There are many stories which one might like to tell; some will see the light of day, some will always be kept away in a box of fine cedar; some, like this one, will pop up no later and no sooner than they should, and today is when one should. It is quite fun an experience to know someone who is a sea travel enthusiast: you hear astonishing tales of the seas, faithful passionate descriptions of several kinds of vessels and boats, and his experiences on a ship. A whole different situation it is if one's father happens to be such enthusiast: never ending tales of the seas, boring descriptions of several kinds of vessels and boats, and his ordinary experiences on a ship. This sort of character might very well do whatever necessary to be noticed and marked as such a person, even giving his own kind a nautical term for a name. And not only that, but one in a foreign language since he happened to have served on a Spanish galleon. We all have heard how Admiral Nelson got shot, and what his final words were - "They finally succeeded, I am dead." What we ignore according to what our enthusiast claims as a fact is that the bullet came winward, propelled by the ire of a catholic God who was jealous of the glory the Admiral was to achieve if he survived. So this he claimed every time he was drunk in the local bar. So he named his only son inspired by this story. It could have been worse: he could have named him Trafalgar.

Now, despite the not very enticing beginning of all this, the narration about to take off is one of love. The little red rabbit it is about had a way particular physiological characteristic which set on motion this piece of fiction, and which will give closure to it. But that's not the point right now. We must first point out how and where our rabbit lived: it was a quiet, distant patch of green land in the outskirts of an oak forest, with discrete areas of dandelions and lavenders, neighboured by a couple of creeks abundant with water fowl, and very importantly, devoided of natural predators. So life was calm and at times passive, so animals here grew old (but not always wise), so one had time to sit and contemplate and talk about it. Our rabbit enjoyed going to the nearest creek to see hundreds of duck, goose and swan take off blocking the sun, flapping so noisily he couldn't hear himself laugh. After it, he walked back home to breakfast and chatter with his family, though he did not talk much since he was still exhilarated with beauty. One day, rather than going back, the rabbit decided he would look for food himself and arrange himself a picnic, for he knew his father was in particular foul mood because of a hangover and as usual would start his yadda-yadda about his trips. Thus he began moving opposite whence he came and paid keen nose to what he could eat. And this is when our story actually begins.

As everybody knows, or at least everybody who studies rabbits knows, red rabbits have a cherry for a heart. This, as complicated to explain as it is, is true, so it is at some point mandatory to take a leap of faith and believe that a fleshy, soft fruit is capable of irrigating blood to a red rabbit's body. However, this is not the way particular physiological characteristic we have mentioned inasmuch as the cherry heart is part of every red rabbit. No, what we are talking about is that due to the improbable charade nature sometimes imposes to its creations, our rabbit's cherry stem, which in a common regular body would be the aorta, came from a knot which had given birth to a second stem and cherry. He had no idea of it, yet soon it would come to his knowledge, and would have to fix it, so to speak.

So, the little red rabbit made for the opposite side of the creek where he sat to see birds through a shallow part of it. He splashed and puddled in the water, humming unknown tunes of his, when he ran into a magpie goose almost already on the other side of the creek. The goose was staring at him, and had been since the rabbit approached the edge, but he could not have told. The rabbit felt fear, anxiety because the eyes were deep and dark, stuck in a head that barely moved at all, blankily looking at him. His ears felt backwards, his hind legs were twitchy, and he felt even more nervous because he was oblivious of whether the goose realised it. -You see, little rabbit, said the hoarse-voiced magpie goose, -you haven't much time to live unless... The dramatic pause the goose made took the little rabbit to a point of trembling so evidently that a couple of ducks woke up to the sound in the water. Apparently, the goose expected the rabbit to ask "unless what?", but his upper teeth were busy biting his lower lip, so he was not able. -Unless you take great risk and go and find the other one with the stem coming from the knot from which your stem and cherry heart came... Here the little rabbit gasped and in spite of fear gave the goose a bewildered look. -You do know you have a cherry heart, don´t you? The rabbit nodded. -You do know you have a cherry stem for an aorta, don't you? - asked the goose in a higher-pitched voice. The rabbit nodded once more. -Ok, so, you see, this stem of yours has a, say, missing part at the end of it since it comes from a knot. I'm sorry for not exactly telling you the anatomically precise terms, but I am a sage, not a doctor. Either way, that piece, that tiny piece of stem missing is, say, a leak which will cause your heart to drain, so in a couple of years you might, you will probably become a sad drunken being full of bitterness at the end of a bar. Just kidding! Actually, you might very well die. So, if you want to avoid it, you have got to go find the one with the incomplete cherry heart and stem. The rabbit was still looking at him in bewilderment. -Oh, don't tell me you don´t buy my story. I mean, just this morning your thoughts were about whether you could ride a swan and fly away and start again, right? And for god's sake, you´re a talking RED rabbit, so don't you dare say anything on this matter, said the goose in distress, -Listen, it´s been good talking to you, but I've got to make some other predictions for the day. Yet, and here the goose regained his hoarse voice, -beware of your future and make for it. Then the magpie goose took flight without looking at the little red rabbit.

