holding and empty cardboard cup in front of him. He considered the posibility of giving him the bag for too long and he finally got to a decision it was too late and the people ebb had took him too far, he was crossing the street now, he thought that if he wanted to do that he would need to be quicker in both the spotting of the candidate and the selection of it. He saw an old man with an odd hat sitting in a what seemed to be an empty wooden box of apples or maybe fish, he try to stop but the velocity of the people in front and behind him was to high, he had to wait until he got to the street light in the corner to go back, he saw that the old man had an open suitcase with old random clippings and some even older objects, there was a sign written in a piece of cardboard with a black marker, it was something about being proud of being Irish, or was it that he was praying all the time for the happines of everybody in the world? maybe both, but the words written did not suggested that he was begging, there was the possibilty that was not under any circumstances asking for anything, therefore giving him the bag would become an insult, a sign of prejudism, social paternalism and snobbery that would ultimate upset the poor old man that was just praying for the world and feeling proude of his irishness, he did not want to upset that man, that would upset him as well.
The quest continued with some other unsuccessful attempts until he saw a rather young man sitting on the sidewalk with a dog, that man was certainly not irish he thought so that reduced the chance of running into another nationalist, but again he could not stop, he really tried, there was frustration and guilt arousing, how could an invisible -possibly inexistent -urban force be stronger than him. He had had enough, he stopped turned around, bump into one or two people, ignored some mumbling insults, walk streight in the direction of the young beggar and ask him if he would like to have some bread, apples and milk, before hearing an answer he handed the bag, the young man said something he did not understand well, could have been a "thank you" or a "fuck you", he did not care, he could not be bothered, went into the flow and let Dublin guide him.
lundi 3 mars 2008
Javier
Javier se puso en el marco de la puerta construida para este momento con las manos y los pies tocando cada esquina. La pareja esteril lo miraba asustada, pero convencida. Ellos lo habían buscado despues de todo. Javier empezó a recitar y sus palabras hicieron que el vientre de la mujer cada se hinchara más hasta que su fuente se rompió en cosa de minutos. Javier cayó y sintió como otras veces la sensación de estar naciendo.
No era el mismo en el sentido de la conciencia. no podría controlar, al menos facilmente, lo que el niño haría, ni este haría lo que Javier haría. Era otro individuo, pero el Espiritu era el mismo.
(extracto)
No era el mismo en el sentido de la conciencia. no podría controlar, al menos facilmente, lo que el niño haría, ni este haría lo que Javier haría. Era otro individuo, pero el Espiritu era el mismo.
(extracto)
samedi 2 février 2008
give chance a chance
Termina la carta lo mejor que puede, sin mucha confianza y con miedo de haberla llenado de clichés. "Después de todo, nos conocemos desde hace tanto tiempo, y somos amigos, y me gustaría conocerte más". Mete la carta en un sobre y mira la hora. Es demasiado temprano todavía y ella está demasiado ansiosa para pensar en algo más.
La tele solo ofrece matinales de verano, la ultima noticia de la farandula, por que es importante usar bloqueador, el tarot para la semana. Apaga y prende la radio, pero también está poblada por locutores tristemente incompetentes o noticias. ¿Es siempre así o es porque ahora está algo desesperada?
Abre el refrigerador y decide preparar el almuerzo aunque sean solo las 8 de la mañana, y pone la alarma para que no se le pase el cartero. Le divierte este pensamiento, pero lo desvía de inmediato para no ponerse nerviosa de nuevo.
Elige lo más complicado que sabe hacer; hace los ravioles, y mientras mezcla la masa en un ejercicio casi zen piensa en lo facil que será una vez haya entregado la carta. Prepara el relleno y rellena. Cuando saltéa las verduras para la salsa de los ravioles, la alarma suena y la hace saltar con un ruido desmesurado en una mañana tan silenciosa. ¿Habrá despertado a su mamá?
