28.2.08

Pasará en New York City

Hacía tiempo que no se iba de vacaciones. Recordaba con nostalgia tiempos pasados en los que había recorrido el mundo a bordo de un espíritu humanitario que ahora vivía ensimismado. ¿Por qué New York City? Ni él mismo lo sabía. Tenía buenos recuerdos de la ciudad. Dos veces se había perdido ya en ella. Una solo, la otra acompañado. Recuerdos agridulces mientras pisaba la quinta avenida por tercera vez. La marabunta. La vio por casualidad, su teléfono móvil en una mano, su café en la otra, un bolso a la espalda.

"¡Tú!" No se percató y continuó su marcha.

"¡Vanessa!" Entonces sí, se giró.

"¿Juan?" Sorprendida de verlo.

"Sí, soy yo. ¿Me recuerdas?"

"Sí," tímidamente, contradiciendo el entusiasmo contenido de sus ojos.

"¿Qué haces por aquí?"

"Trabajo en la Universidad, ¿y tú?" Un breve suspiro de incertidumbre antes de mirar el reloj.

"Estoy de vacaciones. Volví a España hace mucho tiempo. ¿Cuánto hace que no nos veíamos?"

"Lo siento Juan, me tengo que ir, he quedado con mi marido y llego tarde, como siempre. ¿Estás solo?"

"Sí, pero no te preocupes. En cualquier caso, ha sido un placer cruzarme contigo. De verdad, un placer," su voz, nostalgia.

Ella agachó la cabeza incómoda y se despidió torpemente. Él la vio alejarse.

"¡Vanessa!" Sorprendido.

"¿Sí?"

"Nada, que te quiero, pero eso ya da igual," susurro a gritos.

Dio una patada al suelo y se acercó a él y le besó en la mejilla. Sonrieron una última vez como cuando el tiempo los erizaba y las nubes no eran nubes.

"Yo también, pero como tu bien dices, eso ya da igual."

Se alejó de nuevo, esta vez sí, para siempre.

26.2.08

Normas para mirarse

Primero debe uno sentarse delante de un espejo. Es mucho mejor sentarse, sobre todo si es la primera vez que uno lo intenta. Es difícil mantenerse de pie si uno no tiene práctica. A partir de aquí la idea es sencilla. Primero contempla tu imagen en el espejo para inmediatamente después cruzar tus ojos en busca de tu nariz. Mantén esa posición hasta que deje de ser incómoda. Deberías todavía ser capaz de ver, que no mirar, tu imagen borrosa en el espejo. A continuación, en lugar de volver a la posición inicial de tus ojos, sigue cruzándolos hasta que tu imagen borrosa en el espejo desaparezca por completo y te reciba la oscuridad. Oscuridad que, eso sí, dura bien poco. Un esfuerzo más antes de finalmente gozar de lo nunca visto, uno mismo. Cabe destacar que muchos de los que lo han conseguido no han vuelto nunca a su posición inicial, y no por imposibilidad, sino por voluntad propia. Otros, los verdaderos expertos, van y vienen. La mayoría, por desgracia, nunca lo consigue.

20.2.08

Where?

to dr. plim

"Where are you?"

"Nowhere, really, don't worry about it, it doesn't really matter, does it? What about you? Where are you?"

"I'm now here. That I know."

16.2.08

¿Y ahora qué?

Respiraba agitado.

Su vida huía zigzagueando a través de una heterogénea pulsera pasión.

El teléfono comenzó a sonar.

Tumbado boca abajo se dejó seducir por el omnipresente reclamo.

"Sé que estás ahí..."

El tic tac de un pretérito reloj de pared.

"Coge el teléfono..."

El incesante zumbido de un frigorífico vacío.

"Lo siento..."

Una espita que llora gotas insípidas.

Se levantó del frío suelo y caminó hasta el teléfono e intentó sin éxito aferrarse a él. Cerró los ojos para hacer frente a lo que una vez fue y nunca más volvería a ser. Allí seguía él, tumbado boca abajo.

