Moo Pak has got to me again.
I got up and re-read for the third or fourth time the same page. And I’m still hanging there in a loop that I feel I will not be able to scape.
First thing in the morning. Going up to the beginning of the page. Doubting in to go from 54 to 55 before going right away to write what I missed the last time around. Or letting go. I jumped once again to 55, as I did before, and found out both things could be right. Just like I was last time around. But the feeling of perplexity kept crepting in like an unveling mystery.
I’ve been reading this book for more than one year now. And I’ve picked up some other recomendations from Ferran. And they all have different latencies. Different pace. Different rythms. Reading is habit that can inhabit parallel worlds, and it’s a matter of what sort of sport you play with the after-reading deal. I play the writting bit. But in my own pace as well. Just like my reading. I’ve decided, long ago, to keep the the decision three in an open shape of branches that keep building up while the personal exploration keeps me safe within the contingencies of my writing solitude.
I’m following the Kafka perspective of page 55 in order to address the life of the citizen, the regular person, and the life of the writer. The meaningless and the position between the past, the present and the future that no longer belong to me. Other than this spill of thoughts that come through like a stream of conciousness that represent, somehow, what I am, or the struggle of a lonely man.
And don’t get me wrong. I’m also Swift in that sense, where I know that I’m in the playing field surrounded by a set of a great deal of playmates, a great deal of family, and a great deal of societal partners. In the sense of time and history, I belong to a moment in time that is unfolding before our eyes, while the inception of a new kind of species, the uncontrolled living machines, develop a sense of taste and worldy views that are biased by desing. And for the first time, the villans in the story resemble those of the lamest and greatest movies of all time, even if we are also biased by the kind of stories we were fed when we were growing up, and the type of filter that put thos sceens and narratives before our eyes. And what we did with them when we figured out that we had a chance to create a personal narrative of our own. Also meaningless.
The thing is, the fate of a writer is not in the pursue of readers. Not even in the longing of being published. Or the miracle of being heard. It’s a pulse that lives in those who find the way through the cracks of their own lives to set some time to do so: read&write.
Those to things as one. This is what I knew I had to do with the writings from the readings of Moo Pak. To take every bit of reading rush and spill it out in the same escense of flowing narratives like a walk in the park with a listening friend taking note.
For the first time in the novel I wrasp the sense of loneliness from the narrator, who now lives a alone, and misses the life of a family that is no longer there. The wife. The kids. Time goes by.
The sound of the courtain. The sound of the «persiana europea». The cracking door. The footsteps to the bathroom. The click of the light being set one. The water running. The toilet seat. My wife is waking up. I decided to get up with the dream still pulsing in my brain: a round de vous of spies that need to decide what to do about the next steps, without knowing who’s to trust, or what to do, and how to set it up, for the greatest good of our societal struggle. What’s my personal take in making sense of that. Or addressing that different people will show up to the call for transforming our entire system, and that everyone will show up, the ones who will carry on, the sabotagers, and the expectators of the show.
The door opens again, and the sounds of the morning approaches.
This writting bit is about to become a sunday breakfast.
And hopefully a scape route to the next page.
«Bon dia. ¿No estás viendo el barco? Pon la tele.»