jueves, 31 de marzo de 2005

Whitman and Lu

The other day, Lu came up with a sudden piece of text which I will, without her permission, translate and transcript here:

"Green is what gives you hope, what makes you breath and feel the little fairies that grass carries away, caressing your cheeks while its color, its aroma, its passion, flow in your veins. Green is your blood now, green like the river of your tears, green is your life because a sigh of reality has been stuck in it."

Lu and her words made me think of Walt Whitman and his Leaves of Grass. I am going to read it.

(after ten minutes: Ok, I read Walt, and you know what, I'm too tired to take the effort to understand him. I am going to bed.)

Love and friendship

Where does friendship end, and where does love begin? The opposite is easy to tell: we know when love ends, and when friendship begins. Or do we?

Come on, leave a comment. Are you reading, kel? Long time I don't see any comment from you!

miércoles, 30 de marzo de 2005


Creo que me di cuenta esta tarde, después de estar tumbado bajo el sol. He mentido mucho, últimamente, en este blog. He mentido tanto que he llegado a creerme. Ahora, ando perdido otra vez. Pero sé que, por lo menos, ya no ando perdido en el camino equivocado.

Llegó la hora de tomar las riendas del caballo otra vez. Llegó la hora de decirte adiós, y buscar al ángel verdadero. El ángel que nos hace sentir felices en la senda equivocada. El ángel que nos hace olvidar que existen las sendas. Tú me entiendes, torj, ¿verdad?


The wasted purple of a waste rose is the colour I see when I look at the roses I once gave you. Remember? You couldn't bring them back home, so I dried them and kept them in my room. Now, if I touch the roses the petals will break apart. Like my soul, when I touch you.

El púrpura gastado de una rosa gastada es el color que veo cuando miro a las rosas que una vez te di. Recuerdas? No podías llevártelas a casa, así que las sequé y se quedaron en mi habitación. Ahora, si toco la rosa los pétalos se romperan en pedazos. Como mi alma, cuando te toco.

martes, 29 de marzo de 2005


"Beauty is a form of genius - is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of that silver shell we call the moon."

I completely agree with this sentence by Oscar Wilde (who else could write something like that?)

Beauty is the only reason of my life. Beauty, and maybe love, if love is not a form of beauty. I am talking about the beauty you can feel, not the beauty you can just see: I am talking, for example, about the beauty of your eyes when you look at me and I see a million of colours, of hopes and lost opportunities. When I see the blue of your soul breaking down in little pieces, and the green of your happiness inviting me to hug you to the deepest essence of your body. The black of your cry and the brown of your sadness when I say goodbye at the airport. The grey of a stormy tuesday in spring, the wasted purple of a wasted rose.

That silver shell we call the moon.

lunes, 28 de marzo de 2005


All my troubles seemed so far away... Ok. Yesterday I was about to write a post to finish this blog. I am serious. It was one of the worst days I remember having had. At 11pm, I was lying in bed, and the thought came to my mind of writing a goodbye post, the last farewell. Luckily or not, I was too tired, and I could only turn off my computer and continue with my sleep.

Today, I woke up at 7:40am, fresh like a rose. I bought some croissants downstairs, and had a green tea with roses. I decided to head off to the beach. I drove my car down to the sea line, listening to neapolitan songs on the radio. I called torjman, I laid on the sand. The sun was high, my soul was high. The happy couple called and said they were busy (on the day of your anniversary, may I humbly wish you the best of the futures together)

Torjman arrived kind of angry and hungry: something had to be done: a paella by the sea healed the scars of his bad temper. And after... well, we called landiman and he invited us for a tea, but first, he said, we had to let him sleep. So we had a beach before us, and some time to spend: we went to the beach. As we were walking on the sand, looking for a place to seat, I glimpsed at a delicious girl sitting by the sea, reading a book by Hemingway that could be The Old Man and the Sea. I couldn't tell the title completely.

I grabbed torjman's arm, and sat him about 15 meters from the mermaid, a bit above her. The mermaid looked back. Once and again and again and again... What comes after is just the story of a couple of loosers. Or winners, who knows.

(-e, you see that finally I didn't leave Barcelona... it was all a very confusing weekend, lots of ups and downs... lots of improvisation and change of plans... lots of uncertainty... lots of anger... my worst depression in years... at least, I think I managed to conceal my troubles from those I love... well, almost all of them)

sábado, 26 de marzo de 2005

Those lazy spaniards from the south

I had a terrible day. A day I didn't want to speak to anybody, I didn't want to see anybody. At last, I turned on the computer and got an email from ozarfreo. He asks me to publish on my blog a short text he wrote:

"As a visitor of the Fruitman's home (which for the
readers of this blog might be something like "the
making of" the Fruitman Chronicles), I want to share
some meaningless anecdotes which may or may not
entertain you. Send complaints to

Everybody in Spain who is older than two knows about
the traditional opposition between Spanish and Catalan
people. For example, Spanish people tend to think that
catalans refuse to speak Spanish even when they know
you won't understand, and catalans may believe the
topic that southern Spanish are lazy. It is not a
coincidence that the two main soccer teams are Real
Madrid and Barcelona.

