viernes, 29 de abril de 2005

Historia de amor

Un nítido recuerdo
del placer que hallé en ti suena sordo en la noche
como una campana.

Sola campana de mi noche sola,
dobla tú por el día
que de mi amor fue entero,
ahora que sólo soy obligado inquilino
del recuerdo.

Te dabas en la noche a la voraz y oscura
hambre mía de ti,
y era aquel apetito, no lo supe,
prevención inconsciente de esta hora.

Peleamos en la batalla
de quien busca clavar sobre un cuerpo su cuerpo
por imprimir en la sombra de otra vida
lo que va perteneciendo al humo
porque fue de la llama.

Desatendemos hoy la llama juntos,
la que juntos prendimos,
la que nos dio calor, la que juramos juntos
conservar en su frágil crepitar melodioso.

De su música ardiente nos desvela la noche
el frío eco dolido
de aquel sueño en su luto, de esta rota vigilia.

Un nítido recuerdo
del placer que hallé en ti
se dibuja en el aire contrariado
de mi vivo deseo
todavía.
Y al diablo me ofrezco por tu espalda desnuda.

¿Pero quién eras tú?
¿Y quién fue el que te amó?
¿Y por quiénes redobla, en la noche del otro,
esta sorda campana?

jueves, 28 de abril de 2005

Reunión de solteros (y no tan solteros)

El sábado quedamos con -e, -l y torjman para celebrar un Sant Jordi "de solter@s". Comíamos con Torjman tras el mercado de la boquería, en un sitio muy fashion y muy chulo, al aire libre, con el solete... qué bueno... en esas apareció la pareja feliz, ella con 10 rosas en la mano... man, esto es un ramo! Quedamos con ellos para tomar un café más tarde. -e y -l se incorporaron más tarde, y un poco más tarde se incorporó otra pareja feliz más. Así que lo que debía ser reunión de solterones, se convirtió en 4+4: cuatro solter@s, 4 emparejad@s.

En fin, todo fue andar ramblas abajo y arriba, hasta que nos dimos cuenta que esto de Sant Jordi es un puto coñazo, y nos dirijimos a Gracia. Cena tranquila en la que convencí a torjman y -l para que cambiaran su pedido de pizza por unos pinchos a la brasa. Pinchos que picaban la hostia, más all i oli y -l que se puso ajo en el pan. Claramente, los solteros íbamos a terminar solteros esa noche.

Tras la cena, rumbo a Le Journal. En el pisito de arriba, -e liando sus porretes, y los porretes rulando. ¡Grande, -e, grande! Y yo con mi gin tonic... y torjman y croissant con su clara de luxe: se pide uno una heineken, se pide una schweppes limón, se piden dos copas, y se procede a la mezcla. Química básica.

En fin, los porretes rularon y rularon, y surtieron efecto. El efecto necesario para que nos pusiéramos a jugar al jueguecito este de la frase. Fácil juego, pero se necesita bastante gente jugando. La cosa es:

1) El que está en una punta piensa una frase, y se la dice muy rápido al de al lado
2) El de al lado, dice lo que ha entendido muy rápido al otro que tiene al lado.
3) Y así se sigue, hasta que llegamos a la persona al otro extremo de la cadena
4) La persona que pensó la frase, la dice.
5) El del otro extremo de la cadena, dice lo que le llegó a él

Normalmente, se esperan frases diferentes a uno y otro extremo de la cadena, y uno se ríe. Y si uno va fumado, ríe más. Y si al final de la cadena está torjman, con su clarividencia prodigiosa para racionalizar cualquier cúmulo de sonidos sin sentido en una frase con mucho sentido... uno ríe aún más. Y si en medio estoy yo, con mi famosa sordera... pues ya es la hostia.

Con mucha vista, fui apuntando las frases que se dijeron aquella noche. Son estas:

Empieza -j: "Miento cada vez que hablo"
Y la frase termina como: "¡Mitología atroz!"

