When I started this blog, I said that I wanted to scream, and I used this media to do so.
The thing is like this: you are what you think. And you attract what you are.
For some time I have been trying to change my approach to life: accept that bad things happen, assume my responsibility on the way my life is (and was), try to remain positive, and work for change.
And I thought that I was making good progress.
Until a member of the public contacted me with some strong complaints that about some things I’d wrote.
And I re-listened to Billy Joel’s song that I’ve posted further down. And it still talked about me.
Then I realised that I had more things to change.
Dark times produce dark writing, I might justify, especially when the writing is pretty much auto biographic.
Oh, lots of people write and has written diaries, someone (me?) could say.
The difference is, of course, that then they would keep such diary in a drawer under two or three locks, and certainly not publish it on the Internet.
So, as my intention has never been to undermine or hurt anybody, I need to apologise unreservedly to anyone that might have felt aggrieved by my words.
And, at the same time, I need to dismantle the think-tank behind this blog.
Because they have been keeping an eye on the darkness of the world, and, lets agree, while it gives me a lot to write about it, it also keeps me looking and thinking about the different shades of black that covers the night. And let’s face it, anyone can write and complaint about darkness. But it takes more effort to appreciate the magic of the stars.
So now I am starting a new, more difficult challenge: I want to write about good, nice things.
Because life is what we make about it. So let’s make it something worth living!
time to search for the stars
So, all that leaves me with one question: what should I do with this blog? Delete it? Abandon it? Reform it? (Transform it)
I’m afraid I’m still too ironic to become an inspirational author.
And I’ve always been bad at throwing things away, and it would be a shame and a mistake to ignore the past.
However, and while I decide what to do with it, it might be time for the dark ages that a biographer might call someday “the before” (as on those diet ads, showing the picture of a person “before” and “after” taking their products / going to the gym / etc.) to go to their natural place, some dark box, locked under chains, until some uncertain future, maybe forever.
Because now starts the time of the light, be it dawn, or be it stars.
Angry Young Man – Billy Joel
There’s a place in the world for the angry young man
With his working class ties and his radical plans
He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl,
He’s always at home with his back to the wall.
And he’s proud of his scars and the battles he’s lost,
He struggles and bleeds as he hangs on the cross-
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.
Oh, oh, yo yo yo oh oh
Give a moment or two to the angry young man,
With his foot in his mouth and his heart in his hand.
He’s been stabbed in the back, he’s been misunderstood,
It’s a comfort to know his intentions are good.
He sits in a room with a lock on the door,
With his maps and his medals laid out on the floor
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.
I believe I’ve passed the age of consciousness & righteous rage
I found that just surviving was a noble fight.
I once believed in causes too, I had my pointless point of view,
Life went on no matter who was wrong or right, ohhhhh
And there’s always a place for the angry young man,
With his fist in the air and his head in the sand.
And he’s never been able to learn from mistakes,
He can’t understand why his heart always breaks.
His honor is pure and his courage as well,
He’s fair and he’s true and he’s boring as hell!
And he’ll go to the grave as an angry old man.
Whoa, and there’s always a place for the angry young man
With his working class ties and his radical plans
He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl,
He’s always at home with his back to the wall.
And he’s proud of his scars and the battles he’s lost,
He struggles and bleeds ‘til he hangs on the cross
And he likes to be known as the angry young man.
“Yes”, I lied, again. But she was the third person to ask me that in the past two days.
I noticed that I have been constantly clicking the back of my becoming pen, getting it’s point in and out, in and out. I stopped. For a few seconds. “Why do you ask?”
I didn’t have a good night sleep for a long time now. And my usual diet of croissant for breakfast, sandwich for lunch, muffin in the afternoons and peanuts and carrot with mayonnaise has been replaced with breakfast biscuits, a lot of crisps in the middle and carrot and peanuts. And I had run out of peanuts last week.
But I still have chocolate. I have had an insatiable craving for chocolate lately.
“You don’t look very well, that’s all”, she said shyly.
