Que conmovedor é camiñar. Que profundo é cruzarse con descoñecidos.
Di Andrés no seu recente blog de entradas breves: Microrréplicas.
É certo, Andrés, bárbaro equilibrista, viaxeiro do hipertempo e o hiperespazo. Na Rede acontece a cada segundo: conmovémonos camiñando, alias navegando; golpéanos o vento das simas cósmicas, lovecraftiás, a cada intre que nos cruzamos con descoñecidos. Que é incesantemente. En Internet sempre somos descoñecidos. Ata de nós. É por iso que mudarse aquí supón errar a perpetuidade nunha cidade remota, bretemosa, coma ti por ese Bilbao no que nin dentro dun espello dás recoñecido a alguén.
Benvido ás chuvias sen fin sobre bilbaos.
2 pensamentos sobre “bilbaos”
Sigo a pensar que isto é extraordinario. Un dos maiores poemas do S. XX.
sobre todo na parte en que di (minuto 6:06):
He didn’t even notice at first.
She started to change.
On the day the baby was born,
she began to get irritated with everything around her.
She got mad at everything.
Even the baby
seemed to be an injustice to her.
He kept trying
to make everything all right for her.
Buy her things.
Take her out to dinner
once a week.
But nothing seemed
to satisfy her.
For two years,
He struggled to put them back together like
they were when they first met.
Finally, he knew
that it was never gonna work out.
So, he hit the bottle again.
But this time,
it got mean.
This time when he came home late at night,
she wasn’t worried about him,
she was just enraged.
She accused him of holding her captive,
by making her have a baby.
She told him
that she dreamed about escaping.
That was all she dreamed about:
She saw herself at night,
running naked down a highway.
Running across fields,
running down river beds,
just as she was about to get away,
he’d be there.
He would stop her somehow.
He would just appeare and stop her.
And when she told him these dreams,
he believed them.
He knew she had to be stopped,
or she’d leave him forever.
So he tied a cowbell to her ankle,
so he could hear it at night
if she tried to get out bed.
But she learned how to muffle
the bell by stucking a sock into it
and inched her away out bed
and into the night.
He caught her one night,
when the sock fell out
and he heard her trying to
run out to the highway.
He caught her, dragged her back to the trailer and tied her to the stove
with his belt.
He just left her there,
he went back to bed
and lay there and listening to her scream.
And he listened to his son scream.
He was surprised at himself because
he didn’t feel anything anymore.
All he wanted to do was sleep.
And for the first time,
he wished he were far away.
Lost in a deep, vast country
where nobody knew him.
Somewhere without language
And he dreamed about this place
without knowing its name.
And when he woke up,
he was on fire.
There were blue flames
burning the sheets of his bed.
He ran through the flames
towards the only two people he loved.
But they were gone.
His arms were burning.
And he threw himself outside,
and rolled on the wet ground.
Then he ran.
He never looked back at the fire.
He just ran.
He ran until the sun came up,
ten he couldn’t run any further.
And when the sun went down,
he ran again.
For five days
he ran like this …
until every sign of man …
tamén en castelán aquí:
Qué crueis, tontainas e, sobre todo, putas, somos as mulleres. Dunha película tan sobrevalorada esperaba algo mellor.
Supoño que a base do éxito universitario deste film é Ry Cooder; a base do seu éxito intelectual, Sam Sephard; e a base do seu éxito cinéfilo, o director de fotografía.
Terei que vela para demoler todos estes prexuízos. Pero xa aventuro que, por sobredose deles, cada vez me fío menos dos argumentos que xiran panorámicamente arredor de borrachos autocompracentes que se arrogan a capacidade única de sentir e sufrir.
Grazas polos enlaces, estrougwsa. Sinto, en principio, disentir.