Empieza -e: "Los cumulo nimbos indican que llueve"
Y la frase termina como: "¡Los comunistas son destructores!"

Empieza -e: "La huelga que ha convocado la CCOO"
Y la frase termina como: "La guardia quiere a Sabrina como gogó"

Empieza -a: "Tenemos Papa Alemanus"
Y la frase termina como: "¡Quina experiència, nanu!"

Empiezo yo: "Te arranco las ideas"
Y la frase termina como: "¡Franco es grande!"

Empieza -a: "Esto no acabó ayer"
Y la frase termina como: "¡Qué buena noche con la yaya!"

Empieza -j: "Milly Vanilly cantaba en playback"
Y la frase termina como: "Pídele que me descuente el IVA"

Sí, lo sé, son historietas, batallitas de fumado. Frases que ahora han perdido su frescura. Pero en ese momento, fuímos felices. Reímos, reímos mucho. Torjman estuvo muy grande, mucho. Todos. Juntos pero separados, separados pero juntos. Amigos. Una gran noche. Habrá que recordarla así, verdad -e? Poco importa lo demás.

(ah, y perdón por la ausencia de calidad literaria en este post, pero estoy cansado, muy cansado) :)

miércoles, 27 de abril de 2005

A while

It's been a while since I don't write in English... sorry you english-reading readers. I typed the first "A" of the title of this post, and the auto-complete function of Firefox reminded me of all the post titles of this blog that begin with A:

A punto de fumar un porro (About to smoke a joint): that was a while ago... my life was more rational back then :)

A gin-tonic with Torjman: oh that still happens, quite often :)

A weekend of food and sleep: that happens quite often too :)

Abrazos: mmm, well, I don't know about this one... why did I write it? Can't remember. But let's finish this optimistic post with another :)

domingo, 24 de abril de 2005

El libro

"El mal, no los errores, perdura,
lo perdonable está perdonado hace tiempo, los
cortes de navaja
se han curado también, sólo el corte que produce
el mal,
ése no se cura, se reabre en la noche, cada noche."

Con esta cita de Bachmann empieza la última novela de Javier Cercas, La velocidad de la luz, que ayer tuve el placer de recibir como regalo. En la contraportada, se nos dice: "La velocidad de la luz indaga en nuestra ilimitada capacidad de hacer daño... pero sobre todo en el poder definitivo de la literatura para enfrentarse a la realidad y exorcizar sus demonios".

No se me ocurre qué otro libro podría ajustarse mejor a mi actual estado de ánimo. Aunque yo, por pereza o por sadomasoquismo, prefiero enfrentarme a la realidad desde la propia realidad. Y así me va :)

viernes, 22 de abril de 2005

La belleza del alma

Hay quién dice que el alma no existe. Ilusos. El alma es lo único que existe.

He buscado la belleza en muchos rincones. La música de Chopin, el cielo tras la lluvia, el color del vino, un poema de Neruda, el sabor de las primeras cerezas del año, la rosa que una vez encontraste en el amanecer junto a nuestra cama... Pero nunca he hallado más belleza que en el alma.

Tal vez, por eso, he buscado siempre la soledad. Porque sólo cuando estoy solo puedo pensar en tu alma, y ver a través de los ojos que de ti recuerdo, y tocar la seda de tu cuerpo. Sólo, escuchando los nocturnos de Chopin que ahora escucho, y que hacen que me sienta tan feliz.

Si tu estuvieras aquí conmigo, ya no podría verte. Dormirías, en la cama, y tus ojos cerrados secarían las lágrimas que acechan, miedosas, en mis pupilas. Me tumbaría junto a ti, despacio, con la máxima suavidad que mi torpe cuerpo me permite, y me quedaría fijo mirando la piel de tus párpados, misteriosamente lisa, como una muñeca. Mirando las pestañas que acarician tus ojeras blancas, estiradas sobre ti como yo me estiraba junto a ti.