I gave her a smile that wanted to say “thank you for asking. But you don’t really want to know, and I don’t really want to tell. But don’t feel bad. I really appreciate your concern.” I don’t know if my smile was that expressive, probably not.
Then the lecture carried on and I could just block some things from my mind. Some things? Lots of things. That’s how life is supposed to carry on, isn’t it?
I have to think positively, I have learned. If I only think about my problems, then I will be locked in them, I was told. And I have been trying that approach. But certain things have been difficult to overlook.
I remember when a few weeks ago I had to go to my bank. I wanted to ask them for help. After all, I’ve been with them for more than ten years now, I pay for my account and pay expensive weekly charges for being over my overdraft limit. Also, they have been mentioned in almost every scandal involving banks during the past three years.
I remember how I felt while going there: empty, weakened, like floating, but not in a good way. While I was walking, I could barely feel my legs. And I walked slowly, even when I tried not to. I was physically sick, didn’t even felt like eating anything. And the nausea. Have I mentioned the nausea? That’s been a constant bother for some time now, so I was almost used to it.
The bank said no, and I felt stupid, on top of everything else: I didn’t know why I had hoped for a different outcome. Humanity, empathy and banking don’t mix. Maybe that’s why I could never work in finance. So I had to recur to a couple of legal loan sharks (4369% APR anyone?).
But it was (it had to be) for just a month, two at the most. After that I should be OK, shouldn’t I?
“Come visit me in six months”, I had told a girl departing for Torquay. “My life should be fixed by next March.” Instead she moved to Cardiff after a day, met a guy and last thing I heard was that she was getting married in these days.
Oh well.
I still believe that next month things should be improving.
“You said the same at the end of 2011″, I could be reminded if only some people would have survived the Maya’s End of the World.
But this time is different, I think while I try to take a peek for whatever awaits for me behind the thick fog concealing my future.
Still covered with the dirt lifted when I hit the bottom last time (for the last time?), somehow I am again getting up. No point in carrying on complaining, as nobody listens and nobody cares.
“Just a few more weeks”, I whispered. (Go with the flow.) No prayers to say, no favours to ask, no hands to grasp, nor shoulders to lay on to. (Go with the flow.) Only one person can save me, and that’s me.
“How is life?” asked me a colleague at University taking me out of my thoughts . “Is it OK?”
“No. Life is not OK”, I confessed. “But I’m gonna make it OK!”
Dave Matthews Band – Big Eyed Fish
Look at this big – eyed fish swimming in the sea oh
How it dreams to be a bird swoop and diving through the breeze
So one day caught a big old wave up on to the beach
Now he’s dead you see beneath the sea is where a fish should be
But oh God
Under the weight of life
Things seem brighter on the other side
You see this crazy man decided not to breathe
He turned red and blue – purple, colorful indeed
No matter how his friends begged and pleaded the man would not concede
And now he’s dead you see the silly man should know you got to breathe
But oh God
Under the weight of life
Things seem brighter on the other side
Oh God
Under the weight of life
Things seem so much better on the other side
No way, no way
No way out of here
You see the little monkey sitting up in his monkey tree
One day decided to climb down and run off to the city
But look at him now lost tired living in the street
As good as dead you see what a monkey does – stay up your tree
But oh God
Under the weight of life
Things seem brighter on the other side
Oh God
Under the weight of life
Things seem so much better on the other side
“My next post”. Oh, that was always going to be difficult a difficult one. So many questions… My family have read my blog, maybe for the very first time! So, should I write in English or in Spanish? Should I keep talking about politics? Amazingly, my latest post drove more visits to my blog in three days than what I had during the rest of the year. New readers, I thought. I need to be kind to them. And maybe I should keep quiet about what has been going on in here for 35 episodes before they arrived.
But what about my old readers? I’ve always written in English in here. It was my personal challenge, a way of “thinking” this language, as opposite as just translating my thoughts to it. But the previous episode had to be written in Spanish.
