Saturday, 19 March 2011

to my father

It does not take that much to jump over the bridge that stands between here and after, you and me, me and myself; between the vision we have of someone and the real person that appears to us when the illusion of imagination gets wasted.
It does not take a child to make a father, but a father to leave behind the child and a child to build the father. In an endless feedback process of love and learning, we build our subjectivity in constant opposition to the paternal figure to become us, until one day we realise that the principles were the same, and the vision, one.
And that day comes and the role of a father is not an authoritative one anymore, but a role of a fighter who never stopped to take a breath in the never ending process of teaching, who feared the loss of himself in the disappearance of me.
Now, a mirror reflecting our images is the limit that defines our persons. Everything else is te same, for I walk the world you gave me and I inhenrerited the blood that runs in your veins.
I only add to my today's and tomorrow's personal experiences created by my will to fulfill the prophecy of rebellion against that concept of truth we shared from the very first moment you hold me in your arms.
Did you knew me before I was here? Did you dream me when you didn't even know if I would ever be possible?
I know you tried to change the world to give me everything you wanted for yourself. You encouraged me to fight against the dragons, the oddities and the discursive limits of those who would try to trap me in their definitions of freedom and routine. You built me strong to not depend on anyone who could doblegate my will; and by doing so, you gave me the wings and the space to find my way. You gave a letter with a lesson in tolerance and respect towards me and the others. You gave me the greatest gift a father can give to a daughter for which I would be eternally grateful to you. After life, you gave me the choice to mould it.
You taught me without knowing how difficult it is to love like this: Loosing yourself in the total rejection of anything that could kill that feeling.
This chain of love is like the universe itself: It does not have any limits known to us, it keeps on transforming itself and expanding continuously.
I don't know if I'll ever gonna have the chance to experience all that you went through for me to get here, to this paper where I reflect on both of us, like if we were one.
For as long as I am a daughter, I'll keep on turning to this pillar of eartlhy faith of our possibilities for good and evil, confident in choosing the right path, so your labour wont be in vain.
For I will not allow that all that you were and will be will ever be in vain.

To my Father.

Monday, 14 March 2011

Vain is too little

I want to reply to this criticisms with a personal voice. I want to explore in my own terms what does it mean this collapse of the foundations of tolerance upon which our fathers tried to build a better tomorrow for all.
Maybe "all" was just an imagined "us", with the idea of the other underdeveloped, over westernized irremediably by our own values. The other lives inside of us as much as anywhere else.
We come from small parts of countries with ancient histories; from a land that once was flooded with the blood of those who were declared infidels after leaving behind a thousands of wise words inscribed in the memory of time; the same land where the ideologies of brothers who killed each other fought for their right to rule on the hearts of those who oppose them. The land of some despicable tyrants and warless heroes.
In everyone of us survived this will to carry on no matter what, and it's not easy to erase the point of view that so many systems inculcated in us by force and by hegemonic ways.
Night falls as lies pile up in our mortal memory, rolling over and over when we confront situations without protocol to follow.
After all the damage inflicted, after all the tries and the dialectical construction, we still don't have a proper manual to solve the most basic conflict. That that speaks of a lack of understanding in the place where the language looses its meaning. In the chaos of things where we raise the fist to silence the dialogue.

Where are all the shared values, the universal material that covers the bones of this race too proud to accept its mistakes? Where is my understanding of the existence of a different vision under the same eyes?
Easy does not fit in this list of contradictions. It's difficult to think outside this box in which our brains are wrapped under one conception of truth.
Easy is everything but to open to the existence of dualities that do not merge at my will, despite all the good intentions my will might have.
Easy was my idea of communion in the common embrace of divergent perspectives. And now I see that the road is all but easy.
But I am part of this fluid living thing that refuses to accept defeat. So I keep on searching inside myself. I try to contrats the findings with what I see it's happening out there, in a world that comes to me at every minute from every device I am surrounded by.
I see that no matter how hard I try, I keep on failing in this clumsy but persevering attempt to approach the "other". I put myself in their positions, but I am lacking the context of mind. And that's what we need the most.
We need a context of mind, so this project of closeness amongst people will never collapse. For this Babel is not cursed with the arrogance of the best. Instead, this Babel is blessed with the will of US; of the micro level people making the present works.
The future is no longer in the stars. We are the heaven that holds them and the hell that tries to switch them down. We are the cause and the effect for all our victories and all our faults.
Yes, we are responsible for the silence that broadens the distance we refuse to save in order to get closer to each other. We are the fear and the darkness that paints it black when colours never where bad or good by themselves.
Everything that is, is not by itself. We create it when we name it, regardless its existence preceded this language that gives birth to all that we are.

So let me tell that this failure of understanding between me and you never was. The path to get to the goeal is far from being completed, but not the last word has been said about it yet. Or all this effort would have been in vain, and vain is too little to conform us with.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

A thousand times...Wherever you are.