So, while going up Montjuic, on the escalator, I see
a loudspeaker on one of the sides.
"And what are the loudspeakers for?" - I ask.
"Oh, sometimes they say something. For example, they
usually have a voice saying "speak caaatalan! speak
caaatalan!"" - answers the Fruitman.

For a moment I believed it.

But wait! Later, I tell this to a lazy southern
Spanish who lives in Barcelona. He answers:
"But they have something like this! There is an
advertisement that says "¡parla català! ¡parla sense
vergonya" [speak catalan! speak without

So, it was not only joke? I tell back to the Fruitman:

"Jajajajaja!. Yes, it's true there is an ad like this,
but it is aimed at foreign catalan speakers to make
them not be afraid of speaking catalan just because
they don't do it well!"

What I can say of people from Barcelona: they have a
wonderful city by the sea for you to go and visit, and
the Fruitman may show you some places you would
otherwise never venture in, though he may have some
trouble finding them. But I'm not the most indicated
person to point that out."

The beggining of a blog

I had nothing to do, so I started reading jojo from the beggining. I found this:

I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees
I went to the crossroads, fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above, have mercy now, save poor Bob if you please

Standin' at the crossroads, tried to flag a ride
Whee-hee, I tried to flag a ride
Didn't nobody seem to know me, everybody pass me by

Standin' at the crossroads, risin' sun goin' down
Standin' at the crossroads baby, the risin' sun goin' down
I believe to my soul now, po' Bob is sinkin' down

You can run, you can run, tell my friend Willie Brown
You can run, you can run, tell my friend Willie Brown
That I got the crossroad blues this mornin', Lord, baby I'm sinkin' down

I went to the crossroad, mama, I looked east and west
I went to the crossroad, babe, I looked east and west
Lord, I didn't have no sweet woman, ooh well, babe, in my distress

(Crossroads, by Robert Johnson)

Up and down

Lately, I go up and down. There's no middle term. Meanwhile, I grow older, and the world doesn't seem to care, and a child struggles for a piece of bread and (a glass of) water. And I don't seem to care, and you read.

viernes, 25 de marzo de 2005

De nuevo sólo

De nuevo, regreso a casa sólo. De nuevo, estoy escuchando a Manu Chao, de nuevo son casi las cuatro de la madrugada, de nuevo escribo junto a una cerveza y de nuevo pienso en ti. De nuevo, pienso cuánto va a durar este juego.

Otro trago de cerveza. Tus ojos. Esta noche he ido al cine con torjman, esta vez ha sido Entre Copas (Sideways). Gran película. Una película que te hace pensar en unos personajes más allá del celuloide. Una película que te ayuda a pensar la vida, en definitiva. Cine, cine puro.

Y otra vez, sólo voy con mi pena, sólo voy con mi pena. Otra vez, de nuevo, Manu Chao. Otra vez tus ojos. Dime: ¿cuál es el juego que estamos inventando? Nada, no inventamos nada. El infierno que me quema, el cielo que abandono, no son nada. Tan sólo deseo. Tan sólo deseo de tenerte, ahora mismo, en este preciso instante, junto a mí. Te veo en la cama. Me tumbo a tu lado y juego con tu pelo, y acaricio tu piel, y somos dos y somos uno.

No me importa que sea un tópico, no me importa que se haya dicho mil y un millón de veces. Ahora, en este preciso instante, lo daría todo por tenerte una noche. Por despertarme a tu lado. Por ser el primero en ver abrirse tus ojos, con la luz del día. El primero en ver tus ojos abrirse. El primero en sentir tu primer abrazo de un día cualquiera. El primero en besarte. El primero en hacerte el amor, un día cualquiera.

No sé qué digo. Estoy borracho, está claro. Borracho de soledad. Harto de regresar sólo a casa. Harto de poder tan sólo imaginarte. De que nunca estés aquí cuando te necesito y cuando no te necesito. Harto de que tus ojos sean sólo unos ojos deseados, lejanos, unos ojos que no me miran a mí.

¿Te quiero? No lo sé. Pero, ¿sabes? No quiero que el amor abstracto, el deseo razonado, se intermponga ahora entre tus labios y mis labios. Ahora quiero acariciarte sin más, ahora quiero quererte tan sólo. Recorrer tu cara con mis dedos, cerrar tus pupilas, besar tus mejillas, sentir tu sonrisa, sentir el sonrojarse de tu piel a dos centímetros de mi piel.

