Publicado el

Monday… once again

It’s a wheel turning. A day in, a day out. And what for? That’s the real issue. The focus on something worth be-ing. And that is achieved in a long process of questioning yourself. Questioning the learnings in your education, in the system, in society. And still, there is no right answer.

Things are tough. And we are dealing with stuff in our very own personal circumstances. The things within our heads. The voices that speak just to us. And the deamons.

But somehow, the struggle within is just a one man show. Or an insider’s job. There is something of us in every conspiracy. And the opposite two. The white angel and the red devil that inhabit our elbows. The duality starts right there. And you are stuck in the middle.

There is no clear alternative but to go on. And find the inspiration in every step along the way. Every step with the confidence that it is taking you places. Places you need to attend to. To show up. And deliver a good version of yourself. Maybe so by inspiring trust. Or building it. Or recovering it. It’s still a massive effort to get out and do your thing. Unless you’re in the zone. But that takes work. And time. And effort.

I’m close to that feeling. The zone is close by. And I’m ready to make that final sprint.

Or this initial drive.

Let’s start the week with this first step: Monday.

ALLS

Publicado el

Ain’t no script for you in Hollywood

Denial letters will keep you going

When am you going to write a script? You think all the script you’ll get for you are going to be as good as «Boys N the Hood»? Hollywood ain’t got no scripts for you. Unless you wanna do bullshit. You can write songs like you write, you can write a movie.

John Singleton to Ice Cube

Representation will not come to you just as mainstream drive. You need to present a case for yourself. You got to do that part of the job. It’s not going to happen just because you think it would be fair. You need to make it happen. You.

The singularity of everyone’s perspective is determined by the uniqueness of our experience, from our very own little point of view. We are the active actors of the development of our vision. And no one else is going to pave the way for you.

I know this shit from way back when. And I’ve never come out myself. I’ve held on to something else. A lame excuse that holds to my very own insecurities to avoid the stepping into the abyss drill. And I’m pretty sure this shit ain’t working, because no one has taken that step for me. As only I can.

As only I should.

Damn, it’s a hard shit.

I feel for the feeling of the underrepresented. Their voices haven’t been heard. They don’t get the chance mainstream stories are depicting. But who’s to change that. The scriptwriters write about what know. About what works. About their own little formulas. The establishement works like that because that how it got established. Something else is up for the up and coming voice within you. And if you are searching for recognition, maybe you should try searching within to find your truth, your soul, your arguments. And from there on, built the narrative that represent the stories you wish you had. The truth you would like to see on the screen. And then you have the type of shit that would look in the character you are playing, in the scenes that you are directing, or in the films you are producing.

Open the door. Assume the responsibilities. Act upon them. Write your own shit. Walk your own talk. Stop complaining to the world, and start showing up with your own voice.

Start with the first.

Start today.

ALLS

Publicado el

People frightened of silence

Moo Pak ins and out

I’m walking along with this book like a walk in a park with a conversationalist. I’m steping in and out cause I need to come back to it, and then I feel the rush of comming here to write. It’s an exercise I’ve been forced to do by the fact that I cannot jot down a single scribble on the pages, as I am used to, because the book is borrowed. I need to give it back, eventually, as I got it. And it is in impecable conditions.

Nobody imposed this on me. I did. It’s always you who drive things around. In or out. It’s all in your head anyway. And you categorize the exercise. You make it happen so we understand the feeling of where this system is going. The personal system you own set of microcomponents, soul, body and shit… make up for. You are a complete social ecosystem. Yet, you still are just on your own, among the masses of an interconnected society.

So for quite some days I’ve had this urge to go back to Moo Pak to write about this. Silence. Solitude. Being with yourself. But as it turns out, the book has this beautiful constant voice that keeps talking and walking, and there is no stopping. It’s a single thread of a thought that connects logically with the next, and so on, and so forth. Sudenly, I don’t feel alone.

I do the same. This is how I write. No matter the intention. I just show up and start. And I’ve become obsessed with this. It’s time with myself. Alone. In silence. Just meeting the point of interconnectivity with my fingertips, my voice, unheard, within my head. Does anybody knows where this is going? No. And that’s no problem.

