Miedo y destino

Recorría el camino sin pensar, como un autómata que tenía todos los registros precisos en su cabeza, sin que necesitara nada más. Había días que, incluso, no recordaba cómo había llegado a su trabajo y ni cómo había vuelto a su casa. Solo se percataba de ello cuando estaba delante del espejo y sentía un leve dolor en la encía al cepillarse los dientes. Entonces, en ese preciso instante, se detenía, se miraba a los ojos y era consciente de que estaba vivo. Ahí se quedaba en silencio durante un tiempo indeterminado. Cerraba los ojos y escuchaba las gotas que caían del grifo a medio cerrar, el agua de los bajantes, el canto del mirlo, las conversaciones de la calle y el ulular del viento. Respiraba y sentía como su vientre bajaba y subía, como inhalaba el aire que lo mantenía con vida, una vida monótona y sin sentido.

No lo dudó, cogió su vieja mochila, aquella que tenía guardada al fondo del altillo, le quitó el polvo y la llenó con la ropa necesaria, ni una prenda más. Se fue al aeropuerto y se detuvo ante el panel de salidas. El corazón comenzó a latirle con fuerza, las manos le sudaban y el miedo se apoderó de él. Se tuvo que sentar porque creía que se iba a desmayar. Cerró los ojos y comenzó a respirar, concentrándose en el ritmo de su respiración, agitado y desbocado, hasta que comenzó a relajarse, a oír las voces de los pasajeros, las canciones perdidas, el repiqueteo, acompasado, de las ruedas de las maletas y el sonido del panel de llegadas y salidas.

Se levantó y se dirigió a una de las agencias de viaje que había en el aeropuerto. Esperó su turno mientras seguía el ritmo de su respiración, ahora tranquila y acompasada. Cuando le tocó su turno le dijo a la chica:

—Quiero comprar un billete en el primer vuelo que salga.

—¿Con qué destino?

—Me da igual. 

—¿Le da igual? Solo le puedo ofrecer aquellos que no necesiten visado. 

—Esta bien.

—¿Es usted español y tiene pasaporte en vigor?

—Sí a las dos preguntas.

—El primero que tengo es un viaje directo a Hamburgo, que sale dentro de una hora. ¿Le viene bien?

—Sí, perfecto.

—¿Paga en efectivo o con tarjeta?

—Con tarjeta.

—¿Tiene maletas para facturar?

—No, solo tengo esta mochila.  

—Entonces le imprimiré la tarjeta de embarque. 

La chica e entregó la tarjeta con destino a Alemania.

—Tome, esta es la tarjeta de embarque. La puerta de embarque es la A52. No se demore, aunque tiene tiempo suficiente de llegar a la puerta de embarque. Que tenga un buen viaje.

—Gracias.

Salió de la agencia de viajes y se dirigió a la puerta de embarque. Cuando pasó los controles, llamó a su hermana menor y le dijo que iba a estar fuera por algún tiempo. Que no se preocupara, que volvería, pero no sabía cuándo.

Ya en el avión, buscó su asiento que estaba junto a la ventana. Se sentó y comenzó a respirar hasta que se quedó dormido. 

Con aquel vuelo empezaba su nueva vida.

Fuente de la imagen: propia

Punctuality

Punctuality is a virtue that I have, but at certain moments, that punctuality turns on me like a rabid dog, and often makes me lose patience when the "others" are not punctual. I think that not being punctual is a total lack of respect for the people affected, since we waste precious time on those who are pivotal. Because it is precisely time we waste. Time is a value that many do not take into account and think is created by spontaneous generation, and that, as splendid magicians, we can take five, ten, twenty or thirty minutes out of our hat and recover that lost time. But the harsh reality is that this time is gone, it does not recover, it is lost like water in our hands, we cannot go back because this time is now part of the past and no matter what we do, we will never recover it. I would like to be unpunctual, to let myself go and if I don't arrive today, I arrive tomorrow or the day after, but I can't, I go through a I don't know what, when I know that I can be late and, in the end, I simply can't and I am almost always the first on any appointment. It's my character. I don't know what goes on in the minds of people who are unpunctual, what extraordinary elements are allied for ever and ever to arrive late for their respective appointments. I often wonder what psychological, personal, social, cultural, mathematical, physical, sexual, etc. elements make some people punctual and others not. I have tried to internalize and visualize when I started to be punctual, when I knew in my life that being punctual was important. But as in so many other things in my life, I have not succeeded in doing so. And I'd like to be more irreverent about punctuality, harder, more cruel, and leave when people are late for an appointment, but I can't either.