The rabbit had not realised the couple of ducks he had woken up were laying eyes on him at that moment - he was too busy thinking what the goose meant by "the other one." -Excuse me, sorry for interrumpting your scrumptious recall of events, but I believe I must before you start asking why, who, when, where and why again. To begin with, there is no possible way for you to know why this has occurred since what should worry you is what lies ahead, not behind. Secondly, who this is has little to do with lost relatives or the sort, so erase from your head these thoughts of "could it be a long lost twin brother?" Besides, we are talking cherry hearts, thus it must be about love, innit? And about the when and the where, they must be unknown to you for this to keep you going, right?, said one of the ducks to the rabbit. -Ey, said the other, -I dunno nothing about cherry hearts and that, but I'm sure there is a large group of rabbits living on the other side of the forest, and based on what I heard, that damned goose didn't give you the slightest hint on where to start, so you may wanna start there, savvy? It´s a month walk through the forest. Of course, we fly anywhere, but our friend Zezé, told us he's pretty sure of it cause, well, he's a duck who doesn't fly. He's afraid of it, savvy? The red rabbit nodded while he gasped, or gasped while he nodded, and began walking towards the forest not before waving the ducks goobye. -Chump has got to get himself together if he thinks he can unveil the secrets of a narration..., said the first duck.

The little red rabbit crossed the creek once more, and started hopping towards the forest. He avoided thoughts of what was going on since the duck's explanation seemed clear - as clear as you could call it clear. The forest was well-lit, full of holes and crevices where he could have a good night of safe sleep, rich in plants he could eat, therefore we shall skip this whole month of hop traveling.

So he came out of the forest at the opposite side of where he lived. There was a clear of short, tight grass with a pyramidal pile of pebbles in the centre, adorned with a couple of dandelions. In the distance, there were a few rabbit holes peppering the field, each of them with a just a bit smaller similar pyramid at the entrance. Our rabbit had a hard time trying to make something out of them because he had never seen something like that. Either way, he began walking to the holes, wondering how in heavens one starts a search for an incomplete cherry heart. When he reached the point which was equidistant to every single rabbit hole, he had the odd yet always paranoically natural sensation he was being observed. He turned around and around and around, and all he saw was holes and pyramids of pebbles adorned with dandelions. He decided to get closer to the one with the highest pyramid. The little rabbit heard nothing either, but thought about what one of his uncles had said a while ago. -There's this place called city, and there there's this place called movies, and there there are things called movies, right? Don't ask me why the place and the object are called the same. So I got in, and in there there was this movie called 'Indiana Jones in the temple of dune', right? Bad movie, well, based on my prejudice of just seen three movies, right? Well, my friend Jack Robin, house pet rabbit, see, said there is this thing called 'klistché', and that Indiana Jones too is full of them, like when the natives there come out of thin air and attack him, right? Course you have no idea what I say cause you seen not the movie, but Jack Robin says he seen lots of movies and that always happens, especially because it is expected the 'klistché' happens. Jack Robin, what a posh name he's been... So our little red rabbit approached the pile of pebbles asking himself if a bunch of natives would come out of thin air to attack him. Curiosity grew larger and larger, and before he laid his left paw on the pebble atop, rabbits started to come out hooting loudly, tapping the floor with their hind legs, and moving their front ones from side to side. The little red rabbit had his eyes wide open, unable to utter anything, just babbling monosyllables, knowing not whether to run like hell or stay frozen, which by the way seemed to be what his body had decided to do by itself. The hooting rabbits came closer and closer while the red rabbit grew rigider and rigider. A huge black rabbit hopped in front of him. -Hey, said in a calm tone, -my name is Jackson. We haven´t scared you, have we? All the other rabbits stopped hooting and tapping, and began smiling to our little rabbit. -We never seem to make anyone scream despite the fact they do look frightened. Like you. Perhaps the hooting isn't scary enough. That owl and his hooting gave us the scare of our lives, remember it? Though it might be that owls eat rabbits, so... Whatever! Listen everyone, as of today no more hooting, and please start looking for a spookier sound. Animal sounds, please! So, how do you do?, said Jackson to the little rabbit.