Apaga el quemador, con un pensamiento de fondo que dice "ya no quedará perfecto" y sale a esperar con la carta en la mano. El arrepenimiento el miedo encuentran cada vez más espacio en su mente y tres voces le aconsejan sobre diferentes razones. Pero el cartero ya viene doblando la ezquina en su bicicleta, ya no es tiempo para pensarlo.
"Hola," saluda alegremente el cartero "usted es la persona que más manda cartas que yo conozco".
"si, bueno..." antes de decir algo inapropiado le entrega la carta "esta es para ti. Leela cuando estés más lejos" dice con la cara enrojecida, pero aún mirandolo a los ojos. Inmediatamente se da vuelta y rapidamente, aunque sin ser ridicula, entra a su casa.
La tele solo ofrece matinales de verano, la ultima noticia de la farandula, por que es importante usar bloqueador, el tarot para la semana. Apaga y prende la radio, pero también está poblada por locutores tristemente incompetentes o noticias. ¿Es siempre así o es porque ahora está algo desesperada?
Abre el refrigerador y decide preparar el almuerzo aunque sean solo las 8 de la mañana, y pone la alarma para que no se le pase el cartero. Le divierte este pensamiento, pero lo desvía de inmediato para no ponerse nerviosa de nuevo.
Elige lo más complicado que sabe hacer; hace los ravioles, y mientras mezcla la masa en un ejercicio casi zen piensa en lo facil que será una vez haya entregado la carta. Prepara el relleno y rellena. Cuando saltéa las verduras para la salsa de los ravioles, la alarma suena y la hace saltar con un ruido desmesurado en una mañana tan silenciosa. ¿Habrá despertado a su mamá?
Apaga el quemador, con un pensamiento de fondo que dice "ya no quedará perfecto" y sale a esperar con la carta en la mano. El arrepenimiento el miedo encuentran cada vez más espacio en su mente y tres voces le aconsejan sobre diferentes razones. Pero el cartero ya viene doblando la ezquina en su bicicleta, ya no es tiempo para pensarlo.
"Hola," saluda alegremente el cartero "usted es la persona que más manda cartas que yo conozco".
"si, bueno..." antes de decir algo inapropiado le entrega la carta "esta es para ti. Leela cuando estés más lejos" dice con la cara enrojecida, pero aún mirandolo a los ojos. Inmediatamente se da vuelta y rapidamente, aunque sin ser ridicula, entra a su casa.
jeudi 31 janvier 2008
Funeral
I should like to die on May, she thought.
There was some mist and the sky was grey, but they sky is always grey in the coast in May. Sometimes it takes too long to cover that and it seemed that now and then it would be useful to half a humid earth sort of waterfall, much of the pain comes from watching the slow filling of the whole. It was nice when the sea breeze threw one or two yellows leaves on the ceremony.
- Do you know where are we suppossed to meet them? asked Ian
- I think we will have to commute, he's not being buried here -answered Victor.
- We'll never make it -Ian sighed
- No, we won't, I hate when we have to follow Dan's stupid directions, he never knows anything.
He did knew quite a lot of things, the problem was that little did he know about where he was. The sun was making them swet from behind the layer of grey sky while they were heading towards somewhere. They stopped to enter in a small store to buy something to eat.
- He says now we should commute and wait for his call, said Victor
- Sounds vague, but it's better than staying in the city, where he is certainly not being buried.
In the bus they ignored the people around them and sat at the back,
There was some mist and the sky was grey, but they sky is always grey in the coast in May. Sometimes it takes too long to cover that and it seemed that now and then it would be useful to half a humid earth sort of waterfall, much of the pain comes from watching the slow filling of the whole. It was nice when the sea breeze threw one or two yellows leaves on the ceremony.
- Do you know where are we suppossed to meet them? asked Ian
- I think we will have to commute, he's not being buried here -answered Victor.
- We'll never make it -Ian sighed
- No, we won't, I hate when we have to follow Dan's stupid directions, he never knows anything.
He did knew quite a lot of things, the problem was that little did he know about where he was. The sun was making them swet from behind the layer of grey sky while they were heading towards somewhere. They stopped to enter in a small store to buy something to eat.