Image Source: own

Among clovers, pikes, diamonds and hearts

He knew that luck was a being that had no owner, that there was no way to hold her, that, at the first opportunity, she would escape you and you would not see her again for a long time.

He had tried everything, touching wood, clovers, patron saints and even the golden Chinese cat, but there was no way. Luck had left him.

He remembered the times when luck smiled on him. Those endless parties with the gamblers who were already known as brothers, their gestures, their tics, their sardonic smiles and even the smell when the party was twisted. Times when he made a lot of money and luck hugged him hard, until one night he lost everything.

Now he walks into a bar, stops in front of a slot machine and looks in his pockets for a coin he knows he doesn't have. He is mesmerized by the monotonous dance of the pikes, the diamonds, the clovers, the clubs and the hearts, until someone touches him on the shoulder and tells him to move away. Then he turns around and leaves. He doesn't like to see how luck smiles on others.

Then, before nightfall, he goes to the old bridge outside the city to find a good place to sleep downwind among the cartons. There, in between the sleep, he counts the days he has left to receive the four hundred and eighty-five dollars of his pay and to take a shower, shave and sleep a hot night in a crummy pension.

The next morning he'll look for a good hand and see if his luck changes. However, he forgets that luck is elusive, that it is lost in the ethylic vapours, in the dark night and among the clovers, the pikes, the diamonds and the hearts.

Image Source: Pixabay

I already have your bones

I already have your dark moon and well bones,

the forgotten ones in the yellow chronicles of the blue ones,

those buried in the silence of the darkness of barbarism,

the ones hidden by the murderous hands.

I already have your skull,

with two black holes that swallowed your future and your smile,

with two eyes closed forever,

with two holes of rage and blindness,

with two hits to silence your libertarian word.

I already have your memory,

the one left in the black and white photographs,

the one who gave me up with eternal words,

the one I built with the water from the wells of hope.

I already have a place to bury you,

where wild daisies will always grow,

away from dark wells, chasms and ditches,

a place to rest from the monsters' folly,

where they will carve your name with the chisel of justice.

I already have your bones; justice has already been done.

  Image Source: Own

The hassles with the tie

I don't know how many times I've tried to learn to tie the fucking tie and failure has always been present in such attempts. What if the single knot, the Windsor, the half Windsor, the double single, the cross knot or the no less important, small knot. 

They don't teach you how to tie a tie in school, and at least once in your life, usually at weddings and funerals, and in this part of the first world, you have to wear a tie. 

However, once again and with great courage, I have set about it again. I have collected the practical information on the Internet, located the website for the knots and printed the attached documentation. I have set to work in front of my mirror, which is sometimes a son of a bitch, with a sheet of paper on top of the sink and sweaty hands. I decided on the Windsor knot, which is a classic. I can't do it the first time. The second time I'm tuning up the churro and it seems that the manual matter is on its way, but my hands are still sweating. 

Third time, uff. The will falters and if the will falters, I don't know if I will be able to reach my goal. The will, they say, is the secret of success; some talent and a lot of will. 

It crosses my mind to leave it for another day, so that the knowledge settles and my fucking neurons work on the Windsor and allow me to finish the fucking knot.

I take the page and get it close enough. I realize that presbyopia has played a dirty trick on me, because I read a sentence in Times New Roman, size 8: 

It's quite complicated to do. 

I reflect for a moment on whether to abandon the Gordian task and opt for another knot that is more within the reach of my obvious, manual limitations. 

In the end, I decide to continue the fight. I like to finish what I finish. My wife says that's one of my most remarkable qualities. I'm not so sure about that. After an hour, I make the fucking Windsor knot in the balls. 

I'm happy about it. I will be able to go to my appointment as the canons of etiquette command, but with the sad conviction and also with some desperation, that this learning is as ephemeral as the water in the hands. because I have the feeling that tying tie knots is not like riding a bicycle, which you learn forever, but it takes a lot of daily practice and I really think I will see Mr Windsor in a few months' time.

 Image Source: Pixabay

The city singer

She was sitting on a beach bench. She was in her twenties, disheveled, with her hair dyed in various colors, singing and playing the guitar. She had a round voice and she was very well tuned. I recognized the music and lyrics of Bob Dylan's song Blowin in the Wind. 

I stopped to listen to it and, little by little, the people, who were walking along the avenue, stopped to listen to it, until they made a big run around it.  At the end many of those present applauded and placed many coins and notes on the straw hat in front of her. She smiled and thanked, with a slight gesture of her head, for the applause and the gratuities.