"¿Y ahora qué?" Se preguntó mientras lágrimas invisibles violaban su mirada.

15.2.08

7. redemption (or i rode my bike across a seven miles bridge surrounded by blues)

continuation

There he was. A seven miles bridge ahead. Riding above the calm water, below an infinite blue sky scattered with inspiring clouds. Blues everywhere. It was worth the ride.

A couple of hours, and two flat tires, later he finally arrived to Key West. Once there he did not know what to do. He had been there before twice. He checked in a motel and went for a walk along Duval Street. He had a frozen chocolate key lime pie for dinner and went back to dive into bed.

The following morning he rented a car and started a sad way back. Sad because he was in a car, sad because it was over, sad because he had not find what he was looking for.

"Why did I ride my bike all the way down here?" He kept asking himself while covering the route backwards on the comfortable seat of a sport utility vehicle.

Everything would be as he left it. Yes, it would. And that thought made him smile. The only thing he needed to be happy was to pedal. He knew then. And pedaling, pedaling is just an attitude...

Redemption Song by Bob Marley, his soundtrack on the way back.

the end and a beginning

11.2.08

6. redemption (or i rode my bike across a seven miles bridge surrounded by blues)

continuation

He crossed over to the keys early in the morning. From then on he would be surrounded by water. The ride from there would be easier. He was sad the end was close. He really was. He did not want to go back. Back to his office, where he used to face his computer and a wall full of memories from the past. Memories that he liked to collect. Pictures, cinema tickets, postcards, post-its, anything would make him feel better. Anything would let him travel far away while heating up his chair with his butt. A tan he was getting because of the radiation of the screen of his computer.

He aimed to be done earlier than usual. He only stopped once, at a small beach. There, he was hypnotized by the beauty of small things. The sea breeze brought to life the surf that was embracing the rocks. As if every pile of surf was a creature trying to get away from a deathly fate. He felt sorry for himself. The wind would soon pull him back to the sea, where he would not feel alive anymore.

"What does to be in love mean?" He thought out of nowhere.

He stayed at Long Key State Park, under a shelter away from everyone. Primitive camping they call it. It was paradise for him. The shelter was by the beach and had an outdoor shower. He run naked, he dived naked into the water.

He went to bed early. He wanted to get to Key West as soon as possible the following day, and that meant an early start. Only then paradise turned into something else.

They were not insects. They were extraterrestrial tiny robots. They were all over his face. They divided his face into an infinite number of microscopic pixels. They were changing his face pixel by pixel. He tried to get rid of them with his hands. They would be gone but soon back. They were never going to stop. His mobility inside the sleeping bag was limited. One of them got into his ear and walked towards his brain. Once there it looked for the hypothalamus and attached a string to it. They were trying to fight him back. He touched a different nose first. A different mouth. He was scared. All of a sudden he could not fight back anymore. The one who made it to his brain started throwing sexual stimuli at him. He got horny first. His arms stopped moving. They were succeeding at changing his face. He would be someone else by morning. Then, it came the relief.

The following morning he woke up and got up and run towards the restroom half a mile away and opened the door and stood still in front of the mirror. He sighted when he saw his reflection on the mirror. He looked as he remembered. Unfortunately, the other half of the dream turned to be something but a dream, and he was in need of a shower a change of underwear and Relax by Mika.

to be continued

10.2.08

Silence

Silence is what they hear when they are ready to listen.

Enveloping silence.

"What are you thinking about?"

Patient silence.

Only then the tightrope becomes wet grass they step on barefoot and get goose pimples.

Silence, and hugs that hide from the future.

Silence and hopes, rather than expectations.

Silence blinded by the sun.

Silence they feel comfortable riding.

Loud silence.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"I'm sorry. I thought you said something."

They did.

9.2.08

Puntualidad

- Llegas tarde.

- Lo sé, ¿acaso me esperabas?

- Lo cierto es que ya no, nunca lo hice, de hecho.

- ¿Entonces?

- ¿Entonces qué?