Jackson took the little red rabbit to his hole to offer food and drink. There he heard the story of the magpie goose, and what the red rabbit was looking for. -Damned magpie geese, thought Jackson, -they screw it all up. The little red rabbit told Jackson that this whole time he had been by himself in the forest the fear of dying had begun to catch up with him, especially because he knew little of how long before he went. -Listen, not to discourage you, but red rabbits are real scarce nowadays. I have only seen one in my lifetime, and I am old. Eh, don't look down, I mean, I see why you are upset, but, if it is of any comfort, my daughter, my lovely daughter Victoria happens to be a red rabbit. I mean, what are the odds she has the same affliction? It beats me, really. Now, this is the problem: she's currently staying with her mother elsewhere. Don't ask me why we don't live together anymore, I mean, this is not a sad tale, is it? Well, she should be back in about a year. Eh, I would tell you to go look for her, but we are not sure she is that you are looking for, and in case she happens to be it, if you mention to her she might die if you two don't do something about that problem of yours, which we by the way ignore how to solve, she'll be really scared, you understand. So, little rabbit, this is what we should do: you stay here all this time, I send some rabbits to look around for red rabbits elsewhere near, and we somehow attempt to investigate about the solution to your riddle, as well as trying to find that damned magpie goose so he helps us. What do you think?, asked Jackson with a raised eyebrow. Our rabbit thought he had already been gone from home a while, thought about his mother, his brothers and sisters and how worried they might be. However, he also thought about the fear that little by little crept in him because he did not want to die, at least not with the certainty that he was gonna die of this. So he accepted the offer and stayed with Jackson for a whole year.

The year went by as slowly as it can go for a rabbit. He help with chores both in Jackson's hole and around the place: he helped with the pyramidal piles of pebbles, with the collection of food and dandelions to ornament everything they considered needed ornamenting, with the search of a new scary sound, and with the usually pleasant activity of dancing before the Moon. He had quite a ton of laughs and exciting moments, he made new friends, he learnt many of all those tiny things to do to be happy. Nevertheless, his heart got weaker and weaker by the day, making it harder for him to run, to bite and chew sturdy food, to dance without a rest after two pieces, and to carry more than fifteen pebbles. Jackson took notice of it, hence he searched harder for other red rabbits and for any word on how to fix an incomplete cherry stemmed heart, but found nothing. He became so desperate once that one night he cried till the morning came. The little red rabbit heard him sobbing and tried to inquire why he was doing so, but Jackson only told him he missed his daughter. Yeah, he did miss his daughter, and yeah, he did feel afraid of his daughter sharing the red rabbit's condition. However, that which afflicted him most was seeing this little rabbit shrink little by little, seeing him and not being able to do squat for one he had begun to love that much.

The year was almost gone when the little red rabbit fell completely ill: he never left Jackson's hole, he barely got off bed, while Jackson looked out the window expecting to see his daughter coming to his hole very soon. One day, two gigantic maroon rabbits, bigger than Jackson even, showed up pulling a tiny cart made of sticks, followed by a procession of countless rabbits. They went straight to Jackson's hole, where they were received by its owner since he immediately ran out after noticing them. Every rabbit that came out of his hole knew what these processions usually meant, so they twitched while approaching the cart at Jackson's. The black rabbit got closer to the cart, and heard a soft weak voice, -Daddy, is it you? He bent over to pick her up, so devastated at the sight he could not even say yes. He walked to the closest chamber in the hole, where our red rabbit took rest. -Listen, here she is, my daughter, Victoria. Get up and say hello, said Jackson, but the little red rabbit did not move. -Listen, she is here, and now we know she is the one you are looking for we can do something. Get up and say hello please, said he, but the little red rabbit did not move. Jackson moved closer to the bed and saw our rabbit was still breathing. He placed Victoria next to him, and said, -Open your eyes and please say hello. The little rabbit did so. He first saw a reddish hue in front of him, hue which little by little seemed to be looking back at him because it had now eyes, and which now seemed to say hello since it had a mouth and a voice. And the same seemed to happen to Victoria. They more they looked at each other, the clearer things came. So, our little red rabbit was finally able to say, -Hi, I am another red rabbit.

