SINGING IN THE TRUNK

BREAK IS OVER

2011-09-17T19:05:00.006+02:00

She was blond.

She looked good, wore blue jeans and was about

to get a tram in the morning.

I had a book in my hands;

a book of poetry.

It could have been the perfect start of a new day

If I just wasn’t going to work.

Work again

because writing poetry doesn’t

pay my bills and I decided to do something serious

to get the damn bills paid.

Worried about the heating, the electricity,

the summer holidays, the food,

the clothes and all the things you can find around

not to find yourself inside,

loving poetry in secrecy,

regretting not to sit down and write

as a crazy or an idiot

a few poems a day.

So, this morning,

I looked around and most of all,

inside,

just to find out that I am back

on writing poetry

since it makes no sense

thinking about paying your bills

writing poems;

as they just come as an urge,

or maybe as the dead remains of a broken organ

in my soul.

But it wasn’t the blonde,

I swear...

TRANSCEND

2010-11-13T19:51:00.004+01:00

To be famous, known, to let a fingerprint on History; is nothing else than a selfish vanity with a genetic origin. All creatures, from the beginning of time, have been fighting to let their genes on this world. Spread from dominant males to glamorous calyxes; from colorful endowed birds to sharp teeth; from insectivore plants to carrion eaters; all defy existence in order to nail the jackpot: Transcend.
But one day, a species decided to live in society, grouped into larger and every day more successful groups; like a virus invasion into a weakened throat. And they had rules, rules to create cohesion by means of boundaries; rules to restrain to create a sort of harmony; rules to burst without another sense than the bursting itself. While other species continued their daily life for survival, fully adapted to the environment they owned, this particular species walked down the road of no need to fight after gathering immense power over land and see.
That was a magnificent triumph over Mother Nature and a huge catastrophe.
All because one day that particular species discovered a few funny facts about life that made them scared of themselves. One day discovered that the only way to keep the herd together is by means of suppressing the side they can not collectively manipulate. Suppression established by brutal repression, manipulation established by common and accessible desire. Also the species, or a group of individuals belonging to it, discovered that all creatures need a fight for life not to fall into oblivion, into nullity, and disappear.
And then society was born; the perfect way to keep the herd on the right path. The perfect way of protecting individuals without making them drop their impulse by extreme benevolence. And that small details made them reach the 4 corners of the world, on a success than only rats, flies and cockroaches are retaliating to, many times accompanying that species wherever they went. We, mankind, are that species.
So we did it. We have kept alive the animal without threatening the herd, suppressing even all those who could not suppress the animal itself, the insectivore flower. And we did it by translating into a set of rules the codes that rule our genetic pool. As part of this translation, transcend became a social need as well. But the limits of the body are small compared to the size of the herd and the satisfaction of the body became harmful for its integrity. Therefore the translation went into the need of being remembered or recognized, the need of marking a route, of leaving a stamp on future; over the simple transmission of genes. That is how all became the spiritual satisfaction over the body’s satisfaction.
And since then, we are all the peacocks of History.

THE REASON FOR SOME THINGS

2010-01-19T01:00:00.004+01:00

“For all those one day wanted to be John Malkovich…”

One person said long time ago that once God created the world in 6 days; created the mountains, the rivers, the plains and the oceans; the volcanoes and the lakes; the day and the night, the rain, the clouds an the stars… And then, at the seventh day, rested. Another person, much more recently, said that after the sixth day, when God went to have a break, he sat down on the skies, moved his hand into his pocket and searched, probed, scrutinized to fin it empty of what he was looking for.
–Oh damn… my weed! – he said. And looked down, with these eyes that see everything, omnipresent, to see that in the gardens of the world, he forgot some plants of cannabis. God immediately went down the stairs, already wearing his sleeping clothes, rolled a joint, and never ever finished to create the world. That is why world is imperfect, and that explains a lot to me.
Nevertheless, even if we give the above as a fact, there are still mysteries that escape to the boundaries of my theory. Even an imperfect world can not break its rules as our does. Unless Murphy was right and there is indeed a rule that breaks all the other to become a rule itself. Yes, the damned Murphy’s laws. But embracing them, we should embrace pessimism. And the world is enough imperfect to put a sad stain on it.
There is when my corollary comes into scene. The touch to reach the unimaginable; in simpler words, the explanation of what can not be explained. Sometimes, the good God, creator of the mountains and the stars, comes down on earth, rolls a joint, and goes there around to have fun.
So we see what we see: earthquakes, terrorists, greed, crisis, pandemics... and we think is unfair, that God does not exist, or has forsaken us. Nothing more far away from reality. Because he is here, among us, having a break… and when he wakes up after his divine nap, scratches his head and looks down at the world with the pose of someone who just woke up at his friends place watching the huge vomit on your host carpet, thinking about the easiest way to clean up the mess; knowing that there is no easy way; and then decides to buy a new carpet and put the old one on the garbage.
That is what makes us different from God. That is why no one can say our dear God has forsaken us, because, unlike us, he never throws down this world into the garbage and creates another one. Even knowing that for him would be free.
Then I can understand everything, and imagine God on top of the infinite skies, just getting sober, scratching his head that knows everything, looking at the world that spins like a huge hangover, but looking us with tender, with care… full of joy and compassion. This is, without a doubt, an optimistic vision.

PARALLEL UNIVERSES

2010-01-12T06:25:00.006+01:00

Johnnie Flier was a fat male night butterfly hanging on the wall of a drunken man. All over the place, empty cans of beers, bottles, food leftovers, empty packages of cigarettes and dirty clothes piled up on a symphonic disaster. The man, lying on the bed, had a hard time to breathe.
It was three months ago when he crossed the door of the flat for the last time; it was to enter and, since then, the sun was an utopia trying to shine behind the mosquito nets that covered the windows smeared with a stale thick dust. From that day he had all decided, or better said, the way it might happen.
The butterfly was there after the first night of the confinement; nevertheless, it had no name till the last day, with the last bottle of alcohol that now rested on his belly, dry as desert sand. It was a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and the elegance of the man with cane and hat, made the man smile perhaps for the last time. “Johnnie Flier, my good friend Johnnie… the only one that haven’t forsaken me… how have you survived, pal?” He thought and started to imagine the butterfly eating the food leftovers spreader on the floor, silently, while he slept, not to disturb each other, and going back every morning, right before dawn, to the same spot, with extreme precision.
Oh yeah, the good Johnnie, the only one that remained, even after Leila left for the last time, more than a week ago, with tears crossing her face, after a huge fight when he saw, perhaps for the only time, Johnnie’s wings to dance on the screams rhythm. After the fight she left slamming the door so violently, that Johnnie walked that time a couple of steps. Since then, no other human being crossed the door, not to enter or leave.
But now all that wasn’t but memories, droplets of a distant life that seemed others, that happened behind the bottle’s ass, some time ago. Now the pain was gone, just pictures dancing on his mind, and it would have been a total serenity if the phlegm wouldn’t be constantly choking, making it hard to breathe, forcing him to cough every now and then. Despite the feeling of suffocation, he could not wake; he was too weak to make a movement. His breath became increasingly ragged, until a low dull moan scared Johnnie that flew awkwardly towards an electric insect trap and collapsed by the electric shock.
And there they both were found, lying, alone…

