domingo, 3 de abril de 2016

El mejillón

A ver. Si fueras un mejillón, ¿Tú qué harías?
(Luis Buñuel)

Hombre, nunca me había planteado la posibilidad de ser tal ente, tal molusco. Hasta ahora me había limitado a comerme los mejillones sin entrar en sus dilemas existenciales, sin considerar los avatares de estos señores de negro que descansan en el fondo del mar comiendo la sopa boba de marisco.
Tiene que ser interesante vivir en esas aguas acariciadoras, siempre unido a tu roca-adosado preferida, o en todo caso dar un salto con el impulso de tus balbos hasta unos metros más allá, pero sin pasarse. Descansar esperando que los bocados más suculentos se pongan al alcance de tu boca mientras contemplas la belleza de la vida submarina, como a través de una lente de aumento. Y siempre a salvo, o eso crees, pues cuando viene uno de esos energúmenos de fauces enormes te echas la capota negra encima y esperas a que se largue con viento fresco, o agua fresca en este caso.
¿Y cómo será el resto del mundo?
Seguro que más salvaje y peligroso cuanto más profundo. En continua lucha por sobrevivir, el próximo instante puede ser el último. Me gustaría conocerlo en toda la extensión de su belleza y su miseria animal, pero mientras no me oferten algún viaje organizado que me permita visitarlo sin peligro permaneceré tan a gusto en mi concha.
Solo hay que ver cómo me miran esos pulpos obscenos y esos peces luna que vienen de quién sabe dónde, con su pico de oro y sus vaivenes seductores. Seguro que lo que buscan es una presa que devorar.
Yo en mi concha, que cierro cuando tratan de molestarme, y en paz. Viviendo sin sobresaltos aunque sea en un gueto, aunque nunca llegue a conocer nada.
Dedicó esta disertación mejillónica a la sociedad occidental en general, opulenta y ociosa, que siente una profunda solidaridad, que tiene tiempo y dinero para preocuparse de los desheredados, pero no estómago ni nervios para aguantarlos.
Y a mí, por supuesto.

sábado, 2 de abril de 2016

The mussel

  If you were a mussel, What would you do?
 Luis Buñuel

Man, I never raised the possibility of such an entity, such mollusc. So far I had only eat mussels without entering their existential dilemmas, regardless of the vicissitudes of these black gentlemen resting on the seabed eating seafood soup.
It must be interesting to live in those waters caressing, permanently attached to your favorite rock-detached, or at least make a jump with the momentum of your Balbos up a few feet away, but not too. Rest hoping the tastiest morsels are made available from your mouth as you contemplate the beauty of underwater life, as through a magnifying glass. And always be safe, or so you think, because when it comes one of those lunatics you lie enormous jaws black hood over and wait for him to leave with a fresh wind, or fresh water in this case.
And how will the rest of the world?
Surely more wild and dangerous the deeper. In continuous struggle for survival, the next moment may be the last. I would like to know the full extent of its beauty and animal misery, but until a trip organized oferten me to let me visit him without danger will remain so comfortable in my shell.
You just have to see how I look these octopuses sunfish obscene and those that come from who knows where, with his silver tongue and seductive swings. Sure that they are looking for prey to devour.
I in my shell, I close when trying to annoy me, and at peace. Living smoothly even in a ghetto, but never get to know anything.
He dedicated this dissertation mejillónica to Western society in general, opulent and idle, he feels a deep solidarity, which has time and money to care for the disadvantaged, but not stomach or nerves to endure them.
And me, of course.

viernes, 1 de abril de 2016


As stardust fell on a generation of young glassy and unredeemed. I exercised my reign over them, with my cutting Spiders from Mars that I devoured in public sacrifice, to the deluded, the sleepy eyes of my headbangers offered my flesh and my blood as heroic genius dragged me far from them and me, into the terrifying depths of lifeless space. There I was, stardust, moving up and down, jumping, screaming, falling and getting up again. Sometimes I got up.The music floated around me, caressing me, I plunged into chaotic seas of light and evil, and as chaotic and evil angel waving my red hair in a whirlwind of symphonies spheres did not know if he came to me and rose from the bottom my unconsciousness. Lady stardust sang his song of darkness and disgrace while young people in blue jeans jumping wildly in front of her, in front of me because I was too.I too was young and made mistakes, but the failures of genius, by strange alchemy of the cosmos, of being and becoming, is transmuted into feats that transcend the successes of individuals. My failures were further falls in Rome, grandiose in their misery. I found lying in the streets and gathered me broken and hopeless to lift me over the mountains, although just out to prove that we can be heroes, just one day.Appeared and disappeared one day was lost astronaut on a space odyssey, another day was gravedigger who threw ashes to ashes and astronaut accused him of being a junkie. A hairy young are starting to lose your hair, some died, others simply disappeared, but all were always adding new generations a strange cult while still playing the harmony of the spheres. And I continued in the wake of years of the new worlds of ideas and fashions that allowed me to survive in the land of mortal men, I, Vampire, chameleon, Babylonian winged dog who taught them to move in the strange dance of the stars.Today, I have already ... and so many years, so many years! and possess the key to the spirit, for to steal got into hell. There are still those who have not forgotten me, actually now going to sound one of my songs on the radio. Silence! DJ Speaks:- Now, for all of you playing on the night King of Mars, the Star of the seventies: David Bowie