- ¿Cómo sabes que llego tarde?

- Gracias.

- Gracias a ti, por esperarme aun sin saber que venía.

8.2.08

El Péndulo de Foucault

Me gustan las despedidas.
Sobre todo cuando anhelan.
Futuros reencuentros, inciertos.
Yo no voy.
Yo no vengo.
Yo, ni siquiera estoy.
Yo oscilo, sin entender del tiempo.
Te espero en el paraíso de mi demencia.
Ese en el que yo no soy.
Pero tú sigues siendo.

7.2.08

Dignidad

- El trabajo dignifica al hombre...

- Bien, en ese caso, aquí tienes una lista con mis deberes. ¡Toda tuya! Por supuesto, te regalo con ella mi dignidad, o la dignidad que le quieras asociar...

- Pero...

- No te preocupes, yo mientras tanto, me dedicaré a la vida contemplative, que no dignifica, ¡pero sienta de bien!

4.2.08

5. redemption (or i rode my bike across a seven miles bridge surrounded by blues)

continuation

He stopped at a red light. On his left there was a yellow Lamborghini Diablo, and behind it an also yellow Porsche 911 Carrera. They probably were fans of Tweety. He gave the Lamborghini's driver a fake defiant look. The driver arrogantly smiled back at him while putting his foot on the accelerator. The music was beautiful. The light turned green. He sprinted for four hundred and eighty three yards before letting go, laughing. They beat him, they won, good for them. There, he had no doubt that he was happier on his bicycle than two unknown drivers in his flamboyant cars. No matter how much his butt was hurting.

Riding from West Palm Beach to Miami had little to do with what he had been doing previously. The cars were nicer, people walking in the streets, surrounded by buildings. The nothingness was gone. He would still feel alone, though. There was no physical link to the reality which surrounded him. He was there, but far away at the same time. At least, from then on there would always be a phone nearby, water, food. Even a local bike shop. He felt somehow relieved, but at the same time he missed the dangerous neverending lonely roads that had brought him there.

"This is Hollywood!" He shouted out loud while riding into Hollywood, FL.

He still did not know the real reason of his ride. He, somehow, did not care anymore. He resigned himself to not find his reason for running away, for a desired standby. Sadness punched him in the stomach. He indeed was happy on the road. But he felt that happiness would be gone once his journey was over. Did it need to be over?

In Downtown, Miami, he dived into the fresh grass and took a nap. He was closer to his final goal. He felt sorry that the only way out from Key West was backwards. Forwards, just water. Two more days still.

While lying he saw an extremely obese man walking on a steep sidewalk. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. Twelve steps. Rest. Water. He admired him. Essentially, they were not that different. They both were challenging themselves. Timescales should not place people in different categories.

His white jersey was not white anymore. It would never be again. He did not care anymore about his appearance. The only thing that mattered to him was how in shape his legs were, and they were certainly in good shape. His right forearm was still hurting more than he would have liked, but he had learned how to handle the pain. He imagined himself living on the road. Forever. How long does forever have to last to be forever?

The day was smooth and as it rose it set. A nice sleep before leaving Miami and throwing himself into keys.

"Can we take a picture of you?" the gas station assistant asked after he told her his story.

In the picture, the charming lady, her generous husband, a friend of them that happened to be around, and himself. Good times, good night surrounded by an inexplicable melancholy, and In the waiting line by Zero 7.

to be continued

1.2.08

Lunes

quizás me engaño...

quizás mi compromiso delata tan sólo el cariño...

quizás sean los pingüinos en la cama...

el cariño por una erudición que me hacía sonreir...

pero ya no...

y en una ocasión alguien...

alguien que me respira...

me dijo que no se me daba bien hablar...

que lo mío era escribir...

y por eso escribo...

y no digo...

y quizás disfrace mis partituras...

disfrazo la angustia de melancolía...

la melancolía de optimismo...

y el optimismo lo desnudo...

lo desnudo y se evapora...

detrás de una explicación...

explicación cuyo eco...

se suicida un lunes...