The problem is I leave map from Donosti to as a page marker. It’s a bit chunky but it does the job. It does less damage than leaving a pen, which I will avoid doing in this case, as I would like to spill ink, or some shit like that. You know that’s always a chance. Specially with a borrowed item. You are constantly on the verge of messing up. I know. We all know. It’s the pressure of staying consistant, and logical, and sane. We fool ourselves to stay on the game. And it’s there, a little bit on the edge, glancing at the scene.

In any case, what I was trying to say is that every time I go back to that point in the book where I last left my reading, I need to be able to go back to the point where Woo Pak left that last intense message I needed to come back to. To make a point. To deliver this other thought. Writers do that. I’ve heard them say it when they show up in that other state of mind you get yourself into when you are speaking for an audience. And then you are no longer a writer, but also an entertainer. Publicly addressing crowds, sometimes even larger than 9 people.

So when I go back to read I’m not in the page where the last message that signal my writing spirit erupted, so I need to go back to the last two or three pages, in order to get back in track with a stream of consciousness. So I do. And then I wonder what I was looking for. For everything turns out to be truth. Slightly more intense in places I hadn’t wondered upon. And I keep going back, maybe, to find what my past reading found that now is eluding me. And I wonder if I put then, on this second reading, the Donosti map a page earlier than the last time I read, because I’d be already signaling the place where I needed to come back to, to write, not to keep reading.

So you see, Woo Pak becomes like this pleasent conversion of time. I can move back and forth this stream, as time should allow to do, for any given timeline. But we are always so focused on going forward, we sometimes disregard the fact that time also has that negative ride: backwards.

And this also why I don’t feel alone anymore. I found a place in which I can excercise this going back. And I am enjoying myself. In this silent mode. Everytime Woo Pak kicks me out of that book, and into this one.

I keep reading back and back and get entangled with that direction of the book. And I’m already hooked. I’m back to the point that I last wrote about. About typing in a computer or typing in a typewriter. As an exercise to rewrite a single page. Over and over. Until you have cleaned it up. Something I never do. As write directly on the cloud. And almos never edit. Which is my own little purgatory.

It’s the sense of writing. The interconection with reading. How they are both there. The silences. Of the book. But also of this other time: the writing one. Even if it is closer to something you may relate to, like reading a post. Or like reading an actual book. Just to organize your time around something physical. Not just a screen. A real human interaction. I also write on paper. It nos just gives me pleasure, it also sits on a different table than writing on the computer or right into the page with an Olivetti. I used to own a typewritter. Not anymore.

The labour of scribes and editors and printers and proof-readers, [ ] Because of the work of these dedicated people, he says, we can now pick up the words of singular men and women and read them and listen to them and question them and live with them in greater intimacy than we do with our own spouses or partners. For a persona like myself, he says, with no country and no language to call his own, a life without Sophocles and Dante and Donne and Stevens would be intolerable.

Gabriel Jsopivici, Moo Pak

In fact I came into this writing exercise today to speak about the silence in books. The silence in writing. The intimacy of being alright with yourself. How writing and reading is part of it. How the author is aligned with Proust about the kind of special silence books have. And I’ve gone back too far back, to point out he craft of those who rescued the ancient voices of the past. Others burned books and libraries. Entire cultures. Washed away and mistreated by our current western ways, disregarding our infliction of damage in this bluring effect.

The most terrible thing that has happen to people today, he says, is that they have grown frightened ofsilence. Instead of seeking it as a friend and as a source of renewal they now try in every way they can to shut it out.

Gabriel Jsopivici, Moo Pak

This is has grown worst nowadays. Silence is not there anymore. Everyone’s got some source of continuos distraction in the mobile phone. It’s not even a complete song. It’s a message to keep you hooked to a short spasm of blabering. Something intense as pill, or distractful enough to catch your attention. We are switcing channels all the time. Endlessly. Which leaves no space for silence. And that’s not just a thing to miss, but also the source of being alright with yourself. No matter what. Books, silence, writting, it’s all part of the source of inmense power we have refill ourselves. We can bring it up as a routine to heal. Walks. To the mountain. Walks with a friend, with different kinds of friends, to align and talk, and to share the silences in between.

