Monday, May 5, 2008

Quien lo dijo?


"Since I was a child I've been shit about to happen"

una suscripcion vitalicia a Vanity Fair para quien sepa

Thursday, May 1, 2008

nuevo & caduco







The last week of his life was my first. I recognized his face from before (maybe from a class we had in common, I don't remember very well), I knew his name, and where he died all his life, but I didn't really know what he was until his death finished.

He used to kill himself on a regular basis. He excused himself for doing this by thinking that there isn't a point on smoothering the surface of a rough world. Headaches, cuts and blisters were his true gift, and only in a few ocasions he used it. Black, deep pores, packed with heat and life are the disgusting focuses of movement and interaction. Or at least those were the only ones he knew.

"Let my liver and my intestines bleed and rot, because only until then I will have known the boundaries of awareness. But don't ever look at me again, not even through this courtain, not even if I beg you to do so" he told me once. From that point every aspect of his life started changing. But only as a result of those aspects. It was as if every chapter developed its own destiny, as if every one of them was the direct transmutation of both the previous and next. At the end I think his life could be reduced to that; to an experience on which both action and reaction related to each other in a non continuous way, as if he affected time and not the other way.

His various homes were the holy Weekends of oily communication. Wet and dry emotions penetrated his "old carcass" (as he referred to himself) until all the bars were closed. He blossomed as everyone prepared to lubricate their skins by others' steam. No chemical formulas nor tested explosions on controlled environments could have prevented the atomic holocausts in which those nights ended.

On a couple occasions during that week, after the night had consumed itself and us, the worse had happened, and as if he was an actor who had been rehearsing all his life for that moment, he told me exactly these words: "Allow me to travel, I'd say if I had someone, through that tunnel without thinking, but only seeing. If this is calm, why was the storm sweeter than sugar? I'm not ready yet, and there's no peace, neither something to fight. All there is is a buzz that comes from the already empty and dried out inside".

It all came to an end in a warm nigh of april. I think it was cold before I discovered he was dead.