EL SACERDOTE RENACIDO

Era un día gris, de ese gris de fotografía en blanco y negro, gris como la vida del común de los mortales, y yo corría hacia el autobús en medio de una lluvia también gris, fría, punzante. Ahí estaba, delante de mí, diseño años cincuenta, ventanas pequeñas y, para mi sorpresa, de un color crema limpio, partido en dos por un corte granate vivo y curvo, como el corte en la antigua Coca-Cola, y que se extendía desde los faros hasta el arco de la rueda trasera. Por fin un color vivo pensé mientras me abría paso a través de un pequeño grupo de gente que se despedía obstruyendo así la puerta. Subí los tres escalones de metal, giré a la derecha pasillo abajo hasta mi asiento, me acomodé para el viaje, el bolso bajo el asiento, la gabardina en la parrilla encima de mi cabeza y el periódico en mi regazo.

Me pareció que había pasado un buen rato cuando el autobús paró con un chirrido de frenos cansados. Me levanté, estiré las piernas, me dirigí a la puerta y accedí a una rampa parecida a las que se usan en la descarga de pasajeros de los aviones, aunque no me pareció nada extraño. Noté que me había cortado el dedo en una rebaba de metal de la barandilla al pasar del autobús a la rampa y me estremecí al ver la sangre roja y pasarme el pulgar por el corte para secarla. Nada serio. El rojo se difuminó hasta convertirse en blanco. Naturalmente, la rampa parecía hundirse en la distancia y sentí la nítida sensación del blanco paisaje penetrando mi carne, todo era tan fluorescentemente blanco. Tuve la sensación de que mucha gente iba y venía, de prisa, dando empujones a mi alrededor, pero no podía verlas porque, razoné, estaba demasiado pendiente de mí mismo y de mis pensamientos. El rojo estaba en mi mente.

Sin embargo, algunos sonidos sí me importunaron. Fui consciente del sonido distante de un mazo de madera que golpeaba el mango de madera de un cincel, o al menos esa fue la asociación que hice, un golpe seco y silenciado, y de lo que parecían gritos, o carcajadas histéricas procedentes de algún lugar indeterminado a mi derecha, que hacían eco, un eco hueco en la distancia conforme avanzaba por la rampa. Todo de un blanco quirúrgico y frío y mis compañeros de viaje se habían convertido en simples fantasmas a mi alrededor, así de ensimismado estaba.

Finalmente la rampa me trasladó a una sala enorme, tenebrosa, de dimensiones catedralicias, paredes de hasta cuatro metros de altura, suelos, todo alicatado en blanco, el resto de pintura blanca, satinada y con suficientes fluorescentes blancas como para cegar a cualquiera que mirara demasiado. Delante nuestro había tres mostradores de azulejo blanco, cada uno de tres metros de longitud y noventa centímetros de ancho, con una greca de azulejos, que ilustraban el oficio del carnicero en azul real, alrededor del borde superior, justo bajo las encimeras de un mármol crema pálido. Estos eran los colores del día, crema, granate, rojo y azul real. A unos cinco metros detrás de cada mostrador había enormes puertas de madera, arqueadas en la parte superior, tintadas de negro y pensé que vagamente podía adivinar figuras en relieve, pero no estaba seguro. La idea de una iglesia o monasterio se iluminó en mi mente, se fue apagando y murió.

En el mostrador de mi derecha pude distinguir un trozo de carne sobre una bandeja de polietileno blanco cuidadosamente envuelto en plástico transparente. Pegado al envoltorio pude ver con claridad un código de barras debidamente subrayado por una hilera de números, que no pude descifrar. Alcé un momento la mirada y me pareció ver una figura desaparecer tras la puerta y, al cerrarse, percibí el sonido seco y silenciado que antes había oído en la distancia, pero, esta vez, mucho más claramente. Un golpe sordo, un traqueteo como de puertas metálicas que se abren y el sonido de algo golpeando algo mucho más duro. Un olor a desinfectante, algo ligeramente más dulce.

Miré al frente y vi un pedazo de carne sobre el mostrador, por su color, fresco, fresquísimo. Levanté la mirada justamente cuando la puerta empezaba a cerrarse y creí vislumbrar el delantal de un carnicero en rápida retirada, pero no pude estar seguro porque no estuve lo suficientemente alerta. Lo que sí advertí fue que las gritos no eran carcajadas histéricas, a no ser que las carcajadas histéricas fueran una reacción automática a la proximidad de un dolor extremo. Sentí entonces un olor empalagosamente dulce. Lo sentí en lo más profundo de mi garganta.

Al mover cabeza ligeramente a la derecha me encontré mirando a los ojos de un hombre feo, más bien bajo, de cara redonda y con una sonrisa que lo delataba, sabía exactamente lo que hacía y hacía exactamente lo que se le mandaba. Su delantal, de rayas azules y blancas, aparecía manchado de un color muy similar, a la altura de su estómago y allí donde colgaban sus manos, al del gran trozo de carne que con toda tranquilidad había dejado caer, o más bien lanzado sobre el mármol color crema. Cuando pasó de nuevo por la puerta las agudas súplicas y los gritos de dolor no pudieron distraerme de la belleza del rojo, crema y azul mientras una gota roja y solitaria lentamente se deslizaba por una de las escenas de carnicería en azul real. Un olor empalagosamente dulce, a algo en descomposición, recordatorio de mi infancia, pegado a mi garganta, y justo al cerrarse la puerta, me pareció escuchar el zumbido de insectos. Moscas negras, azulejos blancos. Miré a mi alrededor pero no había ni una. Moscas negras. Puertas negras.

