Writeaway“Conigli sotto la Luna” (Series) 3

He lost some of his ability to wander. It had been a long time without walking mile after mile breakfastless, no defined goal ahead, assisting to two different and simultaneous concerts – the endless stream in his head, and the light and sound forcing their way into him. But, being a well administered dude, he planned some of his unexpected – unwanted – freedom: getting some cigarettes was paramount, with them he could begin to sketch a road; then, the trolley – cause it was cheaper. Unwillingly recreating Buenos Aires and descending at Recoleta when the bus stopped at Chapultepec. The city offered new patterns but he had no interest, nor any reason, to get lost into them. At one point, he assumed what he already knew – maybe even before getting out of the house – and, while heading to yet another Starbucks, he proceeded to methodically ingest the alegría he had packed, carefully controlling the gag reflex and overlooking the sickly sweet flavour and the heartburn it caused.

He passed the bankcard to the young and rude barista and, in the motion, knocked down some publicity item. He still wonders why he apologised for that. Finally, he sat out to drink and smoke – same old routine: netbook, coffee, cigarette pack, stolen lighter, and backpack at the side chair, Yeah Yeah Yeahs still repeating in the earphones. I would like to say he felt – or thought, or discovered – that he had lost his writing drive. But we know the truth very well, him and me, and there’s no point any more in trying to conceal it from you, he never had any writing drive – or will, or even any hint of writing capacities. And there he was, once again, forcing his way ahead the white jungle of nothing, clumsily tracing a path of black pixel symbols that he fantasised to master, but which he don’t really know – or understand. Desperately, he wanted to channel the tension in his body and skin through a flow of words that he dreamt of being like a wide and straight highway but are just mere stonemarkers in the woods. As if he had never really got out of home and had just read away his journeys through various cities in travelguides, he only kept notes of those imaginary markers to confirm a certainty that something had to exist outside, somewhere. I know he needed – I know I still need – a witness to visit the marked places with him, someone to listen so he could believe his own stories. The white page – whether it was made of paper, electronically projected over a screen, or just the air echoing his words – was an obsession for this obsessive character, and another excuse for feeling frustrated – but that’s just common place for obsessive-compulsive personalities. Everybody knows that one can’t just write down seldom feelings and reflections; no matter how good they may be, they will not be worth reading.

He was unable to express his highest desire to drain out all of his own thoughts and feelings and let the world in: to stop the boundless stream in his head and let in the noise – the experience of riding the bus, staring out the window and feeling the air over one’s face. The one that repeats, potentially – uniquely –, in every city at any moment of the day or the night. But he just couldn’t recreate that sense of selflessness with words and was, thus, condemned to fill his pages with anecdotes. I feel sympathy for my brother’s pain, but don’t try to help him any more. I found abode for my own anecdotes within my log, and I keep it always hidden; now, I content myself with just half of the work, the one half that I master. I read and depart, but never try to come back home: I don’t write, I never do.

I found Brother today at noon, sitting in yet another Starbucks, drinking and smoking – same old routine, again: netbook, coffee, cigarette pack, stolen lighter, and backpack at the side chair. I tried to say hello, but he didn’t notice me. Being trapped nowhere, imagining himself away, and never getting anywhere, I can’t welcome him back to the world. I can’t wave him goodbye for good.

Ciudad de México 20101007 1541 - Yom Hameshi, 29 Tishrei 5771

La notte“Conigli sotto la Luna” (Series) 1

Arrivo adesso, da un piccolo giro per la città, un’immersione nella mia testa, nel mio cuore; comme spesso, delle considerazione politiche e sociale. Però, la vera questione, come sempre, è la maledetta conessione — o piutosto, l’asseza di conessione — fra la mente e il cuore; avvolte immagino che quel ponte sarebbe ciò che la gente chiama l’anima.

Mi fa paura quando la mia anima incomincia a errare, dentro o fuori; le volte que mi capita non riesco a seguirla per metterla di nuove in fila, e gli vado in dietro per le mura, salgo al tetto, entro per le finestre, ma lei è tanto più rapida di me, si nasconde e mi salta su, mi prende per confondermi e poi segue correndo. Quando, stanco di tanto girare, acceto i giochi dell’anima e decido di giocare anch’io, e voglio farli paura. Salgo nella machina, come se fosse a tornare a casa, apro tutte le porte, però, per lasciarla salire. Lei si fa difficile, sento nei pelli del bracio — ovviamente, come tutti sapiamo, un anima è invicibile — come viene a le porte e poi si allontana, aspetando una riazione di me. Io faccio tutto lentamente, pongo la sigaretta in boca, e mi dispongo a partire. Non ho nemeno bisogno di muovermi, appena accendo la machina, lei sale e si siede indietro... tutto il cammino.