- He says now we should commute and wait for his call, said Victor
- Sounds vague, but it's better than staying in the city, where he is certainly not being buried.
In the bus they ignored the people around them and sat at the back,
- I hate so much that all the shit, it always happens to her, said Ian
-It's really annoying, answered Victor
-and absurd, ridiculous above all, how come these all happened, I mean I know about people starving, but, I don't know, what am I trying to say in the first place...
Aine did not cried much, she felt her mother was suppossed to do it, if not all at least most of it, she looked at Dan and smiled at him for one second. He smiled back but he knew that she felt the unwilling patronising expression of his face, the guilt and paternalistic sorrow of the one who is not suffering. He looked down to the earth once again and lifted his hands to his lips scratching the dry skin out of them, he did not want to look at her again, to show her the same expression, so he fixed his eyes on the wet brow chunks of earth mesmerised by little pieces of roots and grass in them, he cared so much about her.
Her mother had a big yellow rose firmly clutched between her fingers which Aine knew she would not throw it and she would keep it as an amulet of the loss, of that the, and she would put it next to some many other charms of sorrow that Aine would watch every time she would enter at her mother's bedroom to tell her that dinner was ready. She put her head on her mother's shoulder.
They waited in what seemed to be the town's main bus stop, and waited until Dan called them and said that the service was about to finish, that they should hurry now and Victor replied with some yelling. They asked a man that was passing near if the churchyard was too far, he answered that it was very near indeed, he did not seem very sure, they took the bus. The churchyard was on the top of a not that nearby hill. When they got there they saw Aine, Dan and the rest of the people on the service coming out of the churchyard. They hugged each other, Victor insulted Dan a little bit and Aine said goodbye to her mother; she did not seem to notice Aine much.
- How are you? sounds stupid but
- I am, I'm fine, it's fine now, it's how long you know,
-I know
They went to Dan's apartment to have lunch, this time Aine did not cook, and the other three managed to put some ingredients together.
- So Aine, would you like some fajitas then? said Dan
Ian's face twitched at the little solemn name of what they where about to eat.
-Sure, but without meat
- It's been a year since the last time we were all together, said Ian automatically feeling stupid since we involuntarily attract attention to the reason of why they were all together again.
-Yes, thank you for all this -said Aine
-it's just fajitas, said Victor humbly
Ian's face twitched again
Dan suggested a long walk, they agreed and went down to the beach. Aine borrowed some green plastic flip flops from Dan, she was still wearing her smart black dress and high heel black shoes. On the way to the beach the played kicking some rocks and empty tins annoying some people in the street and on the shore they collected some seashells, looking for the perfect one whatever that meant, thay sat to see the sunset, they knew it was pointless, it was really cloudy. They made small tunnels on the sand and had the intention of building a castle. They forgot the castle idea after some minutes and went to the city centre.
- It's a pity that we are now aheading to the city centre now, said Aine
-Why? asked Ian
- Because there is the train station.
The city ligths were not particularly attractive, they were rather messy, old and a bit dusty. Aine put her shoes on once again in a bus stop and they continued walking until they reached the train station. It was noisy with trains arriving and departing, and polite apologetic announcements.
- That's mine, 20:30 service.
She hugged them all
- You do know we love you, right? -said Victor
-Yes, I do and that makes me happy
- I hope we'll see you soon, or more often at least -said Ian
-I hope I'll see you soon, thank you for the walk and for the fajitas.