Indiscutiblemente, fue mi próximo pensamiento, nos ofrecerán algo que comprar, algo que llevarnos para el viaje. Pero empecé a sentirme extraño porque los fantasmas volvían a tomar cuerpo y otra idea, más perversamente excitante, estaba tomando forma en mi cabeza, se nos estaba mostrando lo que somos y en lo que pronto nos iban a convertir. Y mis compañeros de viaje dejaron de ser mis compañeros.

Todos los fantasmas estaban enfocados y todos estaban desnudos y todos eran bellos, de hecho, preciosos, y me vi a mí mismo, feo, y cuanta más belleza percibía más grotesco me veía y más aborrecía la belleza. Así que concentré la mirada en los corrales a los que nos habían conducido y en las tres rampas más de las que no me había percatado hasta entonces, que conducían a algún bajo lugar más allá de las puertas, El horror fue una puñalada en el estómago que me cortó la respiración. No fue el dolor del sacrificio lo que me golpeó sino el horror de comprender que estaba destinado a tomar parte en ello, a destruir la belleza de la forma más cruel, y no sólo eso, sino que además estaba destinado a disfrutar con la faena.

Cualquiera que hubiera estado presente allí habría visto una sonrisa en mi cara que me delataba, sabía exactamente lo que hacía y hacía exactamente lo que se me mandaba al conducir a los guapos, a los bellos hacia la rampa, que se perdía tras las dos puertas y desde donde las mejores súplicas, gritos y quejidos emergían para mi deleite. Había renacido.

Sonó la bocina del autobús. Levanté la mirada desde mi asiento de la sala de espera. Era un día gris, de ese gris de fotografía en blanco y negro, gris como la vida del común de los mortales, y yo corría hacia el autobús en medio de una lluvia gris, fría, punzante. Ahí estaba, delante de mí, diseño años cincuenta, ventanas pequeñas y, para mi sorpresa, de un color crema limpio, partido en dos por un corte granate vivo y curvo, como el corte en la antigua Coca-Cola, y que se extendía desde los faros hasta el arco de la rueda trasera. Por fin un color vivo pensé mientras me abría paso a través de un pequeño grupo de gente que se despedía obstruyendo así la puerta. Subí los tres escalones de metal, giré a la derecha pasillo abajo hasta mi asiento, me acomodé para el viaje, el bolso bajo el asiento, la gabardina mojada en la parrilla encima mi cabeza y el periódico en mi regazo. Un dedo dolorido. El conductor tocó de nuevo la bocina, se levantó de su asiento y se dirigió a la puerta desde donde miró la lluvia, quizá en busca de un pasajero tardío, más probablemente maldiciendo su suerte por tener que conducir en el temporal.

Sonó la bocina del autobús. Levanté la mirada del periódico y mis ojos se encontraron con el mismo día gris de antes. Sabía que no podía haber sido un sueño, Nunca recuerdo los sueños, como mucho un color aquí o allí, o un incidente aislado, pero nada más. De todos modos deslicé la mirada por el artículo que había estado leyendo momentos antes y decía,-

El borrador del documento establece que los mataderos tendrán que diseñarse “para no causar al animal agitación, dolor o sufrimiento innecesarios”, pero permite excepciones “cuando el sacrificio siga los ritos específicos de iglesias y religiones”(1)

Nada malo en ello pues, pensé, mientras me acomodé para el viaje.

(1)EL PAÍS, un diario español. 3 de noviembre 2006. De un artículo sobre leyes que tendrán lugar a favor de la protección y la “dignidad” de los animales.

“ATANDO CABLES TÍO....SWEEP THE MEAT....ATANDO CABLES........."

Mr John Doe casts no shadow, is just not there and Pete knows it.

He was not on the bus sat next to The Born Again Priest, nor was he lurking at the bus station, contrary to what some might have you believe, or do you believe everything you are told?

“Atando cables tío, atando cables.”

He lives not in the church or outside the church hall, neither lives he in the next street nor behind those grey clouds or just out of vision keeping his beady eyes on you from round the next corner. Or in another universe, or another dimension come to that.

No, he lives not in any of these places. Mr John Doe lives solely in fear and guilt. The hoards of Priests and self-appointed representatives have done their jobs to perfection.

“Atando cables tío, atando cables, cables............Sweep the meat from the street............”

THE STORY OF BUG EYED PETER JOHNSON, THE SUNDAY SCHOOL OUTCAST.

"Bug Eyed Peter", his Sunday School classmates called him, because he stared, not a blink to be registered. His eyes insisted on following everything and everyone everywhere, but he didn’t say much of anything, which meant he listened a lot and understood a lot more. But they weren’t to know that, were they?

The wooden folding chairs were painful and made dry cracking sounds if you fidgeted.

You could march to the hymns. Onwards! Oh christian soldiers.

The teachers, stiffly smiling and acting all friendly, had whitish, recently shaved and scrubbed, parchment skin and exuded a dry heavy smell of age and the burning wisdom of submission, ashes and dust, ritual and rules.

