Laying smashed on the bed, as if he'd been shoot in the middle of the chest with a shotgun. Arms splattered around, one leg hanging over the side. Air still and thick as his mind, dust speckles floating around as his thoughts. He's feeling not himself. It's not an uncomfortable feeling, indeed, he longs for it. Sometimes it comes when sick, or when stoned. Sometimes when looking at the mirror, first time in the morning. Sometimes just before falling asleep, like now, a thunder in the ears, a swirling of the world, some uneasiness of the senses, himself falling in a deep, dark tube that protrudes from behind his head, looking at his own body as if was a machine that he'd to operate remotely. From yonder kitchen come voices, some muffled, some more distinct. He cannot however make the full sense of the saying, but rather gather the general meaning. He can see the bonding between people, not with his eyes but in his mind, as thick, gleaming and changing ropes of light, some neat and defined, some strong, some diffused. Time comes by and pass in irregular shapes; the meaning of “now” is somewhat evident, but it bears no relation with something called “past” nor with that surreal fantasy we call “future”. It's hard to tell between a memory of something that happened, the recall of that memory, or something hoped or imagined. Who can, really? Another moment leaps forward and he's not even sure if that he just told himself was as such. Ties. Some of the light snakes come by and touch his body, but he can't feel a thing. What he sometime called his ears roar, his mind submerges even more, far away, sinking deeper down there, coming to sleep fully awake, a wonderful moment. Detached.
17 de diciembre de 2009
Es que el inglés tiene eso, como decirlo, onomatopéyico, aún en aquellas palabras que no lo son. Dejando de lado ring, punch, smash. Fijate por ejemplo clock. Dizzy. New. Feel. Por eso debe ser que se presta tan bien para las letras de rock, el ritmo vocal acompaña el punchi punchi de la música. Difícil tarea tenemos quienes queremos escribir letras entonces en castellano: ¿cómo conservar esa rítmica casi monosilábica del idioma imperante, sin caer en fitopaeísmos de acentuaciones perversas ni simplicidades poéticas de rock barrial? No digo que lo haya logrado. Otra opción, si no fuera de una tilinguería horripilante, sería escribir directamente en inglés y a la mierda. Pero claro, los que tenemos nuestro corazoncito nacional y popular no nos lo permitiríamos jamás. Pero, acá en la intimidad del blog, un poquito cebado después de haber terminado Under the Dome (y no, Pablo(yo), el asesino no era el mayordomo), uno se permite tirar un poco la chancleta y las convicciones un poquito a la mierda. Que si las convicciones no son para eso, no se para que carajo son.