THE LONGEST BEG

2010-01-08T04:58:00.001+01:00

A homeless on the street came to me and asked me for a cigarette. His lair, prepared with some old and threadbare blankets was on the sealed entrance of a building being refurbished. Along the wall, a wooden structure protecting the transients from falling objects was the roof of the man. He looked clean though, worn nice glasses and was holding on his trembling hand a magazine and a can of beers. It was 10 o’clock in the morning and it was snowing.
He talked to me in Hungarian. I replied in English that I do not understand. The man, suddenly, told me in English:
-I know I look like crap, you might even think that I am a drunk who abandoned society, even mankind, for alcohol bottles and cans. But I will tell you a secret: it was the other way round.
The man removed his glasses, and continued.
-Once I was a public prosecutor; I faced on court criminals of all kinds, rapists, scammers, thieves… and I put much of this crap on jail. But one day, somehow, they found me. I started to receive letters and calls, threatening ones. My whole family went down, when I needed them more, stating that it was my fault; ungrateful hyenas, after having a life thanks to me. I paid our home, their holidays, their studies, without asking anything from them but a bit of love.
It was getting late for me to go to work, but I stood still; willing to listen the whole thing till the very end.
-They, my god damned family, declared a war against me that I was not really expecting. My ex-wife, my two own kids, blood of my blood, started a legal battle against me that stripped me of all my possessions. All my acquaintances, ex-colleagues, friends or even relatives were of no avail. I lost everything; all that was left was my miserable pension and my glasses. From the pension am still paying for the trial; as for my glasses, I pray every single day that do not break.
This time it was too much, the story had no head or tail. Nevertheless I clearly realized that it was not over. He continued, pensive in tone, as if talking to himself or simply sharing the theory based on hundreds, thousands of hours of meditation.
-You know what’s the most curious thing about all this? –he asked me looking on my eyes, looking completely convinced that I would not guess- That everything happened a few days after I went on retirement and even in spite of all intimidation nobody, never, tried to harm me but my family. So, would you please be so kind to give me a cigarette?
He was probably right: I would have never guessed. I gave him a cigarette, offered him light, wished him good luck while patting on his shoulder, and left. I should run to make it on time to the office.
One of these days we are going to be roasted by the global warming; but not today. Today was snowing far and wide since the morning, and the snow was falling patiently; with the secret will of preparing mankind for a shiny vision of a spruce heaven. This might be much more of what most of us will get as paradise.

SPARKS

2009-08-06T16:43:00.006+02:00

He was a lighter-kleptomaniac and a paranoid, and this morning in the metro, just in front of him, someone left a lighter slip out of his pocket over the seat. His first instinct was possession: an urge to pick and have this new treasure for his huge collection of firing devices, of shiny plastic gas containers, of burnished metallic in-style flamers, of simple lighters. The routine activated the same mechanism, a quick look around, to see who might be the owner, and who might have seen the lighter drop. His position was privileged, standing just in front of it, right spot and right time. “I have good chances...” he thought “I do have…”
Maybe that is why he said nothing when four people, all of them young and apparently inattentive, stood up and got off the train. Another quick look; an old lady saw everything, but was also getting off. Just one person, could be a rival, a young guy with black hair falling on both sides of his face, a 3-4 days old beard, relentless eyes perched on the same target. But he was sitting, just in the front seat, at the other side of the hall. “No way he can win,” he thought “it’s almost mine…”
He quickly sat next to the lighter, and placed his hand a few centimetres away from the white object of his desire. He relaxed his body and leaned back, his eyes scrutinizing his rival’s. “I hope this guy will get off soon,” he thought “and I still have five stops to be alone with my treasure. The rest of the people here will not know anymore what has happened…”
The first stop came and guy in front did not move. In fact, instead of indicating any approach to the door, leaned back as well and started to watch around intermittently when was not looking at the lighter or the eyes of our man, who instinctively started to look around as well. Suddenly he noticed an old woman with to shopping bags who was also looking at him, and another man, and a young lady. “Damn,” he thought now “the conspiracy has begun…”
Yes, it was a perfect conspiracy orchestrated by the guy in the front with this game of looks, and it was giving benefits. Our man started to feel uncomfortable; now some new eyes also watched him as the owl watches the mouse on the dark night, just before silently fly over its prey. The atmosphere became so tense that could be cut with a knife. “Why are they looking at me, why???”
Now the eyes of the other guy were nailed on our man, and a half smile started to draw on the guy’s face, but not an ordinary one. It did not show even joy, but a subtle warning; a warning that our man figured out with a huge question mark on it. He removed his hand away from the lighter and placed it on his lap, at the time he felt temperature was rising inside of him. The smile on the other guy’s face went complete, but subtle, nothing obvious. Our man looked all over again and some kind of relief was shown on all faces scrutinized. “Why they all do not want me to get this god damned lighter!” he thought anxiously “is there any problem…”
And by thinking this word the whole plot came into his mind, he looked down to the lighter, while his mind was drawing the secret connections, the ways of misfortune, disgrace, death… his brain was depicting the complicated design, the load of explosive just under the seat, the mythic red wire, next to the green one, and the trigger, the alluring trigger of a lighter to culminate a masterpiece: a white lighter. He looked down the lighter again, so white, just half shown on the juncture of the black seat pillows; so much crying pick me! And it was still there, so innocent, so naïve…
The fifth stop arrived to our man after an infinite succession of seconds, moments, feelings and fears. Completely bathed in sweat, our man moved slowly to the door, not because of paralyzing fear; but avoiding being linked with such an event that could appear on newspapers headlines next day: “police searches criminal who dropped a bomb on the metro line”. Once outside, took a deep breath, dry sweat on his forehead. “anyway, is just a lighter” he finally thought, and kept going.
Two stops later an alcoholic woman with a bunch of cigarette butts on his smelly pocket got on the metro, searching for an empty place where to seat while people were moving out of her way, spotted up a white lighter on a black seat of a metro wagon.
–Ha! –said the old woman, almost screaming– I do not need to ask for fire now, so you all can go to hell… –she added, spat on the floor and grabbed the white lighter...

MARILYN POPPINS

2009-08-05T15:21:00.004+02:00

Marilyn Poppins was a cute blond lady flying with an umbrella; the skirt rising to her shoulders, showing very sexy underpants... I saw her through my window this morning. The water ran out of my pipe while I tried to wash a mug to drink a coffee. “I should have stayed in bed” I thought. I followed with my eyes as much as a could, leaning to the window till my face was a sticker on the glass. “Whatever it takes” I thought, “whatever it takes…”
Quickly forgotten the coffee, my trousers almost following me instead of being worn, and a single button of my shirt closed; it was the picture of myself the few people that walked this morning down the street have found. I must admit is nothing original going half dressed into the street on a warm morning, unless you follow with your eyes a cute blond lady flying… anyway, nobody seemed to care.
When I reached her, she was folding down the umbrella and fixing her dress back to its place. Although this last point would have been not necessary for me, I can certainly say it did not diminish a piece of her charm. It was the roof of a six floors building and no lift. Breathing was a challenge and rivers of pure morning sweat fled down my skin.
She seemed to be waiting.
–Are you Marilyn Poppins?
–Yes. I did not know I was such a celebrity – she said while buckling the beige umbrella and removing her soft white gloves.
–Well… - I said stopped by the substantial evidence: I have never ever heard about her before.
–Don’t worry –she said– you are not the first one who doesn’t know how, but knows my name.
And then Mrs. Poppins turned back on me heading down. The feathers on her hat withered and all in her looked like a cry. I stood still, bewildered by shame, and stepped towards her. The noise of my shoes on the roof seemed to inject on her a few million volts, and a small spasm waved her body ending on a little jump. Everything lasted the thousandth of a second, but I could see it with amazing clarity. She turn her face towards me, and her eyes, a sweet mix of melancholic girl and sex beast, nailed on me at the time her mouth was slowly, god damned slowly, opening to show delicate teeth and a rose of a tongue. I stopped and she started to sing, on a blues rhythm, her Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious; biting her gloves, using the umbrella as a dance stick that crawled between her legs while her head was leaning back showing the perfection of a neck that would make me a vampire by just watching it.
I felt my blood pressure arising. My poor heart, imprisoned on my chest, wanted to break its jail. Marilyn moved towards me, touched my chin, and whispered, once more, with her tongue dancing on her mouth while I could feel her warm breath on my face and her breast eroding my skin and patience:
–“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” – while opened the umbrella, blew me a kiss that has previously settled on her hand, jumped down the building and flew away.
Took me 5 to 10 minutes to realize what happened when all movement I could do was blinking. Then I could move my fingers, hands, arms, neck, body, legs; and organize all these movements to go back to my room, drink a glass of whisky and call to the office to say I wouldn’t go because I was sick. Yeah, I should have definitely stayed in bed.
Or maybe I should stop watching cheap porn movies…

JOHNNY THE MUSIC BOX

2009-01-21T23:11:00.003+01:00

The willful defiant pleasure of musical delight...
The golden mean of your imperfect existence.

