JO NO TINC MEMÒRIA / I HAVE NO MEMORY

ENGLISH VERSION BELOW

La infància és la primera memòria i la última que es perd. A la infantesa s'hi torna sempre, és on hi resideix l'arrel de la memòria, quan els records s’esvaeixen, l'últim bastió és la infantesa. La infantesa és la caixa negra de la memòria, ens envia constantment postals en forma de records. El metabolisme sentimental de les persones el marca la infantesa, i la memòria que es nodreix d'aquest metabolisme és un camp pantanós, com un banc de núvols que deixa passar la llum o la nega.

D'on provenen els teus records? D'on ve marcat el teu sentiment de soledat? En què associes el teu sentiment de calor humana? Sembla ser que tots aquests records els construïm entre els 3 i els 16 anys, a partir d’aquí tot son tolls d’aigua, que passen a ser  llacs per acabar convertint-se en oceans a partir dels 60.

Entenc que a mi m'agrada tantíssim guardar i ordenar les fotos de la meva vida com a guerra interna que intenta guanyar batalles a l’oblit. Jo no tinc memòria...o si que en tinc, però, és de peix!  He llegit que tenim dues memòries; la meves memòries son, per un cantó destra, tot i que capriciosa: escull, abandona i en el cas de la infantesa sempre recompensa....l'altre sempre em titlla d'imbècil, em fa sentir inferior; no m'acompanya mai en temes de feina, ni en els records més espontanis i recents. Llegeixo que: la memòria en la que ens recolzem és en la que ens dóna la identitat. Doncs vaig "apanyat"!

Potser també per això vaig decidir-me a fer un blog: per recordar. La memòria és un moviment continuu....i en un futur no molt llunyà em servirà per reconstruir-la doncs si aquesta actua m’ha d’enganxar recordant. El que no acabo d’entendre és que si la infantesa és intensiva i la maduresa és extensiva en els records, perquè no segueixo emmagatzemant records als 40 sent tant intens com segueixo sent? . Per mi la infantesa dura res i la maduresa ens maltracta tota la vida.

Si desapareixen els records, desapareix la identitat.

I HAVE NO MEMORY

Childhood is our very first memory and actually is the last one to leave. We always go back to childhood, where the roots of our memories rely, when memories vanish, the last thing we spot is our childhood. Our childhood is like the black box of our memory; she constantly sends us postcards that happen to come as memories. Our feelings metabolism is hallmarked by our main childhood, and the memory that feeds this metabolism is a swampland, a cloud that lets the light in or out.

Where do your memories come from? Where is your loneliness coming from? How do you link your feeling of human warmth? It appears to be that all those memories are built between ages 3 and 16, and after that whatever comes our way are just tiny puddles that grow into lakes to become oceans in our sixties.

I guess that I love to store and sort my lifetime pictures as my personal battle against memory. I have no memory, or if I do have it it’s fish sized. I’ve read somewhere that we have two memories; one of my memories is straight, but picky: chooses and rewards…and when it comes to childhood always rewards me…the other one always makes me feel dumb, less than my fellows; she never comes along at work, or in my more spontaneous and recent memories. I’ve read that the memory we lay on is the one that provides us with an identity. I’m fucked up! 

It may have also been the reason to start my blog: to remember. Memory is a perpetual movement…and in the future will probably help me rebuild it, if she makes her move I’ll be caught remembering. There is actually a thing I don’t quite understand: if our childhood is intensive in memories while our adult life is extensive in them, why can’t I just keep storing memories being forty and as intense as I truly am? As I see it, childhood lasts nothing, and maturity bullies us the rest of our lives.

When memories disappear, there is no identity left.

PRADA - Menswere movie

Em fascina aquest vídeo de PRADA

I just love this video

LA PASSIÓ SEGONS SANT MATEU / SAINT MATTHEW PASSION

ENGLISH VERSION BELOW

No se si saps que "La passió segons Sant Mateu" està considerada l'obra més colosal de la història de la música. Jo no ho sé, ho vaig llegir, però, el que si en canvi crec és en les  casualitat; i a vegades les casualitats no passen perquè si. 