Because it was directed to my fellow Argentinians. And because, I realised, if I had to explain who were all those people I was writing about, what they have (allegedly) done, or in which scandal or corruption case were they implicated, I would had to write a very, very long post.
My original idea was to write a bilingual blog, so my friends from Buenos Aires could still read me. That, of course, would imply at least twice the time and the effort. And, let’s face it, I can barely keep up with this simple publication.
Anyway, I might still go bilingual. Somehow, I’m still searching for my voice, for my path, for my destiny and for that girl to take with me to the end of the world…
So this post was intended to be in English, for my old readers. Who knows, maybe one or two of them were walking through Mayfair on the evening of that 8th of November (aka 8N), maybe going to Elizabeth Arden or coming back from Vidal Sasson, maybe going to buy something from Vivienne Westwood or Armani. Maybe they saw a small but noisy crowd in front of a closed and dark Argentina Embassy and wondered what was all that about. They might have even seen the news (we made it to several UK newspapers, as well as others from all over the world), and decided to come here (to this blog) because they thought I would explain what we were asking for.
But I have tried to explain a bit of our situation, (that is, Argentina’s situation), while it wasn’t even that bad, some months ago. However, my British listeners maintained that their politicians were as bad and corrupt as ours. No, they are not! I insisted. But maybe they couldn’t comprehend the shameful extent of the impunity and the shameless ostentation of monies coming from dubious sources (the actual president, Cristina Kirchner, when asked by Harvard students how could she justify the astronomic increase of her assets since reaching the power, she answered without batting an eyelid “I’m a successful lawyer”).
However, the 300 people defying London’s cold were demonstrating against the latest measures and campaigns taken by the Government that attacked the freedom of press.
(Freedom House’s annual Freedom of the Press index noted that during successive Kirchner administrations, Argentina has experienced a significant deterioration in media freedom conditions.)
That intent of controlling the information, added to the eagerness of reforming the Constitution to allow the president to be reelected again (she has already been reelected once, and that’s the maximum allowed at the moment), pointed to a campaign designed to perpetuate her power, in Venezuelan style.
So we gathered on front of the Embassy, to support our friends and families living in Argentina. And we did it on the same day that a massive demonstration took part over there, and in 39 other cities in the world.
So, after deciding at the very last minute that I would join the protest (encouraged, among other things by the arrogance showed by the government and their media to belittle and despise the previous demonstration), I breathed with some relief when I heard the noise some blocks before reaching my destiny.
After watching the video from Sydney, in which there were only a bunch of people demonstrating, I was worried about our own numbers. “Oh, well”, I had told myself on the tube. “If we are not that many, at least I could meet the organisers, that looked very pretty in their Facebook profiles”.
So we banged pots. That’s how we peacefully manifested our discontent. “The streets are ours”, had warned a pro-government group. “The pots have a different meaning”, someone told me, as if the places and ways of demonstrating had some form of copyright that we were infringing.
And it was a peaceful demonstration. All the adrenaline felt on my way there, all the protest songs that I hummed, the ones that I remembered from my younger years, that included things about burning down buildings or fighting the police, well, I had to keep those to myself.
Sometimes I clapped my hands, in part, as well, to fight the cold weather, until someone gave me a battered wooden spoon, and then I could bang the railings for a while. We sang the National Anthem, four times. No political flag was waved.
Towards the end, I realised that I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and for once I wished that that was a pro Government act, one of those in which they give food and drinks to the attendants.
And what about the police?
In the UK, demonstrations need to be approved by the police, and for that you need to fulfil some requirements (inform in advance about where and when it would be, etc). As we complied with all of them, the few policemen that were there just needed to keep us out from causing a traffic chaos, and look, in silence, or explain to some complaining neighbours that… well, I don’t know what they explained, because I was on the other side of the street.
But then… a girl dropped her wooden spoon, and it fell on the other side of our barricade! It fell on the street! A policeman, with his hands on his chest, underneath his vest, stopped the scarce traffic, and crossed the street. He grabbed the spoon. And he gave it back! With a smile!
