Raquel's Room

Monday, 30 August 2010

"The hell are we"

Yes, I am platonic, living in a cave, deceived by the images projected in the wall but knowing that there is something else behind them...The real thing.
So, being fully aware of this detachment from reality, I resist to pack and move to the land of unfulfilled promises.
It took me a while to find the cord connecting me to the source of life. The very same it unites us to our mother and is cut as soon as we are born, leaving us out there lonely and lost.
And we struggle to fit, to be completed with an outside element that might not be found in a lifetime. We search for knowledge, for love, for empathy, for understanding and justice while we accumulate memories, desires and rancour.
We choose to question and fight or we let our souls to be marked with the sing of obedience.
This world outside the cave is not ready to let go. It's not ready to let me be because everywhere in here there is always a price to pay.
It's difficult to want so bad to be close only to get rejected by the imaginary borders we trace in the way, establishing identities that become unquenchable differences that set us apart.
it's damn frustrating to find beings that don't want to comprehend, that choose blindness and darkness in an age of light.
It's challenging to look behind the mask of everything we take for granted, to ask God why, to dedicate a life to solve the formula that explains it all, to have such a little mind that only allows me to understand a small portion of this space lost in an immense universe that we call home, to understand me and the origin of all the questions, to long for permanence in an existence of change and movement.
It's a personal option to be what I want to be. To sit here and look at you, and wait if I want to wait and cry when I get hurt. It's such a privilege to share this humanity, this essence that chains our destiny in a unique way, even when we defy it and oppose it.
It might be always an element of truth. A particle that the original explosion forgot and from which we all were born.
It might be always a crazy Dr Frankenstein that looking for perfection and improvement tries to eradicate the pain and steal the fire from the Gods without fatal consequences.
It might be someone running free form the chains imposed on them no by God but by narratives that only custom and habit made of them universal truths.
It might be a truth out there that does not take us to wait for heaven, because, as Sartre said, the Hell are we.

Saturday, 28 August 2010

To be back from the land of relax into the land of rashness is always a bit of a shock. Lately the effect that experts have came to called post vacation depression (really?) are longer lasting than they used to be.
Maybe I am not tasting London properly. I guess that routine is an old habit and, like all old habits, it dies hard.
I got used to an area, to having a walk in the same streets, to buying the coffee in the same coffee house where I always find some familiar faces, and suddenly a huge urge to want all this to remain the way it is just for me spoils the frugality of the moment; I become aware of the impossibility of enjoying this very moment because I am conscious that nothing lasts forever, that soon this scenery will change into something unrecognisable. And I am jealous of all those who will come and will find it lovely in the same way I do.
But London resists permanence. In that sense is not a city; it looks more like a human organism embracing change, throwing itself into the arms of experimental streams of cultures and subcultures that emerge and disappear at the speed of what the daily fashion dictates.
London always has to catch its breath because it's eager to reach the goal that none knows where it is. But its perseverance in finding it, impulses its growth, its greed, its postmodern anxiety that spreads in the air its unique scent.
London smells to the certainty that we are capable of enormous achievements, that we can master the world without moving our position in space. In here the impression of being in control and out of it moulds our present hopes to reach another chapter in the history of humanity. In here, humanity is alive. Constant movement of particles creating and destroying life.
Maybe I miss the sunsets and having the gift of finding meaning in the North where I belong. But not questioning myself and what I believe in, would be a dull way of spending my time.
This city agitates my consciousness like no other place does, and that can be quite an addictive substance to live without.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Tuesday, 10 August 2010

Todo tiene sentido

Nada de frentes marchitas ni de escarchas rajando el ruido de lo cotidiano, penetrando en todos los huesos de las pequeñas y grandes cosas que forman mi universo.
Nada de nubes con sus telones de agua condensada escureciendo el cielo enorgullecido de estrellas.
Nada de fachadas tristes y secas, como la personalidad de la gente que cree haberlo visto todo sin haber salido a conocer mundo.
Nada de melancolia en una tierra ahogada por la luz del sol, bañada por ramitos de flores silvestres en dode bailan mariposas multicolores, siempre joviales, livianas, ajenas a la muchedumbre de pensamientos que las observan ociosos.
Nada de tiempo escurriendose por las manillas de un reloj acosador, fustigador, explotador y tirano. Las sombras aqui sirven para contar leyendas, no para borrarlas de memorias nunca demasiado ancianas para recordar con orgullo que bajo esta carretera de asfalto ardiente un dia hubo un camino de tierra en donde se cruzaban destinos para nunca mas separarse.
Nada de ruidos ruidosos. Aqui la voz cantante la lleva el rio saltarin, travieso y jugueton, señorial cuando la ocasion lo requiere, que enamora a las parras doblegadas por el fruto de su vientre que caen rendidas a su paso.
Nada de noches tristes. La luna en el mar no riela, pero gime el viento de placer al ser acariciado por las ramas del nogal centenario que tantos secretos conoce.
Nada de modas que no conducen a bellezas ficticias. En esta tierra ruje el ruiseñor, canta el gallo, no para despertar al labriego que lo alimenta, sino para que sepamos que es.
Aqui la materia es, no sueña a convertirse, no obstruye los deseos, no constriñe nuestros pasos, no se impone a nuestra voluntad. Nos mece desde la cuna, nos impulsa, nos apoya y nos guia. Nos protege, como siempre lo hizo, de la vanidad, de la invasion de enemigos que quisieron achantar, menospreciar y amedrentar esta fuerza que poseemos heredada del sabio tiempo que en este reino gobierna a su antojo y sin prisas, poniendo a cada uno en su lugar.
Que luchen los mouchos por mantenerse despiertos y vuelen las meigas sus escobas sobre los acantilados que retienen la furia de Neptuno, alla a donde acaba el mundo.
Que se olviden las animas del camino al camposanto donde reposan sus miembros que un dia rondaron por los vastos montes y los deliciosos valles.
Que canten los fados desde el otro lado de la frontera y se le escapen unas notas a la gaita, unas risas la pandereta y unos kilos a los pies para celebren livianos....celebrar que estamos y somos.
Atragantarse de este aire, saciarse de sus frutos... Se me vienen a la memoria los versos de Federico...Verde que te quiero verde... Y por fin todo tiene sentido.