Ahir vaig lidiar, lidio i ara hi lidiaré un temps més amb un passat que ara vull fer present. Mateu és el teu nom. La barreja de la teva autentiquíssima frivolitat convertida ara en una proximitat que aclapara....personatge que tots compràvem a un preu caríssim de basta inaccessibilitat en trobar-te i que ara tu et vols treure de sobre. Murs que tu vas construir amb una base indestructible que ara et faran cridar de ràbia la dificultat en avenca’ls. 

Tot està bé quan ha estat construït amb mira. Quan no has intentat dir el que no era i quan et mostraves tal qual...deixa'm seguir pensant que tu també em semblaves així, ho ets encara! ahir m'ho vas constatar desde la realitat cibernètica que ens separa ara mateix (19383.39km per si no ho sabies) . Que bonic es veure't ara tant lluny i sentir-te tant proper: de sinceritat, de històries viscudes, de complicitat, de dolors que es claven i no sabem com treure'ns, de veritats sotmeses a un implacable silenci que et va matant per dintre.

Estimat company, fas tanta enveja, ara vols desafiar-te per entrar tu sol on els teus dos més antics companys -un noi de 13 i un de 36- no volien que entressis, et tenien presoner i tu hi erets tant còmode! Però alguna ratlla vas traspassar o d'alguna manera vas obrir els ulls que sense mirar enrere vas fer el salt. Benvingut a la caiguda lliure. Ves al tanto que ara no hi ha xarxa! només els cops esmorteiran la teva insultant soledat. Jo intentaré ser prop teu, tan a prop com m'ho permetin aquesta burrada de kilòmetres que ens separa per alleugerir-t'ho tot una mica si pogués!

Et veig i em veig. Tu amb 36, jo vaig fer-ho amb 23 a San Francisco i l'hòstia va ser descomunal. El dolor insuportable. Em nego a definir-te la soledat que vaig sentir. Fes de la teva persona i el teu entorn més immediat la teva fortalesa. Mira com miraves -era molt creïble i enamorava-. Parla com parlaves -era molt creïble i enamorava-. Camina com caminaves - era molt creïble i enamorava-. Fes-ho tot igual i segueix sent tu. Aprèn a sentir diferent si s'escau o sent com senties abans també, honestament!

Obvia el camí difícil de la passió; on les grans paraules van acompanyades de tons de corda que es fan llargs, no les utilitzis com a símbol de divinitat, fes-ho tot en un baix continu. I calla quan et pronunciïn les últimes paraules. Parla aleshores quan tornis a ser tu. Ho veuràs quan et miris al mirall, un dia qualsevol a no sé quin coi de ciutat et trobis. Aleshores t'hi veuràs i és aleshores quan t'hauràs d'afrontar a tu. I tornar a decidir: què, qui, quan i com...que aquest em va semblar ahir el teu gran "issue". Com?

Doncs això: Com ho faràs? 

M'estic delint de sentir-te una resposta quan la tinguis, quan sigui, sense pressa....ningú t'espera! Si et creus això, hauràs guanyat! Venim sols i marxem sols! Si et quedes que sigui perquè has trencat literalment les cadenes....

Bona sort i bon viatge

Bach - Matthaus Passion - 39. Aria A - Erbarme dich

(ho sento no la trobo cantada per sempre fascinant Philippe Jaroussky)

ENGLISH

I’m not quite sure if you knew that St. Mathew’s passion is considered to be the most impressing piece in music history. I don’t know it myself for a fact, yet I read it somewhere. What I do believe in is in destiny, and sometimes our destiny is not as random as we think it is.

Yesterday I dealt with it, I’m doing it right now and I know I will still deal with a past that I want to become a present. Matthew is your name. The mix of your very frivolity now turned into a closeness that outshines. You were a character that we all bought at the highest price due to how hard to find you were and now you want to push that away. Walls that you built to be unbeatable that will see you crying in your way to cross them.