OK, that was too much. It was not how I used to imagine the protests whenever someone mentioned some kind of act or march or demonstration. We sang the National Anthem for a last time, and we left peacefully, in small groups, almost in silence.
I was really glad that I took part of the act. I thought that I had done something, maybe just a tiny little bit, that would make the world a better place. I was no longer complaining with my arms folded, but doing my bit.
Maybe, I thought, that rebellious, justice-seeker character that I exhibited when I was a young student some time ago was not dead! Maybe I would be more politically active, denouncing the things that are not right, while trying to change them!
I surprise myself smiling, while I had stopped at a supermarket before taking the tube back home. I realised, while searching for some discounted food for supper (as I had missed a day’s work, which would tight even more my already tighten budget), that I still had the battered spoon in my hand. Maybe that was the postcard that defined and nobody will ever see about my 8N.
Miguel Mateos – Bulldog
Nunca leí un libro de sexo.
Nunca vendí marihuana.
Nunca disparé un arma de fuego. (oh, no)
Nunca estafé al Gobierno.
Yo nunca imaginé que esto
podía suceder:
estoy encadenado a un hueso
y ladro sin morder
como un pobre bulldog.
Bulldog.
No más bombas, no más bombas, no más bombas…
- Papá, estoy enamorado!
- Callate nene, no hablés estupideces!
Ya lo ves, que no ves, ya lo ves, que no ves,
cuando el mundo está parado
el que da vueltas soy yo.
-Mamá, tengo hambre.
-Hay sopa de pollo en la heladera.
-Odio la sopa de pollo.
-¡Comé esa sopa o llamo a la policía!
Ya lo ves, que no ves, ya lo ves, que no ves,
cuando el mundo está parado
el que da vueltas soy yo.
Yo, el que da vueltas soy yo.
siempre yo.
Yo y vos.
Y nunca imaginé que esto (oh no)
podía suceder,
estoy encadenado a un hueso, (oh no)
encadenado, encadenado, encadenado
y ladro, ladro sin morder
como un pobre bulldog.
Bulldog.
Yo nunca hice nada
yo nunca hice nada
yo nunca hice nada
y tengo cara de bulldog.
Miguel Mateos – Bulldog
I’ve never read a sex book.
I’ve never sold marijuana.
I’ve never shot a gun. (oh, no)
I’ve never cheated the Government.
I’ve never imagined that this
could ever happen:
I’m shackled to a bone
and I bark, but I don’t bite
as a poor bulldog.
Bulldog.
No more bombs, no more bombs, no more bombs…
- Dad, I’m in love
- Shut up kid, do not talk nonsense!
You see: you do not see; you see: you do not see,
when the world is standing still
I am the one who turns around.
- Mum, I have hungry.
- There is chicken soup in the fridge.
- I hate chicken soup!
- Eat that soup or I’ll call the police!
You see: you do not see, you see: you do not see,
when the world is standing still
I am the one who turns around.
Me, I am the one that turns around.
It’s always me.
Me and you.
And I’ve never imagined that this (oh no)
could ever happen,
I’m shackled to a bone (oh no)
(chained, shackled, chained)
and I bark, bark without biting
as a poor bulldog.
Bulldog.
I’ve never done anything
I’ve never done anything
I’ve never done anything
and I have bulldog face.
Desde que se propuso la manifestación, “para apoyar a nuestras familias que siguen en Argentina”, tuve muchas dudas sobre si asistir o no.
Me fui de Argentina hace 11 años, no voto desde ese entonces, y casi no seguí las noticias de allá. Por supuesto, me preocupan mas las políticas locales, que me afectan directa y diariamente.
Cuando conocí a uno de mis últimos clientes (CEO de una agencia de marketing), él me preguntó como estaba Argentina. “Depende a quien se le pregunte”, contesté.
Acá en Inglaterra, las noticias sobre Argentina se refieren principalmente a dos temas: la selección (cada cuatro años cuando se juega un mundial), y las Malvinas, cuando se cumple algún aniversario, o se realiza alguna protesta.
