Lucio's bro

“For god’s sake, you can’t even take care of yourself and you wanna get dad with you. That’s a good one,” Jorge said with an inquisitor gaze up to his brother, waiting for a reply that was not going to happen.

“Bah…” added as a conclusion, clenching half of his face while exploring the surroundings of the square with his sight, a spark of disgust in his eyes. 

Jorge leans on two legs of his chair, like a teenager, his legs widespread, holding his mouth with a hand to refrain himself from adding anything else to his brother’s idea.

Jorge could not stay quiet for long, though. 

He loosened the knot of his tie and raised a hand to the waiter who was taking another order three tables away. “Hey dude, we waiting”, yells at him. He just got off the office and was dressed in a dark grey bright suit a bit too tight, as he liked, to show up. Jorge did not spend an hour a day in the gym to hide the results.

Anyway, he was not there to discuss any choice with his brother Lucio. He did already decide what they were going to do. He was the one paying for the nursing home. A good one. His dad was not going to end his days in that lousy apartment of Lucio. 

Jorge bent down to grab a brochure out of his maroon leather briefcase when the waiter got closer. “At least”, grumped Jorge, “a gin-and-tonic for me, and bring some chips. What do you want, Lucio?”, asks mechanically even if not wait for an answer. “Here, look. It’s expensive but medicalized. Three thousand bucks, buddy. You hear that? Three thousand! Wait see the yard. You gonna luv’it,” says turning the pages until he finds a panoramic view of a French style garden in a sunny day with an old couple sitting on a white bench in the center of it. “Fancy, isn’t it?”

“A coffee for me, please”, whispered Lucio to the about to leave waiter, not willing to cut his brother off while he exposed the benefits of the residence. “It looks really nice, but I can’t even pay a third of it”. 
“Of course, you can’t…”, mumbled Jorge right away shaking his head, staring at him with a pity look. 
He looked like a hobo, in Jorge’s mind. Lucio was bending forward on the edge of his chair, both hands gathered between his thighs. He seemed that he was cold even with that thick old corduroy brown jacket, too hot for the season. He kept his wide honey irises right on Jorge, both brothers in silence for a while.

Lucio shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips forming those dimples that gave him a childish air even if he was about to turn forty. Lucio was begging pardon Jorge with his entire being. He hated disappointing his brother, but he knew that whatever he did, he would never measure up to him.

Jorge's bro

Lucio was trying to figure a position,
sitting on a cold metal chair in a concrete square,
not to seem clumsy or odd or how he really felt,
for no reason really. Just because.

He beamed when saw his brother around the corner,
Lucio’s childish dimples sinking in his cheeks.
He waved his hand calling for affection.
Jorge nodded as walked towards.
Raised an eyebrow to the surroundings.
Where the fuck were them.

Jorge was late,
stuffed in a dark grey bright suit a size smaller than his.
Threw his car key that glided over the table only stopped its way down the ground by Lucio’s hands awkwardly gathered up there.
Traffic was bad, the city, the entire country.
Lucio nods at his brother.
Of course, it was. Bunch of losers. Shitty town. Nowhere to park.

Jorge would throw an inquisitorial gaze onto his brother appearance.
Lucio would catch the disapproval blink. The light sigh. His turning faces.

Jorge leaves his marron briefcase on the ground. Raises a hand. He is not going to wait all day for a drink, is he?
And then, what was that stupid idea Lucio laid?
Oh yes, taking dad with him. No way. That was not going to happen. Jorge was going to provide. He was the one taking care. As usual. As always.

Jorge grabbed a leaflet out of his briefcase.
Turned to a double page. Panoramic French garden view in your face.
An old couple sitting on a stone bench in the middle of it.
A frozen sunny day that did not announce an end.

Fancy, isn’t it? raising his eyebrows in a golden smile.
Yeah, looks nice, it is all Lucio finds to say.
Thirty hundreds, man, thirty hundreds.

No shit.

