Archivo para 31 marzo 2009

31
Mar
09

The Vase.

-I came on Eileen-.
(T-Shirt Hell).

To some people, looking into the future is like modelling a pot out of clay: they feel like they´re putting so much effort on doing something so fragile that they´d rather not do it.

What if it gets broken? What if it doesn´t turn out to be what we were planning to do? What if our fingers aren´t skillful enough to get the shape we initially wanted?

Maybe the trick is to let the fingers work, and let the brain take a nap. And to be sure that nothing will come out as we planned it to, and learn to accept it and enjoy it.

Or maybe the trick is just to shut up, stop wondering, and start walking.

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27
Mar
09

Clearview.

Moskovskaya line on it´s way to Minsk. Sept. 2008.

-La puerta se abrirá cuando haya un viento que la empuje-.

(Fierezna 2.0).

The glasses fit to her skull perfectly, in spite of all the years that had passed since she had stop wearing them.

She just wanted to see how she saw the world when she was a kid, but found that, now, that world was just a blurry mess.

After the surgery, she saw everything clearer. Sharper. Much more defined and into focus, with every corner, every edge as delimited as ever. The world completely at hand reach, without eye-tricks, without hidden details, mixed colours or undefined contours.

Yes. Now, she could see everything that was there to be seen.

Finally, after a few minutes looking at the sky through the windshield, she turned on the radio, hit the gas to the bottom and sped back into the crowded highway with her old glasses still on and a wide smile on her face.

Ah, she was SO happy of seeing again…

26
Mar
09

City lights.

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Sword Master: Peleas como un granjero.
Guybrush Threpwood: Muy apropiado: tú peleas como una vaca-.
(The Secret of Monkey Island, Lucasarts 1990).

Sometimes, at night, he would just wander around the city, dragging his feet along every familiar spot he had previously visited with Her, yet not doing it knowingly: he would appear at all those places as if by chance, each time in a different order and following a different route, just to end up getting caught by his own reflection on the dusty windows of the formerly-being coffee shop, where they would meet after the lessons to study together; or striding past and hardly looking at the specially painful memory that lured him from the shadows of that doorway, near her bus stop, where they had been close to fuck eachother´s brains out that one night, after half a dozen of beers.
Also, he would never sit again at that spot in the Wurlitzer Ballroom, where they had kissed for the first time after almost a year of pretending that nothing was going on between them.
He wouldn´t think, he would just do.

Most of the nights, he would end up feeling a lump of wet ashes down his throat. Sitting down somewhere near his home, smoking a cigarette and trying to blow rings into the wind, he felt that he had looked back so often that, finally, he had broken his neck.

And that all that bullshit about a world without borders and distances was actually true, but had nothing to do with artificial networks, planes or cash-flow, but with veins, smells, flesh and thoughts.

Deep into one´s heart, the world was small and connected, time-zones didn´t exist, and different moments and people could be molten, shaped and fused into just one feeling: saudade.