Ahora quiero sólo tu cuerpo y tu alma junto a mi cuerpo y mi alma y mi cama, ajenos a los tópicos y las leyes de la vida. Ahora sólo quiero el tópico de una noche a tu lado, y por lo tanto sólo me importa que yo estoy sólo y tu no estás conmigo. Nada más, así de sencillo, así de imposible.

Ahora quiero el amor del borracho que no sabe qué escribe. Tus ojos, junto a tu cuerpo.

jueves, 24 de marzo de 2005

Of love and inspiration

I've been trying to start a short story for the whole evening. From 5pm I'm thinking and thinking, and nothing, absolutely nothing comes out.

I'm too confused with love, that bitchy angel. Becquer was right when he said "cuando siento no escribo" (when I feel, I do not write)

So either you feel or you write. There's no way out. I shall forget you if I want that short story.

But you can also listen to Glen Gould playing Hadyn's piano sonata in E-flat, and think that life is worth living. Just for that, after your kiss, after your eyes.

Going to bed

I am going to bed. Just that. I had a bizarre evening with some friends from school, then I had an idea for a short story that I will submit to a literary contest**, I called torjman and we had dinner and played pool (I won)

**Luci, I am gonna get the 30,000 euros and I'll leave for Toscana, you'll see.

Once in Toscana, I'll live the life I've always wanted to live for a period of my life. I'll wake up in the morning with nothing to do. Absolutely nothing. I'll smell the air. I'll pick up some fresh fruits from my garden, and treat myself for an endless breakfast in bed, the windows wide open, just like in the hotel in Rome... remember, love? Of course you do. Rome was our city for three days, and you got mad when I split the yogourt on your naked body, and we never made it to the sixtine chapel cause we were too lazy and too satisfied with the art of our wonderful sex.

Then I'll walk, or drive to the nearest village to buy some food. I'll cook pasta, just like Laura used to cook pasta in London: really slow, you know, the ragout needs its time, and the fresh basil demands patience and contemplation.

And the rest, well, the rest I leave it to your own imagination. I told you, I am going to bed.

martes, 22 de marzo de 2005

Mi amor por ti es una aspirina que se disuelve en el agua podrida de mi alma. Ya sólo puedo causarte dolor, el mismo dolor que me llevaba, en la alféizar de la ventana de tantas noches en Berkeley, a preguntarme si esa noche sería la noche en que saltaría al vacío de tus ojos negros.

Supongo qué te preguntas por qué salté, igual que yo me lo pregunto desde el instante mismo de la caída. La respuesta es sencilla: necesitaba sentir tu herida. Ahora la veo sangrar, aunque tú sólo lo intuyas. Veo sangrar tu voz cuando me preguntas si volveremos a vernos, cuando me preguntas si todavía te quiero, y casi lloras aunque quieras disimularlo.

Ya sólo me queda causarte el dolor definitivo, el que nos aparte para siempre, el que
recuerdes siempre, el tacto putrefacto de mis besos y el papel de vidrio de mis caricias. Tendré que calcular bien mis acciones, para que no llegues a recordarme con ninguna dulzura, para que sólo sientas odio y repugnancia.

No quiero ser el que te hizo sentir feliz por unos días, por unos meses, por unos años. No quiero que me recuerdes como el que por primera vez entró en tu cuerpo con el amor de la ignorancia, el único amor verdadero. El amor que se sentía el hombre más feliz del mundo cuando exploraba cada palmo de tu piel como si fuera un desierto. El que apagaba su sed y sus palabras en tu boca, y se dormía a tu lado con el ritmo de tu aliento.

He hecho contigo lo mismo que con mi vida. He construído otra casa imposible al borde del abismo para derruírla y lamentarme. Porque tan sólo sé lamentarme, y ahora entiendo, por fin, que es lo único para lo que tengo talento. Así pues, permíteme sin saberlo la última licencia de mi talento, permíteme poner fin a mi obra macabra.

Voy a perderme en los cajeros automáticos de la asquerosa vida que malgasto, y otra vez te diré que te quiero, y que te necesito a mi lado, para siempre. Y creerás lo que te miento, y cuando estés cerca, esperándome en nuestra cama, arreglada y limpia, una noche cualquiera, no volverás a verme nunca más.

lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005

One step

I stand in front of the sea. It's a stormy monday. The waves are roaring, the wind is roaring. In between the roars, I can see your face. It's daylight but it's dark, grey, the colour of storm. My soul is quiet but afraid.

It's just a few meters, and I'll step into the sea. The water is cold, very cold. I don't understand what I am doing here. I understand but don't understand at the same time. It is cold and it is roaring, but it's also warm and welcoming. It's both a present and a knife.