You could see deep blue veins in their cheeks. They sometimes pulsed ever so slightly in their ivory temples.

The Bibles had felt weighty, fine yellowing paper fingered by previous pious innocents and they exuded a dry heavy smell of age and the burning wisdom of submission, ashes and dust, ritual and rules to be obeyed without hesitation.

Oh, but the girls, the girls............

Bug Eyed Peter the Sunday School kid never got over it, but he knew just what was going down, and didn’t believe a word of it. But they weren’t to know that, were they?

But from those days on, every now and again, Bug Eyed Peter, the ex-Sunday School Outcast, has suffered and suffers butterflies in his belly for what had been sown inside of him so early on. The teachers had carried out their mission and cold shivers of Sunday School guilt and fear for the thoughts in his head bring on hot minutes of sticky sour scented sweat.

Oh, but the girls were cute, so very very cute.

“Atando cables tío, atando cables, atando cables, cables, atando............Sweep the meat from the street, sweep the meat..........”(1) were the murmured nasal sounding words of the litany of The Born Again Priest as he scuttled off grubby black and beetle ugly on another crusade not to leave the Johnsons of this world in peace.

How to speak something into existence? Look for the Priest, The Born Again Priest. How to talk something into truth? Look for the Priest, The Born Again Priest.

(1)"If you take uncovered meat and place it outside on the street and the cats come and eat it, whose fault is it? The cats' or the uncovered meat? The uncovered meat is the problem."

"If she was in her room, in her home, in her higab, no problem would have occurred."

A quote from Australia's most seniour muslim cleric, Sheik Taj Din al-Hilali, another brother of The Born Again Priest I guess, reflecting on the problems faced by a group of muslim men jailed for gang rapes. Just another representative of Mr John Doe I suppose.

Quote taken from the article, "Setting Themselves Apart" by Hirsi Ali. Newsweek, November 27, 2006.

THE BORN AGAIN PRIEST

It was a grey day, grey like old black and white photographs, grey like the lives of the majority of humans, and I was running towards the bus through the cutting cold grey rain. There it was in front of me, nineteen fifties design, small windows and, to my surprise, a clean cream colour cut in half down the side by a sharp curved maroon slash, rather like that old Coke slash, from the headlight to the rear wheel arch. Some living colour at last I thought as I pushed through the small knot of people saying their goodbyes and thereby obstructing the door, stepped up the three metal rungs, swung right down the aisle to my seat and settled in for the trip, bag under the seat, raincoat on the shelf above my head and newspaper on my lap.

What I imagine to have been quite a while later, the bus pulled up with a screech of tired brakes and I stood up and stretched my legs and walked down to the door and stepped into a ramp similar to those used in the unloading of passengers from aeroplanes, though I didn’t think it at all strange. I noticed that I had cut my finger on a burr of metal on the handrail as I stepped off the bus onto the ramp and I winced a little at the pain as I felt the cut with my thumb and rubbed it dry. Nothing serious. A red spot. Red bleached into white. Naturally, the ramp seemed to fall into the distance and I felt the distinct sensation of the white scenery penetrating my flesh, everything was such a harsh fluorescent white. I kind of felt like a lot of people were bustling, hurrying, pushing around me, but I couldn’t see them because, I reasoned, I was too centred on myself and the thoughts inside my head. Red was on my mind.

Some sounds did intrude on me though. I was aware of the distant sound of a wooden mallet on a wooden chisel handle, or, at least, that’s the association I made, a dry silenced kind of blow, and what sounded like shouts, or screams of hysterical laughter coming from somewhere vaguely over on my right, that hollowly echoed in the distance as I moved on forward down the ramp. Everything surgical white and cold and my fellow passengers had become just ghosts around me, so self absorbed had I turned.

Eventually the ramp carried me down into an enormous, cavernous, cathedral sized hall, walls, up to the height of about four metres, and floors all white tiled, the rest glossy white paint and enough fluorescent tubes to make you blind if you stared too much. In front of us were three white tiled counters, three metres long each one, ninety centimetres wide with a frieze of tiles illustrating the butcher’s craft in royal blue around the top edge just under the pale creamy marble stone tops. These were the colours of the day, cream, maroon, red and royal blue. About five metres behind each counter was a huge wooden door, rounded at the top, of black stained wood and I thought I could vaguely make out figures in some kind of relief but couldn’t be sure. The idea of church or monastery flickered in my mind , faded away and died.

On the counter to my left I could just make out a piece of meat on its white polystyrene tray bound judiciously in its transparent plastic film. Actually, stuck to the packaging, I could see quite clearly a barcode underlined with its set of numbers, though I couldn’t quite make them out. I looked up a little and thought I saw a figure disappear behind the door and, as this swung closed, I caught the dry silenced sound I’d heard in the distance, but, this time, far more clearly. A muffled bang, a rattling as of metal gates opening and the sound of something softer hitting something a lot harder. A smell of disinfectant, something else slightly sweet.

I looked to my front and on the counter was slapped a hunk of meat that was so obviously fresh because it was so bright. I looked up and just caught a sight of the door as it began to swing shut and I think I just caught a glimpse of a fast retreating butcher’s apron, but I couldn’t be sure, I wasn’t fast enough, but what I did catch was that the screams were not of hysterical laughter, unless the hysterical laughter was an automatic reaction to the proximity of extreme pain. A smell of something sickly sweet too. I sensed it in the back of my throat.

