La Tripulación que el Tiempo Olvidó

Me voy a esconder aquí.
En este rincón inhóspito de la memoria.
Voy a anclar mi barco,
voy a encender una fogata,
voy a cantar una canción de cuna
y desde aquí te voy a contemplar;
eras una triste tarde de verano.
Eras el murmullo de un viento sediento.
Eras unas vías de tren aparentemente infinitas.
Eras los durmientes gastados bañados en polvo.
Yo era un ferrocarril viejo y oxidado
vagando ferozmente sobre tus pistas,
apresurándome, yendo cada segundo más rápido
y estirándome hasta romper con el horizonte.
Y me fui. Desaparecí.
Perdí el rastro y lo único que permaneció fue el vapor.
Y el plateado olor del carbón y del tiempo
y de todo lo irreversible.
Me voy a esconder aquí.
Me voy a refugiar del tifón.
Voy a cosechar mi soledad.
Voy a hacer girar mi veleta.
Voy a cerrar los ojos suavemente
y exhalar las hojas de árbol que nunca arranqué
¿O acaso sí lo hice?

Touching From A Distance

Dear Annik

I know I’m intruding on your life, not you on mine. I felt as if things were becoming a bit clearer earlier on, but I can now see everything falling to pieces before my eyes. I’m paying dearly for past mistakes. I never realized how one mistake in my life some four or five years ago would make me feel how I do. I struggle between what I know is right in my own mind and some warped truthfulness as seen through other people’s eyes who have no heart and can’t see the difference anyway.

I saw Apocalypse Now at the cinema. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the screen. On the record, there’s Marlon Brando reading The Hallow Men, the struggle between man’s conscience and his heart until things go too far, get out of hand and can never be repaired. Is everything so worthless in the end? Is there anymore? What lies beyond? What’s left to carry on?

I have the feeling the epileptic condition will worsen. It frightens me. It’s a lie to say I’m not afraid anymore. There’s nothing the doctors can do but try tablets. I felt I had to tell you this even though it might change your feelings for me. I’ve been thinking of you constantly, trying to rationalize our situation, thinking of the things we’ve done. Images and thoughts prey on my mind before my eyes all times of the day and night. And while some things are beyond my understanding, I know that I love you and will do forever.

Until I see you again. I miss you with all my heart.

All my love,
Ian

___________________________________________________

-Ian Curtis's last letter to Annik Honoré
As described in the film Control, directed by Anton Corbjin.

Growing Up In Public

"And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through..."

- David Bowie
Músico, actor, compositor y productor inglés.
De la canción "Changes" del disco Hunky Dory, incluída en la película "The Breakfast Club" (1985).

Esta Pequeña Huella Fantasma

La gloria está en los libros que leímos, 
las películas que aplaudimos
y en las muchas veces que bailamos.
Y no bailamos solos...
Nunca bailamos solos.

-Paco Ignacio Taibo II

Casa de mis abuelos. Los años 90. Mi primo Arturo, de nueve, y yo de ocho, acostados en el enorme sofá de la sala, el lugar al que nunca entraba nadie porque hacía demasiado calor. Era una noche pálida, una lluvia constante ametrallaba nuestras paredes, como lo hacía casi todos los veranos, y escuchábamos los relámpagos caer a la distancia mientras fingíamos, en el fondo, no estar un poquito asustados. Era ya tarde. Todos en la casa dormían menos nosotros. No podíamos, algo nos mantenía despiertos oyendo también los trenes pasar a las afueras de la ciudad. Mis papás acababan de divorciarse, los de Arturo tenían casi dos años de haberlo hecho. Él vivía con su padre, quien siempre lo ignoraba. Yo vivía con mamá y con mi hermana Lucía, quien acababa de nacer y requería mayores atenciones, por lo que casi siempre me dejaban al cuidado de mis abuelos. 

Arturo pasó todo ese verano con nosotros porque su papá se había ido de viaje con su nueva novia. Por la mañana jugábamos fútbol, salíamos a andar en bicicleta por la colonia o nadábamos en el jardín, en la alberquita de plástico destartalada que tenían en la casa desde antes que yo naciera. Por las noches nos desvelábamos jugando Super Nintendo o viendo la tele. Mi primo había traído varias películas VHS de su casa, la mayoría caricaturas de Disney y las primeros largometrajes animados de Pixar. La pubertad todavía estaba a unos años de distancia pero nuestro descubrimiento del sexo gracias a la programación nocturna de los canales clandestinos y la enigmática figura femenina de nuestras primeras películas porno había empujado a Arturo a inspeccionar el catálogo de películas de su padre. Un noche, cuando no había nadie en casa, mi primo puso en la videocasetera una cinta en la que, según él, "se veía". Esa película era Trainspotting. La vimos completa, esperando la famosa escena de sexo entre Renton y Diane, pero nos quedamos por la trama. Aunque no la entendimos del todo (sabíamos que tenía que ver con drogas, las cuales nos habían dicho siempre que "eran malas" pero no teníamos idea del porqué o de cómo funcionaban) nos fascinó la cinematografía, la historia, los personajes, el humor negro, la música. Meses después, cuando los CDs habían roto los paradigmas del siglo XX, en un viaje a Estados Unidos compré el soundtrack de la película y se lo presté a Arturo. Nos encantaban todas las canciones: "Atomic", "Born Slippy" "Lust for Life", "Perfect Day" pero en especial oíamos una y otra vez esa canción de Blur, "Sing", que va:

Can't feel 

'Cause I'm numb

Can't feel

'Cause I'm numb

So what's the worth

In all of this?
Sing to me

Sin saberlo, esa música nos habría de acompañar, a cada uno por separado, por tantos momentos significativos de la niñez y la pubertad; las risas, las vacaciones, los amigos de la cuadra, las travesuras en el recreo, estudiando para los exámenes finales y los miedos mortales a reprobar, los nervios por la(s) niña(s) bonita(s) del salón, los problemas en la casa, las peleas, los gritos, la soledad, los llantos nocturnos, los cambios.

Esa noche, acostados en el sofá de la sala con la lluvia afuera, y los relámpagos, y los trenes que surcaban susurrando, nos quedamos dormidos pensando en nuestros papás; en si algún día estarían juntos otra vez, o si cada uno seguiría adelante con su vida, si nos olvidarían poco a poco, o si fue nuestra culpa, o si se sentirían tan vulnerables e infelices como nosotros. Ahí, refugiados en casa de mis abuelos mientras afuera la familia se caía a pedazos, llevándose consigo nuestra infancia y abriéndole paso a una adolescencia problemática, mi primo y yo, sin decir nada, sabíamos exactamente lo que estaba pasando, y nos consolábamos en silencio, deseando que al final todo mejorara.

Can't feel 

'Cause I'm numb

Can't feel

'Cause I'm numb

So what's the worth

In all of this?
Sing to me

Falling In Love, 1934-1941

        Every schoolboy learned the history of Trachimbrod from a book originally written by the Venerable Rabbi - AND IF WE ARE TO STRIVE FOR A BETTER FUTURE, MUSTN'T WE BE FAMILIAR AND RECONCILED WITH OUR PAST?- and revised regularly by a comittee of Uprighters and Slouchers. The Book of Antecedents began as a record of major events: battles and treaties, famines, seismic occurences, the beginnings and ends of political regimes. But it wasn't long before lesser events were included and described at great lenght - festivals, important marriages and deaths, records of construction in the shtetl (there was no destruction then)- and the rather small book had to be replaced with a three-volume set.

          Soon upon the demand of the readership -which was everyone, Uprighter and Sloucher alike - The Book of Antecedents included a biennial census, with every name of every citizen and a brief chronicle of his or her life (women were included after the synagogue split), summaries of even less notable events, and commentaries on what the Venerable Rabbi had called LIFE, AND THE LIFE OF LIFE, which included definitions, parables, various rules and regulations of righteous living, and cute, if meaningless, sayings.

          The later editions, now taking up an entire shelf, became yet more detailed, as citizens contributed family records, portraits, important documents, and personal journals, until any schoolboy could easily find out what his grandfather ate for breakfast on a given Thursday fifty years before, or what his great-aunt did when the rain fell without lull for five months. The Book of Antecedents, once updated yearly, was nos continually updated, and when there was nothing to report, the full-time committee would report its reporting, just to keep the book moving, expanding, becoming more like life: We are writing.... We are writing.... We are writing. 

And I'm sure that my grandfather was no exception. He, too, must have skipped from volume to volume, page to page, searching...

THE PROBLEM OF GOOD: WHY UNCONDITIONALLY GOOD THINGS HAPPEN TO UNCONDITIONALLY BAD PEOPLE
     (See GOD)

WHAT JACOB R ATE FOR BREAKFAST ON THE MORNING OF FEBRUARY 21, 1977
     Fried potatoes with onions. Two slices of black bread.

BROD'S 613 SADNESSES
     The following encyclopedia of sadness was found on the body of Brod D. The original 613 sadnesses, written in her diary, corresponded to the 613 commandments of our (not their) Torah. Shown below is what was salvageable after Brod was recovered. (Her diary's wet pages printed the sadnesses onto her body. Only a small fraction [55] were legible. The other 558 sadnesses are lost forever, and it is hoped that, without knowing what they are, no one will have to experience them). The diary from which they came was never found.

  SADNESS OF THE COVENANT: Sadness of God's love; Sadness of God's back [sic]; Favorite-  child sadness; Sadness of b[ein]g sad in front of one's God; Sadness of the opposite of belief [sic];  What If? Sadness; Sadness of God alone in heaven; Sadness of a God who would need people to pray to Him...

  SADNESS OF THE INTELLECT: Sadness of being misunderstood [sic]; Humor Sadness; Sadness of love without release; Sadness of being smart; sadness of not knowing enough words to express what you mean; Sadness of having options; Sadness of wanting sadness; Sadness of confusion; Sadness of domesticated birds; Sadnesss of finishing a book; Sadness of remembering, Sadness of Forgetting;

We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....We are writing.... we are writing.....


-Jonathan Safran Foer
Novelista y autor norteamericano.
En 'Everything is Illuminated'.