Then he continued with a song that I didn't recognize at first, but then I acknowledged the song. It was Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven. 

This song that the singer dedicated to his son who died at the age of four in an unfortunate accident. I was surprised by the change of voice register, different from the round and sensual voice, now it was a hoarse and torn voice. I went over and checked that she was crying. I noticed that some of the walkers were also crying, as if they were contagious with a mystical atmosphere that the singer had created. At the end of the song, the audience started with brave applause and lots of applause and most of them rushed to deposit money in the singer's hat. She returned them with a smile. She picked up the guitar, embraced it and said a few words that I didn't understand. Then she put it in a blue case, collected the winnings and put them in a small blue cloth bag. She got up, took all her belongings, went down to the beach and took a bath. 

I went on my way to a meeting I had in the middle of the morning. Late in the afternoon, while taking a walk around the city, I found her leaving a supermarket with her guitar, her backpack hanging on her back and a bag full of sandwiches wrapped in paper. I followed her from a safe distance, until we arrived at a parking area, in which there were about thirty homeless people taking refuge under its ledge. I watched her greet and deliver the sandwiches to each of the people until she was left without any. 

Then she walked towards the beach, sat on a bench by the avenue and began to play her guitar and sing. This time she sang Bob Marley's Redemption song and I was amazed; the best version I had ever heard. 

When I finished I went over and left fifty euros in his straw hat. Our eyes met and she smiled at me. I walked away as she started singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow from the Wizard of Oz movie.

Image Source: Pixabay

Source of the videos: Yotube

La cantante de ciudad

Ella estaba sentada en un banco de la playa. Era una joven veinteañera, desaliñada, con el pelo teñido de varios colores que cantaba y tocaba la guitarra. Tenía una voz redonda y afinaba muy bien. Reconocí la música y la letra de la canción Blowin in the Wind de Bob Dylan. 

Me detuve a escucharla y, poco a poco, la gente, que paseaba por la avenida, se detenía a escucharla, hasta que hicieron un gran corro a su alrededor.  Al terminar muchos de los asistentes aplaudieron y le depositaron muchas monedas y billetes en el gorro de paja que tenía delante de ella. Sonrió y agradeció, con un leve gesto de su cabeza, los aplausos y las gratificaciones.

Después continuó con una canción que no reconocí al principio, pero luego caí que era Tears in Heaven de Eric Clapton. 

Esta canción que el cantante le dedicó a su hijo que falleció con solo cuatro años en un desgraciado accidente. Me quedé sorprendido por el cambio de registro de voz, distinta a la voz redonda y sensual, ahora era una voz ronca y desgarrada. Me acerqué y comprobé que lloraba. Observé que algunos de los paseantes también lloraban, como si se les contagiara una atmósfera mística que la cantante había creado. Al terminar la canción, el público arrancó con bravos y muchos aplausos y la mayoría se apresuró a depositar dinero en gorro de la cantante. Ella les correspondió con una sonrisa. Cogió la guitarra, la abrazó y dijo unas palabras que no llegué a entender. Luego la guardó en una funda de color azul, recogió las ganancias y las guardó en un pequeño bolso de tela azul. Se levantó, cogió todas sus pertenencias, bajó a la playa y se dio un baño. 

Yo seguí mi camino hacia una reunión que tenía a media mañana. Entrada la tarde, mientras daba un paseo por la ciudad, me la encontré saliendo de un supermercado con su guitarra, su mochila colgada a la espalda y una bolsa repleta de bocadillos envueltos en papel film. La seguí desde una distancia prudencial, hasta que llegamos a una zona de aparcamientos, en la que había una treintena de personas sin techo que se refugiaban bajo su cornisa. La vi cómo saludaba y entregaba los bocadillos a cada una de las personas hasta que se quedó sin ninguno. 

Luego caminó en dirección a la playa, se sentó en un banco junto a la avenida y comenzó a tocar su guitarra y a cantar. Esta vez cantó Redemption song de Bob Marley y quedé asombrado; la mejor versión que había oído jamás. 

Al terminar me acerqué y le dejé cincuenta euros en su sombrero de paja. Nuestras miradas se encontraron y me sonrió. Yo me alejé al tiempo que ella comenzaba a cantar Somewhere Over the Rainbow de la película del Mago de Oz.

Fuente de la imagen: Pixabay

Fuente de los vídeos: Yotube