But do you feel it like Johnny?
A man who never knew silence...

The beat of his heart was the bass for his brain.
The tap of his shoes, regulating the blink of his eye.
The knock of his thumb reverberating through his body like a crack of lighting on a tin hat.

Feeling every tic, every tak, bouncing inside like a drunk rugrat.
His livers tango to the salsa of his pancreas.
Trumpeting rectal comets in opulent flatulence.

Care for a taste?

The faded yellow of cowbell bings,
battle the golden green of the congas clangs,
crowding out the batty blue belly of the battered bass man,
who's greasy fingers gimp by the gassy grey grooves of the guitar gangster.

The psychedelic purple peace pipe prankster
pimps the pop piano,
while the azure amber of the accordion animator,
announce the bounce of the bubbling bazooka beggar.

Feeling it?

Oh yes, Johnny Boy! You feel it!

A RANDOM STREET

2009-01-16T04:04:00.002+01:00

Last time Edgar had sex it was five years ago.
On his mind, everything started to remind him sex. Any rounded form, any soft contact, almost anything. The solitude of his nights, holding a pillow, embracing vanished silhouettes on the bed sheets; he used to fill it with burning memories, images that assault his mind over and over; sweet memories transformed into nightmares. The days were just another kind of torture.
Walking around the city; watching the bodies, faces, hairs, eyes, curves and movements of women he desired so much that his stomach wrung on abstinent spasms; he lived like a ghost detained on his own silence walls. Why, for long five years, he never dared to talk to women? What made him lost all hopes to have any contact with opposite sex? What made him be this wandering shadow, without a glimmer of attitude towards his biggest desire?
Theories would come in superfluous amounts; explanations, none.
It was a fact, and as such, he found himself on his room, holding a map of the city while reading names that came into his mind as possibilities. Yes, in each word, which symbolized a street, which reduced to a few letters hundreds or thousands square meters of abodes, filled of souls, half of them, approximately, women; half of this half, in the age where sex could be carried on. And he was holding on his mind every word as a capsule that might contain the cure for such loneliness.
He did not even need to play with exact numbers; the amount depicted on his mind was huge enough to let him close to delirium, to make him feel that chance would play its role effectively, unavoidably…
He moved his finger through these thin lines, played with letters, inscriptions, corners, parks, notices, signals, cornerstones, roofs, windows, doors and bodies. He could somehow feel under his finger the presence of people endearing every sensitive cell of his skin. He could even pinpoint sexes, and this way, he chose a place, a name street, where the feminine population was high and alluring.
The plan was simple: knock on every door, if a desirable woman would open, he would simply ask her if she would like to spend the night with him. If not, a long list of apologizes was ready to hide his real intentions. He also knew it was a dangerous plan, of course, but not too much more dangerous that the existence he was bearing for the last five years.
So he had a street name, and as fast as he could, with the absolute determination only a suicidal can access to, he left his place. The end of the street to start from he left in hands of the transport lines. This way he would avoid making a decision that would make him regret. Some minutes later he was facing the street. Both sides were opening to him a bunch of options, so he picked a coin from his pocket and threw it. He would start on the left side; not bad, not good, just simple chance. He started to move.
He knocked once, nobody opened; twice, opened a man; three times opened a girl who closed the door on his face with violence. “At least –he thought– I dared”. It was still too soon to loose hopes. He knocked the tenth time, the fiftieth, the sixty-ninth… and no success. “It would have been a funny number –he told to himself– but not so probable in the end as would enclose no randomness” –he concluded cheering up himself by the time his mind started to believe how stupid the situation might be. He kept on knocking, over and over, till illusion was over and only remained this stubbornness desperation can provide, the eyes reddened of holding tears, the voice collapsing on a whisper, the mind blowing on anguish, till he lost all sense of reality and the real count of how many doors he knocked before. “Once more and I give up” –he said dozens of times, but kept trying on, and on…
The light at the end of the tunnel arrived on the x-th endeavor, strength forsaking his body, and the phrase barely escaping through his lips. In this moment, this magical moment, a warm hand meekly grabbed his neck and he disappeared behind a door.
This night, after five long years, Edgar did not sleep alone.

THE DOUBLE

2009-01-03T14:00:00.002+01:00

When the old wolf accepted the idea of travelling to the enemy country, in spite of all warranties offered by his enemy, wasn’t absolutely confident. Nevertheless, the idea of a secret meeting was really interesting for him, as mysteries were always some of his favorite hobbies.
“There must be a trick behind all this”, thought the old man while looking towards the window. After such a long war which wore him so much that even with extreme cares, the strength his face always bore had gone; he could not expect anything good. In his eyes, the suspicion of a plot shined, on the contrary, with the same intensity as ever.
He checked once and over the plans for the trip, he checked the dates, the times, the schedules, the security forces, the number of servicemen and the lieutenants that would accompany him on this mission. None of them but the most loyal one would stay in the country. Long years on his position made him aware of such a truth; “it is like leaving the wife with a charming friend at home for days and days” he told his zealot. And now, even, the situation was quite propitious for this kind of threats.
As usual, his praetorians were delivering a full report of all the circumstances and facts, the fulfillment of every task, of every detail, but this time, contrary to the habitual, just they knew about the plans of the boss. The special plane that would take him away would not even depart from the military airport, but from a civilian one, with airport authorities not knowing exactly who was travelling there. They would be told that an important guest was going back to his country and didn’t want to be bothered.
Everything was, finally, perfect.
The day arrived and the headman walked slowly to the plane, and made a last check around. Everything seemed to be calmed. A gentle breeze touched his head like sweeping away all worries. “Ok, let’s do it”, he thought. The plane started its race on the track and, softly, left the ground under the sight of a few people. Everything was done in perfect secret, with absolute discretion.
A few birds crossed away his sight on the distance right before the clouds crossed the glass of the round window, and made ground to disappear under a white carpet. The old man blinked slowly till finally felt asleep for half an hour before been suddenly awaken by his companions. A few long seconds passed before he could understand what his eyes were showing him. On the TV, he saw himself on a public speech, directed to his own nation, apologizing for what “he” considered a wrong guidance for the last decades, announcing the end of a cruel war which guided the country nowhere, and lots of changes for the future.
“Insane motherfucker” roared the old man. “Turn back the plane immediately; we must stop this bastard before he ruins everything!”
Contrary to what used to happen after his commands when everybody moved like stricken by and electric charge, in this very moment everybody stood still and the old man could not give credit to the whole situation. “Are you trying to betray me, bulk of rats!?” and the blood was injecting his eyes as anger grew inside of him as a huge storm.
“No, sir, this would be impossible, commander, father, supreme leader…” said one of his lieutenants, “just change the TV channel and look outside of the window!”
Someone did it for him, and the old wolf saw reports about an alleged terrorist plane which, on this precise moment, threatened a highly populated area of his all-life enemy territory.
Suddenly, he ran into the window just to see, with a frown drown on his face, the combat planes surrounding them, escorting them on a very dangerous affair.
“I knew there was a trick” he thought “I knew it…”

DIALOGS II

2008-12-22T13:28:00.003+01:00

She was on the phone, and he came to sit next to her. A female voice could be identified on the other side of the line. Suddenly, he released a huge burp.
–Pig! –she said, and smiled, probably amazed by the dimension of the burp.
He laughed, laughed and asked:
–Who are you talking to?
–My mother – she said, and laughed…

*****

Two girls talking.
–I can imagine so many guys are trying to approach…
–Me, why?
–Well, you look so cool girl. You would be a wonderful bait!
–Bait? What is that?
–You know, what you use for fishing…
–Ah yes! I guess I would be a good sushi!

