Sorry for the tale.

I received some comments about why I've deleted the post with the tale. Well, yesterday I found myself writing something that really happened to me just few months ago, in summer. And after publishing it, I thought that this was not only too personal, but, especially, not very respectful of the other person who was with me that night. That was not only my story, but also her one. Sorry for that.

There will be more stories.

bebo

PS: for the moment, I leave you with a booktrailer (guess who is the murder...)

Innisfree

Had a nice phone call. Quick one. Jo.

Then I spoke with this colleague of mine, standing on the stairs outside the office, those massive brown rusty iron stairs. He needed some words. I needed too, lots of times, perhaps too many. And —you know— it's good to be there and feel you're giving something. It's quite better than receiving. And it always gives you  something back.

Today, before the stairs, before the chat, I was stressed out (job). And when I sat down again, suddenly came to me this poem (one of my favourite poems). And I only remember this poem  when I feel some peace.

Just wanted to share it with you all.

.....................................................................

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

(William Butler Yeats)

Smashing weekend

A blue-eyed new English writer, with one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen, wrote this in the Book of the Faces.

It must have been the Moon.

I saw the Moon four days ago, from Melilla, and she was smiling (yes, the moon is a "She"). I went to the beach, stood in front of the Sea (best friend of the Moon) and She spoke to me (yes, the Sea is a "She", also). And smiled. I went to see the Sea almost every night. She's very patient with me, and She has always the words I need for me.

"Go with the flow."

Smashing weekend. Yes, it was the Moon, the fairy of the sky. Thanks, Moon. Thanks Sea.

Thanks, fairy.


...

Te quiero que me cago

Supe que te quería cuando empezaron las cagaleras.

Aquello duró unos meses, lo nuestro, quiero decir, que no las cagaleras. Pero los últimos días habías estado deletreándome un «no» para el que no bastaban las letras de mi abecedario, tal vez por eso no lo entendía.

Me lo dibujaste poco a poco, para que lo entendiera, con esos palitos de la ene que suben y bajan y vuelven a subir (lo mismo me pasaba a mí, cada palito era un palo, pero luego había como una esperanza de volver a esas tardes de sudor y gritos, de miradas y besos en los párpados, de apodos y palabras sucias, esas que tanto nos gustaban). Y luego el círculo de la «o», lento como una tortura china pero ya inequívoco, era inútil volver a pasar con la tiza donde ya había trazo, era un círculo, algo cerrado como esta historia que tanto me dolía.

Un «no» largo días y días, en algo que se me antojaba chino o swahili y que no quería comprender (te decía que nunca se me dieron bien las lenguas, que sólo la tuya, húmeda, grande y suave, y tú te enfadabas: «No vaciles, joder. Si es que eres traductor...»
.
Tú de eso no sabías nada (quiero decir, de las cagaleras), cómo iba a decirte aquello, cómo iba a decirte que ya no me corría de amor sino que se me escapaba todo por el culo. Un día intenté decírtelo, pero no lo entendiste:

—Te quiero que me cago— te dije. Te quedaste callada, como siempre y evitaste la cosa recurriendo a lo profesional:
—Se dice “que te cagas”, traductor.

Claro, cómo no, tú eras correctora de pruebas, pero era yo el que se cagaba queriéndote, no tú. Si hubiera sido lo contrario, si te hubiesen entrado a ti cagaleras por culpa de este amor mío, me habría retirado, esfumado. Lo sabes: yo nunca te habría hecho daño.

En fin. Pensar en ti era correr al baño, cagándome en la puta porque otra vez, joder, caguén, qué coño me pasa, qué mierda me pasa (nunca mejor dicho) y de repente, saberlo: es que la quiero.

Pasó ese tiempo que siempre tiene que pasar para que las cosas vuelvan a su sitio. Adelgacé, cómo no. Pero comía muchos plátanos. Con los amigos la vida era la de siempre, y los diálogos también:

— Es que tú —me dijo una noche Eva, una amiga— es que tú eres una persona demasiado pasional, no, más: visceral (bravo Eva, así: en cursiva y en negrita. Si sólo supieras.), tú no amas con la cabeza como mucha gente, casi ni con el corazón, diría yo, tú amas con la tripa, ¿verdad que lo sientes todo allí?

Casi me muero de las ganas de contárselo, esa noche, que sí, que con la tripa, que incluso y casi con el culo...Pero lo único que supe decir fue:

—Perdóname un momento, tengo que ir al servicio.

All I want is you - Barry Louis Polisar

Una canción bonita, para los a los que les gusta este estilo. Muy bonita, y con una letra super chula y romántica. Love this.

Listening Antonio MC - Die Stadt

There are things you cannot explain. I passed my life trying to find an explanation to things which -when one stops the effort of scrutinizing everything- demonstrate that them just exist, and that the reason of their existence is just to give you something -in most of the cases unexpected- that is enjoyable.

Here in Sevilla, in this strange group which I meet every Saturday, I met Antonio. A tall, shy guy, extremely pleasant. After few time he invited me to listen his works and to join, if I liked the sound, to him with my alto sax (I didn't even know he was a musician).  And what I heard has been revealing.

Visit his page, Die Stadt, and his project. And take your time: there is a lot to listen to. Sit on your sofa and go through his albums. I'm sure you'll find something which will make you feel better.