So, obviously enough, because as Jackson said, -This is not a sad tale, they got well and healthy, and eventually the little red rabbit went home only to tell everyone what had happened and would happen, to then come back to Jackson's hole to look for Victoria because, well, as one of the ducks implied, this is a love story, and that our rabbit wanted most was to be next to the other red rabbit he knew besides him. Of course, she was waiting for him. She had always been, as he had been too.

And this is the still unfinished story of Sotavento, the red rabbit.

I believe epilogues suck, but this is something I have got to make clear: all they needed was to be next to each other for no matter how much a heart can drain, if one of its kind is there, it will fill it up endlessly.

-Aloysius, the magpie goose.
every story must have a dark beginning, and every story must have a seemingly dark end

the happy ending lies ahead the dark one, yet not every character must make it there

not everybody is happy, innit?


Matilo 2

-¿A qué te refieres con que el universo conspira en tu contra?
-No lo sé... No sé siquiera si entiendo el significado de la frase. Pero, en algún lugar, en algún momento, muchas veces, he tenido que mirar hacia arriba para cerciorarme de que nadie me está mirando.
-Podrías multiplicar el significado y ejemplo más nauseabundo de esa palabra por 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 y te quedarías corto comparado con lo que me acongoja. ¿Has creído alguna vez que Dios, el que se te ocurra, te observa?
-Sólo que me escucha, y fue demasiado.
-Bueno, peor.
-Sentí culpa porque se me ha enseñado que comer de más cuando hay gente que no tiene bocado es suficiente para arder no sé dónde.
-El infierno. Eso de lo que te hablo es mucho peor.
-Es que tú no me has querido dar un ejemplo.
-Ok, pero quiero que sepas que espero no me trates distinto de como lo haces ahora porque no aguantaría a otra persona que me llame con sinónimos de idiota o loco.
-Dale pues.
-Era mi cumpleaños numero dieciocho, y contra todo pronóstico, fue un día soleado. Diecisiete veranos había vivido, y ningún cumpleaños que no pasara por agua. Mi madre hizo énfasis que por fin podría ponerle merengues a las piñatas, como siempre había querido, y que los adornos de papel de china resplandecerían en el jardín y no a la luz de los focos. Yo no quería ni piñatas ni papel de china, pero no hay quien pueda contradecir a mi madre, sobre todo después de la muerte de su padre. En fin, que por el jolgorio yo no estaba atento a nada, y de todas formas aunque lo hubiese estado, no habría hecho la gran diferencia.
-Todo conspira...
-Exacto. El tío Lebó llegó con sus perros como siempre, pero traía uno que jamás habíamos visto por el simple hecho de que lo acaba de encontrar buscando restos de comida en su basura. El hombre es muy duro con sus congéneres en general, pero no le pongas un perro de ojos tristes en frente porque le desquebrajas el corazón. El caso es que tal perro, Danger, estaba echado en patio, dormitando con total displicencia mientras todos los demás jugaban con mis sobrinitos. Llegó la hora del asador y la carne al por mayor, y supongo que aquí el condenado perro comenzó a despertar. Mi abuela me había traído un corte de su carnicería de confianza que había ordenado especialmente para mí. Por alguna extraña razón mi familia asocia las celebraciones con carne y merengue, y por eso el entusiasmo desencadenado de mi abuela por que yo comiese un pedazo de animal alimentado de no sé qué y traído de no sé dónde. Tomó cuarenta y cinco minutos la cocción de la carne aquella, y debo admitir que apestaba a gloria y triunfo todo aquello. El tío Bernabé se acercaba a mi mesa con el regalo prometido cuando aquel perrangucho de cuarta salió de la nada y se lo robó. El tío Lebó gritó como energúmeno, sin efecto alguno. Yo corrí detrás de él, le lanzé una piedra, le azuzé para que volviera, y él volteó para mover sus cejas, o lo que podríamos llamar cejas, de arriba a abajo en son de burla y, estoy seguro, sonrió.
-¿Suficientemente raro?
-Cuando regresé a mí cuarto después de la fiesta vi una nota sobre mi cama que decía:


Has de estar fúrico por lo que acabo de hacer, pero te puedo decir que yo estaba destinado a ese trozo de carne. Ignoro por qué, e ignoro si tú lo sabes. Mas habrás de saber que has hecho muy feliz a este remedo de cachorro.


-Creo que alguna vez lo vi de lejos, husmeando en la basura de la casa de alguien, y si era él, podría jurar que levantó las cejas, o lo que podríamos llamar cejas, y sonrió antes de echar a correr.
-De algo estoy seguro: Dios es un perro...