I moved my head slightly to my right and found myself looking straight into the eyes of an ugly, shortish, round faced man with a smile on his face that said he knew exactly what he was doing and he was doing exactly as he was told. His blue and white striped butcher’s apron was pretty much the same colour, at the level of his stomach, and where his hands might hang, as the large cut of meat that he casually dropped, or tossed really, onto the cream marble. As he passed back through the door the high pitched pleading and the shrieks of pain couldn’t distract me from the beauty of the red, cream and blue as a lonely dribble of red ran slowly down one of the scenes of butchery in royal blue. A smell of something sickly sweet in decay, from childhood, stuck in the back of my throat, a sticky taste of a smell and, just as the door closed, I thought I heard the sound of buzzing insects from somewhere. Black flies, white tiles. I looked about me but there were none to be seen. Black flies, black doors.

Obviously, my next thought was that we were being offered something to purchase, to take with us on our onward journey, but I was beginning to feel strange because the ghosts were all slowly coming into focus and another, more perversely exciting idea was beginning to take shape in my head, and it was that we were all being shown what we are and what we were shortly going to be turned into. And my fellow passengers were no longer my fellows.

The ghosts were all in focus and everyone was naked and everyone was beautiful, gorgeous in fact, and I saw myself and I was ugly and the more beauty I saw the more grotesque I saw myself and the more I loathed beauty. So I stared at the animal pens we had been herded into and three more ramps I hadn’t been aware of before that led down behind the doors somewhere, and the horror hit me square in the stomach and I couldn’t for the life of me catch a breath. It was not the horror of the slaughter that had hit me but the horror of the realisation that I was destined to take my part in it, destroy beauty in the cruellest of ways, and not only that, but that I was destined to enjoy the task.

If anybody had been looking they would have seen a smile on my face that said I knew exactly what I was doing and I was doing exactly as I was told as I pushed the beautiful, the gorgeous into the ramps that fed down behind the two doors from where the best pleadings, screams and whimpers escaped to delight me. I was born again.

The horn of the coach sounded. I looked up from my seat in the waiting room. It was a grey day, grey like old black and white photographs, grey like the lives of the majority of humans, and I was running towards the bus through the cutting cold grey rain. There it was in front of me, nineteen fifties design, small windows and, to my surprise, a clean cream colour cut in half down the side by a sharp curved maroon slash, rather like that old Coke slash, from the headlight to the rear wheel arch. Some living colour at last I thought as I pushed through the small knot of people saying their goodbyes, thus obstructing the door, and stepped up the three metal rungs, swung right down the aisle to my seat and settled in for the trip, bag under the seat, rain splattered coat on the shelf above my head and the newspaper on my lap. Sore finger. The driver sounded the horn again, got up from his seat and went to the door where he stared into the rain, perhaps checking for late travellers, more likely thinking that it was just his luck to have to drive in this sick weather.

The horn of the coach sounded. I looked up from my newspaper and my eyes met the same grey day as before. I knew it couldn’t have been a dream because I never remember dreams, perhaps a colour here or there, or an isolated incident like blue flamingos gliding sedately over a sapphire studded lake, but no more than that. Anyway, I looked down the column of the article I’d been reading a moment before and read,-

The draft document establishes that slaughterhouses will have to be designed “so as not to cause the animals unnecessary agitation, pain or suffering”, but it permits exceptions “when the sacrifice follows the specific rituals of churches or religions”.*

That’s alright then I thought, as I settled down for the journey.

* El PAÍS, A Spanish daily newspaper. Friday 3rd of November 2006. From an article about laws to be put in place for the protection and “dignity” of animals.

NEWS FROM THE TRIAL OF JOHN DOE, AN OPENING STATEMENT FROM THE ACCUSED

Your Honour, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. Due to the insistence of this court in putting my client on public trial in his absence, I have been instructed directly by him, although he would also like it to be known that, as he is the law, he refuses to recognise the jurisdiction of this court, as I have said, I have been instructed by him to read a statement put together with the evidence from the reams of documents in his power which, I have been informed, can also be found in the power of the directors now in control of his former businesses.

“Sirs, I find it indignant that I am to be put on trial when it is patently obvious that I have had no hand, either directly or indirectly, in the manner in which my former organisations have been run in my name since I recalled my representatives from each of them some thousands of years ago.

This is evidently time enough for me to be able to affirm that whatever has been done, wherever it has been done, whenever it has been done, it has been done without my knowledge, thus without my consent and patently obviously without my participation and also without my notorious efficiency.

I would like it to be known that I have no intention of getting involved again in something I completely lost interest in millennia ago.

It has to be said that, before the recall of my personal assistants/representatives, call them what you will, a fierce control had to be exerted over the fledgling organisations that I was trying to put into place or they would never have grown into the profitable, politically stable structures I was trying to implant. The rules and regulations had to be strictly enforced. These rules and regulations were sent down directly by me via my representatives, no one else had the authority or the power to impose with sufficient severity other than me.

