Sobre las palmaditas en la espalda

The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows that he cannot say to her I love you madly , because he knows that she knows (and that she knows he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly . At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly that it is no longer possible to speak innocently, he will nevertheless have said what he wanted to say to the woman: that he loves her in an age of lost innocence. If the woman goes along with this, she will have received a declaration of love all the same. Neither of the two speakers will feel innocent, both will have accepted the challenge of the past, of the already said, which cannot be eliminated; both will consciously and with pleasure play the game of irony But both will have succeeded, once again, in speaking of love.

Umberto Eco


(Hoy leí: "los grandes actores son quienes más rodeos dan" ¿Pude haber utilizado mal la palabra actuación? O puede ser que no sean rodeos porque no haya algo específico qué rodear al pensar que de repente nos inundan estados de cosas, estados que forzan su materialización hasta la ironía en las palmaditas graves... No-lo-sé)

About lyrics and silly stuff

Sólo es ponerle play a The cure y hacerlos Converger en el Upstairs Room, donde habita el ghost. Y el Fact lo hará solo. Así lo abandonará, finalmente. Ahora, tal vez el único impedimento ha sido siempre que... los hechos de repente se oyen demasiado agresivos lidiando con fantasmas.

De cualquier manera, él me lo dijo y cantando: "it has to stop", eventually.


lam: Higher Ground.Stevie Wonder

Esta noche la música se oye más.

Yo sé, yo sé que la ignorancia no siempre se deja sacudir en una espalda tan grave, tan acostumbrada a los golpecitos.

Entre muffin tops, hace falta, de repente, una bofetada de sinceridad.






lam: departure + crystal stilts

Ay. Seguro piensan que todo lo disneylándico es horrible. Yo no. Igual que las palmaditas en el hombro (sé que es una mala costumbre, sólo confío en el extraño curso de las eventualidades). Es divertido cuando me siguen. Es divertido cuando no.

Es que, ¿acaso existe algo completamente libre de paradoja? Soy buena para creer. Pero mejor para hacer creer. Then again, ¿quién o qué se libra? Ni tú, pobre, desafortunado que ha dado palmaditas. Ni yo, que soy la que personifica a alguien que muy probablemente sea "sólo" yo (para no herir susceptibilidades de quienes siguen creyendo en uno sólo). Tal vez la vida no me libre de dar palmaditas en la espalda, ¿no decía que ya lo hago?

Tal vez eso sea hacer. Queda la pequeña posibilidad de que lo esté haciendo por el hecho de estar haciéndolo.

Pero la verdad es que yo, desde aquí, digo que eso no me dirige directamente a todo lo que es dar una palmadita en la espalda. Entre el sí y el no, va un chiste. Sé reconocer la condescendencia que podría poseerme cuando lo hago. Está claro, ¿no? En realidad, por ello lo hago. La vida no me librará, y si lo hace, ya no lo hizo, lo estoy haciendo.

Es hermoso.

Si lo disneylándico es horrible por ser disneylándico, entonces las palmaditas en la espalda me hacen fría y ya estoy maldita de condescendencia. Si no, así sea remotamente, bueno, tal vez logre librarme de la ignorancia que procuro alivianar dando palmaditas y buscando en la interacción algo de diversión paradójica. No sé si la actuación sea buena para la salud, pero es divertida.

¿Es eso burlarse? Si así es, sospecho que va dirigido a todos en general y a nadie en particular. Eso es.

*Cada día van mejorando mis muffin tops.

lam: Last Of The English Roses + Pete Doherty

On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning
by Haruki Murakami __________________________________________________________________

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Y repito y me repito. Y cada determinado tiempo vuelvo... Y me sorprendo, a ratos. A ratos como discutiendo. Para justificar al tiempo. Para darle sentido. Pero aún así, siempre queda algún sospechoso, alguna palabra libre de crítica o desdén, alguna sorpresa genuina atravesada por ráfagas de un desfase vertiginoso, ahí donde se repite y yo comprendo. Y dudo. Entonces dudo. Sufro por el instante de duda en el que repetir esporádicamente el vértigo no es más que el festejo de una eternidad sin espacio.




*

Vamos por caminos

d i f e r e n t e s

¿Por quéloleo?

¿Porque sí?

O, ¿porque no?



(problema filosófico literario, como siempre)


*