Candlemas fair garden

I do not even have a garden.
Or wait. Maybe this is my garden.
And it has always been.
Once a year. Some years. By the middle-end of winter.

First Saturday of February. Or first Sunday. Does not matter.
A thick coat. Before. When winter was still winter, and mountains kept their white beanies until June or even later.
Even today. You better wrap up warm if you do not want to catch a good cold.

I get here early.
As early as the first carnies.
The young bucks rub their eyes while unloading trees that are not more than long sticks stuck in a slice of soil.
This one is a peach tree, they say, or a pear tree or an apple tree.
You must have faith. They are just sticks stuck in a slice of soil.

And then, when you ask, young and old buds, they answer with little white clouds of breath.
Because even if winter is not what it was, or nothing is now what it was before, it seems, this first weekend of February, this early, in Molins de Rei, not far from Barcelona, people have red cheeks and blow little white clouds of breath when they talk.

Twelve euros for an apple tree.
You can get an aloe vera for nine euros.
Or a purple rose bush, which looks also like a stick but smaller, just for six.
You have to have faith, even if the stick has thorns.
It could turn into a wild cat when you get home.
Or into a spider. Or even a genie. Who knows.
It is all a matter of faith.

Nowadays, at the Candlemas fair in Molins de Rei, you can find many things, not just sticks and genies.
This woman sells honey from the Pyrenees that her bees made, she says, out of thousand sorts of flowers.
That old man and his niece have got some fresh goat cheese and pine nuts, and thyme, and rosemary. Ask them. They will tell you.
And those ones? Genies. Those ones sell genies that look like sticks stuck in a slice of soil. Or who knows. Maybe they will turn into olive trees or fig trees or even kumquat trees if you have faith enough.

It is all a matter of faith.

The smell of grilled meat raises as I walk towards the main square.
I am having a pork sausage sandwich with tomato smashed on toasted bread and some olives, and a beer. Very cold, the beer, please. Of course, sir. And a coffee, a single shot, with a cloud of milk. And then I sit, and I greedily eat my sandwich leaning over the table while peeking at the peasants who walk among the stands carrying sticks stuck in slices of soil.
I wonder how they deal with it when they get back home and the sticks turn into spiders and dragons and demons, and even if they become angels, right? Because, who knows? Who knows how to deal with an angel? You can go crazy. You can lose your mind.

At least, I do not have a garden and I do not need any stick that could turn into god knows what.

Today it is cold.
Like it was before.
When I used to come here with mom and dad.
When I knew for certain that those sticks stuck in a piece of soil would turn, one day, into genies.
When I had no doubts.
When I had faith.

Sed astutos como serpientes e inocentes como palomas.

Sentencia 39

‘Most of the pain you’re dealing with are really just thoughts… Ever think of that?’

Buddhist
Bootcamp

(Mercurio)

Wilhelm von Plüschow (1852-1930), Ragazzo con statuetta della Vittoria. Roma, prima del 1907

Azaelia Banks x Paris is Burning- Fierce

«El poder de la armonía habita en todo lo que es perfecto por naturaleza, y aparece más claramente en el alma humana y en los movimientos de los astros.»

—Ptolomeo

«The real is just as magical as the magical is real.»

Ernst Jünger

Sizilischer Brief an den Mann im Mond

Amén

El templo

El ambiente está enrarecido. El olor a incienso y laurel quemado hace que sea difícil respirar. ¡Cof, cof! Leones, persas y novias están recostados sobre tarimas longitudinales a ambos lados de la pequeña nave, los unos sobre los otros. A mi lado un soldado que intuyo me mira desde hace un rato. Me giro y asiento con la cabeza sin nada que comentar. Él esboza una sonrisa llena de dientes blancos que contrastan intensamente con la barba negra. Abre la boca y saca una lengua larga y brillante. «Ñam, ñam», dice sin parar de sonreír.