Desde que la idea se publicó en Arenin (Argentinos en Inglaterra), se despertó una cierta polémica. Nunca hables de religión o de política en una fiesta, me advirtió mi mamá muchas veces. Y tenía razón.
Comprobé, a mi pesar, que la gente esta muy dividida (hasta hay quien me borró y bloqueó en Facebook!). Tal vez esté en nuestra sangre, pero todo es tan pasional. Y lo que los extranjeros admiran en las tribunas de fútbol, se trasladó a todos los ámbitos de la vida. No sólo es River contra Boca, sino también Los Redonditos de Ricota contra Soda Stereo, la popular contra la platea, el gobierno contra…
Y yo no soy ni de River ni de Boca, fui a ver a los Redondos y a Soda, y en aquella época era posible ser amigo que gente que pensara distinto o alentara a otro equipo (a lo sumo, si se hacia el canchero y venia a jugar usando esa camiseta, seguramente ligaría alguna patada demás, pero terminaba el partido y nos íbamos juntos a tomar algo).
Cuando se propuso la protesta, pregunte en mi página de Facebook y a través de email si los que vivían allá estaban de acuerdo con ella o no, y sus motivos. Recibí algunas respuestas moderadas, otras detalladas, y algunas pocas radicalizadas. Curiosamente, estas últimas se oponían a la manifestación.
Yo no sabía si asistir o no. Por eso casi no participe en la organización. Solo les pasé los requisitos que la policía solicita para organizar una manifestación pública, y el link.
Y no sabía si iría porque, como dije, hace tiempo que no vivo allá, mi familia es de clase media y es afectada como el resto de los argentinos de clase media, por la inflación, la falta de seguridad, y ahora las trabas a la adquisición de dólares (vinieron a visitarme y a ver a su nieta el pasado Septiembre; ahora no sé si podrán venir otra vez).
Por otro lado, mi familia y yo nunca coincidimos mucho en nuestro pensamiento político. Vamos a decirlo de una vez: yo siempre apoyé al mismo partido: la oposición.
Sucede que he vivido desencantado de la política, y especialmente de los políticos y los partidos, desde mi primer voto, cuando cumplí los 18 años. Siempre creí en la utopía de un mundo mas justo, donde se respetara la libertad de pensamiento, se viviera libremente y sin miedo, en un sistema que no beneficiara siempre a los poderosos y ricos, sino que diera oportunidades a todos. Por eso me opuse a muchas medidas de otros gobiernos anteriores, por eso me opongo a este gobierno Tory, pero ese es tema para otra conversación.
Entonces, cuando se propuso la protesta, yo tenía mis dudas sobre si asistir o no. Después de todo, parecía que se había progresado hacia una cierta igualdad social. Entonces, confieso que me alegre cuando en la universidad me asignaron una clase los jueves a la noche: ya no tenia que decidir!
Pero entonces hice algo que quizás no debería haber hecho: empecé a buscar noticias de Argentina. Empecé a preguntar a los recién llegados, a mi familia, y cada vez que hablaba con mi mama notaba como se indignaba como nunca, por la corrupción, la impunidad, el control que el gobierno quería imponer a la gente (¿por qué la tarjeta SUBE solo se puede comprar presentando el documento, mientras que la Oyster se compra acá en cualquier kiosco? Bueno, explicaría algún suspicaz, mediante el chip, se puede saber exactamente las rutas, recargas y horarios de cada viaje de cada persona, con nombre y apellido, como lo demostró Anonymous cuando hackeó la base de datos y la publicó en internet).
“La semana pasada asaltaron el banco de acá a dos cuadras”, me contaba mi papa cuando todavía me contaba alguna noticia policial. Y robaron a una amiga de mi hermana, y a un vecino le paso tal otra cosa… ya no eran cosas lejanas, ni cosas que pasaban en los barrios caros, sino que todo se sentía cada vez mas cerca.