And in the midst of the confussion, I stand. I am insignificant, the situation is insignificant. I should cry, I should hate or love myself. But no. No feelings emerge from the situation. It's plain nothing. I stand, knowing nothing. And I cannot be sad, and I cannot be proud. Nothing, just stand, before the waves, nothing in the colour of the storm. Nothing. Just me, and time flowing by.

Out of control

Again, I am in the midst of an out of control period. Many, many things going on, things I won't be able to enumerate, but lots of them. Love, friendship, sudden encounters, work, arguments, hatred, lost and found opportunities, laughs, tears,... many, many, many things.

And yet, unable to write. Collapsed. Happy or sad, don't know. Next weekend by the sea should help me tide up my brain and stop to think one thing after the other. Cause and effect, you know. I just hope it's not too late. I just hope I will find out that March was not that bad, and that it's just the spring that has my body cells up and dancing all day long.

Too many

Too many, far too many things going on in my life to write about them. It's 1:18, so you should be happy I am writing, considering I'll wake up in 6 hours... my God (whoever it is)

This weekend it was José. We just said goodbye an hour ago, and I was really sad. I hugged him and got into the car knowing that it will be around a year or more since we ever meet again. Yellow submarine was playing on my tape. It's funny how songs suddenly play, and it's the right song, the song that had to be playing at that precise moment. Like when I listen to Chopin and think that I shouldn't love you.

After Yellow Submarine came Alberta a la Eric Clapton. That really killed me. The street was dark, I was afraid I got lost, I had just said bye to José and three or four memories** were dancing around my brain. I felt like stopping the car and crying, really. Actually, no, I felt like driving and crying at the same time.

But the tears were not meant to go out my eyes tonight. Instead, I kept on driving, and surprisingly I realised I was not lost. I was driving home, and real fast.

Ok, I don't know what to write.

lunes, 14 de marzo de 2005

Quiet city

Tonight, Barcelona was a quiet animal, a place to walk with your arm around a young body. Because I didn't have my young body to walk with, I wandered around with my friends, looking with innocent curiosity and strange happiness at the buildings all along Las Ramblas.

It was like a song by Paolo Conte. It was Come Di. I discovered Paolo Conte last friday, when I watched François Ozon's Cinque fois deux (5 times 2, aka 5x2) with -j. I know I have discovered a bunch of songs for the soundtrack of my life for the next days.

Why deny it. I wanted to hold you in my arms, but you know you're far. However, I unconciously refused to be melancholic. Because I wasn't. I am satisfied tonight, I was for the whole day. A very simple day, but a day I had not enjoyed for some weeks.

A simple day that I end writing with a beer by my side. I wanted you around and you were sleeping with your moon, and yet, I know I will have you here soon. Soon, we will sleep under the same moon.

Pronto dormiremos bajo la misma luna, amor. Paolo Conte acariciará tu cuerpo, y yo besaré tus ojos tan despacio que tendrás tiempo de dormirte bajo mis labios.


-j suggested the following link, a wise reflection about cinema. For those of you enlgilsh readers, I translate:

"2001: A space odyssey"

"Actually, I do not know why we say we like "2001", cause we always take a nap when we watch it"
"Well, it's a great movie!"

"Sometimes, cinema is like living in the country side: so boring and yet full of beauty"
"I once had a girlfriend who was like that too"

domingo, 13 de marzo de 2005

The book

I was just telling jOjO that I finally found an idea for a book. Yes. I am going to write a book like Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino. I liked the book, so I am going to write it. Ok, it sounds pedantic, but it is not.

Just think: I liked the book very much and thought "fuck, I want to write something like that". So, I am not trying to copy Calvino. No. I take his book as a genre, a genre consisting of writing little stories about invented cities. That's all, just like a novel is about writing a story usually involving some sort of assassination.

I take Invisible Cities as my genre, a writing platform. Let's see.

sábado, 12 de marzo de 2005


During the working week, I have the desire and energy to write and stay awake. Now, it's friday, I have a whole saturday morning to sleep, I can write without any worries. And, I'm so tired.

jueves, 10 de marzo de 2005

Love and hate

One of the things I love and hate the most is smoking in my room. Love, at night, when I smoke. Hate, the following morning, when I wake up with a dry throat and the room stinks of dead cigarettes. Fuck, I'm listening to a blues in japanese right now. You can't imagine. Don't know how the hell it ended up inside my iTunes.

Anyway, let's light a cigarette, let's accumulate butts in the ashtray. What an elegant word, ashtray! Wonderful, delicious. Ok, focus. Love and hate. Ying and yang. Do I love you if I never hated you? Does true love exist without hate, without the sking of the morning butts in the ashtray? I guess I can't answer, I never had a smoking girlfriend, though I once loved a girl who smoked.

A lot. I was 14 and she was 16, and I would buy cigarettes to appear more manish to her. You know, the typical teenager story. Her name was Tais: she was a bad girl, I was a good boy. Such a good boy I was at the time! Strangely, her wonderful body was curious about mine, a pile of bones. I guess it was my lips, they've always been meaty and comfy, or maybe it was my greyish eyes, so deep and mature since I was born.