Me sits there with his augur’s rod of
ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea,
unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of
uncouth stars. (Ulysses, by James Joyce)

Todo lo que ha ocurrido deja de trascender por el simple hecho de estar muerto. Hay efecto fehaciente hoy y ahora, pero es hoy y ahora el efecto y no un evento pasado; a lo mucho un resquicio, la huella de un animal extinto. Los granos de arena se me van entre los dedos, y sólo unos pocos quedan a la intemperie de mi mano desnuda en el sol; y esos granos tiran entre el calor de mi palma y el que cae inclemente desde miles de kilómetros; y decir caer es una metáfora tan imprecisa porque, ¿dónde es arriba, y dónde es abajo? Mi arriba podría ser tu arriba, o tu abajo, y tu abajo mi arriba, o mi a un lado a la derecha, o a veces mi nada. Los granos entonces hierven en total confusión porque ignoran quién los ha removido de su calma, qué es aquello que aparenta ser el sol que los hace fulgurar, o siquiera que son granos de arena. Me pregunto si yo también fulguro en la tarde de un día de verano cualquiera mientras el rompeolas me canta una canción de cuna a deshoras. Lo que ha quedado en la palma de mi mano está aquí por el simple hecho de no estar en algún otro lugar, porque no se ha escapado de mi yugo; y no quiere necesariamente decir que yo deseo que no se marche, sino simplemente que no se ha marchado. Lo que yo deseo es nada más que un hato de pasiones ensimismadas y atrapadas en la palma de mi mano, entrelazadas con pequeños trozos de vida y materia que parecen proceder de un sinfín de lados. Lo que yo deseo es una representación burda, pero concisa sin lugar a dudas, del espíritu de mi cuerpo; y ese espíritu podría sólo ser la representación burda de lo que la ciencia me han dicho no puede explicar. Las partículas en mi cuerpo interactúan a velocidades pasmosas, de formas perfectamente inconstantes, desafiando mi entendimiento, el cual parece ser más propicio para sentir que saber; las partículas actúan de formas misteriosas, y yo simplemente caigo en sentir el calor de lo que parece ser el sol. Y mientras todo dentro de mí es un universo a punto de explotar, la gente habla de una flama divina que me hace ser en un universo exterior, otro universo, inimaginablemente grande, donde soy una partícula más. Quisiera alzar la voz y decirles, ¿qué hay de lo que llevo dentro? ¿Qué hay de mí espíritu y mis deseos y mis sensaciones, y qué hay del amor por quien tengo aquí a mi lado mirando las olas romper mientras juego a ser un dios chabacano con los granos de arena en mi mano? ¿Por qué pensar en ser partícula mientras se puede ser no el sol, sino un universo de miles de millones de millones de soles calentando los granos de arena en la mano de alguien más? ¿Qué si no lo soy yo, y sí la mujer a mi lado, y yo soy una partícula en su universo? Tal vez no me escucharían porque están demasiado ocupados mirando el suelo porque eso se entiende como alabar a alguien, sea quien sea o sea lo que sea que alaben; y yo no miro el piso a no ser que haya algo digno de notar, porque prefiero ver lo que aparentan ser las estrellas en el firmamento, calentando no los granos de arena que acaso queden en mi mano, pero sí los sueños que me permito tener. Sueños y deseos son lo que soy, y si hay poco más no lo sé. El porvenir se refleja en lo que sueño y deseo, y se escurre en miles de objetos y estos corren hacia mí, o hacia el vacío, dependiendo de que tan ardientes sean en mi mente. Porque alguna vez leí que no hay nada más que mi mente, y lo demás es una percepción: el mundo exterior es una percepción del mundo exterior, el calor del sol es una percepción del calor del sol, y así ad aeternum; y los deseos y sueños que habitan mi mente son mezcolanza de resquicios de lo muerto y de percepciones de lo allende, todo enclaustrado en un desbarajuste de partículas que no entiendo. Así como no entiendo por qué el calor del sol tiene un efecto mayor sobre los granos de arena en la palma de mi mano que el calor que yo irradio porque, ¿qué no es al final el sol un desbarajuste de partículas también? Sé cuáles son las leyes de la física que nos hacen distintos, pero, la mujer que ahora me mira a los ojos me ha dicho hace un par de semanas que le irradio más luz que el sol mismo; y estoy de acuerdo con ella ya que cuando me mira así, como ahora, el calor que sube por mis mejillas es mucho más intenso que el del mediodía de un día de verano cualquiera.


a short yet deep flaunty message

Perhaps you know it already, perhaps already you don't. Perhaps, perhaps and more perhaps don't matter. Certainty either, one can tell. As well as why a present of pebbles is nothing without the flow of a river, and why it is something itself. I digress and digress and digress and digress and have said nawt about anything in this text so far. Here I go: someone some time from whence lots of things bloom said, tiny specks of life and matter are those which mean most, for upon them one can build unimaginable joy. And, you see, the sifting cascade of specks with which you shower these days, though you may not notice, can be used to build up a beautiful galaxy.