Everything stays fine when you build it carefully. When you never try to say something meaningless, when you happen to be as you are. Let me still believe that you were like I thought you were, that you still are. You confirmed it yesterday regardless of the cyber distance between us - 19383.39km by the way -. How nice to see you so far and feel you so close, with your honesty, with the stories you lived, with our connection, with the pain that remains and we can’t erase, with the truth we shut with a silence that kills us inside out.

Dear friend, I do envy you. Now you are defying yourself to get where your oldest friends – a 13 year old boy and a 36 year old man – never wanted you to go, holding you prisoner yet you were so confortable. But you might have drawn a line on the sand, or opened your eyes and you jumped never looking back. Welcome to free falling. Watch out though, there is no net. Many times, your loneliness will stop the impact. I’ll try to be close to you, as close as this very real distance allows me to smooth your landing too.

I watch you and I see myself. You are 36 and I was 23 in San Francisco and the crash was astounding. The pain was intolerable. I refuse to define the loneliness I felt. Let your very own self and your closest reality become your strength. Watch as you used to watch – it was very believable and easy to love -; speak as you used to speak – it was very believable and easy to love -; walk as you used to walk – it was very believable and easy to love -. Just do everything exactly the same and be yourself. Learn how to feel differently if you need it of feel as you used to feel too, honestly.

Forget the hard way of passion, where words come with long string notes, don’t use them as divinities, do everything you can low profile. And remain silent when they say the last words. Speak when you become yourself again. You’ll notice it when you see yourself in the mirror, a random day who knows where. You will see yourself and you’ll have to face it. And you’ll have to decide: what, who, when and how being this one, as I see it, yesterday’s biggest issue. How? Then be it: how will you do it?

I can’t wait to see your answer when you have it, whatever it takes, there is no rush. No one will be waiting. If you believe my words you’ll have won already. If you stay there, you’ll have broken your chains, literally.

Good luck and have a safe trip.

THIS IS NOT FUNNY, YOU CAN'T IMAGINE HOW HAPPY I'VE BEEN!

I am 40. I wanna be there. I’m scared of when. I don’t wanna suffer now, I don’t wanna get rid of the advantages that put me in front of the continuum order. My instinct keeps pushing me to defying gravity – literally. I hate to hide, because honesty is my religion and has always defined my persona. It is a trait that defines big confrontations. My honesty I consider as my truth, as a gift –even when I have unintentionally hurt somebody with it-. But having a gift or many can be nothing else than losing yourself, if you don’t see clearly, with enough time to straighten the rises, and not taking them all downhill.

Listen to me! I'm talking to you who I’m sure will read this. If you’ve ever had the feeling of being scared of me, because you think this is going to crash, be braver than me, look me in the eye, and tell me to get off. I never make a fuzz in these cases. I simply fade away in silence.

This very last weekend I laughed again (I blame you for this), and you know what? Like the heart and the sex, laughing works by means of an erection. It doesn’t arise without excitement. It never catches you off guard, or almost never, unless a “good” thought betrays you and makes you smile. This last weekend I got it again: in 72 hours I have touched, licked, and smelled the disbelief of seeing myself going back to the track where I used to place myself when I was younger.

What a fucking need of hanging myself to what I tend to see as the key of the human condition: love and commitment. Love, I have usually known how to turn it into friendship. Yes, friendship, the friendship that balances the abandonment of the air given to me by the urge of love. Commitment, commitment like a won battle… that always ends up making me proud.

I sometimes think that my everlasting longing for friendship comes from all my failed children. The children yet to come. The child I have got. Just a matter of time.

Friendship is so essential to me. So much. I know very well that as a young man I looked for friendship in dynamics that were too fast and got empty dramatically. Nowadays, the paternal instinct I feel drives my away from them, and brings me closer to friends in whose eyes I can see youth telling me how they will be when they are old. As I once heard – I don’t remember by who- nature gives us a face when we are born, at forty we have the face built by ourselves, and when we die we have the face of our very own. Maybe it is not true, but I love to believe it is.