I'm listening to Emigrante by Orishas, thanks to jOjO's recommendation. After a month, Tais got tired of me. I remember the first days of flirting. We were at class and she would turn to glimpse at me and smile. I was too young, what could I answer to that smile? A nod, my head turning to the other side, like a priest that avoids temptation.

Months passed by, and she dissapeared. Some years later, I walked across her, and she turned around again, and smiled. I bought her a drink, and we talked about the good old times. Four hours later we were making love at her bed. Sometimes, I still feel the skin of her breasts in my hands, her body sitting on me, moving with the music of youth. Now it's Compay Segundo, and the rythm of Tais' hips. Qué caderas, mi amor...

The paradox of love and hate is just another lie, like Tais. In the end, we are allmade of sex, including priests, and for sex we live. And probably a little bit of music too, Compay Segundo if possible. Double whisky, please.

Some days

Some days, I really need a woman. Man, it's hard (i mean life ;)

And so I end this post, uncovering the most sincere, and instinctive, part of me right now. Sorry, no poetry in sexual insatisfaction.

Una historia vulgar

Qué extraño es de repente todo esto
cuando te pasa a ti: que se arruine la carne,
que el entusiasmo falle, esos dos baluartes
que jamás se rindieron, ni siquiera
cuando todo tembló en algún momento.
La realidad te alcanza, y el mundo te parece
un chicle masticado que molesta
retener en la boca sin sabor. Vas llegando
donde jamás pensaste que llegaras,
porque no piensa el joven seriamente
—y ése ha sido el regalo más grande de la vida—
que su destino sea el deterioro.
Es vulgar esta historia como aquellas
que leías distante en los versos ajenos:
otro hombre comprende que ha gastado
para siempre la parte más hermosa
y también la más breve de su tiempo.
Es vulgar esta historia,
y al mundo no le importa.
Lo que tiene de nuevo es que por fin
ese hombre eres tú.
[by Vicente Gallego]

miércoles, 9 de marzo de 2005

El Mexicano canta

Hace ya unos meses que decidí cambiar mi ruta hacia el trabajo. Al principio, fue por pura comodidad: prefería realizar un trayecto en metro más largo, pero que me permitía subirme en el metro en la parada de debajo de mi casa. Sin duda, el frío helado de este invierno tuvo mucho que ver.

Sin embargo, poco a poco, he ido descubriendo el verdadero motivo del cambio. El trayecto que ahora sigo me obliga a hacer transbordo en Plaça Catalunya, y en el transbordo, cada día, inexorablemente, a las 8:15 de la mañana, paso por delante de un señor Mexicano que canta rancheras y tangos por igual: la guitarra colgada del hombro y la voz que en su momento fue portentosa, pero que ahora se apaga también inexorable.

Cada mañana, oigo alguna de sus canciones durante diez o quince segundos. Él quieto, en su escenario ficticio bajo tierra (recientemente ha adquirido un amplificador y un micrófono con peana) y yo rápido, acelerando el paso a cada paso.

Nunca me he detenido frente a él, pero a base de verlo fugaz pero repetidamente, he podido distinguir ciertos rasgos en su rostro: una piel sucia, arrugas de viejo de cincuenta años, pañuelo al cuello y cabello de pobre. Y la postura elegante del perdedor. Porque el Mexicano que canta rancheras en el metro a las 8:15 de la mañana es un perdedor nato.

Nunca, decía, me he detenido frente a él, aunque en varias ocasiones he sentido el impulso de, como mínimo, oír entera alguna de sus canciones (del mismo modo que tantas veces he sentido el impulso de salir afuera a Las Ramblas, y pasear entre las rosas frescas de la mañana y sentir la felicidad suprema del ocio en el amanecer de día laborable)

Me pregunto. también, si él se habrá fijado en mí. Evidentemente, no lo ha hecho, del mismo modo que para nada sospecha que ahora mismo esté dedicándole unas líneas que nunca va a leer. Estoy seguro de que, si decidiéramos ir a desayunar juntos, descubriría una vida igualmente insospechada... porque me muero de ganas de saber qué caminos le han llevado a cantar rancheras en el transbordo de Plaça Catalunya, cada día, puntual, a las 8:15 de la mañana.

Pero los únicos que le hablan son los vendedores de paraguas, pulseras y discos piratas, que lo miran con ternura (hay uno que lo mira como un hermano bueno) y a veces comparten con él un cafe y unas palabras. Es lógico: son compañeros de oficina.

Le comenté a Landiman el otro día que me gustaría realizar un documental sobre la vida en el transbordo de Plaça Catalunya, y en especial sobre algunos de sus personajes. Charlar con ellos, y luego editar un vídeo que sea a la vez un anecdotario de sus vidas y una vida entera a la vez, la vida debajo de la urbe, en un transbordo de metro.