*****

–When I die, I will not go to heaven I know.
–But, do you really believe in God, the Heaven and all this stuff?
–Yes, I do! I believe in God, and I know there is a heaven, but I know that am not going there, is just that I know I will not go.
–But how can you live with this?
–What can I do? I know am not going to heaven, but at least I know I will have a couple good friends in the other side!

*****

–What did you ask me, when or where?
–I do not understand…
–Yes, you asked me when or where
–When?

JUSTICE

2008-12-14T16:41:00.002+01:00

This is a true story. It happened in Hungary. Still does happen. There are four people in this story: Grandpa, Mom, Away Dad, and Child. Grandpa lived with Mom and Child. Away Dad, as his name indicates, lived away.
One night, Away Dad broke into the house where the others lived, and simply stabbed to death Mom and Child. He was caught by the police and had a trial. He was condemned to spend 15 years on the maximum security prison, a place with five walls, each of them, so thick that makes escaping impossible.
After hearing the sentence Grandpa talked to the journalists in public, when even the jury and judge could hear. These were his words:
– I have been an ax maker for my whole life. I am not a young person, but I will live long, because I will be alive just to see this motherfucker to walk out of the prison, and I want to be there, I will be there, waiting. And I will be there with the best and most sharpen ax I will be able to do. And this day, I will kill this motherfucker.
But this is not all. Some time after he was interviewed again. The reason is that he simply started, after this day, to train, to take steroids, and to get really strong. He said on this second interview:
– I want to be strong, because I will be there when he is out, and I simply do not want to fail.
Justice! Justice? Justice…

*Many thanks to L.T. for sharing this story with me.

LABYRINTHS

2008-11-22T01:10:00.000+01:00

From all forms of mazes there is one which comes everyday into our lives and, lately, even into my mind. This maze might not have so many halls or doors, or twin places, or mirrors that make you see hundreds of walls where there are only a dozen. This maze has no Minotaur, or any other monster. There are no ways to use a thread to go out of it, since the only reason to be inside is, in fact, the strong belief that you are already out.
There is something particularly strange on these quests of crossing mazes which makes the heroes act as such. And is not the braveness of someone who goes always forward, the tense muscles and the intact will, searching for an exit which does not give up so easy on it’s attempt of remaining distant, away, hidden. No, the heroes do not exist on these situations, as reality overwhelms any strength inside our minds. There is another force, of a law moral nature, as moral is conceived to magnify anything that makes us away from our animal instincts, independently of how good can this be for individuals or even, for humanity as specie. Yes, the same force that bumps us up with such an energy that, if used consciously on the Olympic Games, would crash every record and change the face of every sport.
But not, nature is wise (even if we try to run away from her) and forgives every of our little and big sins, and keeps giving us weapons for our arrogance. This force, that crawls in our souls as the walls close our sight like dark storm clouds, is nothing else than fear.
Because is fear the only reason to keep going on where hope, braveness, intelligence and all the glorious forces have abandoned us in the sight of a horrifying reality: to die among this world with no more tomb than a pile of bones in a forgotten corner. This is the way it works, and this is the way terror strikes back on the people who exercise it.
Of course there would be another maze with no exit, but such aberration would become so useless, that would lose, instantly, any charm. A puzzle is not anymore a puzzle as soon as it’s impossible to solve.
Therefore, the quandary I have been thinking about has an exit. But it is not the extreme complexity of the structure what makes people stop; neither the impossibility of finding out the exit what makes us believe it was enough from search. Is only the fact that once people believe they are out immediately abandon the search. Now we imagine Theseus arriving into a vast inner yard of the maze, with a ship drawn on the horizon, awaiting him to go back to Athens: what would have been written about Theseus if instead escaping this morass would have been trapped on a freedom that was nothing but the illusion of finding the exit? Would we be able to point him as a coward just in the right moment he lost the fear of being trapped?
Absolutely not. As exiting the maze has nothing to do with braveness, has neither falling a victim of such illusion anything to do with cowardice. The only way to face a problem is to acknowledge there is one.
This way we have conceived the hardest quest possible; since such a quest involves the fact of fighting against reality only once you have defeated the illusion that makes you believe the quest is over, that the goal is reached, that the show mustn’t go on. This way we have unveiled the so discussed benefit of doubt: the best way not to find something is to believe we have already found it.
Are you there?

POCKET SIZE DIALECTICS

2008-11-17T20:16:00.005+01:00

We are dialectic creatures. It was settled down by Hegel on his genial writings. Later on, Marx used this strong theoretical apparatus to develop his own conception of history. Nevertheless, even if they used basically the same tools, they are considered rivals according the used approach. Body vs. Soul. The objective versus the subjective. Which is the dominant element? Or even more, is there really something we can define as soul?
After a very nice conversation with N., where she was describing me her impressions after visiting an exhibition of dissected human bodies, some interesting conclusions arrived. When asked about her impressions, she simply told me that even though she knew these were once real people, it was impossible to avoid feeling these were not more than dummies.
“I could not believe these were real people, this bodies, frozen there, were something else, but not persons. A human been is something else than the body.” She said. Immediately we raised the topic on what is a human being. Her approach was genial since, without any definite purpose; she has unveiled the dialectic essence of humanity, and the soul existence. And she did by means of emotions and sensations.
We have bodies, and this is something that would only be discussed by means of really strange philosophies. Therefore, I will take it as a fact. Our bodies are perfect machines, they have regeneration powers: healing, temperature regulation by means of complicated mechanisms, amount of fluids on the body, the refreshing of the skin, the air exchange. Our bodies can store energy, and use it only in the exact amount is needed. It can even give us extra one when is a shock situation and adrenaline jumps into our veins, and any time is required, it will try to give us the best performance possible. It is so powerful the mechanism that works inside our skin that even knowing the exact reasons of growing old is a mystery.
On the other hand, I will use her words to illustrate a wonderful contradiction:
“And you know, people drink alcohol, use drugs, do not eat properly even having the chance, and take a few care of the body who, nevertheless, always tries to give the best performance.”
Therefore, we can perceive two opposite forces, the body that tries to be on its best condition, and this other force which tries to use it and destroy it. This other force, unveiled this way, is soul. Suicides, addictions to drugs, unsafe sex, wrong alimentary habits, and many other elements could be shown to express such a fight, which means opposite forces.
As we all know, dialectics is raised from the fight of opposite forces. Every thesis has an antithesis, and in this case, to body we can oppose soul. Given this point, we arrive into a fine conclusion: if, according to dialectics, from a contradiction between opposite forces raises a new concept, taking the best of each, creating a synthesis, then we can perfectly conclude what are we: The ruthless fight of body and soul.