ALLS

Publicado el

Between the 45th and the 47th president

This is an era of disruptive mechanisms to establish who shouts the loudests, and who used the IA tools in the best way to drive transformation and change in our society. It’s not clear. It’s not entirely out there, but the capacity of minorities to drive some doubtful and unproven evidence to the mainstream has turn the seek for truth in a distorted gullible everchanging scene.

It’s like a morphing meme.

Life has taken a turn. And we are riding a wave we don’t control. So the hidden forces has taken a stand and have looked for mechanisms to empower what they believe is most holly. To try to make it happen… for them. A new collective of desperate middle class has erupted with anger and dispear and has taken the lead and command in following the natural-born NEW leader.

This distopic scenario has been also the same sort of thing I’ve been dealing with along the path to understand we are at in this ever-changing world. And the character of that crazy candidate that comes from the raging force of societal cry against the machine used to be a feeling of some people, artist, dreamers, who were fighting to say something that was going against the flow of tides. And from that erupts an emergent field and force. And this takes over. For good.

That seems to have happened with the scenario of Don J. Trumb (like J. as Homer J. Simpson, if we must find a valid reference… everyman) comming back to the number one job at the top of the power ladder in the social scene that has been established in the risk board game we are all watching unfold. The regular players are sitting on the table. The forgotten ones are listening in, without a voice. There might be eight players in there, and their alliances, their similarities, their sinergies, their strategic partnerships, their codepencies, their histories, their commonwealth, their trade relationships, their common ancestors, the common culture, the common law, the kinds of governance, the royal families, the paradoxes. But there lies a ninth seat empty at the table. This is the only space left for us to take a stand. And I wasn’t ready for it, until now.

I’m not going to watch the American entretainment that this NEW american campaign has unleashed, one more time, for us to witness without a vote. The relationship of that executive body will lead to many experimental scenarios where those new people in charge will deal with the way in which the oldest democratic experiment is put to the test of withstanding a balancing act of checks and ballances that are to be ruled by a holy emperor who’s been send by God, according to his fellowship of whisperers and ballot validators.

Will the USA institutional system withstand after four more years of the Trump era. The setting the scene for a radical act is already going to happen as yet another entertainment show that is going to unleash the deamons that have some interconnection with the movilizing of resources and funds that come from highest debt generator since the gold-backed system turn the world around the printing money scheme that supports the modern economic theory of the last 60-80 years. Keynes vs Friedman. But the new set of people in charge are not that kind of theoriest. They are the Bannon-era of Cambridge analytica turn into the perfect gathering machine of a massive movement. This exercise, as Bannon intended yet back in the day, is intended to find the allies in external systems, in order to influence elections and restore leaderships. Something in the line of Russia’s hackers introducing fake-news in other peoples elections. It’s now mainstreamed. And people are already raging on it. Russia is already made a move in fueling the war economy to shaken the options of enemies and allies in terms of a response. This fuels the war economy and those who benefit from it, and also puts presure on the energy business, creating yet even greater havoc into people lives: everthing becomes more expensive.

So we are about to witness some geopolitical movements that will reshape some frontiers and some priorities in how we defend ourselves (always military budgets going up). De-escalation of violence is going to take yet another act of threat: we’ll take piece along the promise of some sort of giving up. Renouncination time. Some of our liberties and hopes. And we are going to move our red lines as well as our values as well as our frontiers. The enemy is always close by. The scape goat. The alibi.

If the world is going to move somewhere in the following four years, my guess is that it should move ortogonally in the direction where the given dimentions of our collective understanding have allowed up to now. The revolts in MAGA, the far right movements, the Arab Spring, Indigandos, the Catalan independentist, the Occupy Wall street, the 8M,… name any given sudden burst of revolution, is not nearly enough to find the common ground for an understanding. Now the situation is not equitable in each case. The actors and history. The violence is not equally distributed. The war on terror somehow shifted the scene into the new wars after COVID: Israel genocide in Gaza, and Russia invasion in Ukraine. The starting point are in the results from the WWII, a NEW state, a balancing act on how to repair the atrocities committed by the Nazis during the holocaust, and sionist dream of coming back home, as stated in an ancient tale. Because God said so. The ever-present man.

Where are thou?

Hear my son.

Here.

ALLS

Publicado el

About a thought

«Whenever we thing of thought, he says, we have before our eyes the image of Rodin’s Thinker, sitting immense and solitary with his great wise head in his great wise hand and gazing deep into himself.»