Sé que no voy a hacer nada, no me atreveré no sé si por respeto, por pereza o por miedo o por desgana. Lo que sí sé es que seguiré levantádome cada mñana para ir a trabajar, y que en mi camino escucharé durante diez o quince segundos la voz del Mexicano. Hasta que un día, él o yo, cambiemos de escenario.

Once again

Once again, we lost when we thought we had won. It was soccer, 4-2 against Chelsea.

Life is many times like this as well: just when we thought it was all good and straight forward, there comes a goal we didn't expect.

But many times, it is also the other way around: a kiss when we thought the night was over and lonely, a kiss that rescues us and reminds us that life is worth living.

It's late once again. It's late and I'm alone and I read and I smoked and I drank. And I'll go to bed, and it won't be easy to fall asleep. Thinking of the game we lost, and the young skin I didn't kiss.

martes, 8 de marzo de 2005

Eyes and colors

Due to an unfortunate confussion with the color of some friday night eyes, I've been thinking about colors and eyes in general, with no specific purpose other than sheer intellectual enjoyment. Well, the truth is, I wanted to seriously think about it now, but I have (again) a sore-throat and I can't smoke, so I can't think. Damn it, I can't hardly write either (but hey, I DO NOT want to quit smoking)

Eyes can be brown, black, even yellowish, blue (like yours ;), green, grey, white... they can even be blind. In no part of our body do we have such a concentrated contrast of colors. And curiously, no part of our body has been more linked to feelings than the eyes (the heart has, but then hearts are not visible, and when you see one... well, it's disgusting - sorry you romantic readers, but it's the truth: a plain heart is disgusting)

So here you have it: the eyes, the color of our feelings. Green for hope, blue for blues. One day, I will devote my hours to the study of the eyes according to the poets of our history. How did we appreciate eyes three hundred years ago? How do we appreciate them now? Think of that, you dear readers. And next time you see the eyes of your lover, enjoy slowly the miracle of its color... all through the night, until the morning comes.

lunes, 7 de marzo de 2005


My dearest friend jOjO wrote a very interesting, and very erotic piece about love (in Spanish)

jOjO writes about a guy he met a couple of nights ago, and how they enjoyed so much being together for a good bunch of hours, much further from the light of the morning that usually destroys one night-ed loves.

Then, jOjO asks the following rethorical question: do I love that person, or do I love being with that person? I guess it's a fundamental question that we should learn to answer more often. Do I love you, or do I love being with you? Is it the same thing, or is it something deeper?

New week

Yes, my dear readers, a new week is coming by. Will it be any different from the previous weeks? Will it bring a strange surprise, one of those surprises that makes you think "man, it's worth living"? I don't know.

The week that ends now, brought me Xiaomei, a white tree, and a set of pictures that Torjman has to develop. It was also a week of anger and lost lust, and a sense of ingravity through the hours.

Somehow, I feel something great is coming. Don't really know what, but it's coming. An idea is playing around with my brain, hidding its nature from my comprehension, but I can feel its presence. It's only a matter of time to materialise it, and make it completely mine. Will it be this week? Only time, and probably you, nosy reader, know. So stop hidding, and show me your beauty: plain, natural, essential beauty to ease my pain and change the routine of the lost days.

domingo, 6 de marzo de 2005

Shi mian mai fu

Today I watched with torjman The House of Flying Daggers (La casa de las dagas voladoras, for those of you Spanish readers, the movie is still at Icaria, 7pm) As torjman said when the movie finished, we've found the second great cinematic woman of 2005, Xiaomei (together with Sabaha from Life is a Miracle):

Personally, I stay with Xiaomei and the visual beauty of Zhang Yimou's cinema.


Escribir es una forma de admirarte. Writing is a form of admiring you. That's what I told jOjO just now, after telling him I was going to listen to a Sonata by Haydn. And so I am doing.

I write because I admire you. I look at you, because you're my perfection; I listen to Haydn becuase I find perfection, pure mechanical beauty. And I like it so hard when the mechanical perfection of Haydn starts reflecting your different perfection, the mechanical fitting and amplifying, giving new meanings to the perfection of you, which is a perfection of the soul, an imagination of all the possible beauty felt directly through the heart. Haydn in my brain, playing with your soul felt by mine.

Very rarely I feel that, it's easier when I try it with Brad Mehldau, and actually I don't know whether it's any better than just touching you, looking at you with my hand on your breasts.

Sure, it's not any better, for if it was I wouldn't be missing you so much right now.

sábado, 5 de marzo de 2005

Middle evening

Yesterday was a great night out. I had a sweet drunkness, the kind of drunkness that gets you happier but the following morning is not agresive in the form of a terrible hangover. I do not have any hangover, that's good, though I feel sleepy.

