A time to dance, once again

Well, she was not bleeding on the ballroom floor just to get the attention. Just thinking about it is ridiculous... and odd. Yet, it seemed quite like that's why she used to do all the things before.

She sure got their complete attention. They all looked at her like she was some weird attraction. There was she, in that spot just under the faint lights, and the setting was perfect in her mind before, with the fashion magazines lining in the walls of her room and at the sides of her mirror. But this one was quite different, bullet holes in the immaculate walls lined before some strange whim (the queen of the dance involved all the way months before she was crowned), the faint, hissing sound of a balloon dying somewhere. The hysterical cry of someone not involved but still affected, and the dresses tainted in blood. Just dying alone somewhere in the dance floor without anyone noticing it, that's what she thought was going to happen. No, this was not the pleasing picture she had in her mind.

She forced herself to continue the act and not let her go by what she caused. She kept her composure, remembered faintly the posture practiced in the afternoon and tried to acquire it while her stomach was still bleeding abundantly on the floor... But she pulled the trigger all wrong. Her knees were trembling, her arms were concrete-made and all she could do was a mere shadow of that glorious posture practiced so many times. "C'mon, have some composure!... how was it?" But her stomach was kind of anaesthetised and she urinated her dress as soon as she got a slight resemblance of that posture. She gave up the hope.

But, after all, she didn't choose this role. The day she started school the stage was prepped and all of her classmates played well. The mockery and abuses, the discrimination and the silences began the setting. The dark clothes and the piercings, the cries for help and the faint responses that just deepened it all followed.

What did she do? She played her role and she made it sincerely. In fact she took it so seriously we've ended here.An so some cried. Simply cried. Was it their fault? Well, they believed it from the tears and the teeth right down at their feet, the blood starting to be enough to form a small river going nowhere and in circles.

"She wanted envy, malice and, oh so much, attention". "She wanted a break and she never knew how to ask it properly". "Every time she spoke about shooting herself with a shotgun I offered her a wedding... didn't know what else to do to calm her down...". Those and others were the short answers her classmates gave to the police, and as the declaration of her boyfriend ended the police closed the case under the label "suicide caused by a severe depression".

No one was blamed for it, and the common opinion was that kids will be kids, always hiding in their estrogen up-and-downs and trying to survive in their hostile environment with those aubergine dreams.

Just one photo was taken by the media. The open angle of her screaming while the paramedics were trying to carry her to the ambulance. She'd rather die than facing her class again.

And she did so.

C L C S

Es la una de la mañana y llueve en la ciudad de la rosa. La lluvia se tiñe de un naranja vivo cuando pasa delante de mi ventana, que caprichosamente esta colocada delante de un farol que hace las veces de sol a estas horas. El piso esta cubierto de una fina capa de agua que corre hacia la izquierda de mi ventana, que casualmente es casi casi el oeste geográfico. Sin embargo no corre uniforme. Teje tontas letras X encima de las losetas, hace arrugas minúsculas como las que se hacían sobre la nariz de Lucía cuando solía sonreirme tan sinceramente, forma pequeños bultos sobre el suelo, se arremolina en los huequitos, juega a chocar contra la acera, salta, se apura en otras partes, corre, espero, al mismo lugar al que fueron todas las otras aguas que alguna vez ví delante de esta ventana.

Quisiera tener un cigarro de canela u hojas de té secas, pues es bien sabido en este cuarto que ambos son los acompañantes perfectos para una lluvia. También quisiera haber nacido en 1990. Y llamarme Sergio, o Julián. Nunca Santiago. O Sebastián.

En ese edificio anaranjado allá frente al que esta en frente del mío la lluvia compone ritmos frenéticos para tambor y bombo. Ritmos imposibles e irreproducibles, melodías descabelladas. Me pregunto si se podrán tocar en violín. O en piano.

No, por supuesto que no. A menos que las teclas sean tan delicadas y pequeñas que la lluvia pueda tocarlas con solo caer encima. O que las cuerdas sean tan minúsculas y los chorros tan constantes, que unos puedan hacer de dedos y los otros de arco.

Y ella odia la lluvia y los días fríos, los charcos quizás y supongo que las ranas no le han de caer muy bien. Sin embargo podía absorber todo eso y utilizarlo a su antojo, como aquella tarde de carnavales cuando salió a hablar conmigo en su patio.

Se subestima tanto al intentar encajar tan cómodamente en las vanalidades de su edad (pero, ¿no es eso lo que todos queremos?) y sin embargo aún así la puedes encontrar colocando un cd con poemas y recitándolos de memoria. Sentarse delante de una pantalla a cantar con una voz única, irrepetible y matutina.

Hay muchas cosas que no sabemos. Entre las que ella no ha de saber cuentan la historia de Mongolia, el hecho de que bien podrían regresar todas las belgas a su país y así y todo esa casa no perder lo más bello que tiene, la teoría de la relatividad, un poema en ruso, y que yo hubiera cambiado el viaje de mi vida por un beso suyo. Pero todas esas cosas, espero, las ha de saber alguna vez.

Il est déjà deux heures, la froide aube, そして彼女の心, je voudrais bien ! でも、一つだけ持ってできる。 L’aube est de toute l’humanité, n’est ce pas ?

But it’s too late now for all of that and all the options I have left by now are a warm bed, my dreams and the memories of places, times and minds I was never in:

(El vídeo lo borré a petición de la intérprete).

PD: Beto, ídolo, no pasa un día que no te agradezca.
君のことはまだ大好きだと思うけど。。。もう友達だけになりましたね。
Cette est la ville de la rose, oui, et la rose, elle c’est vous.

Gonzo - Go Freestyle

Este señor esta en Chile ahora, estudiando cosas serias y haciendo cosas serias. Pero hubieron tiempos diferentes. Espero que esto lo vea y se acuerde... de todo acá.

Salut!