THE FORBIDDEN WORD

2008-11-12T19:46:00.007+01:00

I do not know how long time ago the ban was settled down, but not even the eldest people know exactly which was the meaning of the word, or why it was forbidden. They just say everyday that is for our own sake, and therefore we shouldn’t use it. I do not know what to believe, but they say it makes the people to grow selfish, to think on themselves and some other things instead of the great idea. And this I can not imagine.
How did everything begin? I do not know. I know a few things of the world before the great change. I just know it was a cruel world, where people were suffering, and then our great change happened. It brought light and happiness everywhere, it made the people loose any sense of belonging, not even our own bodies are our, and souls, as well, belong to the great idea.
When I look around, and I see all this wonderful things that surround me, I can not even conceive anything else. How was reality? It is something I just wonder myself as a result of this never ending thirst that tortures my soul as a crying wolf; taking me nowhere, I know, but taking me, anyway, and that is my problem. Because, I admit it, am here in this place just because I do deserve.
How did it start? How could I let myself go into this strange feelings and thoughts? Why did I start on the search of this nonsense, this stupidity? Curiosity? Madness? I have searched inside my self, but I can not help to resist the idea that this is part of my natural instinct. I must be, like they say, infected.
That is why am here, and that is why I do accept this situation as what I do deserve. I was on the pursuit of a mirage, of an utopia, but a fetched one. But no, please, do not think I am saying what you want to hear, is not the typical confession to receive a better treat, or reduce the unavoidable pain that I deserve to suffer, as a result of my deeds. Believe me; what I do is nothing more than a pure testimony to the people of the future. This is nothing more than a teaching coming from experiencing the facts and I should be a proof for anyone who doesn’t really believe. But I do not expect any mercy. Yes, am guilty, and I will wait for my sentence with the dignity of someone who knows what really deserves, and had to cross to the dark side to understand the bright one. So now, please, jailers, do your deed.
What? The forbidden word! Yes, I'll tell you: it’s Love.

TWO-SIDED COIN

2008-11-07T12:26:00.000+01:00

Only few things are more interesting, from the psychological point of view, than a diary. Gathering past events and emotions, feelings and people on its pages is a trip into a past that we have already lost, but we try to hold in a useless but somehow successful effort of establishing a continuity in our lives as we use time to understand our transit on earth as individuals.
The idea of analyzing how memory works grew while I was talking to the adorable A., I must admit it was a highly inspiring talk as she contributed with the colors my ultra rational mood wouldn’t be able to find without her. Also probably was the new face I unveiled from her and the pearls she dropped every once in a while in such a prolific way that simply amazed me.
As she wrote a diary, we commented the idea of how we read back what was written on a certain day and how alien is the feeling we perceive from what we read, as if it was a strange hand guided by a strange mind who wrote that. Having even the feeling that if this would be written one hour, or a day later, it would have been completely different.
When we look back at past, memories fuse on a confuse bulk. Is like the train ways; if you stand on them, and look on the distance, they trend to collapse in one point: the farther the point is, the closer the lines seem to be. That’s the distance blending effect. As a result of this, the reading of a diary would confront this idea we grabbed from our lives with the feeling of this precise and small moment, and we realized that something changed, that we probably didn’t write what we felt, we assume we really know what really happened, and it was the confusion of the moment what didn’t let us write accurately what really happened. But it is exactly the other way round.
We live in between major events. From birth, we unconsciously “select” the moments that have the strongest footprint in our lives: going to school, move to a new house, change the school, parents on a trip, a relationship start and its end, are some of this events that won’t let your mind on the same pace. Therefore, we structure our past life on seasons where these major effects are, absolutely, turning points that delimit a general feeling, a mood, a way to remember. How to be sure, when we look at a certain point of our life, a precise and defined moment, we remember it the way it was? And is not a matter of how detailed the memory could be, but the veil of the season that covers it.
Each of this life seasons is clearly depicted and classified in our brains by a specific feeling which is associated to any single fact lived during this period. For example, imagine someone who spent few years of childhood on a different town, next to the beach, clean air, sports, freedom, amazing outdoor environment, nice friends and some other details that would give to the period a certain color of happiness that the simple evocation of it draws a smile in our face. Within this frame, now we insert a sad day, like a farewell for a childhood love. The favorite, the person we shared our treasures with and owned our dreams. This special one that we learnt to love the way children do: with an infinite desire of being together, a thirst that can’t be mitigated. And then, one day, that person is leaving. The promises of keeping in touch, the last hugs, maybe a furtive and innocent kiss spotted next to the beloved mouth, but more than everything, the stifling uncertainty of a future meeting.
And you hold this picture in your hands, and watch it, seeing four arms around two bodies, the sweet–sour smiles, and it’s cute. So you smile, and you think how good it was living there, meeting that people, and your memory is built, simply skipping the knot on your throat you felt that day and the following ones, the emptiness, the sadness, the struggle not to cry even if you feel your world is going over, and you had no reason to wake up next morning and smile, or even walk. Yes, definitely, we choose the side of the coin we want to use.
Just rewind.

THE HITMAN

2008-10-25T12:25:00.010+02:00

He took a shower slowly. There was still time to get ready; everything should be perfect. When finished at bathroom, went out with the towel knotted to the waist and the wet hair dripping on his back. It was a little cold, but it was a good feeling that helped him to be relaxed.
Still undressed, went for the computer to check the instructions.
There was the website, there was the target list and there was his target. He looked carefully the guest list, there could not be any mistake and nothing should interfere on the accomplishment of his mission. Sadia, what a strange name for a girl. It has something of magic and something of mysterious, and his mind started to flow into this epigram, link it with De Sade, and some other images. He saw her half dressed in black, leather and chains shining all around her body, and a fierce light on her eyes. The flame of desire burned softly on his soul, when he came back into reality.

“This can not happen” he thought. “No anticipated feelings, no so many thoughts, nothing should interfere”. The three golden rules slided into his brain giving him back rationality on two legs. Yes, he had a mission to accomplish and being over excited or nervous would be a serious obstacle to reach a positive end. All his nerves should be ready to act and react on the precise moment, with no margin to any mistake, to any failure. After so many years he had really become a self-demanding person.
He checked the list once more. There would also be K, he should be careful with this girl. She could grab him in the arm, he should be aware of such possibility; therefore avoiding her would be a vital task. Later he could talk to her, if there was time and chance and mood. Also P and S, his pals, but they also should wait for him. “First the first” he thought.
So he went to get dressed. He should avoid certain people on the place, so he tried to choose discrete clothes. Black and gray would be his colors for this evening. Once ready with the clothes, he went to the toilet and combed his hair with precise movements, which let it in the position he desired. Some gel to keep it this way, and ready. At last, he brushed teeth and mixed with toothpaste a little bit of blood was also flowing on the basin. He should go for the dentist, but there would be time for that.
Finally, he left his place. On his mind a precise idea, a detailed and flexible plan to achieve his goal. He was ready.
Minutes later he was arriving to the place. From the entrance he could see some familiar faces he should avoid without raising any kind of suspicions. Everything should flow naturally; it was the key to success. He went in slowly, with the steps of someone that could even walk over the swamps with total security, like knowing exactly which bricks or tiles would be better for each of his steps.
With a fine movement he could avoid P and S, who were engaged into a serious discussion on which of the two girls next to the bar, was hotter. He hid himself behind a huge guy who tried to whisper something on a nice girl’s ears; just in the moment when his friends sight would have detect him. K was not a big deal. She was giving welcome kisses to two other girls that just arrived and would spend at least five minutes on the routine questions.
But anyway he should move fast. Finding the target as soon as possible was the only way to succeed, so he spotted a nice corner from where he could dominate the whole area without been almost seen.
More familiar faces appeared into him, but he was focused on his mission. Later, there would be time for them. Suddenly, it happened.
She was there, magnificent, dressed on black and chains, with leather motives, a cocktail on her hand, and the red light of a lamp giving her a strange shine that made goose bumps on his skin. It was almost as he could imagine and this was really surprising. “No emotions, no emotions, you have something to do” he said to him self, and started to walk towards her.
The girl was moving slowly with the soft music when he reached her.
–Sadia? –he said.
-Yes…? – she replied nodding a little bit her head…
It was confirmed, there was the target, a gorgeous victim. So he raised his hand, aimed between eyes and shot.
–Bum, –he said, and the girl looked at him baffled but interested– now you are dead.
And he left, leaving her there, standing, with no words to say, not knowing what to do, the meaning of all this. Now he would have time for his friends.
–Mission accomplished –he whispered…