Once a certain stability had been established I deemed it unnecessary to keep up this level of hands-on control. A level of acceptable auto-control had been successfully engineered and the presence of my representatives and I was no longer required when we had more profitable work to do and to be done for us in other parts.


My power had been delegated. This delegation of power was possible since my representatives had managed the takeover of a myriad of smaller, far less competitive primitive enterprises. These enterprises were inefficient in that they were in constant conflict, a situation not conducive to the efficient administration of the populations that worked for them.

I had toyed with the idea of just one “umbrella” organisation but decided that that would induce a state of inertia, a certain uniformity not conducive to efficient control, competition and, thus, to acceptable profits. I deemed that three or four smaller entities would be perfect to protect overall efficiency from a state of stagnation.

These systems of control have been running perfectly since I left for more stimulating projects.

Until recently, it would seem.

My analysis leads me to state categorically that any failures in the functioning of these systems is not a failure either of my theories or the systems I built on these theories, nor, of course of my personal assistants who have given no conferences or audiences, call them what you will, since I withdrew them simply because they are occupied in more grandiose schemes elsewhere.

Thus the progressive failure, decay or decadence of these enterprises is down to the failure of certain elements, the Johnsons, to adhere to the levels of submission, obedience and discipline necessary for their smooth, optimum running and of the weakness of others to impose my will.

I therefore suggest that you search for guilt in other parts where it can more obviously be proven to exist. This is all I wish to say and it is more than enough since my time is enormously precious to me.”

This document, your Honour, Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, is signed and dated on this very day by my client, Mr John Doe. Thank you.

FOUR HEADS IN A BAG, A BEDTIME STORY FOR LOVERS OF MOZART

Once upon a time in a land not so unrecognisable from this one we all love, a darkly hooded figure, a certain John Doe, cast his shadow over the vaulted landscapes of its inhabitants' thoughts and ambitions, carrying an empty, but well used, dirty stained hemp sack over his shoulder. He was not a native to those parts, no, he was a stranger from far, so very faraway, or, at least that’s what they chose to believe.

At first, nobody really took much notice of this mysterious figure, he seemed harmless enough, slightly helpless even, so they invited him in to shelter in their homes and gave him food and drink whilst listening to his tales of some unknown and unheard-of past. They waved him off with a cheerful goodbye and come-back-soon-smiles. The warm contentment they felt at lending a helping hand, and more than just that, to a poor foreign traveller, made them feel so really good about themselves.

Some called him the storyteller.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years and as the hooded one felt himself more and more at home, more welcomed, everywhere he visited, he began to make little tiny demands of his generous hosts. Nothing at all, of course, that didn’t seem reasonable to honourable, respectful folk with their doors and hearts open to strangers and their strange ideas.

What no one noticed, or at least never gave word to, was that after each stop, when their guest hoisted the sack onto his broad shoulder, after he had said his goodbyes, the sack seemed bigger, swollen somehow, slightly more difficult for him to manage. After his thankful goodbyes, however, the people did begin to feel a strange kind of emptiness they had never felt before and not even their contentedness at having helped, having been a part of something, could any longer conceal this sensation.

Some called him the teacher.

Years turned into decades, decades into centuries and the shadowy figure was now given to making fierce demands on his hosts and the sense of emptiness his loving sheep suffered was now a sense of loss only assuaged by thoughts of their long departed guest’s greatness and wisdom and love for them. They needed him, but he was not there.

So, anyway, the shadow, the thing that was not there, took more and more of everyone each time he left, until his hosts were just empty husks of their former selves and having given up so much of themselves, so willingly, so unquestioningly, there came into being a realm of blood and thunder that had never before existed, not even in their wildest dreams.

Some called him the deity. They needed him but he was not there.

Meanwhile, as so often happens when travels are so long, the shadow eventually arrived at precisely the spot it had started its wanderings from, and the sack, being so heavy, he let it drop to the ground, whereupon it split open and spilled its contents at his feet.

Four bloody heads, eight bloodshot eyes stared up vacantly, dead, at their new master for, yes, he was a godlike figure and everything and everyone had been at his feet for ever and a day and nobody had any more left to give for they had given up absolutely everything……………

They had no more Reason.

No more Philosophy.

No more Art.

No more Science.

ALATRY AND THE WAITING TIME IN THE WAITING ROOM.

Waiting Time In the Waiting Room and a negative (virus, stain, speck of dust) number is watching the sand clock run down, the last grains passing through the neck………………………………..BLAAAM!!



Our time burst onto the scene the instant this universe blew itself into positive numbers. (Which, of course was a big mistake on the universe’s part because a belch in the process spewed humankind into the fabric, but that’s another story.)

Our time doesn’t believe in straight lines and so probably gets to bump into itself pretty regularly, a kind of haven’t I been there before situation.

Also, there is no logical reason why the universe we’re living in should be the only one that fireworked itself into being, which means there’s no particular reason why our time should be the only kind of time that exists either, even here and now. Thus there’s no particular logic behind the idea that all times are spreading in the same direction, so it follows that lots of times ought to be crashing into each other, or at least rubbing shoulders, all over the place. Pretty chaotic I’d say. Haven’t I seen me afterwards somewhere before?

So, whatever direction it comes from, you viruses, you stains on the fabric of the universe, you dirty little specks of dust you, there is no time for you to lose because, although there’s a terrible lot of it aroundabouts, in the end, you lose it all, even that which wasn’t yours, or ours, which is just common sense.

