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

Publicado el

A tribute to my own little nation

A NEW culture begins

It’s election year: 2024.

I was born in the year 76 of the last century. This year there will be 76 elections.

Coincidence? Maybe. But you never know.

You start to see the signs once you have enter in this state of ease within your search and in contact with the awe of the almighty magic around. It’s there. We’ve had several times the illusion of the mighty. It lives within us. Especially when you are an artist. Even more, even, to the ninth dimention, when you are a futbolartist.

It’s not because you say it. You’ve lived it. The seeds of transformation, and the work behind what you do with them to take it to next level. Deliverance at its best.

But there is one sin I have committed, if I must be judgemental with myself, which is just another excuse to try to hide from the circumstances that have enabled me, today, to come out here and say it: I’m ready.

The truth is is I’ve been ready for a while. But I’ve been waiting for the right time. As if that’s something real. Time… oh, time. God… oh, god.

A tiny blue dot… space…

We’ve been given some tools, and a complete set of contradiction that point inward to place the highest grunch against yourself: yourself.

It’s time I heal.

And when I say I, I trully mean you. And I. But when you read I, I understand you feel you, not I, but that in itself is an I. Like the pine tree top, as we like to call it in Spain.

Spain… oh, spain.

Catalonia, oh, catalonia.

There you go… the elefant in the room: dualism.

And there is no better place to aknowledge this than here. Or maybe in the Euskalerria, where my ancestors left, long ago, from the harsh social reality that families live when they decide to leave your small little village, to leap into an adventure towards the unknown, to seek for your own survivable. Elizondo was once full of people with the Elizondo last name. They might have been jews who converted to catholiscism in order to avoid the harship of a different belief system back in the day. But, thank God, things have changed around here.

Have they?

Who am I to say? Really, no one. I’m just the NEW guy. El nou d’un poble nou, like I’d like to portrayed myself in my very own NEW language: ticatalan.

I must warn you: my NEW kingdom is from another dimention.

And that’s not the only warning. Here’s another one: I am the son of the Sun. His name is Father God. And He is to blame for Hetheropatriachy all to Himself. He’s told me to tell you this, along with a NEW testament. The last one.

So, as you can see, I’m also the last evangelist. Things, from our family’s perspective ends here. And therein starts a NEW era. Thank God!

It has not been easy (not for HIM, nor for me, who like you, I’m just human, mostly, and the little bit holy that I know I am, is a human-developed capability that you, yourself, already possess) to come to this understanding. There’s been many spreadsheets, AI designs, algorithms, power struggles, wars,…

NAW is the time.

It’s time for this NEW journey.

Are you ready for it?

I certainly am.

ALLS

Publicado el

Kumayl, Hunain, Valerie and Golman

I’ve been a knight ever since steped into KAS campus, back in 1991. I didn’t know it at first. It was all new to a latinamerican teen just landing in this kind of heat. It was all too new to be addressed in a single glampse of the entire situation. It was a new town, and a new life that I had no idea how it was going to turn out.

It became something else when I realized that was entering another type of world inside that American School in Karachi. Nothing made sense. Nor did I there.

But somehow we’ve come back to find ourselves in a place where we’ve not just found each other again. We’ve found love too. And it’s a place, once again, a set of coordenates in our environement that have come across three women that we’ve fell in love with: Meritxell, Valerie and Nadia. Spain, France, Pakistan.

Kumayl and Hunain are brothers. And they are, somehow, my bros.

There are other types of brothers. Like Mohammed and Kumayl. That’s there, in a different dimention of the understanding of two friends that have known each other for 44 years. Life long friends. That’s worth nurturing.

Life has a funny way of functioning. And we’ve all been exposed to the kind of life that you are able to manouver as you walk the talk of your own thing. It’s never quite the way you imagined, yet you are there, somehow fulfilling the dream you’ve set yourself to build.

Life is like that. And every other way. We just get use to the nuances, and cope the rest. Like the way we were taught, the day someone explained what cope was. A literature assinment with an Escher staircase going places, and back. Life is like that, I guess. Coping and going the distance. You keep at it. While handling the situations. The circumstances. The everchanging environment. And yourself. In the middle of the equation.

Hunain showed up first. He was the leader of the pack. He salute me from afar, as he approached the corner of Mallorca and Enric Granados, where I had been waiting for just a couple of minutes. He had a reservation. Valerie came right after. She pointed to Kumayl, who was last. He had had his two hour nap to able to make it through the night. It’s the jetlag, plus the drinking from 11 to 10. Whatever that means.

Kumayl gave me one of those hugs he gives. It’s a powerful tool he used. Just like his wisdom to connect with anyone in the room. The capacity to reach out to the unknown and make a close connection with the current vibe. That’s what he did as soon as we sat down, s he started to bond with the table next to ours. A group of friends in a convention from NGOs from many different fields, trying to make an impact in solving the challenges ahead, wherever they may be. Some from the USA, some from England. But where in the US and where in England, Kumayl wanted to know? London. Ohio. Somehow Kumayl happend to have been in Ohio, and to have loved Oberdeen, or something like that, which happens to be a very open progressive city, as open as they get. And the Ohio girl recognized the odds of having someone in the next table to a story so close to home, even when she ended up going to Syracuse, and freezing her ass off, as Kumayl infered.

The place was a Japanese restaurant. But somehow we would start to speak soon enough in urdu, indi and nepalese, if that’s a thing. Kumayl rapidly bonded with the waiters who were from India, Punjab, from Nepal, and from Peru. From then on everyone in the table expressed all of our talents in urdu. Achas, benchonds, tiri-maka-loras, gandús, the whole pack. We drifted some french, and as the sake entered the scene we were rapidly speaking some wise japanese to properly intake all the mixture of sensations coming through.

The night let the knight in us get through. We were suddenly there, in Karachi, as much as we were in Los Angeles, Austria, and back here, in Example. The experience of toro, tora, tora, and succulent company, ended up in an uplifting night to hold the treasure of meeting old friends, and getting back in touch, to align ourselves with life, as it unfolds, once again, to deliver the unveiling act of yet another Saturday night in a the transformed city of NEW barcino.

ALLS

Publicado el

De vuelta al ruedo

¿Por qué utilizar una frase taurina si no somos aficionados a la tauromaquia?

No tiene sentido. Ni que fuera rejoneador frustrado. O banderillero de andar por casa. O empresario. Siempre me ha llamado mucho la atención ese nombre: el empresario. El dueño de la plaza es lo que es. Y es quien tiene que hacer gran parte del trabajo invisible detrás de las corridas. Me imagino. Como el ganadero. Siempre atento a sus mayorales, a sus sementales, a sus pasturas, y su familia. Hombres de familia. Hombres de la España desierta, que se queda en el campo, cuidando de la hectáreas familiares de la casta castiza, patriarcas de estas tierras, grandes de España. El abolengo y la fiesta se conjugan en la misma oración de la historia de esta península, que un día fue mucho más que eso. Ah, tiempos pasados. ¿Quién fuera historia como este reino?

Rey de reyes sólo uno. Familias reales varias. Dios Padre… una.

Madre.

Madre mía.

Se te ha ido la olla.

Te has pasado tresxtres pueblos.

Nueve pueblos.

Nou pobles.

Nou pobles nous.

El nou del poble

El nou d’un poble nou.

El nou del Poble Nou.

El Nou.

9.

ALLS