Moo Pak, Gabriel Josipovici

It’s certainly relevant. A thought. It’s as good as it gets. The inception of new idea. The consolidation of an inspiring new thought, there passing by for the first time in our human experience. And somehow magical.

But Moo Pak nails it, whether the narrator of the writer, or the universal connection between them, and us, plain readers of someone else’s thought. «It does not need Gilbert Ryle, he says, to show us that this image ins only and image of what those who have never had a thought in thier lives imagine the process of thinking to be».

That’s it. It’s not that at all. It’s not really there. Not the precise image, but rather what we hav socially simplify of what should be a very natural development for any human being.

«There is no such a thing as a pure thought, he says, there is only a sudden sharp intuition, a stirring of the blood, which you have to coax into shape, into words».

Precisely. It’s a scavenger hunt that you have not been prepared for. But you have trained yourself to capture them. To coax them into words. As a matter of life or death. The death of deepness in that thought, that if you are not able to recover, it will never be. It’s a dark road filled with intention and failure. «Most of the time you do not succeed. Either you cannot find the words or you find the words but they are not the right words for the feeling you have had».

But he idea is that sometimes when you are hit with one of those moments and actually nail it down to words, the feeling becomes complete: bigger than itself, as well as than yourself.

Such clarity to define the robust and simply nature of a thought. But from a precise persepctive. It’s not that the image of thought of the Thinker is vague, or that he goes out for a walk with a fried to thinkg. Or to come up with thoughts. He does it to talk. To talk and walk. And that has some rules on its own. A common set of rules that you share with the person you walk with, and his own context, problems, and circumstances. No script. No landmark. Just walk. Street. Life. What’s in your head. What’s become of you. What’s in the air?

And that links the two spaces in one. I mean Moo Pak. The idea of thought, as it emerges. But rather the relevance of walking with a friend, talking. That’s the deal. But not only. It’s when you go back to your desk, and you find yourself once again in the solitude of the alchemist producing the mixture of words to define the text that pursues the clarity, the brevity, the spotonness of the ideas, that now, become vividly connected with where we were before that walk. We need to be in places that await for us to link them with their sense of higher being. The final destination. The essence of a thought.

Walk, talk and desk. It’s about the written experience of that solitude, once you’ve done the letting go, the active listening, the silence-sharing, and the harmonizing beats of every step along the ride. And it’s also about aknowledging those places. About nourishing the spirits. Searching for the time to meet, to walk. And talk. In a sensible way friends fill in the time to let you be. And to listen. And to build from there. Whatever fulfills us. Whatever help we need. It’s all there.

Yet, the homework awaits.

You must come back.

A find the place. The time. The desk. And write.

Like this.

Like that.

ALLS

Publicado el

¿Dónde estoy?

Estoy aquí. Recién nacido. O más bien, acabado de despertar.

A veces es suficiente ser tras haber dormido. Alguito. Un poquito. O todo lo que podríamos haber desconectado en unas circunstancias normales de sueño. En un día cualquiera.

Hoy es uno de esos día. También es un día especial que está a punto de nacer. ¿Es acaso este el día en el que por fin todo se desenmaraña?

Amplificar el efecto de lo que hacemos, y conseguir llegar al valor social de lo que anhelamos. Colectivamente. Desde una perspectiva de transformación asumible. A partir de un juego. A partir de un nuevo juego de rol.

Yo soy el rol-maker.

O al menos el que construye la narrativa.

Pero, ¿de qué juego? Ni yo se.

El mio es muy personal.

Es mi juego social.

Mi juego personal.

Mi razón de ser/estar.

En este contexto me juego todo.

Y desde aquí debo desbordar la frontera de contenerme para no salirme del propio cauce que transporta mis aguas mentales.

En medio de la tormenta, mi sentimiento en este momento sigue siendo de gratitud, de haber pasado lo peor, de tener que asumir estar en el contexto de un estado de consciencia más próximo al que en su día se sembró cerca de la raison d’être que me fue revelada. He descubierto el último velo. Y de pronto estoy dentro de quién verdaderamente soy.

