Friday, November 04, 2005

3 Pounds

It is always hard to click on the "Create" button without feeling like an art-rapist. Or at least, it is hard for me.

To "Create".

I was preparing something special, well, not especial... let's say adequate, for the Walpurgis night, which, as all of you already know, was on October 31. But I was busy (I am) doing more honorable tasks.

And so... all the loving fans (thank you very much) of the EMP Project are wondering why the fuck I haven't post.

Well, it is easy: I am a Sith. I deal in absolutes.

I'm quite sorry to contradict my sister, but I don't like gray.
I'm an spiral-minded; my cognitive process is complicated (fuck it is), and it twist and twist and twist. But even spirals are governed by an order. Spirals hold a vortex.

My vortex is MUST.

My mother taught me to be noble, kind, be a good person.
My father taught me to be respectful, obedient, be a gentleman.
I learned neither.

I took the liberty to mix their teachings in my personal moral blender. And I pour out honor, valor and bravery.

I must not take shit from anyone. Not even from myself.
I must be what I must.
So I do what I must.
The vortex has spoken.

My old man is dying.

On November 1°, I was taking my annual shot of whiskey to honor the dead when I surprised myself wondering what photograph of my father would be the most suitable for the next year offering. Should it be the one that shows him young and handsome? Or that one? The one that my mother took when he was in his mid-forties. Or better yet, the one that captured him six months ago, when he was stepping out of coma.

My old man is dying.

He smiles while he tastes a simple spanish ham with melon dish; at the swift opening of a can of beer; when my mother tell him that I've already fixed the toaster.
He used to smile at the Sunset. Now, he just deals with It.

He who hunted pigeons to eat while the germans and the franquists were killing his uncles and cousins.
He who killed a boar holding nothing but a knife.
He who, at the riots and public meetings of 1968 (he was forty years old), used to beat-up cops; just for the fun of it.

He who taught me to never pull out a blade if I'm not going to use it. He who taught me that women are all we want, but nothing we need. He who taught me that the subtlety of a single look, can destroy universes.

My old man is dying.

Everyday a little more; gracefully walking, almost tiptoeing, towards the blackness of the next Sunset.

He who, all this past week, had made me renovate the basement new bathroom, regardless of my homework and translation job.

He who is now plugged -doomed- to the tank oxygen.

He needs 3 pounds of oxygen per hour to survive.
But he prefer 160 pounds of myself per day to smile.

My old man will die.

Cheers old man! I drink to your smile.

Hail Grim-Reaper! You shall have him then.

But today he is mine.
This is my must.


Blogger Ácido Lusoso said...

Cheers to your old man!

Friday, November 04, 2005 1:05:00 AM  
Blogger The Story of Broken-heart Stalker and his shadow said...

wordless, you're great!!!! Cheers!!!
I'm amazed

Monday, November 07, 2005 12:24:00 AM  
Anonymous FFLY said...

Eeeeh, bien vale la pena joderte para que escribas!!!!

Monday, November 07, 2005 11:29:00 PM  
Blogger Silent said...

Feelin' fine

Tuesday, November 08, 2005 12:19:00 AM  
Blogger Helreith said...

engrossed in this thoughts kindly brought throu' your words,
fajne, fine über glimpsy words..

Tuesday, November 08, 2005 7:10:00 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Now just kEEP WRITING!!!!!

Wednesday, November 09, 2005 7:17:00 PM  
Blogger faithless dragon-boy said...

keep writing, and cheers, for your old man and for your writing!!

Thursday, November 10, 2005 12:11:00 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Me prometeré no entrar a esta página hasta dentro de un mes...
Me provoca malestar entrar y ver que no escribes ¡Ya sé que te has puesto la valla alta, pero VAMOS...

Monday, November 14, 2005 8:14:00 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home