The fact of living often puzzles me more than thinking that I will die someday.

SSSSHHT!!!

sssshh!

DID I TELL YOU I'M NOT AFRAID ANYMORE?

Am I scared? Right now I am not scared. Are you scared? Well, if you are, let me just tell you that you are for the same reasons that I am. I am scared that future weekends won’t be even a shadow of this last one, that they will limit the option of being as free as you/I want. From now on everything is losing. Everything is less. Who said the world is just made for the brave ones? Yes, indeed, I don’t forget it –I don’t forget you-: the world if full of self-satisfied, …., courageous people, whose hearts are fullfilled (don’t you worry about sex, I have already been served). I’ve no idea whether I’ll prefer missing you again or having you again. I don’t know whether I’ll like looking for you again, or having you for the first time.

My hands have never been on your hands, my voice has never been silent, and my lack of conformism will make you go away; I am a coward and I am scared… I haven’t even told you yet, but my wise grandma used to say to me that I am a bird of the forest, not a bird in a cage, because I am scared of commitment – I’m letting you know right now-. Just like Buenafuente said: I want you to love me and to be in love with me, but in some hidden way I can’t perceive. You know what I mean?

This last weekend I have flown like I haven’t flown in ages (yet I’ve spent my life on planes): Barcelona – Madrid - Damascus – Madrid – Rome – Barceloneta – Madrid – Barcelona… And I wasn’t scared. But living without fear scares the shit out of me. We get used to live in fear, and when it is not there anymore then it is as if it couldn’t be right. Where are you, my enemy? It is as if the past had not been hurtful enough to get to you and have an impulse. Today I feel no rage, as if  my vains were bloodless. But I am just nobody without blood, that is not me. I lose direction and I smile because I just can’t believe it

As healthy as that, and as corrupted as the most perverse mind could imagine, I wanna thank you.

What a fucking awesome weekend have you offered me!

Thank you.

T'HE DIT QUE NO TINC POR?

Por? Ara mateix no tinc por. Tens por? doncs si la tens, deixa'm dir-te que la por que tens tu és la mateixa que tinc jo. La por de que els caps de setmana que pugin venir no puguin fer mai ombra aquest cap de setmana passat, limiten l'opció de poder seguir sent una mica més lliure del que realment vols/vull. D'aqui en endevant tot és perdre. Tot és menys. Qui va dir-me que el món era fet de valents? Si, és clar, no l'oblido -t'oblido-: de valents amb la panxa plena i el cor servit -del sexe no te'n preocupis; vaig servit-! No sé si m'agradarà més seguir trobant-te a faltar com fins ara o tornar-te a tenir, no sé si m'agradarà buscar-te de nou o tenir-te per primer cop. Les meves mans no han estat mai les teves, la meva veu no ha estat mai silenciosa i la meva disconformitat et farà marxar; soc covard i poruc.... no t'ho he dit mai encara, però, la meva sàvia avia sempre m'ha dit que sóc ocell de bosc que no de gàbia! per por a comprometre’m -això t'ho dic jo ara-! Com diu el Buenafuente: Jo vull que m'estimis i estiguis enamorat de mi però que no se't noti! No se si m'explico?

Aquest cap de setmana he volat com feia temps no ho feia (i això que la meva vida passa bastant dintre dels avions) : Barcelona - Madrid- Damasco -Madrid - Roma - Madrid - Barceloneta - Madrid -Barcelona....i no he tingut por! I viure sense por m'espanta. Ens acostumen a viure amb por i quan no la tens sembla que no pot ser!

On ets enemic?. Sembla que el passat no m'hagi fet prou mal com per recórrer a tu i tenir impuls. Avui no tinc ràbia i sembla que no em passi sang per les venes. I jo sense sang no soc ningú, no sóc jo..... perdo la direcció i se m'esboça un somriure d'incredulitat.

Tant sà com això i tant corrupte com la ment més perversa vulgui imaginar-se et dono les gràcies.

Quim cap de setmana m'has regalat collons!

Gràcies