"I don't understand why in this house that pineapple is always on top of all, darned conceited fool. She's always there, showing her malformed crest and boasting about her abdominal squares crowned with their little forelocks, more shriveled than myself." That who was talking under the concealment caused by the other fruits was the pear, forgotten at the bottom of the prodigious fruit bowl that the painter used for his still-life paintings.
The other fruits, the pouched mango, the sugar cane, the Chinese cantaloupe, the smelly guava, the exposed peaches with tiny nectar drops, the bananas and the purple grapes, kept silent since the weight that the vain pineapple exerted upon them was too much. Besides, the touch of its shell produced some stinging due to its so many protuberances and dry roots. It seemed better that it remain on top, thought all, because if it were underneath, we'd surely be stung by her hard green gray and marred pompon.
"I love the smell that always comes out of this room" a voice was heard. It was the beautiful woman that in ocassions was with the artist. She was crossing the lintel of the door and she looked ecstatic, as if finding out something that now made her understand. She was light-dressed, with a long white gown in almost transparent layers that seemed to reveal but didn't but for the opening that it had below the crutch. "You hadn't shown me this place" said she without turning back but obviously aware that the painter was listening to her at her back with both his hands strongly fit grasping the upper part of the door frame. It was noticeable that the painter held the aluminum tightly so as to restrain his anxious steps towards the woman and get to her in a violent plead for a lust outburst. To him, in this moment, this room was the least voluptuous place in the universe, simply because it was taking time away from her afternoon and night with her.
"You'll have to explain to me how it is that you get inspired to paint", said she, with her soft hands sliding over the empty canvass of days and days without being able to give expression to what any ideas soever. He kept ironically silent, rocking underneath the horseshoe that was nailed below the irregular wooden ceiling. She, nevertheless and despite the expansion she created in his anxiety, did not await an answer and kept on walking graciously till reaching the thick cedar table in which lay the candles and the fruits cloistered within the measureless glassy-coloured bowl. She lay her hand underneath her chin in a thoughtful attitude with a murmuring moan at the time she observed the whole composition. "This pineapple doesn't seem right in here" said she. "It looks like it's crushing everything else". And, right before the painter's eyes that opened wide like broken piggy banks and before his muscles that tightened as hanging bridge's wires, without anymore talk, she grabbed the huge fruit by its hardened hair with both her hands and dropped it off the table like someone who tosses a ball for it to reach the kitchen bouncing and hopping.
As she did so, an even more intense scent than the whole room's came out from the bottom of the bowl. It was a pear that had been buried under red apples even with its very smell inside its grave. And the smell had been concentrating down till creating this aphrodisiac compound of taste-without-inspiration days. So, still ever flabbergasted as moments passed by, the painter watched how the beautiful woman dismounted the heap of fruits that still didn't seem to satisfy him in order for him to start painting, until she could reach where the pear was free at last and exposed to the light that showed its reality: it was stale.
"You'll have to use fresh fruits for your paintings, beauty", said she gesturing some graceful sarcasm with the spoiled fruit's stem between her fingers. She kept on walking now more slender in her posture up to reaching the corner where the waste basket was. She threw the pear with an accurate basketball-player pass and went on towards the kitchen making her way under his right armpit and arm. "I'm hungry", she said. "Have you got anything to eat?"
Original Spanish version here
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Musical intermission about the egg-and-the-chicken conundrum (free will vs "everything's written")
God is music. God is all of our feelings. God results from everything that comes off from our instincts.
Or it might be that our instincts are directly granted by him to us. So that we understand. So that we go back to our most basic moment of feeling. So that we also know. So that we could be aware of how needy he is of us and vicerversa. So violently. So precariously linked to us. But linked in the end. Because it is supposed to be that he gives us freedom of choices, isn't it? But, hey. "Everything's written" say those who know "but you've got the power to choose". And I say(at least I used to say at the time I wrote this text three years ago, when I was still happy): Well, yeah, that's right.
It's like music: Like when you start imagining some tune, chorus or a piece made of some series of chords. Nothing's written, but you might very likely have an idea of where it is you want to get to, because at the very time you commenced writing or devising you just went on following your inspiration that was but molded by no other thing than your environment, your feelings at the moment and a whole series of events that led you to start, and that now do nothing but let themselves be driven off by a song that's writing itself without your hand's being able of avoiding the happenings of your mind that are being embodied onto silence, with such luck that the song was practically written since the moment it was conceived but in fact wrote itself...
Click here for the original Spanish version
Or it might be that our instincts are directly granted by him to us. So that we understand. So that we go back to our most basic moment of feeling. So that we also know. So that we could be aware of how needy he is of us and vicerversa. So violently. So precariously linked to us. But linked in the end. Because it is supposed to be that he gives us freedom of choices, isn't it? But, hey. "Everything's written" say those who know "but you've got the power to choose". And I say(at least I used to say at the time I wrote this text three years ago, when I was still happy): Well, yeah, that's right.