Excerpt from "Ulysses" by James Joyce

"Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless. Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn´t be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts; you couldn´t squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood."


The blog entry you are about to read is an attempt to analyse the general circumstance upon which so and so may occur in every day life. The proposition we are to state rests on circumstances a, b, c, d, etc., which by themselves are propositions which rest on their own series of a's, b's, c's, d's, etc. and so on ad infinitum. Such proposition, which we are to call α, is either true or false in accordance to such sort of value of those upon which it rests. The complexity of this system might make it tough to discern whether this set of propositions makes α true or false inasmuch as it barely relies on the amount of said true and false sentences. So, one must keep an accurate and impartial position to be able to assess the weight of each and one of them to determine if as a whole α is true or false. Now, this system of both development and analysis can be applied to any circumstance which exists in real life. I dare make the clarification since those of the realm of dreams, though not as mysterious and mystical as some people claim them to be, rely on different mental phenomena, thus they can only be analysed through a separate scheme which has to do with the mind only, whereas the one I propose considers both the mind and the matter - yet external input is of relevance in the case of dreams, but such situation will be treated in a forthcoming entry. After being able to resolve if α happens to be true or false, one then can factually begin to dilucidate the consequences of such proposition, task we are to mention may be life-taking as to results can fold out endlessly due to causal laws. Obviously enough, what the analyst preoccupies mostly about is the immediate sort of result, for based on those he can attempt to give follow-up to the cause and effect in motion, ergo be able to deduct that which comes after. Before I move on, I believe I have got to clear up a point: what I have brought up is perfectly fit to to how logic brings itself about in life. On several occasions one has heard some comment regarding the lack of logic in some sort of consequence, especially when we deal with people's actions. Nevertheless, what we often confront is a lack of rationality in decision-making because of weak analysis, not faulty or deficient logic in the process of n1, n2, n3, n4, etc. provoking x. Logic, if we are to define it, is based on simple and complex subordinate and correlated propositions, like α, and their rules of interaction and concordance.


hyperred pop song

Flavour of the month,
Great Escape thru a back door,
The Sun in a collapsed basement,
Pink shades in grey November,
All outside reality,
So stupid I gave myself to you.

Defiance to the numbers,
Earthquake to idle citizens,
Flowers in the woods of rubber,
Stinks of halothane,
All out of reality,
So stupid I gave myself to you.

There's voltage everywhere,
So brutal,
So violent,
I had to lie down the ground,
So brutal,
So reckless,
I had to lie down,
And let myself be taken,
So sinful,
So reckless,
I spin in Satan's grin,
O dear, what have I done?

Flavour of the month,
Masks and irrationality,
A soul I shall forsake,
Despair and faulty inertiae,
No grasp of reality,
So deep I gave myself to you.


Nora et James

Una caminata puede ser suficiente para saber no lo que se quiere, pero lo que se desea. Una mirada sin paragón que los arrastrará lejos con el viento, hacia lo impensable y lo imposible, y de la forma más inesperada ya que nadie se posa frente a los aparadores pensando encontrar algo. El inicio no es nada más que sí mismo, protomateria de un sinfín de texturas y aromas, causa cuántica de la conjugación de los hechos, semilla de un lazo indecible. Ahí, como consecuencia de una calamidad de circunstancias visibles e invisibles, el futuro echa a andar sin que aquellos lo sepan, claro. Y aunque lo supiesen, no les alcanzarían los brazos para medir el alcance de lo acontecido, porque, ¿quién lo sabe a ciencia cierta? Uno puede sentarse a esperar e ilusionarse, mas lo terrible de la causa y el efecto le desfigura a uno el cuadro frente a sí.