TOY STORY

2008-10-18T15:22:00.001+02:00

The pain was so hard that, in a certain way, it was impossible to feel. Everything happened so fast that, even though he would have been someone used to react quite quickly, to fight thousands of battles, to avoid tricks and traps, to escape from unbelievable situations, he wouldn’t be able to do anything.
In this instant, images started to run on his mind like a river that have broken the walls of a dam and claimed furiously it’s new freedom, flooding everything with colors, sounds and feelings he thought forgotten a long time ago.
It seems that happened two centuries ago, or, at the same time, just one day, the first time his father took him to fish and all brothers laughed at him when, instead of a fish, an ugly toad was hanging at the end of the fishing line. Or the day the beautiful M. raised her skirt and he, cornered in the classroom by the other kids, instead of doing what a real man was supposed to do, just blushed to the point of crying.
Then, he felt the pain was changing into the sensation of a burning acid inside of his body, and this brought into his mind the day he drank alcohol for the first time, at B’s place, when they stole, on an innocent children birthday party, a bottle of whiskey from B’s father bar. He remembered the feeling on his throat, the soar, the heat, and that, after a few drinks his eyes started to whirl incomprehensibly without he could do anything to help it. Later on, he was told he puked, and felt on the grass of the garden where his fellows have forsaken him till B’s mom found him, and carried him home where his own mother terribly upset and nervous was putting him on the shower and then at bed, after an ugly argue with B’s parents. He was told about all this, yes, because all he can remember is next morning when he woke up (feeling a mouse running inside of his stomach and a chisel drilling on his head) the way his father beat and screamed at him while calling him scumbag. The rest that he was told about was like something that never happened and he should pay for it.
He looked around and realized in this very moment all his comrades kept running trying to escape from the hail of bullets that from every corner, window, or hole on the houses walls was following them on a deadly race. Only the kid stood in front of him, only the kid seemed to pay attention to him, looking at him with this eyes, mixed of horror and hate, that made him remember the mockery he suffered from high school classmates that made him become a lonely ghost, just as lonely as now, in the middle of nowhere, with this pain inside.
Yes, because the pain was growing and something warm was flowing on his belly, bathing his hand of a soft touch, just the same way that day when L. laughed about his love confession, and ran into the other kids who joined into a generalized joke. This day was not blood what bathed his hand, like today, but tears.
In a last effort, the guy hold his own gun trying to gather all remaining strength of his body, but the feeling of security that he felt when this lieutenant, impeccably dressed that made all girls sigh and whisper by the simple fact of his presence, told him he would become a real man, respected by everyone, beloved by peers and homeland, the proud restored, and enrolled him into the army.
Yes, now it was worthless all this effort, the daily trainings from which he wanted to escape (but the idea of having a better life to live, and the image of the hell the past 18 years were for him tied him there), the long walks under the sun, thirsty, starving, with a slim layer of dust covering his skin, just to prove themselves how hard a man could be with the support of will. Yes, will, the same will they all had to win the cowboy games played on childhood, strongly decided to eliminate the rival gang that made them crawl and run like demons. But there’s pain now, right now, right there, to remind him that life and war are not simple games. No, not anymore.
And the kid in front of him, maybe even younger, appeared from the nothing just to cut his way with a shot, is also there for the same reason. Our boy tries to find on the kid’s face the face of an enemy he was told to fight, to hate, but he can only find his own face, the face of the confusion, of the thoughts that run colliding with the fear to death, to loneliness, to be less than what we’re all expected to be. Yes, the kid is there, looking at him realizing that, thanks to this kind of survival instincts that make us even kill, our boy is trying to grab the gun and shot.
The other gun fired again.
The thoughts then stopped and a strange peace arrived, finally, into his mind. This time the body was falling on the ground, without any glorious music sounding on his ears and no slow fall, like on Hollywood movies, but like a heavy mass free from any resistance to gravity that sends dust back to dust since the beginning of time, till the end…

DESTINY

2008-10-15T12:38:00.001+02:00

If we paddle upstream on the classical idea of destiny, where everything is written, set, defined and every act of your life is previously conceived by a higher will, we would feel obviously uncomfortable. This comes from the idea of the suppression of the freewill that we are obsessed not to loose. Under this idea, all efforts and sacrifices we do, trying to reach a goal clearly defined in our minds, would become senseless. If the divine forces of destiny have prepared our way, we become mere tools of a supra consciousness that moves us as puppets on a huge stage; therefore, are not our goals what we pursuit, and if every thing you would imagine is not your own decision and from all possibilities you might have you will choose the pre-determined one, why to choose doing something? Why should we act, create, move? Why should we respect the laws of moral and society if absolutely everything we might choose was defined, before our own selves would decide, as our destiny, letting us free of assuming our responsibilities and consequences of our facts? On the other hand, would we accept the fact that any plan or idea we draw is not really ours, but dictated to our minds through destiny threads? No, this perception is a suppression of individual, and as such, we fight immediately to restore our egos into their throne, ruling our lives.
Also, if we choose the other viewpoint of the idea of destiny, where everyone has a mission on earth, that might be very simple or giant, invisible or shining, light or heavy, gives us, at least, the small refuge of not knowing which mission was assign to you, but anyway puts you in the place of not choosing what your future would be.
“I do not believe in destiny, nor coincidences, but in myself” told me Z with her usual candor. Yes, the idea of destiny is repulsive for our nowadays mentality, it was an instrument used to move people when they should be strongly directed and subtle mechanisms we currently use were not suitable for masses. Nowadays, they are necessary.
Then, should we believe that all that happens to us is absolutely the result of our facts and decisions? No, at least, not in a hundred percent. There are two factors that define destiny in the way we might be able to process it; this factors are probability and coincidence. Yes, my dear Z, coincidence not only exists, but defines our life.
According to Kundera, in his masterpiece “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” coincidence is defined as “Two unexpected facts that occur simultaneously”.
Our lives are a succession of decisions and ideas that, on every moment, define a wide, but limited, number of probable facts that, by means of coincidences, get ranked in our minds to create a new decision and therefore, our next deed.
Does this go against the unlimited probabilities human life should have to prove the real freewill? In a certain and definite moment, yes. Since in a single moment of life, a person doesn’t have all possibilities in front; several things should happen around this person that would affect, by means of coincidence and chance, the micro world concerning this individual to make this person think about unknown possibilities, erasing at the same time, part of the possibilities the person had in the past instant. Lets go for some examples. Now we imagine a person that was born in Africa, far away from the idea of Buddhism. Can this person, by means of freewill, adopt the idea of Buddhism? Certainly not. Being objective, the probability is so easy to neglect that giving it something different than zero value is nothing but irrational. Another one, a man, who wins the lottery, should have before, bought the bill, but the fact that he bought the bill does not imply he will win the lottery. Is just a probability, a new probability opened into his life, which needs then the second factor, the coincidence. Here we clearly see how the system of probability ranges progresses: before buying the ticket, the probability of winning the lottery was zero; after buying it, probability was terrifyingly small, but different from zero; in the end, coincidence operated the last piece of the mechanism making an hypothetic fact to become true, selected from the range of probabilities.
Now we move into another field, away from random processes like lottery. We will consider, for example, how many factors might be necessary for two people to meet. Lets have two people who meet at school. Seems so easy that analyzing this fact might seem trivial, but if we consider not only the facts the children should have done to be there, but also their parents and by induction even their country, the amount of small facts would be so huge, that computing it drives us to an endless duty.
What can we say about this fact then?
Life, in all extent, is the result of probabilities (instantly limited and modified but infinite and beyond control on a lifetime) and coincidences (absolutely unpredictable but as well conditioned by our previous actions), which are mixing and linking to each other in a process that, in an easy way, was conceived as destiny, but would be more appropriate to say is a distribution of probabilities according to all our characteristics (tall, strong, healthy, blond, smart, fast, sensual, courageous, relaxed and all the antonyms) and origin data (date, country, ancestors, languages spoken) that allows us to interact with the world and modify them by taking decisions. This is, maybe, what destiny might mean.