It's like music: Like when you start imagining some tune, chorus or a piece made of some series of chords. Nothing's written, but you might very likely have an idea of where it is you want to get to, because at the very time you commenced writing or devising you just went on following your inspiration that was but molded by no other thing than your environment, your feelings at the moment and a whole series of events that led you to start, and that now do nothing but let themselves be driven off by a song that's writing itself without your hand's being able of avoiding the happenings of your mind that are being embodied onto silence, with such luck that the song was practically written since the moment it was conceived but in fact wrote itself...
Click here for the original Spanish version
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Super-kor, the beginning (pt II)
Everything was cloudy. His vision, the sky, his lucidity. Someone was saying things as if from behind a very thick and steamed up glass, and he did not know how to take his hands to where he could scrub his eyes in order to unbog what he was seeing. For a moment he even felt how a huge tear drop emerged from his left eye leaving its wet vertical wake over his cheek. He sensed it all above every other thing that surrounded him since, awake as he was, the tiny water spot made in his ears such an extreme noise as would a sudden flooding flow of a dry river at Summer start. He was about to yell from desperation, but then the feeling started to fade.
At last, he realized where he was and what it was that had occurred.
- What happened? - He was able to say. He wanted to say something else, but his mind was well too stuck.
- Cats are gone. - Said the voice.
Niko moved as though he wanted to sit up, but a remain of pain in his articulations didn't allow it, so he only turned his head so as to see the person owning that voice.
- Wait down there, don't get up. - She warned. - Relax for a while.
Although for some reason it seemed strange to him, Niko didn't feel surprised to know he was obeying a perfect stranger. He leaned his head over the little bench's cement and let himself be drawn off by exhaustion. However, a few seconds later he noticed that something was climbing up his spine: Some sort of spark that was burning all of his nervous center in an unthinkable way and then spread all along his body giving him an energy and a discernment that he had never experienced before. He sat up fast till being fully straight on the bench.
- You are a very good person. - Said he.
He said it with such tone of voice and such conviction that she went all scare-blue with cold as she realized he did not refer only to the fact that she had helped him some moments ago, but he had also made, in that sole phrase, a summary of all of her attitudes, actions, failures and experiences with a degree of compasion that was more than overwhelming. For a moment she felt completely bound to fate, as if naked, without being at all concious of what it was that was going on, a thousand images paraded right in front of her eyes just as that boy told a too-well-known story. So familiar, that it always hurt.
- You've lost something. - Said he. - Someone. Someone that suddenly was gone. Someone with whom you shared a whole list of dreams and projects. Someone that one day just left. You've wondered thousands of times what it was that you did wrong for such thing to have happened. You have cried and haven't gotten any comfort. You've wanted to share your misfortune, but nobody listens, nobody would understand anyway. You've sought for this person's arms. You've wanted to hear his voice amid the crowds or to see his face while you walk on the street, but you know he's not coming back. You've lost him and you think it is your fault. You think you don't deserve any more chances, so you'd rather not look for them. You've surrendered. You've given up getting what used to be granted to you and it is because of this that you prefer to help. Just like you helped me.
The girl snapped out of her image download as she somehow knew herself as being the very close target of the most sincerely thankful smile. She realized that she was too very near that man, but never felt frightened, since, although her face was flooded in tears, nothing could shame her anymore. She felt fearless even when his hand rose from his lap to lay on her chest so as to withdraw, as if being a light magnet, a small diamond that simply came off through her skin without pain or feeling whatsoever.
That was the best part: She felt nothing. And that was the best moment of her life until then. Since now -as she saw in frank acceptance, although without fully understanding, the little diamond vaporizing into thin air- she was finally free. Free to smile...
Click here for the original Spanish version
At last, he realized where he was and what it was that had occurred.
- What happened? - He was able to say. He wanted to say something else, but his mind was well too stuck.
- Cats are gone. - Said the voice.
Niko moved as though he wanted to sit up, but a remain of pain in his articulations didn't allow it, so he only turned his head so as to see the person owning that voice.
- Wait down there, don't get up. - She warned. - Relax for a while.
Although for some reason it seemed strange to him, Niko didn't feel surprised to know he was obeying a perfect stranger. He leaned his head over the little bench's cement and let himself be drawn off by exhaustion. However, a few seconds later he noticed that something was climbing up his spine: Some sort of spark that was burning all of his nervous center in an unthinkable way and then spread all along his body giving him an energy and a discernment that he had never experienced before. He sat up fast till being fully straight on the bench.
- You are a very good person. - Said he.
He said it with such tone of voice and such conviction that she went all scare-blue with cold as she realized he did not refer only to the fact that she had helped him some moments ago, but he had also made, in that sole phrase, a summary of all of her attitudes, actions, failures and experiences with a degree of compasion that was more than overwhelming. For a moment she felt completely bound to fate, as if naked, without being at all concious of what it was that was going on, a thousand images paraded right in front of her eyes just as that boy told a too-well-known story. So familiar, that it always hurt.