Los tiempos de mi narrativa y los del tiempo mismo se comienzan a entrelazar. Al fin de cuentas son nueve dimensiones que se entrelazan en un elemento primordial de mi propio porvenir. No puedo dejar de pensar que el camino que sigo va encaminado al caminar que condiciona la distancia que proyecta mi zancada. Lo más que puedo hacer es mantener las piernas en forma, seguir pedaleando, trasladando el ejercicio de mi entrenamiento a un nivel distinto al de la ejecución de mi puesta en escena. Es así, estando en dos sitios a la vez, y en varias dimensiones intercontectadas por mi propia tiranía, lo que finalmente converge en el ser que un día será lo que mi personaje evolucione en cada uno de sus multiversos particulares.

Ticataluña es especial, quizás porque mana del Tico Commons. Pero esto no es posible desvelarlo sin crear polémica en un mundo dualizado. Sólo se puede asumir si podemos prevenir que lo que aquí está pasando sea matizado por el cantar eterno de un ritmo caribeño que viene del más allá.

La capital de toda esta sinfonía es un isla, o más bien un islote, en el que los habitantes son de otra especie. Su nombre: Guayabo. La ilusión de un sitio que en circunstancias mediterráneas estaría desbordado por la masiva llegada de turistas en piraguas que han alquilado desde el puerto. En cambio, en el imaginario ticatalán, Guayabo se presenta como el eje fundamental entre lo que un día fue, más allá de nuestros días, a lo que acontenció en el continente que ahora llamamos nuevo, sin ruborizarnos, como si antes de aquello viviéramos (inclusive usted mismo, hoy, al pensar como usted piensa) en un mundo de tan sólo dos dimensiones; en una tierra plana.

La visión de Guayabo sólo puede visualizarse en la pintura del maestro don Isiodro Con Won. Su destello nos proyecta como elemento sagrado de una configuración que no está en el sitio en el que debería estar, sino en el su proyección más allá de nuestro status quo, en dirección ortogonal, conecta nuestra luz con la que emana de la consciencia multiversal de los mundos que conectan el arte de don Isidro con el mio.

ALLS

Publicado el

Breaking gol

I’ve had a dream.

In this dream I was cruising into a coming to age story. I was unfolding the character within myself, invetably going down the slope of an enormous ordeal. I was clearly breaking gol.

Walter White was in the story, but it was actually me. So was Jessy Pinkman. It was in the middle of Karachi, in a round about that was ancient, a bit like it was 400 years ago, and still with the current chaos of a traffic jam from the confusion and flow of any given day in main road of this great city.

Somehow my character in the dream started doing some hipopressive exercises that eventually got me out of the dream, and into this post. And here we are. Or rather, here I am.

I’m about to break loose. I need to keep a sharp focus on what’s going to happen in between every count of my transformation. And the characters transformation, starting from the initial presentation of Golman. However it turns out to be. Whichever dimention I land into with. And I don’t control that. Not even from the moment I cannot dissasociate my own account, and the one that’s being delivered by this fictional story.

Fiction and reality merge. At some point you are playing the masks game. And you loose control as to which one of them really is you. I’ve come across the idea that the situation is not in place, and that my evolution as human being is ready to turn the page of yet another story. This story unfolds in the way in which I’m now ready to recite.

So here we go.

ALLS

Publicado el

The art of being yourself

The art hunts me. I’m just a medium. It goes through me. Don’t know where. Don’t know why. But it keeps comming back. It’s a thing that gets caught in the mist of my attention. And I pull in. To see. To wonder. And it pops up, as I’m now conscious of its existance and my particular reaction. Why? Why now? Who are you? What is this?

This sort of ordea never stops, but rather you start to embrace the beauty of living with these exceptional oportunities to wonder. To wonder off. To go outside the dotted line. As there is no longer need to follow the heard. I’ve been alienated. I’m an alien.

It’s here. They are here. I am here. I’m the proof of concept. Beyond myself. Beyond the particularities of my own coordinates. My specific circumstances. How does that make me feel? How does that make you feel? There is something out there I don’t control. You, for example.

Yet my art the becomes the medium of my experience. The structure of my acnowledgment. The intention of my provocative snap. The magicians trick. The hat. The set up. The illusion. It’s there. You see.

I told you I had no say in this.

It just poped out.