Non diciamo parola. I miei pensieri esplodono e il cuore batte lontano, la musica rompe il silencio mentre i fari rompono la pioggia, la notte azzurra pasa in fretta lungo la strada. Tremiamo tutti i quattro: il cuore, la testa, l’anima ed io. “E la tenerezza che sento porterà il buio in giù...”, ma c’è meno luce cuando arriviamo già rotti. Prendo le parti: l’accenditore, il sacco, le chiave, le sigarette e tutti riuniti saliamo a casa. Dopo un’ora e mezza vedo chiaramente il mio errore. Non basta scrivere senza riposo, l’anima è ancora nascosta, il cuore oppreso, la mente occupata cercando parole que non esistono. Ed io, dimenticato dei tre, non voglio scrivere più.

Ciudad de México 20080623 0335 - 20 Sivan 5768

5 mois…

Dos minutos para festejar el hecho de que hoy cumplo cinco meses de haber dejado de fumar… y de tratar de ignorar el inmenso, inaplazable y enorme deseo que tengo de hacerlo.

Brindo por quienes han triunfado sobre su adicción, por quienes estamos tratando, si no de domarla, sí de domesticarla, brindo por quienes no lo logran, no lo desean y también por quienes no tienen adicciones (de este último grupo, yo no conozco a nadie… pero si ustedes sí, no les digan que he brindado por ellos).

¡Salud!

Ciudad de México 20070605 1853 - 19 Sivan 5767

In the Middle of a Working Night

(Esto no quiere salir en español, pero vamos a forzarlo)

Estoy de un neuras terrible. Todo, sin falta y sin excepción, tiene que salir —salir, o sea, ser terminado, concluido, redondeado... superado— este semestre. Por el momento, estoy intentando editar, para mañana, un artículo que no tiene ni pies ni cabeza... no es mío, es decir, es chamba (de la otra vamos... aunque más bien de la intermedia, que no no es propia ni es ajena). Son las 3 de la mañana, llevo tomando litros de café desde ayer (por despedir, una vez más, a una vieja y querida amiga que va y viene de una orilla a la otra y que afortunadamente, como el mar, siempre regresa) y entonces, desde la semana pasada, la gastritis a vuelto... y con una fuerza nueva (de hecho, es la primera vez que tomo medicamentos para la gastritis).

El viernes tuve que gritar varias veces a la gente que empuja en el metro (con excelentes resultados: comenzaron a comportarse como gente aunque fuera por un rato). Lo atemorizante es que nunca había tenido la necesidad de hacerlo —y no me gustó, aunque haya tenido buenos resultados.

Decía yo que en mitad de una noche de trabajo, corrigiendo lo que no tiene remedio, di algunos clics en la red, sólo unos cuantos (si reconociera que fueron más no podría con la culpa), y ahí estaba: nítida y perfecta, brillante... la maldita foto de un tipo disfrutando su cigarro (y sí, de veras, disfrutándolo).

Como antes, lo sentí detrás de mi garganta, delicioso; el humo en mi paladar y el sabor en toda mi lengua, en cada parte —el sabor profundo e intenso, dulce-amargo y caliente, fluyendo y deslizándose hacia la garganta. Sentí tibios los pulmones y empecé a salivar como perro; el corazón me latía fuerte y ya estaba sudando. Se me trabó la mandíbula en un rictus que todavía no pasa... De hecho, a estas alturas, hasta siento algo de dolor en la espalda y una picazón en el pecho. Juraría que si trato de correr, si subiera un miserable piso de escaleras, me faltaría sin duda el aire.

Amigos míos, he de confesar con melancolía que hoy hace exactamente dos meses que no fumo y por dios que lo extraño. Triste vacío el que deja aquello. Ya hablaremos de todo lo que tendrá que ser terminado sin la compañía entrañable del tabaco; quiero compartirlo porque suficientemente solo estoy sin una cajetilla como para tragarme los éxitos, los fracasos y las frustraciones de este... trayecto. Por todo esto, por esto-esto-específicamente, había que forzarlo en español.

Ciudad de México 20070305 0338 - 15 Adar 5767