I cannot imagine this place without me; this tinny room without the candles that lighted our laughter, creating shadows of joy that now I miss like my most beloved past moments.
I can imagine the journey ahead, and I am scared to death to leave behind all this me that makes this "I" in perpetual construction.
There is a limit to the darkest hours, giving itself to the arrival of a season that brings with its winds the reality of change.
I am heading to that lonely road, far from the noisy thoughts of searchers looking for a treasure that never existed. It's the promise of a more beautiful tomorrow that pulls me toward the unknown with light cases full of experience. I'll take this book as my companion, my willing husband who gives me with no hesitation the world I always wanted. There is nothing else I've ever demanded. There is nothing less I deserve.
I'll say goodbye to my neighbour, the one who gave me his hand to hit me with it later on, and I only regret that this me does not want to loose a minute of her time to say him farewell in a proper way. The hatred die with the awareness of his lie. And there is not better offense than the dignity of ignoring.
I'll confess only to the priest of love, the one who knows my faults and reads my thoughts of longing. The one who inspires more than a thousand muses and tastes better than melting chocolate, than bittersweet wine blinding the senses of reason, turning this docile soul into a conscious wildness forever resistant.

I'll write one thousand times more that I will find you. Wherever you are. Just wait for me. Stay still, breath calmly, for I am in my way to bring you the unforgettable sunsets, a 1000 stories to cast the spell and vanish the fear from your heart, a sleeping 8 of possibilities to explore. I am in my way to build a better world for us.

A los pies de Babel

No se si alguna vez oisteis la famosa frase: “ Quien te diria a ti hace “X” agnos que…?” Supongo que si porque todos, tarde o temprano, terminamos dandonos de bruces con lo que en su dia nuestra imaginacion no imaginaba. Estaria baja de forma.
Vereis...Esta magnana me tomaba un café americano en una cafeteria italiana, en la terraza de un parque ingles con una amiga Alemana. En la mesa de al lado, dos Japoneses visualizaban en las pantallas de sus inseprables Toshiba la catástrofe que azota ahora mismo a su pais, mientras las palomas insolentes atacaban sin piedad un sandwich de pollo que unos turistas Finlandeses habian dejado a medio terminar sobre la mesa de disegno sueco IKEA. Volaron espabrodias cuando el camarero Kosovar salio dando manotazos al aire a diestro y siniestro.
Yo le comentaba a mi amiga que mi jefa Serbia se habia ido de vacaciones a Málaga con su novio britanico y que su compagnera de piso brasilegna se habia quedado al cuidado de su gato persa.
Minetras sorbia mi café, que siempre se me queda frio, me quejaba de que me esperaban 7 dias de lo mas aburridos en la oficina, ya que a mi compagnera Polaca no hay quien le saque prenda y habla menos que las momias egípcias de museo Britanico.
Mas tarde llego otra amiga, la espagnola de Cantabria que se crio en Holanda. La misma que en la final de la copa del mundo del pasado verano tenia todas las de ganar. Estaba muy emocionada porque habia reservado nuestra excursion al Grand Canyon. Iremos a visitar alguna reserva india dos dias despues que los Americanos celebran el dia de la independência de los Estados Unidos.
No se si hace unos agnos me hubiese imaginado estar en un cuadro como el que termino de describiros. Probablemte no, aunque el imaginario social de los gallegos da para eso y mucho mas. Por algo hemos ido a la luna y vuelto para escribir canciones sobre la experiencia de ligar con las marcianas. Llebamos al extremo eso de derribar fornteras.
Lo cierto es que mas que una magnana corriente en el centro de Londres, esto parece una parada rápida a los pies de la torre de Babel. Ahora que se convirtio en el pan nuestro de mis dias, ya no me sorprende tanto como solia, pero aun me da motivos para plasmarlo y hacerlo objeto de nostalgia. Si el multiculturalismo ha fallado, segun el discurso de la burocracia europea, a mi, a lo Humphrey Bogart, aun me queda esta isla de ensuegno en el centro del universo. Esta Utopia echa realidad. Esta ciudad de encuentros y aprendizaje constante. Un pequegno café en donde el error aun no ha hecho estragos y se jacta, aunque solo sea a um nivel micro, de haber ganado la batalla. La guerra contra los reduccionistas cinicos, la tenemos que luchar cada dia.

Thursday, 10 March 2011


The 3rd of June is the date when I'll be able to scrabble a final dot in the adventure of becoming part of something bigger than a group of employees .
It's being a delightful journey and now I know that this is the road I wanna follow. I wanna be taught frames where I can find some rest, some peace of mind when being unsettle and nonconformists.
I don't want to settle in the usual plan of life. I don't want to avoid it either. I just wanna find it without making plans. I want to discover it little by little, like you discover the hidden places of pleasure.
If there ever was a guiding light, it guided me here. And I feel so completed in this awareness of how few things I know and how much there is still to be found.
June might be just another start, a platform to launch me into another path that I've never been so eager to follow.
I look into the eyes of London, in the first flowers dying to bloom, ready to fill the city greyness with their colours. Like nature, I refuse to be conquered by the establishment of strangers' plans, building higher and higher to somewhere only they know.
I want to go somewhere only I know, like that song I once wanted to be ours. Only now I know there never was "we".
Flying away was never so easy for me. Inside, there is a field ready to be filled with all those things that changes are made of. A whole white page for me; new souls like rivers, a culture, a view, an aromatic coffee waiting by a window that whispers for my eyes to touch it.
Dreaming away,...happy in my own terms. Standing tall in the storm under which I learnt to dance.