Un cuervo aparece de repente del fondo de la nave con una bandeja. Avanza tambaleándose con las piernas abiertas. «¡Kra, kraa!» El eco de su graznido acaba por inundar el poco espacio que deja vacío el humo. «¡Kraaaaa, Kraaaaaaa!»

En el fondo, el padre sonríe a Sol, recostado sobre él. Lo abraza con profusión como si no lo hubiera visto desde hace tiempo. Ambos se fijan extenuados con los ojos humedecidos. Se levantan. Se separan de un paso y se dan la mano con firmeza.

El padre se prosterna ante Sol. Se gira hacia la audiencia mientras el cuervo que se arrodilla sumisamente levanta la bandeja. El padre eleva la cabeza con gesto afectado, inspira con profusión, recorre el espacio con la mirada. Alza los brazos y declama con tono grave y profundo: «EEO OEEO IOO OE EEO EEO OE EO IOO OEEE OEE OOE IE EO OO OE IEO OE OOE IEO OE IEEO EE IO OE IOE». Con mayor vehemencia manifiesta: «¡OEO EOE OEO OIE OIE EO OI III EOE OYE EOOEE EO EIA AEA EEA EEEE EEE EEE IEO EEO OEEEOE EEO EYO OE EIO EO OE OE EE OOO YIOE!».

Expectante, nos mira uno a uno, con una sonrisa franca de satisfacción.

Ahora, toma uno de lo que parecen pequeños panes rojos de la bandeja y se lo ofrece a sol que aguarda impasible. Éste abre la boca y estira la lengua en la que el padre deposita un pedazo grande. Le ofrece el cáliz del que toma un trago. Sol vuelve a su lecho. El padre hace lo propio y vuelve junto a él.

El cuervo se gira y vuelve hacia nosotros con su ridículo caminar. «¡Kraaa, kraaaa!» Cuando se acerca a mi puedo ver, a través de su máscara, una mirada ausente, casi animal. El sudor le gotea por los pestañas, bajo las plumas negras que le cubren la cabeza y la parte superior cuerpo. Es menudo, pero fuerte y tosco. «¡Kraaaa!», protesta ante mi espera. Tomo uno de los pedazos que quedan y mientras mastico apresuradamente bebo del cáliz.

Me vuelvo a arrinconar observando atentamente al resto de comensales.

En poco tiempo siento náuseas. Intento que no lo noten ocultando la cara entre las piernas flexionadas. Vuelvo a sentir en el cogote la atenta mirada del soldado. Esta vez, me agarra la cabeza con las dos manos, la coloca delante de la suya y me lame la cara de abajo a arriba. Me zafo con dificultad. En el forcejeo, caigo al corredor central, emitiendo sonoras arcadas. El cuervo me agarra con sus alas y me lleva fuera, mientras intento retener el vómito que inunda mi boca. Subimos aparatosamente las amplias escaleras que nos separan del exterior. Tropiezo varias veces, cayendo y dejando derramar comida mal digerida.

Una vez fuera, hecho la bilis y me tumbo sobre la tierra húmeda. El aire frío y el sonido de los grillos me calma y me adormezco. Al poco, creo, vuelvo a abrir los ojos y veo la bóveda celeste resplandeciente como nunca antes. Puedo diferenciar la distancia que me separa de cada una de las estrellas. Algunas están tan cerca que podría tocarlas. Entonces me doy cuenta de que estoy flotando en medio del espacio e intento incorporarme. Oigo un graznido. Un cuervo de mi tamaño vuela hacia mi y me cubre con sus alas.

De reojo veo su ojo inmenso. Una bola de cristal negra perfecta. Su brillo ausente penetra mi mente. Noto su pico afilado y frío sobre mi mejilla. Sus fosas nasales exhalan un aire húmedo que me sosiega. Siento ahora la suavidad de sus plumas y el contacto cálido de su cuerpo. Abrazados así, como por el peso del deseo, iniciamos la caída hacia el origen. Nos dejamos engullir por la tierra que se ha abierto ahora para acogernos, esta vez sin protocolo.