Si tu estuvieras aquí conmigo, no sería Chopin, sería tu respiración buscando el camino por entre las comisuras de tus labios de niña. Sería el silencio de la noche, serían los muelles de la cama y las sábanas. Ya no sería cigarrillo tras cigarrillo infectando el aire que respiraré más tarde, ya no serían hielos en un vaso helando mi estómago con el líquido dorado del whisky. Sería mi mano sobre tus piernas.

Si tu estuvieras aquí conmigo, ya no podría ver tu alma. Porque tu alma reside en mi soledad, y es mi propia alma. Belleza, en la distancia más íntima y más lejana a un tiempo. Cuando te miro a los ojos, te esfumas. Y soy feliz, porque entonces te encuentro. Me encuentro.

Porque sólo cuando estoy solo puedo pensar en tu alma, y ver a través de los ojos que de ti recuerdo, y tocar la seda de tu cuerpo.

lunes, 18 de abril de 2005

Are you lonesome tonight

The king will be always the king. You know what I mean.

Are you lonesome tonight,
do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day
When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

I wonder if you're lonesome tonight
You know someone said that the world's a stage
And each must play a part.
Fate had me playing in love you as my sweet heart.
Act one was when we met, I loved you at first glance
You read your line so cleverly and never missed a cue
Then came act two, you seemed to change and you acted strange
And why I'll never know.
Honey, you lied when you said you loved me
And I had no cause to doubt you.
But I'd rather go on hearing your lies
Than go on living without you.
Now the stage is bare and I'm standing there
With emptiness all around
And if you won't come back to me
Then make them bring the curtain down.

Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight

domingo, 17 de abril de 2005

My grandfather

In a day like the one that's starting now, some years ago, my grandfather died. I remember I was waken up at six in the morning, and the bad news were told to me straight ahead: "wake up, you must go, your grandfather has died". My mother left the room with the same rush she had woken me up; I sat up in bed and stayed quiet for some minutes. He was gone.

It's difficult for me to recover the memories I have of him, but I remember very well a few things we did together. One summer evening, he taught me oil painting. He was not very good at painting, but he knew how to paint three or four things very well. He used to paint witches and war boats quite skillfully.

And of course, there was hunting. We used to go hunting partridges (from the latin word perdix, perdiz in Spanish...) all the family together. My dad would go on his own, I used to go with my grandfather. One of those hunting days, as we were walking together, a partridge suddenly appeared quietly walking to our left. I saw it first, and told my grandpa: "see it, there, shoot it!" But he was too slow, and when he had pointed at the bird, it was too late.

We looked at each other. He was finished. He, the great hunter, walking along with a sick little boy too weak to walk with his father. It was like the bird already knew we were both too weak to kill it: that's why it walked by us, quietly enjoying the danger under the sun of a hunting Sunday morning. I don't remember what my grandpa told me, but I haven't forgotten his face looking at me. And how he looked for a rock, and sat down, and cut two branches of sage and offered me one, and we both looked at the fields while we chewed out the juice of the plant.

I suppose my grandfather chewed a lot of sage during the war. He was just 16 when one morning, he was waken up suddenly at six in the morning: "wake up, you must go". He sat on bed and stayed quiet for some minutes: his young flesh couldn't imagine he would end up 60 years later sitting on a rock next to a stupid kid who saw the partridge fly away untouched before him.

When the war ended, my grandfather was near Valencia. He went into a cafe, and ordered a coffee with milk. And he started to cry.

viernes, 15 de abril de 2005

It's never easy

... to leave everything behind and start all over again. It's never easy, and maybe, maybe it makes no sense at all. So come away with me, I'm back.

Come away with me in the night
Come away with me
And I will write you a song

Come away with me on a bus
Come away with me where they can't tempt us
With their lies

I want to walk with you
On a cloudy day
In fields where the yellow grass grows
knee kigh
So won't you try to come

Come away with me and we'll kiss
On a mountain top
Come away with me
And I'll never stop loving you

And I want to wake up with the rain
Falling on a tin roof
While I'm safe there in your arms
So all I ask is for you
To come away with me in the night
Come away with me

Thanks, Norah. This song, tonight, has taken me back.

viernes, 8 de abril de 2005

Happiness?