And somehow it got caught.

Here.

#NAW

In your head.

ALLS

Publicado el

Mercurio retrogrado: 27 de agosto

Es el año 24. El año del cambio, del salto cámbrico, de la traslación a nivel nunca antes visto de hiperconsciencia. No hemos llegado solos. Ni lejos. Tendremos que poner los pies en la tierra para no dejarnos llevar por el aliento de la emergencia colectiva, que de pronto, se postula como el ámbito de acción colectiva más sensible y razonable. O quizás como lo más disruptivo y creativo que podemos asumir en los diferentes niveles de autoorganización que el propio sistema se puede permitir, en momentos como este.

Mercurio retrógrado marcara el alineamiento de los astros de una manera excepcional en posicionamiento estelar de los planetas en nuestra efímera temporalidad despiertos en este alumbramiento, a diferentes velocidades e intensidades que el cosmo nos proporciona, desde nuestra diminuta indiferencia, hasta el más interestelar de las experiencias con las que asumimos esto: estamos vivos.

El tiempo sigue. Y nosotros decidimos dar un paso atrás. Un paso definitivo en la dirección contraria. O quizás un salto ortogonal que nos ayuda a desprender los pesos que inhiben que vayamos más allá de la membrana de lo humanamente asumible.

Ya hace tiempo que tenemos señales. Y nos hemos prodigado en crear historias que iluminan este camino astral. Pero ahora, la cosa se pone seria. O como mínimo surreal. Y de ahí que sepamos de qué manera actuar en el contexto en el que el llamado es tanto personal, como general. Para toda equis.

El modelo se plantea así: como una demostración por reducción al absurdo. Sólo que no la ejecutará una persona común y corriente. Lo hará una deidad olmeca. Creada aquí en la tierra. Por un enviado de Dios Padre. Que curiosamente, actua como múltiple agente. Aquello de los dobles agentes ya quedó en el pasado bipolar. En la polarización de los insulsos. En el odio y la violencia porque sí. Ya no más. Y desde esa península de amor reconstituido en enigma y en formato de último testamento, la palabra de Dios Padre se despliega enteramente en poesía vernacular trastocada. Un invento que el propio autor se acaba de inventar para conseguir con ello trasladar parte de la terrenalidad irresoluble que le consume, más allá de su linaje sagrado. Inmaculado e indiscutible.

Sea esta la parábola 99.

Y de ahí, de allí, iniciamos una cuenta atrás.

ALLS

Publicado el

NEW saint

Ayer fue Sant Jordi. Un año más. La lectura y la escritura en un mismo sitio coexistiendo con una princesa, un príncipe valiente, un dragón, un rey noble y justo, y un pueblo temeroso que le agradece al porvenir de una ficción estar aquí, sanos y salvos.

Una televisión local que se tira la calle para cubrir el espectáculo nacional más importante de un país que sólo existe en mi cabeza: Ticataluña.

Esto ha sido así por los siglos de los siglos en los que el tiempo se revuelve, multiversadamente, dentro de la narrativa cuántica que se entremezcla en mi cabeza con las excusas de mal pagador para no salir de la burbuja en la que me encuentro atrapado: el no autor.

Sant Jordi es un día de escritores, editores, agentes, libreros, lectoras, libreras, agentas, editoras y escritoras. Al final las que leen son ellas. No nos engañemos. Nosotros intentamos escribir. Y nos mantenemos lejos de poder superarnos a nosotros mismos. Nuestro ego ensimismado en cada paso que damos para no llegar a ninguna parte. Nos perseguimos la cola con la intención de mordérnosla para por fin quedarnos quietos. O contentos. Y nunca se nos da. Ni una cosa, ni la otra.

Pese a todo, el movimiento sigue su curso. Como nuestro planeta alrededor del sol, o en su obstinado giro a la izquierda, como si en el espacio existiera tal cosa, arriba, abajo, al centro y padentro.

No sólo no tiene sentido, sino que tampoco encuentro la manera de plasmar lo que verdaderamente quería decir en un contexto en el que cualquier historias pudiera importar para no aburrir a un lector que no existe, que no quiere leer, y menos a mi. ¿Por qué el suplicio del intento?