dimanche 13 janvier 2008
Date with the Night
Estaba llenisimo y el techo goteaba sudor, el piso completamente mojado y la gente moviendose franticamente al azar, cerca de la puerta que da a la sala principal una mujer medio regordeta se resbala con ambos pies,
I gotta date with the night
sus nalgas caen primero, luego su espalda y un par de milisegundos despues las piernas, en el momento en que sus nalgas habian tocado el suelo sus zapatos ya habian salido disparados en direcciones opuestas, se rie recostada en al piso mojada, me da asco el concepto y me aburro de la musica de aca y me devuelvo a la sala principalGonna catch the kids dry Gonna walk on water
la gente se empuja y el techo sigue goteando en muchas partes, alguien se me acerca -have you seen my shoe?- imposible, sigue caminando cojo y la gente deja botellas sobre los parlantes, tambien vasos medios llenos y cuando caen parecen que esquivan cabezas para llegar al suelo
Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke Choke
veo caer al menos a 7 personas mas, la mayoria en la puerta y otro tanto con botellas en la mano haciendo ahora que el piso no solo este resbaloso sino que tambien crujiente. Todos tienen el pelo mojado de sudor y se les pega en la cara mientras bailan sacudiendo la cabeza
I'll send it to you I'll set it off
Un guardia empieza a tratar de pasa empujando a todos, quiero cruzar toda la sala al parecer y lleva a alguien de la mano bruscamente, una mujer al parecer y hay alguien con ella, ella no puede caminar bien
Choke Choke
Move, move! repite a le gente que no podria importarle menos
Choke Choke
Y ahora estan mas cerca de mi y ella tiene el pelo en la cara pegado y negro
Choke Choke
Y mira hacia donde estoy yo y veo un poco lo que sucede
Choke Choke
No tiene el pelo pegado en cara por sudor, es sangre esparcida desde su nariz hasta la frente, o quizas al reves y quizas un poco de vomito cafe en el menton y en su vestido
mercredi 2 janvier 2008
Draft
¿Debía reirse? ¿Debía haberlo esperado?
Por muchos años tuvo miedo de publicar.
Cada vez que iba a enviar algo se retenía, diciendose que fracasaría, que no era suficiente.
En vez de enviar, anotaba el nombre de la publicación y lo guardaba. Al principio todo estaba en un cajón con llave, pero luego los traspasó a un computador y después los archivaba como mails.
Nunca se detuvo. Hubo momentos en que pudo haber publicado, pero la inercia de los años de inmovilidad podía más.
A los 27 años de archivar, se unió a talleres literarios, discutió sus escritos con amigos, confió en su talento y se propuso vencer su miedo. Publicó articulos de critica y opinión y se volvió conocido y respetado.
Su confianza creció aún más, y arregló la publicación de una gran selección de los articulos de su vida. El libro fue el más vendido del año, pero la reacción de los criticos lo confundía. "Una mordaz critica a los ultimos 30 años de literatura y periodismo en Chile. Imperdible" o "Una recreación retrospectiva que ilustra muy bien las tendencias de las tres o cuatro ultimas decadas." o "Evoca con precisión el sentir de los años más dificiles de la historia de nuestro país".
Nadie parecía creer que de verdad fueron escritos a travez de los 30 años.
Por muchos años tuvo miedo de publicar.
Cada vez que iba a enviar algo se retenía, diciendose que fracasaría, que no era suficiente.
En vez de enviar, anotaba el nombre de la publicación y lo guardaba. Al principio todo estaba en un cajón con llave, pero luego los traspasó a un computador y después los archivaba como mails.
Nunca se detuvo. Hubo momentos en que pudo haber publicado, pero la inercia de los años de inmovilidad podía más.
A los 27 años de archivar, se unió a talleres literarios, discutió sus escritos con amigos, confió en su talento y se propuso vencer su miedo. Publicó articulos de critica y opinión y se volvió conocido y respetado.
Su confianza creció aún más, y arregló la publicación de una gran selección de los articulos de su vida. El libro fue el más vendido del año, pero la reacción de los criticos lo confundía. "Una mordaz critica a los ultimos 30 años de literatura y periodismo en Chile. Imperdible" o "Una recreación retrospectiva que ilustra muy bien las tendencias de las tres o cuatro ultimas decadas." o "Evoca con precisión el sentir de los años más dificiles de la historia de nuestro país".
Nadie parecía creer que de verdad fueron escritos a travez de los 30 años.
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