Talking of common sense, talking of counting, this is a bit of number theory from New Scientist magazine.-

"Alatrism" would be formed from the word "alatry", the practice of not bothering to worship any deities, regardless of how many there may be (recall "idolatry" and the prefix "a-" for "no" or "not"). This brings us to Feedback's Statistical Proof of Alatry.

It goes like this. The only thing we know about deities with any certainty is that the number of them is a whole number, the idea of a fractional deity being frankly absurd. So the number of deities in our universe is an integer, in the range from minus infinity to plus infinity. (We leave the theologians to interpret a negative number of deities: this is number theory, and its conclusion should save them the trouble.)

For it is commonly accepted that we should expect our universe to be typical of possible universes. So the expected number of deities is in the middle of the range of possibilities. That is, zero. Quod erat demonstrandum.



Now, that should give you a little more time to spare, you stains on the fabric of the universe!

Not that the universe cares at all. After all, compared to the beautiful scale of things, we're all just a minor irritant, not even a grain of sand, and the universe has plenty of time on its hands to deal with us.

And a good job too.

The sand clock is running, the last grains passing through the neck………………………………

BLAAAAAAM!!

ANYWAY, WHAT´S FUCKING WRONG WITH LOU REED THEN?

As always happens when you hear something said about yourself that takes you aback, Peter Johnson only managed to think of a decent reply, a decent defence of his choices, his point of view, after he’d controlled his surprise and had begun to think relatively rationally, in other words, long after the conversation with his ex had finished. The next morning, in fact, after the second cup of strong coffee and a cold shower.

Peter, Bug Eyed Peter's ex had commented, in a conversation she’d obviously thought of little transcendental importance, that she had been surprised that his musical tastes hadn’t changed in the years since they had last said goodbye and, why on earth hadn’t he moved with the times?

She, pulling his leg a bit, accused him of suffering from a heavy dose of rather unhealthy nostalgia.

He took it as a stab in the back. A real dig.

Now, he hadn’t predicted that kind of turn in the conversation, which, up until that point, had been a laugh a minute. Nor had he picked up on the humorous tone.

One reply, one idea that, of course, never reached Peter’s vocal chords, was that a conversation with an ex he hadn’t had any contact with in years was only interesting for what shared memories could be brought back to life, but he'd put his foot in it, took it all the wrong way and got all sour, grumpy and verbally aggressive. The evening degenerated into a battle.



So Peter spent the night alone, which was definitely not his original idea, sweating profusely, tossing and turning in the rumpled sheets, unable to sleep, thinking of all the intelligent things he should have said, involuntarily remembering the previous evening, and the bits he remembered just got worse and worse. The sweat got more and more sour smelling.

After all, he might have said, if the idea had illuminated his head when it should have, “remembering” consists of living a version of the past in the present, so he had never been at all happy with the term “nostalgia”. Nostalgia is too cosy, too self satisfied, too sad. Sentimentality for a lost past. Nostalgia goes with a certain degree of lamentation, lamenting that the details are fading, lamenting that it won’t be happening again tomorrow, which it could, actually, he knew, if you just changed the terminology a bit. Or if he’d just bitten his lip.

So, add another person with their version and the entertainment is guaranteed. That is, until Bug Eyed Peter rediscovered that other remembering. The remembering you’d rather forget.

Did you ever play that children’s game? Whispering a story round the group? Remembering is in a world of its own. You never remember exactly what happened originally, but only remember the last time you remembered what happened. The more times you remember, the less reliable the memory becomes, but, not for that, is it any less enjoyable.

Mix into the equation a certain amount of exaggeration, of which sin Pete will happily admit to, and the past is living and growing in the here and now. The memory is created in the present, like this short story of Peter’s night out with his ex and its results, victory for Victoria. Yet again.

¡A QUE NUEVA YORK ESTUVO GENIAL! (Versión 2)

Como suele suceder cuando uno escucha algo que se dice sobre él y que le transporta al pasado, Peter Johnson sólo fue capaz de dar una respuesta decente, una decente defensa de su elección, de su punto de vista, tras controlar su sorpresa y pensar con relativa sensatez, o lo que es lo mismo, mucho después de que la conversación con su ex hubiera terminado. A la mañana siguiente, de hecho, tras la segunda taza de un café bien cargado y una ducha fría.

La ex de Peter, aka, Bug Eyed Peter, Victoria, comentó, en una conversación que había considerado de poca importancia trascendental, que se había sorprendido de que sus gustos musicales, los de él, no hubieran cambiado en los muchos años que habían pasado desde que se dieran el último adiós y se preguntaba por qué demonios no había evolucionado con los tiempos, y le acusó de sufrir de una alta dosis de insalubre nostalgia.

Peter lo interpretó como una puñalada trapera. Una auténtica indirecta.

El no había imaginado un giro semejante en la conversación que, hasta ese momento, había incluido una carcajada por minuto. Tampoco había captado su tono humorístico.

Una respuesta, una idea que, como es de esperar, nunca llegó a las cuerdas vocales de Peter, es que una conversación con una ex, con quien no se ha tenido contacto en años, es sólo interesante por lo que tiene de reavivación de recuerdos compartidos, pero el metió la pata, todo se lo tomó al revés y se irritó, enfurruñándose y tornándose verbalmente agresivo. La noche terminó en batalla.