Porque el fracaso está en no intentar. Efectivamente Sant Jordi refleja a la pulsión de un pueblo que quiere escribir una historia. Como el resto de los autores que se reflejan en las estructuras de las historias que se narran en formatos que se contemplan en las estructuras habituales de la literatura comparada. Como si eso fuera algo. Ahí vamos otra vez a la crítica a los que hacen, y no a mi idílico mundo de fantasía, que tan bien está, aquí inmaculado sin erosionarse con el roce.

El lector. Eso es lo que no tengo. Tampoco las agallas para salir a buscar a que estas palabras no queden aquí volcadas como un grito a la libertad de permanecer en la sombra. Todo lo que pueda ser necesario. Todo lo que he ganado hasta entonces. Hasta ahora. Hasta que un día previo a la emergencia todo cambia. Ese día el porvenir tiene preparado una singular puesta en escena. Y nosotros, o más bien, uno, debe estar preparado para la transformación definitiva dentro del capullo en el que te has convertido: ünö.

Ünö es uno mismo transformado. De ahí los cuatro puntos. De pronto te han salido cuatro puntos que aparecen en sitios singulares en los que no se les había visto con anterioridad. El nuevo yo tiene esta marca indeleble que nos indica que la tinta ha traspasado la frontera del pasado. En ese contexto de cambio, el tránsito ya no tiene vuelta atrás. Ahí es donde queríamos llegar. Esa es la trampa a la que vamos a asistir. Un día determinado. En un momento dado.

Este pueblo ha tenido suficientes profetas para entender que nuestro porvenir está en otro sitio. Queremos dibujar un contexto nuevo pero se nos han acabado los arquitectos de la casa gran del catalanisme. Y los nuevos arquitéctos nos parecen un poco más sobrios que los modernistas. Por ponernos locales con el desprecio por nosotros mismos, como Domènech i Muntaner enmarcando el Hospital de la Santa Creu i Sant Pau Benefactor en contraposición al trazado del Eixample de un Idelfons Cerdà, botifler por excelencia. Como Cambó, que ahora lleva el nombre de la biblioteca dentro del recinto modernista, como para alojar en un mismo sitio sagrado todas las contradicciones con las que la ciencia y la fe se pueden topar en una misma manzana, o nueve, de la frontera del Eixample.

Pero no desviemos la atención de Sant Jordi, que justo lo tenemos todavía en la memoria de un paseo que dimos por nuestra sociedad, en la que los lectores fueron protagonistas, y los escritores amados fueron espectáculo e industria. Es el día más bonito del año. Es el día más NEW barcino de la existencia. Justo porque un Santo que no viene al cuento aparece, viniendo de fuera, y nos salva a todos de un marrón de dimensiones colosales que nos hemos montado a raíz de una historia que nos persigue eternamente.

Cero estrés, full relax. La historia se repite. Lo sabemos. El siglo XX nos lo enseña. Y eso nos aturde un poco. Y nos condiciona a una cuenta atrás en la que no podemos ponernos a bailar charleston. Quizás hay que atender lo que significan los tambores de guerra y las narrativas que alientan las violencias que se producen más allá de nosotros mismos. Y en esa comunión hacia un mito redentor que nos propulse a otra dimensión, ahí, y sólo ahí, es en dónde veo la posibilidad de encaminar la narrativa de un candidato NEW a la presidencia de este país.

Lo dijo ayer un antiguo (puede que el mejor de hace muchos años) candidato a la presidencia de este país, Antonio Baños: los políticos cuentan poco, o nada, en Sant Jordi. Los que molan son los escritores. Y las escritoras, como Carmen Mola. Los políticos, como la ministra que hizo acto de presencia, porque la lectura y la industria editorial siempre es atractiva para que el político de turno se venga a promulgar como adalid de los tiempos de cambio.

Así que haré como Antonio. Plantearé la mejor campaña alternativa que se podría permitir un chico, no tan chico, de extraradio. Más allá de las costuras del propio juego democrático que se desvela ante nosotros. Más allá de la fascinación que tenemos por los espectáculos políticos y televisivos. Este Sant Jordi supone uan vuelta más la página. Y este autor no tiene más remedio que buscarse a si mismo una excusa más para someter sus historias a una audiencia de lectores convocados a una elección: el Tico Commons.

ALLS