And so I have several options for the evening:
1) Go and watch El Verdugo by Berlanga, at the filmotheque
2) Stay home, prepare a nice red curry and watch TV
3) Wait for Landiman to pop up over the phone, and have a chat dressed with a couple of joints
4) Write to all the friends I have to write

I guess I'll wait for the evening to unfold naturally.

Happy birthday, Marc

OK, first of all, let me put this clear: I'm totally drunk. Absolutely drunk. So this means that I anything I feel now, will be totally amplified. That's what it's like when you're drunk and come back home alone: you imagine. So I tell you: I'm drunk and tomorrow I won't necessarily sign for what I write now. But I want to write.

The first half of the night was what you call a txellish time. I told Txell I was going to write on my blog that Meritxell is patron saint of Andorra, the only country in the world where Catalan is an official language, and here you have me, keeping my promise. Unfortunately, Txell (cold skin and the green eyes of a river of tears of happiness and sorrow) had to leave very early, and so the first half of the night was over.

The second half came by. I was lost, and I was drunk. I turned around Bublic, leaving Marc and Ingrid behind, and suddenly I found myself in front of Marc again. There was something weird: I turned around the place, but I sort of didn't turn around completely, and yet there was Marc and Ingrid again. How was this possible? If they were at one side of Bublic, they couldn't be at the other side: and still, they were there. This simple fact, and yet confusing, sort of blurred the rest of the night. I still don't know how the hell they were there, but they were.

We drank a little bit more, and I sort of developpped a theory of eggs with Ingrid. You know, eggs, you make omelettes with them, but they are also eggs, a fundamental part of our bodies. Jaques kept asking me for brilliant phrases, but I couldn't give him any.

And the night went on as only night knows how to go on, and I found myself at 5 in the morning in the street, thinking of Manu Chao and the eyes and the skin that I lost somewhere in my life. Where are those eyes? Where's that skin of silk that invites my hands to caress it with the sweetest of movements? It was a river of tears again. It was the river of my life again, with no particular beggining and no particular end.

So I took a taxi, and very fast I was home. Home, where I'm typing this now, alone again, as usual. Alone in the dark of a dim light that lights the cigarretes I smoke, as I write and think of you. Who are you? I don't know, and I feel uncomfortable when I realise I don't know who you are.

Solo voy con mi pena, sola va mi condena, correr es mi destino, para burlar la ley. Perdido en el corazón, de la grande Babylon, me dicen el clandestino... soy una raya en el mar, ... mi vida va prohibida, dice la autoridad... I go alone with my sorrow, alone goes my sentence, running is my fate, to avoid the law. Lost in the heart of the big Babylon, they call me the clandestine... I go alone with my sorrow... Welcome to Tijuana...

¿Dónde están tus ojos, amor? ¿Por qué ya no me miran como antes, por qué ya no los veo igual? Sabes bien que te quise como nunca he querido, sabes que te quiero aún, aunque ya no te quiera. ¿Qué pasó? Quizás ya lo sabía desde el principio. Cuando ví tu piel de amor, tus ojos achinados mostrándome un mundo, tu sexo iluminando el camino de mis manos humildes. ¿Recuerdas? Nos fundimos en la miseria del amor sin sentido, pero con sentimiento.

La noche es fría y escribo. Tú tiemblas. Las hojas tiemblan. Mi alma tiembla junto a la tuya, tan lejana. Las velas del alma ya no arden, y sin embargo ardo por tenerte a mi lado. Todo son palabras, palabras sin sentido que salen del teclado de mis ojos ciegos de alcohol y deseo. Palabras, palabras, palabras que no debería pronunciar y sin embargo pronuncio, para que las leas y me muestres el camino equívoco, el camino que nunca debí caminar.

No sé qué dije en el párrafo anterior, ni en el primero, pero no me importa. Tan sólo quiero seguir escribiendo, solo, absurdo, hiriente, violento como el viento de la mañana que me lleva hasta tu abrazo cálido y lejano a un tiempo. Tu abrazo, dame sólo tu abrazo otra vez, y sabré olvidarte para siempre. Y empezar de nuevo.

jueves, 3 de marzo de 2005

I got it folded inside

That's what we say in Spanish when they fuck us up with something: I got it folded inside, meaning: the dick was so big that they had to fold it in order to put it inside my ass, and still they did it.

Of course, it's metaphorical. You got it folded, meaning you were fooled by somebody. We Spaniards can be very creative with coarse language, as Choche said once in his now dead blog (you Choche, I will never forgive you)

So bla bla bla, I'm writing. What can I say? Ok, let's light a cigarrete and think. Ok, let's dress the words salad with some alcohol too: with the Orujo courtesy of sweet -ensiamada, a.k.a sweet ann. Orujo is a strong (around 30%) alcohol made from herbs. Many good things come from herbs, or are just herbs themselves. So, since I do not have anymore herbs since my mother threw them away, I will drink this liquor before it's too late.