The Hill, Berkeley, April 2002. On the background, the night at the bay, San Francisco Bay. Closer, jojo, melis, gabor, alyosha. Left, piotr, jose, kwan, bernardo and finally, me. A Corona on my right hand, a cigarette on my left one. Melis seems to be drinking too, I can't barely tell whether it's Cazadores. And there's lots of garbage around, and grass, and three yellow flowers to the left that the flash of the camera suddenly discovered.

I am tired, you know. I don't want to sleep but I have to. Tonight, I chatted with lu, with jojo, with a colleague from work. Again, I missed you by my side, little kwan.

martes, 5 de abril de 2005

Sense of time

I don't know if that's a sign of my growing old, but as time goes by I tend to think that I'm loosing control of the flow of time. My life is sort of ordered, but at the same time, it's completely chaotic at the level of personal experience. Like now, I'm writing, and I don't know why I write or why I listen to downtempo tunes from Jazzmusique radio (tune it on iTunes radio).

I need milestones in my life. Or maybe not. A chick will do :p

Beer with ice (a poem)

I thought: "I want a beer".
I went to the kitchen.
I looked inside the fridge:
nothing, as I expected.

I opened a cabinet: four beers, warm.
I opened the freezer: ice.
I put the ice inside a glass:
glass full of ice.

I poured the beer into the glass:
beer with ice.
I am drinking beer with ice.

lunes, 4 de abril de 2005

Home alone (reloaded)

Today I came back home only to realise I was home alone. "Fuck", I thought. I could have invited some chicks to have dinner and chat. Then I realised I had no chicks to invite.

So I did what every man who's been home alone has done some time or another: I put a CD on the hi-fi, turned the volume quite high, and went straight into the bathroom. It was wild, it was Eric Clapton playing Ain't gonna give up on love, from the CD A Tribute to Stevie Rai Vaughan. And well, I was about to get into the shower when I realised I just couldn't bother to listen to that heavenly guitar mixed with the noise of the water falling down my naked body.

So I step out of the shower, and planted myself before the hi-fi, right in the middle of the dinning hall. And man... I let myself go. Completely naked except for my dirty socks, I danced, I pretended I had a guitar on me, I pretended my hands were Clapton's. Louder, louder! I turned the volume up to the top. I was deaf. I was Eric. I sang, I moved, I danced. I felt every chord inside me, every string. I was laughing inside, I was so happy.

The song finished, and I shaved. Then I had a shower and treated my facial skin with some mostourizers and exfoliants from Nivea (there's no Lush around in Barcelona, and Body Shop just can't make it to me, pity) Ironically, as I prepared the dinner I changed to a TV station where they were showing Bridget Jones' Diary. Great movie. I ate smashed potatoes and beef. I laid on the sofa. I smoked. Bridget smiled.

What a great life, being single. Wait for me, Bridget. We're still too young.

Funny friends

I have funny friends, I can't deny it. Here's a piece from jOjO, who took it from -p:

A weekend of food and sleep

This weekend I slept around 25 hours in two days. And I had the following food:

-two plates of jabugo ham
-two plates of sea food paella
-8 pieces of barbecue lamb
-3 baked potatoes
-lots of salad and several pork delicatessen
-a sort of calzone filled with spinach and things I don't know how to name
-just picked vegetables, including beans, peas, asparragus and wild onions
-three plates of macarroni with meat and cheese (made by my grandma, man!)
-loads of lobster
-roast beef
-smashed potatoes and baked apples
-a good bowl of fruit salad (straberries and banana)
-cake (two kinds of, including the famous "chocolate and banana cake" that -a likes so much she would kill for it)
-a crepe of beichamel, onion and bacon
-several glasses of red wine
-a mojito

Man, I'm so full.