Pasan los días y pasan las horas, y ambos se sangrarán, y se mutilarán, y se escucharán y dirán cosas, se mandarán al carajo y se abrazarán apenados, se amarrarán desnudos, se mirarán en punto eterno que es el silencio, y no pensarán en el adiós. Así como la esperanza en la caja de Pandora, el marcharse para no mirar atrás yace en el fondo de la mente de los amantes, escondido tras la negación o la felicidad - que para muchos es lo mismo -, haciendo un nido de ramas de un árbol del maple, e incubando actos maliciosos. Y así pasan las horas y pasan los días, y los mensajes llueven y empapan a sus destinatarios. Hay afecto, seducción, empatía, deseo, cursilería, pornografía. Muy posiblemente las palabras son tímidas y no lo expresan fervorosamente, pero esa carga está ahí, esperando explotar cuando uno de ellos, o ambos, miren al piso y se digan, esto es absurdo porque no puedo más. Entonces chisporrotearán, y fundirán el mundo a su alrededor mientras el tiempo anda lento.

A pesar de choques contra las rocas, nado a contra corriente, falta de oxígeno en los pulmones, y algunas veces una noche fría, el prospecto de un mar tibio sobrepasa mucho, y ver al otro arremolinado en la penumbra hará que el uno quiera acercarse y no hacer nada más. Las borracheras de desolación, y de miedo absurdo de no tener identidad, o de demasiado sol en un día que se esperaba turbio, e incluso las de una mala noche por aquello de abrazar un "je ne sais pas" serán una verja muy corta como para evitar que uno mire el horizonte, donde las nubes toman tonos improbables de azul y rojo, y las aves llaman a casa. No es ser sostén de nada, sino enredar al otro en los brazos para mostrarle que el sonido del mar está también en los suspiros.

Las alegorías son perfectas como escape de lo real porque a veces se le tiene pavor a la simpleza de la realidad, y son imperfectas porque aluden a todos, y como consecuencia a nadie. Yo soy James, y tú eres Nora; yo soy la Nora que se toma todo con levedad a pesar de lo que parezca, y tú eres el James con el alma hecha trizas; mientras que tu Nora ha vivido más que leído, y mi James mira todo como algo nuevo a pesar de poder pintar el universo entero; ese lado James tan tuyo que me lleva a lo próspero de ser tan grande como el océano que rodea al mundo, y esta Nora mía que se ha perdido tantas veces. Todos somos James y Nora, y Nora del brazo de James, y James cogiendo con Nora, y Nora fornicando con James, y uno mirándose a los ojos con el otro bajo las estrellas. Entonces chisporroteamos, y se funde el mundo mientras el tiempo anda lento, observándonos con detenimiento.

Que Nora y James y James y Nora se encuentren es otra cosa.



Inspiration, big fat piano chords, Russian soul, slamming doors, wind caressing leaves, storm murdering leaves, muddy ground, barefoot, feet on the coffee table, brass section, tormented smile, smiley torment, devil, passion, smell of wet soil, curves, lovers about to fuck, I am using you, lights in the distance, pause, strings, desiderata, flapping thousand noises, thoughts of friends, bottles of bitter love, twitch, inflammed hearts, hugs, dreams and reality, honey, I am real, you are too, chirps, razor-sharp notes, beauty before disaster, though there ain't no disaster, you never can tell, yellow flowers, dance, dare, dare, dare, dance with me, tiny specks of water, nostalgia, calm, tick-tock, oh Tamás, sweet, aftertaste and afterglow, come Thursday, hold me, hold me, lost, warn me not, slowly, cadenciously, yours, spinning world, across the room, dance, like there is no one else, we're butterflies, dream, walls of pumice, say nothing, see nothing, run down the stairs, flee, flee, flee, horns, shooting stars, spiral up, interstellar, you are not here, you don't exist, no, sighs, lightspeed, whisper in time, lunacy, so real, so firm, so vast, you're not real, lightspeed, fingers touching keys, fingers touching skin, fingers reaching down, craving, penetrating, disappearing, melting, exploding, silence, one a many bird, chirping, blooming, gliding across the fields, resting on trees, dancing partners, bobbing heads, why, they ask why, say nothing, smile, see us smile, joy, escalading, slythering fireworks, boom, boom, fountains of light, fireworks in the heart, in the night, oh my, waving hands, genius, oh you fucking genius, you speak to me, drums of war, blast of air, I feel it, I see it, I taste it, I listen to it, godly voice, waves, waves against the rocks, glory, devastating nature, crash me down, fall, Ulysses, pure essence, vanish, be one with the Lord, and rise eternally…

And I hear that distant bird calling me home.