NOT EASY TO HANDLE*

2008-10-10T12:18:00.003+02:00

I don't know when it started but when I realized my hand wasn’t mine anymore, I got worried. Yes, it was still connected to my arm, but “she” started to have such an own life that I considered it would be a matter of time she would leave my arm to plenty enjoy her freedom.
It maybe started drawing at free will. It got the pen and drew… and drew… it couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop it neither. There were soon, on the papers, grapes and apples, and cherries, and faces, and cubes, and sand clocks, and eyes… yes, I guess it was the way it started. In the beginning I just saw it like a joke, then, when I wanted to do something else, and she did not obey, it was not so nice. Then came spheres, bottles, stars, Chinese letters with unknown meaning, spirals and stairs going and going somewhere inside the sheets.
It was not nice at all, no. Anyway, even if I was really pissed off by then, I would like it would have been all she decided to do. Later on was even worst. She started to behave in a way I would never expect. She pulled the hairs on my nose, scratched my ears, even pinch me somewhere really painful and smiled with her five fingers while watching my face wring of pain.
It was a behavior I decided was not possible to tolerate.
And I tried many things, many, but how to fight your own hand if you have not two hands to fight? She was not only becoming my enemy but, automatically, reducing my own arsenal! The number of my forces, my strength, myself! Everything was drastically reduced! But I was stubborn, and I fought with nails (the remaining ones) and teeth, with heart and soul, to punish her insolence and disobedience.
I tried to tie her somewhere but it didn’t work (if you think is easy, try to tie a rebel hand somewhere, with the remaining one and you will tell me). I tried to hold it with my head, while searching with the other hand the way of putting her under control for a while, but she really knows how to fight, I must admit. She was pulling my hairs (even eyebrows and eyelashes), putting some fingers inside my mouth to make me puke, trying to attack my eyes on a dirty and tricky move that made me finally lose my nerves and I had to let her go.
I couldn’t believe it. My own hand, after so many years of service, after all my care, the spent time training her: teaching skillful tricks and moves, making her a dammed good pack of muscles bones and cartilages perfectly assembled; a rebel! And not only fighting me but also defeating me! Yes, is sad but I must say she was obviously successful, clearly winning the war!
I was so bitter and depressed that I have finally decided to ignore her, just ignore her, barely protecting sensible parts of my body from her pinches and punches. Just that, but it was horrible! She sabotaged my cigarettes, changed continuously the channels of the TV when grabbed the remote controller and then came a hard fight to get it back, and I had to bite her really strong to succeed. But the worst was yesterday evening, when I tried to eat; she was putting all five fingers on my food, and kicking little pieces out of the plate. I couldn’t stand it anymore, no, that had gone too far!
Then, full of anger, I grabbed the biggest knife there was on the kitchen and looked at her with a cold smile that made her maybe scared for the first time of our war. But I couldn’t take the risk of believing her lies, I was decided to put an end to the situation, so I calculated the strike and, with two fast and precise movements, made a clean cut on the wrist and stabbed her to the table on a dexterity masterpiece.
To stop the blood was a problem I was happy to solve, after all. I would have to live from this moment with only one hand, but is better to have only one faithful hand than two when one of them is a rebel. Anyway, I will survive. I just hope that will never ever be another rebellion, or I would be lost.
She? Yes, she’s still there, at my kitchen, nailed like a Christ to the table, and sometimes moving one or two fingers, maybe all hopes of freedom lost, since I continuously check she won’t get rid of the knife, and do just God knows what.

*The original title of this story was "THE REBEL" but one afternoon, going back home, I got the idea for the new title. It was so funny for me, that I simply decided to change it.

DIALOGS

2008-10-08T20:58:00.001+02:00

The two guys were smoking cigarettes at the entrance of the restaurant. The two girls that came with them have already entered. The guys look at each other, holding the cigarettes with an expression in their faces and bodies as if they would be outside just by a miraculous chance, since their minds were already inside, just waiting their fingers make the move and drop the cigarettes.
– No, I can't man, I can't drop the cigarette before going to the real end.
– You are right, me neither… is like dropping food on the garbage…
– Yeah! It is exactly the same.
– And you know, there are so many ex-smokers who would die for a taste of a cigarette, and we, what would we do? Drop them before the end? This would be a shame!
– Yesss... And so many people, just waking up in this precise moment from their beds, desiring to smoke the first cigarette of the day, and no cigarettes at all at home… the closest shop is ten blocks away, and they search all pockets, drawers, corners and empty packages, trying to find one single cigarette, not even a new one, but at least little bit that could be smoked!
– Absolutely! I know the feeling, so we won't drop them before the end.
– Yes, we don't…
And stood there, smoking, till there were only filters on their fingers. Then, almost wary, dropped the cigarettes and went into the restaurant, where food awaited them spreading delicious and fragile steam threads.

*****

–Do you know what a joke means?
–Eeehm…
–You know, is like something you say but is not like hundred percent true…
–So it's like a little lie?
–Yes, but a funny one!

*****

– Hey pal; can you give me a cigarette?
– Yes, sure. But we have nothing to light!
– Oh! Ok let’s ask that girl who’s coming there.
– But I know her, she doesn’t smoke.
– It doesn’t matter, you will see…
– Hey babe, do you have a lighter?
– No, I don't smoke.
– I knew it, is just that I saw you are pure fire…
– Me? You are a liar. How can you say this about me? I have nothing in my face that could remind you fire!
– So you don’t believe me…
– Of course not!
– Then you shall see! – And approached his hand to the girl’s face till the cigarette, by the contact with the skin, lighted.

