Nana para un vagón

La soledad de las salas de espera, los trasbordos, los tiempos muertos, los muertos, los lugares comunes y los tópicos. No es cierto. Es mentira. No existen. Shhh. Pero no se lo digas a nadie. Shhh. El silencio, la soledad están llenos de tiempo para pensar, mirar por la ventana, leer, dormir, volver a leer, pensar en fingir una parálisis de los miembros inferiores. Imaginar distancias imposibles. Proyectar escribir. Especializarse en nubes o raíles. Obtener el título. Aprender a volar. Enredar los rizos como camaleones a la catenaria del tren y dejar que el balanceo combe las caderas a la derecha...y a la izquierda. A un lado... y al otro. Deprisa y despacio. Marearse. Puerta. Shsss. Puerta. Shhsss. Avanzar con la nariz hilvanada con el aroma de un falso café. Cerrar los ojos. El pasillo de casa. Los primeros pasos. El suelo está inclinado. Este pijama resbala. Shssss, shsss, duémete niña, duérmete...ya, shsssss, shssssssssssssssssssss.

Rita and Whatsit

Bon pont

Me voy. Me esperan 12 horas de tren de ida y otras 12 de vuelta. Me perderé todas las fiestas de guardar y las de salir a la calle pero me vendrá bien estar lejos para descansar, reflexionar y aún con las pilas descargadas y la espalda molida volver al lugar de siempre pero de otra manera.

El puente del Pilar. Ese sí que estaría bien que estuviera bien. Igual "ejecuto" parte de mis vacaciones pendientes.

Bon viatge! Bon pOnt!

Punk is...

Finding ways to be happy in your work,

knowing that happiness is good for creativity,

wich is good for bussines, wich makes you happy

wich gets you more sex

Knowing that what you do passes the bullshit test

and is meaningful, honest and interesting

and, if it isn't, doing something else instead.

Realizing people don't care about your bussiness,

and certanly not your marketing, unless you give them

a good reason. Better be a damm good one.

Punk Marketing by Richard Laermer & Mark Simmons

Rentrée

On the mood... just like you

Grave Girl by Andre Jordan

I found her sitting on a gravestone. She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
‘Hello’, I said.
‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.
‘Whom are you talking to?’
‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.
I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’
‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words’
‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.
‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.
‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.
‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.
‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842’.
Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation. ‘What is your favourite word?’
The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment. ‘Oh I have so many favourites. It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy’.
‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.
‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.
‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away’
‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time.
‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’
And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing. ‘A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates… Keats and Yeats are on your side…’ Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’. I said I understood. I would bother her no more. But I was devastated. Truly devastated. Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’? I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said. So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late. I had missed my one and only chance.
I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.