As Spanish say: "Nunca te acostarás sin saber algo más". Sometimes what you've learned is painful. This time, trust me, it's just nice.

Hope you like it

Desayuno con dátiles

"¿Le importa si me acuesto un ratito con usted?, Somos amigos, eso es todo". 
(Breakfast at Tiffany's)

Hubo un tiempo, años atrás, en el que nos sentábamos en casa, Giulia, Ricardo, Eva y yo, en la Cocina (con la C mayúscula, porque esa cocina era el cuartel general de la casa... A veces, muchas, había fiestas en casa, y todo el mundo acababa en la Cocina, sin poder moverse. Treinta personas y diez conversaciones al mismo tiempo). La Cocina solía estar sucia, muy sucia, y yo llegué a pensar que tal vez ése día nos habíamos despertados todos como Gregorio Samsa, pero en un mundo donde no cabía la soledad.Y recuerdo esos discursos sobre el sexo entre amigos. Giulia era una gran partidaria de ello. Ricardo no recuerdo, pero Eva estaba en contra.

Han pasado años. Estoy en otra cocina. Lejos, muy lejos de aquella Cocina. Y, no, nadie me preguntado acostarse un ratito conmigo, ayer. Ni antes de ayer. Me he despertado, levantado. Estuve parado en el centro de la cocina unos minutos, mirando fijamente fuera de la ventana. Hoy no hay sol. El silencio de la casa me asaltó de repente e hizo que repitiera la misma rutina de todos los días: ordenador, spotify y Drunkology.

Cogí la caja de dátiles, mis diamantes mañaneros, la dejé en la mesa. Le di de comer a Akiles, ese gatito que alguien que se fue, para seguir su vida sola, me dejó en casa. Me preparé un roiboos. Escribí la lista de la compra y de las cosas que debo hacer hoy:

• pienso para Akiles
• arena para akiles
• bolsos para basura
• cebollas
• sobaos
• acuarius
• retirar el libro en la oficina de MRW
• comprar los billetes para Málaga

Cerré los ojos y saboreé los dátiles. Me di tiempo para mascarlos. Con los ojos cerrados, lo vi todo rojo. Y me acordé de la peli.

- ¿Conoce usted esos días en los que se ve todo de color rojo?
- ¿Color rojo? Querrá decir negro.
- No, se puede tener un día negro porque una se engorda o porque ha llovido demasiado, estás triste y nada más. Pero los días rojos son terribles, de repente se tiene miedo y no se sabe por qué. En esos momentos lo único que me viene bien es ir a Tiffany’s, porque nada malo me puede ocurrir allí.

No tengo un Tiffany's. Habrá que buscarlo.

Voy a salir a la calle.
..

Choosing dreams

Tonight I visited another world. I had been there before. El Pájaro was there. Álvaro was there. It was twelve years ago.

Sometimes music does this. Thanks to you all.

I'm gonna dream, tonight, of Africa. Yes, I can choose.

Like a bridge over troubled waters

There was that time in which everything seemed to vanish, fading in a sort of misty and cold atmosphere. That summer was very hot, but one was feeling like walking naked at 5.am on a hazy road in Streatham, London. Dispossessed of everything which could even look like a beam of sun. That was hard to endure. The obscurity. To tell the truth, that seemed to be impossible to endure.

I was looking for some friend who could sing me the song...

When you're weary
Feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all
I'm on your side

When times get rough And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

I don't remember when the decision came. It was like if it appeared because it just knew that a decision was needed. It started growing little by little, like a little tiny plant from a seed. And I started taking care of it: it seemed to be so delicate, so fragile. I watered it, spoke to it, and then I gave a little name to her. Yes, her, because I felt the decision was a she, like a Greek goodness.

Then days started to shorten, the mist faded away little by little, and one day I found myself playing again in the streets. That day you arrived. I thought you were a Martian, or a space invader, or some kind of Celtic fairy, landed here by mistake. You were green and orange.

The song which came was another one.

Calm down
Deep breaths
And get yourself dressed
instead

Of running around
And pulling all your threads saying
Breaking yourself up

If it's a broken part, replace it
But, if it's a broken heart then brace it
If it's a broken heart then face it

And hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

Hold your own

Know your own name
And go your own way

And everything will be fine
Everything will be fine

Hang on
Help is on the way
Stay strong
I'm doing everything

Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

Hold your own
Know your name
And go your own way

And everything, everything will be fine
Everything

Are the details in the fabric
Are the things that make you panic
Are your thoughts results of static cling?

Are the things that make you blow
Hell, no reason, go on and scream
If you're shocked it's just the fault
Of faulty manufacturing.

Yeah everything will be fine
Everything in no time at all
Everything

Hold your own
And know your name
And go your own way

You didn't seem to be scared, but we couldn't understand each other. I didn't speak your language. You didn't know what I was saying. Two different worlds. That night I decided to use again my World-Builder. I hadn't used it in years, after All-The-Worse happened. I didn't almost remember how to use it. But I managed. And we could start to speak a bit.

I started to learn your language, but there were moments in which we misunderstood things.
Then everything changed into something sweet, and sometimes cheesy (but we liked it).

Fairies, they mumberfly all the time.