Método para embotellar luz del rostro iluminado de alguien

Es muy sencillo. Sólo se necesita tomar a la persona y reflejarla por veintidós segundos en un cuerpo de agua clara mientras se le susurra algo emocionante. Se vierte el agua en botellas que previamente hayan contenido leche fría, en tantas como sea posible, las cuales se envuelven en manta de cielo. Si se colocan y destapan bajo el sol de mediodía exactamente a las doce, el agua se evaporará en un minuto, y dejará las botellas llenas de luz rampante y viviente.


Uno puede levantarse cualquier día de estos y pensar que el universo entero conspira en su contra debido a la infame cantidad de ocurrencias que uno llama "desafortunadas". Que si el café ya se enfrió, que si se olvidó un paquete en casa, que si tres autobuses chocaron el uno contra el otro contra el otro y contra uno de una forma un poco ridícula, etc... Aún así, no hay razón válida para decirlo, no si uno no se llama Matilo Asdrúbal, quien todas las mañanas al rasurarse se decía, "aquí vamos otra vez". Él, a pesar del miedo que proviene de la incertidumbre de su peculiar condición, cruzaba el umbral de su puerta no sin antes tomar una bocanada enorme de aire, como la que se necesita antes de brincar en paracaídas. Ahora, siento la necesidad de aclarar algo: Matilo vivió lo improbable de una y mil formas, sumido en lo extraordinario para el resto de la humanidad, porque sólo puede haber una persona a la vez que sufra la incomprensible ley de Moses, y porque aparentemente nadie que no sea él creerá sus palabras porque, aceptémoslo, es difícil de asimilar que alguien ha estado en un planeta llamado como una pequeña ciudad en el estado de Sinaloa. De cualquier manera, los más intrigante que le sucedió no fue ni ese viaje sideral, ni los dos en tiempo que le ocurrieron en sus veintes, sino un aparentemente insignificante evento a los trece años de edad. Encontrábase él en el jardín municipal cuando se asomó un perrito de las praderas mexicano, el cual emitió su característico ladrido de alarma, para después desaparecer en su hoyo. Esto Matilo no lo notó hasta que dio cuenta de que cinco perritos de la pradera hacían lo mismo: aparecer, mirar alrededor, ladrar, y desaparecer en su hoyo correspondiente. Pensó que la falta de sueño por la fiesta de cumpleaños de su mejor amigo la noche anterior le estaba jodiendo la mente, cuando se dio cuenta de que no eran cinco ya, más bien nueve, después trece, todos formando una cruz perfecta de arriba para abajo, y de derecha a izquierda. Volteó hacia todos lados, mas nadie parecía caer en cuenta de lo que ocurría. Cuando Matilo posó sus ojos una vez más en el parche de tierra frente a su banca, eran ya veinticinco animalillos, apareciéndose a intervalos cada vez más complejos por los cuarenta y nueve agujeros que habían cavado. El hombre se frotó los ojos, lleno de desasosiego, apretando los dientes. Abrió los ojos ante la ausencia de ladridos - se dijo a sí mismo, ¿han parado? Y de verdad lo habían hecho, aunque no por la razón que él esperaba. Los perritos le miraban fijamente. Estuvo a punto de lanzarles su sombrilla, de gruñirles como si fuera su pastor alemán, de salir trotando a la mayor velocidad que sus piernas le permitieran, pero nada de esto ocurrió ya que las criaturas comenzaron a menearse de un lado a otro, moviendo la cabeza de derecha a izquierda y de izquierda a derecha, a la par que tarareaban algo que le parecía familiar. Esta hipnotizado por el bamboleo y el canto, sonriendo progresivamente más ante la feliz ocurrencia, hasta que descubrió la pieza que escuchaba. No pudo contener el llanto ante la imagen de su abuelo escuchando esa canción constantemente, así que ocultó su rostro en sus brazos y manos, y sollozó hasta la última nota. Los perritos de las praderas no estaban ahí cuando levanto la mirada al final de la pieza. Tomó su periódico y se marchó a casa. Evitó cualquier pensamiento acerca de lo sucedido aferrándose a las noticias del día. Bajó del autobús, sacó las llaves, y contó los pasos desde la acera hasta la puerta en voz alta, masticando los números como si fuese la última vez que los escucharía. Pegada al picaporte de la puerta del apartamento había una nota con lo siguiente:

Si sólo me recuerdas en el llanto, no te buscaré otra vez. Yo también te extraño.

Basta decir que jamás volvió a ese jardín, ni escuchó Love and Kisses de Ella Fitzgerald a pesar de tener en el corazón algo que le aconsejaba lo contrario.