- You've lost something. - Said he. - Someone. Someone that suddenly was gone. Someone with whom you shared a whole list of dreams and projects. Someone that one day just left. You've wondered thousands of times what it was that you did wrong for such thing to have happened. You have cried and haven't gotten any comfort. You've wanted to share your misfortune, but nobody listens, nobody would understand anyway. You've sought for this person's arms. You've wanted to hear his voice amid the crowds or to see his face while you walk on the street, but you know he's not coming back. You've lost him and you think it is your fault. You think you don't deserve any more chances, so you'd rather not look for them. You've surrendered. You've given up getting what used to be granted to you and it is because of this that you prefer to help. Just like you helped me.
The girl snapped out of her image download as she somehow knew herself as being the very close target of the most sincerely thankful smile. She realized that she was too very near that man, but never felt frightened, since, although her face was flooded in tears, nothing could shame her anymore. She felt fearless even when his hand rose from his lap to lay on her chest so as to withdraw, as if being a light magnet, a small diamond that simply came off through her skin without pain or feeling whatsoever.
That was the best part: She felt nothing. And that was the best moment of her life until then. Since now -as she saw in frank acceptance, although without fully understanding, the little diamond vaporizing into thin air- she was finally free. Free to smile...
Click here for the original Spanish version
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Super-kor, the beginning
On the day that Niko realized about his superpower, he also noticed his weakness.
It was a rainless and sunless day. A nothing day. Empty and without soul. Niko was walking with a slouch amid the bushes of some lost park within the anonimity of the suburbs. Flowers stood as if sad, waiting for some dew drops to fall down from the sky. Everything around looked as if in a frankly dry and chapped desperation. Some cats were playing paddling with their paws lying as though waiting over the various cannal shore edges of the artificial woods. A girl was seeing them without watching, as if lost and ecstatic at the same time. Niko could guess without thinking about it, just with opening his senses before her posture and attitude, that she was needy of something to fill certain gaps and certain crevices. Nevertheless, at that precise moment, facing the image that was being showed to his fearless eyes, Niko had some sort of epiphanic sensory revelation: Suddenly all of the environment turned into an enormous transparent heart that shrank and dilated in a hectic and whimsical fashion. It was as if Niko had the capability to contemplate the balance of everything that surrounded him.
He thought he was going to faint from such overwhelming feeling. The girl noticed him too and stood up from where she was, the more because of the shock of seeing him stumbling all around than because of will to help him. In fact, for a moment, she was quite skeptical of what was happening: It could pretty well occur that this guy was some abuser that showed himself to his victims feeding pity into them. So, by the time Niko finally collapsed on the bench where she had been sitting, the girl had already walked backwards with a rejecting gesture. A little while afterwards, however, she noticed that his face was more than pale. She approached him to clear his forehead from hair and ask him what was wrong.
- It's the cats. - Said he. - They thirst for killing.
Not a very long time after that, when Niko had already accepted his superhero condition, he had to admit a fact that wouldn't favour him at all: Super-kor must not have enemies ever. As a matter of fact, the best thing for him would be to become an anonymous superhero, since his weakness flowed mercilessly from within the smallest nooks where lay the worst intentions of all life forms: Super-kor couldn not defeat evil. Only sadness and pain...
Click here for Spanish version
It was a rainless and sunless day. A nothing day. Empty and without soul. Niko was walking with a slouch amid the bushes of some lost park within the anonimity of the suburbs. Flowers stood as if sad, waiting for some dew drops to fall down from the sky. Everything around looked as if in a frankly dry and chapped desperation. Some cats were playing paddling with their paws lying as though waiting over the various cannal shore edges of the artificial woods. A girl was seeing them without watching, as if lost and ecstatic at the same time. Niko could guess without thinking about it, just with opening his senses before her posture and attitude, that she was needy of something to fill certain gaps and certain crevices. Nevertheless, at that precise moment, facing the image that was being showed to his fearless eyes, Niko had some sort of epiphanic sensory revelation: Suddenly all of the environment turned into an enormous transparent heart that shrank and dilated in a hectic and whimsical fashion. It was as if Niko had the capability to contemplate the balance of everything that surrounded him.
He thought he was going to faint from such overwhelming feeling. The girl noticed him too and stood up from where she was, the more because of the shock of seeing him stumbling all around than because of will to help him. In fact, for a moment, she was quite skeptical of what was happening: It could pretty well occur that this guy was some abuser that showed himself to his victims feeding pity into them. So, by the time Niko finally collapsed on the bench where she had been sitting, the girl had already walked backwards with a rejecting gesture. A little while afterwards, however, she noticed that his face was more than pale. She approached him to clear his forehead from hair and ask him what was wrong.
- It's the cats. - Said he. - They thirst for killing.
Not a very long time after that, when Niko had already accepted his superhero condition, he had to admit a fact that wouldn't favour him at all: Super-kor must not have enemies ever. As a matter of fact, the best thing for him would be to become an anonymous superhero, since his weakness flowed mercilessly from within the smallest nooks where lay the worst intentions of all life forms: Super-kor couldn not defeat evil. Only sadness and pain...
Click here for Spanish version
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