I am quite addicted to stimulants, but in a nice way. I mean, life somehow is a search for stimulants, narcothics or not. The moment you're not stimulated, you're dead. At the office, we drink coffee upstairs and smoke downstairs (while it's legal). At the train, I have a coffe with milk and a cheese sandwich and a free newspaper with funny albeit demagogical headlines. We use the word "albeit" as an stimulant, though we think it's as ridiculous as "though". And so everyday life goes on, and when you're writing your mom pops up and asks you about that job application , and how come they rejected you.

Nice, sweet, awesome, quiet, honest, Sindey Bechet and words filling the screen. Sweet, that's how I feel now. If only you were here by my side, and I could show you how sweet my hands can be when they kiss the silk of your eyes.

Being friends (I know, it's a pussy title)

Listen, it's very late, so it's really really something very nice that I start writing here. You have to admit it and thank me for the sacrifice. So tonight it was the wonder-magic night of Alex and I. We like to have such nights, in the middle of a boring working life. Even if it means you will be fucked up next day, we don't care: cause we love life, and living. Yes we do. Fuck everything else, cause I wanna be high on Thursday 1:42am in the fucking morning, and it will go one for more hours, and I will just sleep 4 hours.

We ate a wonderful pizza at La Bella Napoli, wonderful as always, and just when we were about to start will the Tiramisu, -e came with a smile, tried my tiramisu, and decided to order another one as well. And man, the brought her a really big piece, much bigger than hours (though we had the doubtful honour of whipped cream around it)

And just after -e changed her contact lenses for those greenish glasses, Landiman appeared saying he had just realised that he knew how to sing, to sing well, like Ray Charles. And Landiman sang and jumped and turned around and upside down, and we were into the cinema to watch Eraserhead.

Fuck, the movie was one boring movie. But strangely, its 90 minutes passed by fast (or maybe it's just I want to accelerate the story of the night, cause I'm really tired) Ok, so I'll tell you, the movie ended and -e rolled a joint, but she left fast, and so landiman, torjman and I were left with an almost entire joint. And though you said it was going to be light, man, it was fucking strong.

So strong I had to fucking sit down (long time this didn't happen to me) And then I thouhgt of a woman, but I didn't know. And so I crossed my arms, and Torjman decided it was a great photo, and so asked me for permission to take it (always so educated, Torj) -by the way I forgot to mention that croissant had a high fever, and thus was unable to come, and hence delicious ensiamada didn't make it either... recover fast, croissant.

And we took pictures, lots of them. Pretending I was sick, pretending I was a thieve with a gun and Landiman was being robbed by me... you should have seen his face, man, he's such an actor. And Torjman, what a bad actor he is, but how well could he frame the pictures, direct the scene, take the right shots.

But this came to an end, and we hugged and said goodbye. And Landiman walked me home with his bike on the side, just walking. And talking more theories, man so fucking good. And then in front of my place, we developped a theory about the influence of the TV cartoons of Dr. Slump ("Arare") on the later manga of Dragon Ball or Akira. And then we linked with The Simpsons and South Park. Man, it was great.

miércoles, 2 de marzo de 2005

As promised

There you have it, jOjO, as promised. Now you can link my posts very easily. Just click on "Link this post".
Love, fruitman.

martes, 1 de marzo de 2005

Choche is gone

Well, just his blog... :) He decided to remove it from the Internet. Probably, you never read it, and hence you will never have a chance to read it in your entire life. Imagine, there's something that, even if you want it very much, you will never be able to read anymore. That's what happens to me.

Because OK, Choche's blog was not as good as mine or as good as Shakespeare, but it was Choche's blog... it was written by Choche: that's all that matters to me. I don't care about anything else: it was Choche's.

But Choche thinks the blog is not good enough. In fact, Choche rarely thinks that what he does is good, but he doesn't seem to care. That's something different between me and Choche: I can't stand thinking that what I do is not good. Like this post, you know: it's boring, it started with a nice, albeit demagogic, line (Choche is gone) and it ended up as a nobody-cares-about-it-please-cut-off thing. But then I think: ok, this post is shitty, but you know what, I am writing it, and that's all I care.
Choche, you asshole, you put your blog back on the net right now. Or I promise I will touch your ass hole everytime I see you from now on. And I know you don't like it, and I know it's going to be a disgusting hassle every time we meet again, from now on.

And now, you readers, shout "We want Choche's blog back". No matter who's around you, no matter nobody can hear you: just say it, even if you are Choche, even if you never read his humble blog. Do it for me, and leave a comment saying that you did it. "We want Choche's blog back". Say it.