Así que pasó la noche solo, cosa con la que no había contado, sudando copiosamente, dando vueltas en las arrugadas sábanas, sin poder dormir, pensando en todas las genialidades que debería haber dicho, involuntariamente recordando la noche anterior, lo poco que recordaba empeorando cada vez más. Su sudor de un olor cada vez más agrio.

Después de todo, podría haber dicho, si la bombilla se le hubiera encendido, “recordar” consiste en vivir una versión del pasado en el presente, ya que él nunca estuvo satisfecho con el término “nostalgia”. La nostalgia es demasiado acogedora, demasiado autocomplaciente, demasiado triste. Sentimentalismo por un pasado perdido. La nostalgia conlleva cierto grado de lamento, lamentando que los detalles se desdibujen, lamentando que no volverá a suceder mañana, que de hecho podría, sabía Pete, si cambiáramos la terminología un poco. O si se hubiera mordido la lengua.

Así que añade a otra persona con su versión y el entretenimiento estará garantizado. O al menos hasta que Bug Eyed Peter meta la pata y se lo tome todo al revés y redescubra ese otro recordar. El recordar que más vale olvidar.

¿Has jugado a ese juego alguna vez? A contarse una historia al oído en grupo? Recordar es todo un mundo. Nunca se recuerda exactamente lo que sucedió, sólo se recuerda lo que se recuerda la última vez que se recordó. Cuanto más se recuerda menos fiable es el recuerdo, pero no por ello es el recuerdo menos agradable.

Añade a la ecuación cierta dosis de exageración, cuyo pecado Peter felizmente admite cometer y el pasado vive y crece en el aquí y ahora. La memoria se forma en el presente, como esta historia de la noche de Pete, Bug Eyed Peter, con su ex y sus resultados, victoria por Victoria. Una vez más.

MENSAJE DE LOS ESPÍRITUS DE LOS AHOGADOS Y PERDIDOS

Les atrae la tragedia como a los insectos el fulgor de una llama en la noche pero, de alguna manera, su tragedia no es una tragedia de sufrimiento personal como es la nuestra, no es real. No conviven con la tragedia. No viven la tragedia. Su tragedia es un círculo de lágrimas de cocodrilo derramadas por acontecimientos y personas que nunca tuvieron ni tendrán cerca pero que se metieron en sus vidas, como por arte de magia, a través de la televisión. ¿Recuerdan los rostros suplicantes de mis compañeros de viaje cuando los devolvían en autobuses al desierto africano tras haber sido repatriados desde esas ciudades españolas en la costa norte de nuestro continente? ¿Pueden recordar las lágrimas que derramamos, la desesperación en nuestros corazones, clara y nítida a los ojos de quieren quisieron ver? Esa debió ser la imagen de los doce últimos meses que mejor describe nuestras vidas, vidas de un dolor callado, infinito, de desilusión. ¿Recuerdan eso? Quizá lo recordaron el tiempo suficiente como para aplacar su sentimiento de culpa con una pequeña donación a su organización benéfica preferida y, desde luego que es un gesto generoso. Nos hemos bebido su leche en polvo. Tenía la bandera española en la caja. Pero no sienten. Quiero decir que no nos sienten. No sienten nuestra desesperación. No pueden ponerse en nuestro lugar durante más de treinta segundos. Luego desaparecemos en la polvareda de sus memorias.

Y mi familia y yo no lloramos, no podemos llorar, ni tampoco pueden hacerlo el espíritu de los ahogados y perdidos. ¿Acaso el batir de nuestras alas ha dibujado un agujero terrible en el tejido del universo? Nosotros, que estamos allí, sabemos que sí y que la existencia nunca volverá a ser igual. Somos los fantasmas, los espíritus que, de vez en cuando, a la deriva, aterrizamos en su vidas al descubrirnos una cámara y terminamos en sus televisores. Treinta segundos. Duramos treinta segundos. Con suerte, treinta segundos.

Tres días de autobús hacia el desierto con poco o ningún alimento, sin agua. Nuestros corazones y planes de futuro destruidos, nuestras familias no comerán. O los tres días en el Atlántico. Contribuimos a treinta segundos de noticias, dos o tres secuencias anteriores a veinte minutos de estrellas de fútbol, dioses que veíamos en el televisor comunitario de nuestro pueblo, cuando había suerte y disponíamos de combustible para el generador. Y así desaparecemos, como los insectos que en la noche merodean en torno a la llama que alimenta nuestros pucheros, como los insectos que se alejan del azul de nuestros viejos televisores, proyectando una vida donde hay trabajo y no hay hambre, ni sed, donde nuestros niños no morirán tan enfermos, tan jóvenes, tan indefensos, donde la gente nos ayude en vez de robarnos y matarnos, o utilizarnos como carne de cañón para sus guerras privadas. Y así desaparecemos como la polilla desapareció tras revolotear en torno a la macilenta luz amarilla de nuestra bombilla de cuarenta vatios, eso siempre y cuando haya suerte y tengamos combustible para nuestro generador.