LONELINESS

2008-10-06T23:22:00.000+02:00

Now we imagine a desert. No, its not the Sahara, because it would be too magnificent for our purposes. Too dry, too monotonous, just dunes and dunes of sand going further and further for a trip without a compass, without map, and 3 cc of water. So I would prefer the deserts of California, huge as well, but with confusing bushes and fake hopes of finding the way on what could be traces of a car that wind washes on the sand.
Then, we imagine a man, a single man, dressed in any way or maybe not dressed up at all. The man walks down the desert and the sun is horribly strong. He has no clue on where and how to go, just this stubborn determination of walking not to die of thirst and starvation, burnt by the sun, buried in the sand by the wind, devoured vultures circling above. In the pocket, 3 cc of water left.
His mind tries to drift away from the vision that crude reality shows him: there’s sand, dry bushes and sun everywhere nothing else. He tries to keep focus, tries to move with the sun, reach any kind of destiny but a grave-less death. But he cannot help it; desperation and delusions carry his mind away, there where hope tries to lie.
So the man thinks about himself in a room. It is almost impossible his mind would be so strong or optimistic to put him in good company, so he’s alone. He has a delicious and tremendous paranoid panic attack. He needs someone around to calm him, to hold him, to be with him. But hope hasn’t forsaken him, armed with a mobile phone in hand, holding it nervously, he tries to call for reinforcements. Let’s say its a girl. He dials, and listens to the ring on the other side. Every single ring is a cold wave that crosses his body and makes him shake like a leaf on a stormy wind.
In the sun of the desert, the other man, the real one, also shakes.
How many rings were there, six, eight? He could not count, it was enough to listen to them all and feel how his hopes were melting with each auditory shiver, and finally he suffered a collapse that turned him into a bundle of nerves when a distant beep announced the automatic answering machine would be the only reply. He waited some seconds of centuries before another call, but anxiety didn’t allow him too much rest. Biting his lips, scratching his hair, eyebrows twitching and eyes blinking, he tried again, and again… then he received an SMS. She wrote “I am at a party, so I can not listen the phone. Do not worry, I will go home soon”. “Holy shit!” he thought, and the panic was so strong that he could barely hold the telephone on his hands.
There, in the desert, now down on his knees, the warm breeze blowing on his ears, he closed his eyes. His mind was fighting to stay on track, an effort beyond measure, and he went back to the room.
He called back, once more, and again, and again. No answer. He cursed, feared, erupted into ridiculous anger and cried. Then he wrote an SMS. “Am not feeling good, could you come home now please? Do not worry too much, but come”. He left the phone on the table and tried to avoid listening every car sound in front of the window. The car that would bring her home. He tried with music, and stared for a long time watching the visualizations of the Media Player move in circles, lines, dots and colors. He saw the fractals of strange equations vibrating with music, containing the origin and death of every atom of the universe, of every note of each song, of every life.
He wrote again, “Please, come home”. And then tried with the TV. There were music shows, advertisement, sports, but the images were hurting his eyes, and the noises drilling his ears in a way that almost made him puke. First, he tried to mute the TV, but eventually shut it down.
In the desert, the man scrubbed his face with a hand, trying to remove the sand that threatened to invade his eyes now as his head was falling towards the ground.
She would never come, at least not soon, and then it would be too late. His heart would not resist the fiery beats; his mind would get blow away on crazy thoughts, and his body would, guided by heart and mind, simply collapse.
“She will not come…” said the man in the desert, and opened his eyes just to watch the sun, which shined with a circle around it that reminded him the image of saints, and then, died.
In the shadows of a room, at early morning, the kisses of a girl wiped away the tears on a man’s eyes that had, for sure, understood the real meaning of loneliness.

30

2008-10-06T23:20:00.000+02:00

Am 30. It happened yesterday, probably many other things also happened, some deaths, some births, some people having sex for the first time in their lives, but I could not see everything. I am not so interested anyway. I have enough to think with my own shit. So there I focus, on my 30’s, feeling that everyone expects me to be so. But am just walking away from my office, looking the people around me, everybody moving and, what I see are just numbers. 30 is also a number, and I think, that was maybe the link.
But what catches really my attention is how much we have got used to become numbers. This is one of meanings of progress, the daily acceptation of being numbers. We have ID card number, driving license number, passport number, tax number, bank account number, telephone number, and numbers for queuing at bank and hospitals, and so on…
Nevertheless, the most interesting thing of all this common and ordinary numbers from everyday life is the point that somehow, all this numbers, suppress yourself, in some cases, for a period of time, in others for your whole life, your own person. Sometimes, they suppress objects as well.
Suddenly comes into my mind a picture from middle age when someone is reading a list of ID numbers of Knights for a contest or invitees for a party at palace. Or a sign in the far, far west that offers numbers for the capture of BX-6464 and CP-1785, two famous bandits ID numbers. Then follows a horse with a registration number; or Da Vinci, giving his bank account number, to receive payment for the Giaconda.
This examples as just as ridiculous as you might imagine, but what is really funny, for example, is when you are sick, at hospital, queuing, waiting for the desired moment of accessing the doctor, tell him your sorrows, comment on your pains and sicknesses, and all you have in your hand is a piece of paper with a number. Then, when the great moment comes, on the screens there is a number. No one says “Next person please”, no. There is just a number. The thing is that your entire being is represented by a number. Some digits which contain all your soul and flesh, your happiness and sorrows, truly speaking, the exact amount of matter and energy defined as YOURSELF.
At the bank, is almost the same story. Also at the custom office, or with the policeman that stops a car in the highway, the financial advisor, the bitch at the corner… all searching numbers…
“Is civilized”, might some people say. “Yes, thanks”, I would reply. And I thank precisely because this is what I see when I look around: how civilization has sent us into this matrix, this mega-matrix where we all play our NUMBER.
Me? Am 30.

02.Oct.2008

SINGING IN THE TRUNK

2008-10-06T23:13:00.001+02:00

After some months of directionless talks, parties, hilarious comments and funny situations of all kind, we have decided that the money, health and time we were dedicating rigorously to the great thing of getting drunk and/or high every weekend must have a sense. So many wasted topics and ideas should not fall into the nothing of forgetfulness.
Then, at Zs’s terrace, while preparing a barbecue party, S. and me we have agreed that the only way to save this deep and funny par of ourselves it was by doing a blog. We have decided to take notes on every topic that grabbed our attention and develop it as a brain gym therapy to ordinary boredom and routine.
We are a group of guys in the late 20’s (by the moment I am writing this, there 3 days left to my 30) who want to share with people whatever that comes into our minds. Let our vision, rage, happiness, thoughts, bullshit and whatever that comes be shared by people all over the world. By this sentence am assuming some people is going to read this. Well, in the beginning will be basically friends who will, by precise and I hope that positive judgment, propagate our link and so on. But we are not especially worried on this topic. We are writing for ourselves, from ourselves, and we are glad to share. That’s all.
About the name of the blog, it has a short story.
We were six, and there was space only for five in the car. Therefore, I had to go on the trunk. It was a nice way to go on with the party. The rear lights of the car, a small line of light entering from the rear glass, and the voices of my friends were the only link to the outside world. The movement of the car as well, but it was not so connective, maybe because it assumed it as the possibility of feeling universe moving, my dark, private and small universe. Of course I was worried about claustrophobic feelings, but it was not so bad, the trunk was empty and there was space enough to lean back my head, and relax. That was my goal and I have succeeded. Someone asked how was it going for me and I tried a joke: “Hey I could fill this space entirely just with an erection!”. But the best point was, in fact, that I managed to entertain the whole crew by singing. I just got the inspiration and I let my mind to drive me into melody and lyrics. This was the song:

“Am so happy singing in the trunk,
singing, singing, lying in the trunk.
Am so happy singing in the trunk
that some people might belive
that I have to be drunk…”
(And so on.)

The melody, Christmas’ song. The result, a hilarious state of mind that invaded us all and made me enjoy the circumstance of being on a trunk, half drunk, going for a birthday party where we were also celebrating for my 30th birthday. What a way to enter into the grown-up life. Anyway, it was the best part of the evening.
The concrete idea of naming the blog this way it was a suggestion of P’s sis. She just said, “Why not name it like this?” So the name revealed itself.
Might be strange, but the fact of being in a trunk, mostly connected with kidnapping, crime or any highly forbidden fact that, normally, use to involve some violence, became something absolutely happy. By the moment we were arriving the place we were going to, I was feeling so comfortably numb that I could have slept there.
But in the end it was a nice trip, just like the one must of us are having, day after day, in the trunk of this car called planet earth, only god knows where to, because from the trunk we can’t see anything at all, and we want to write about it.

28.Sept.2008