Y los televisores no sólo parpadean para miles de fantasmales familias africanas, no, también proyectan su sombra azul en la Europa del este y América del Sur, pero para ellos nosotros desaparecemos de la pantalla. Desaparecemos en el intenso azul del Atlántico, o en las resecas dunas del desierto, o en los dilapidados barrios marginales, o en los orfanatos de regímenes hace tiempo desaparecidos, o regímenes a los que nada les importa, pero sobre todo desaparecemos de sus corazones y de sus mentes. Pero incluso si no nos hemos ahogado o muerto de hambre en nuestras tumbas, nos habremos ido y ellos serán arrastrados hacia sus tragedias, y volveremos a ser menos que polillas girando alrededor de una llama moribunda, y sus tragedias durarán días y días y días en sus equipos “home cinema” a todo color, porque su tragedia es la muerte de Rocío Jurado, y no podemos competir en la tragedia y la ceremonia con la Rocío de España porque nos hemos quemado las alas en las llamas y caído en el polvo del olvido, y tendremos que rezar a los espíritus por la oportunidad de otros treinta segundos de trágica televisión en un universo herido de muerte.

JOHN DOE'S STORY. LIQUID VERSION. PART ONE

La historia de John Doe, versión líquida.

Segundos antes de medianoche, al final del sexto día.

John Doe se echa las manos temblorosas a las sienes, barriendo la mesa del laboratorio con el brazo derecho, tira al suelo la placa de Petri con los cultivos recalcitrantes y se va.

Los virus y las bacteria salen en busca de John Doe.

La historia de John Doe, versión seca.

Segundos antes de medianoche, al final del sexto día.
John Doe cierra el programa y se va....

Los virus y las bacteria salen en busca de John Doe.




John Doe’s story, liquid version.

Seconds before midnight, the end of day six.

John Doe throws trembling hands to his temples, sweeps the Petri dish with its recalcitrant cultures off the lab table onto the floor with his right arm, and leaves.

The viruses and bacteria search out John Doe.

John Doe’s story, dry version.

Seconds before midnight, the end of day six.
John Doe shuts down the programme and leaves….

The viruses and bacteria search out John Doe.

A MESSAGE FROM THE DROWNED AND LOST

They are drawn to tragedy like the night insects are drawn to a naked flame, but somehow their tragedy isn’t a tragedy of personal suffering like ours is, it isn’t real. They don’t live with tragedy. They don’t live tragedy. Their tragedy is a circus of crocodile tears spilt over events and people they have never really been close to, and will never be close to, but which have arrived in their houses, as if by magic, through their television boxes. Do they remember the pleading faces of my fellow travellers as they were bussed back south into the African desert after being repatriated from those Spanish towns on the northern coast of our continent? Can they remember the tears we shed, the desperation in our hearts that was plain for all to see? Well, that had to be the image of the last twelve months which best describes our lives of quiet timeless pain and disappointment. Do they remember that? Perhaps they remembered long enough to buy off their guilty consciences by donating a small sum to their favourite charity, and, honestly, they are quite generous in that I have to say. We’ve drunk their powdered milk. It had the Spanish flag on the box. But they don’t feel. I mean, they don’t feel us. They don’t feel our desperation. They can’t put themselves into our skins. For more than thirty seconds. Then we disappear into the dust that is in their memories.

And me and my family don’t, can’t, cry crocodile tears, and nor do the spirits of the drowned and lost. Has the fluttering of our wings torn a terrible hole in the fabric of the universe? We, who are there, know it has and existence will never be the same ever again. We are the ghosts and spirits that occasionally drift into their lives when we get caught on camera and broadcast on their television sets. Thirty seconds. We last thirty seconds. Thirty seconds, if we’re lucky.

Three days of buses in the desert with little or no food and water. Our hearts and plans for the future are crushed, our families won’t eat. Or three days in the Atlantic. We made thirty seconds of news, we made two or three spots, before twenty minutes of football superstars, gods we watched on our communal television back in the village. When we were lucky and had fuel for our generator. And so we disappear, like the night insects disappear as they circle out of the light of the flame of our cooking pots, like the night insects vanish from the blue light of our old television, screening a life where there is work and no hunger, or thirst. Where our children won’t die so ill, so young. So helpless. Where people will help us instead of robbing and murdering us, or using us as cannon fodder for their private wars. And so we disappear as the moth disappeared after fluttering around the sick yellow light of our forty watt bulb, when we were lucky and had fuel for our generator.

And televisions don’t only flicker for thousands of ghostly families in Africa, no, they flicker their blue shadows in Eastern Europe and South America too, but for them we disappear off screen. We disappear into the deep blue Atlantic, or into the parched dunes of the desert, or into the dilapidated housing projects or orphanages of long departed regimes, or regimes that just don’t care, but mostly we disappear from their hearts and minds. Even if we aren’t drowned or starved or in our graves, we have gone and they are drawn to their tragedies, and we are less than moths circling a dying flame, and their tragedies last days and days and days on their home cinema sets in brilliant colours, because their tragedy is the death of Rocío Jurado, and we can’t compete for tragedy and ceremony with Rocío de España because we’ve burnt our wings in the flames and have fallen into the dust of forgetfulness, and must pray to the spirits for the opportunity for another thirty seconds of tragic television time in a universe that is deeply wounded.



 "ATLANTIC SONG III" and text © David F. Brandon, March 2006 / 2013