“Siempre hubo inseguridad”, me dirán. “Siempre hubo inflación”. “Siempre hubo corrupción”. Pero ahora, por alguna extraña razón, el gobierno dice que eso no es así, que son inventos de los medios. Que no hay inseguridad, que está todo bien, que no hay cepo al dólar, que todos los que critican están propiciando un golpe militar. River contra Boca, el gobierno contra todos lo que lo critican.
Leo cosas y siento indignación. Tal vez soy yo, que con tanto tiempo por fuera del país, me desacostumbré de esas cosas, y el robo, la corrupción descarada, la falta de justicia y la impunidad ahora me parecen barbaridades en lugar de cosas “normales”.
Y mientras mi ex cliente insistía en que los políticos ingleses eran igual de malos que los argentinos, traté de explicarle el caso de la ex Ciccone, pero no pude hacerme entender, o quizás él no podía aceptar que sucediera una cosa así, y que Amado Boudou siguiera en su cargo de vicepresidente, con total apoyo del oficialismo.
Ni siquiera mencioné las diversas sospechas de enriquecimiento ilícito (sin ir nada lejos de la cúpula del poder ni en el tiempo, la presidente, su familia y el actual vice.
Y algunos dicen que no se puede comparar con el nazismo ni con las dictaduras porque no mataron a nadie (digamos que no lo hicieron directamente. Que el accidente de Once que dejó 51 muertos y centenares de heridos haya sido consecuencia de “una trilogía siniestra de empresarios, funcionarios y sindicalistas”, como dijo el Juez Ernesto Bonadio en su fallo, es sólo una muestra de que la avaricia, la irresponsabilidad de los funcionarios y la corrupción también mata).
Y ahora, además, se siente miedo. Gente en Arenin no quería hablar con medios argentinos para cuidar a sus familias. Porque últimamente, cuando alguien criticó al gobierno, apareció la AFIP (Administración Federal de Ingresos Públicos) con una investigación y una acusación. Pero, ¿está bien que una presidente denuncie públicamente a un empresario porque éste habló de la baja de las ventas?
“No tenía miedo desde la época de Isabel”, dijo Eliseo Subiela cuando sufrió el mismo acoso luego de que el cineasta se quejara en un programa de radio de que la AFIP no lo autorizó a comprar dólares para viajar a un festival de cine en Lima, Perú, organizado por la misma cancillería. A propósito, la denuncia del ente oficial fue desestimada por la Justicia.
Y llegó el 8N. Y hubiese sido tan fácil para mí quedarme en la Universidad y asistir a mis alumnos. O ir con mi hija al festival de fuegos artificiales que se hacía en su colegio. O ir al concierto de Martha Tilston, a quien he querido ver en vivo desde que escuché una de sus canciones por la radio por primera vez, hace más de dos años. “Estamos en Inglaterra, no tenemos nada que hacer ahí”, me dijo un amigo, y tal vez tenia razón. Mantenerme en la pagina para ayudar con información, y enterarme de eventos: conocí gente con buena onda durante los juegos olímpicos, la pase muy bien en la última fiesta, ¿para qué meterse en política?
Aun así, le escribí a mi hermana para preguntarle sus razones para apoyar (o no) la protesta. “No sé si voy a ir, tengo mucho trabajo, así que tampoco tengo tiempo de elaborarte mis razones”, me contestó.
Protesta frente a la embajada argentina en Londres
Entonces me dedique a mirar videos. De los que estaban a favor, y los que estaban en contra. Y entonces decidí ir. Porque quiero un cambio. Cristina Kirchner fue elegida presidente democráticamente, que es como debería elegirse a cada presidente. Pero lo peligroso del poder por tanto tiempo es que crea adicción, sentido de impunidad, de que se puede hacer lo que se quiere, y no importa lo que los demás piensen.
En el 2001, cuando la gente salió con las cacerolas por primera vez, se esperaba un gesto del entonces presidente Fernando de la Rua. Y esa noche, por cadena nacional, en lugar de remplazar al ministro de economía, lo ratifico, y dijo más o menos que todo tenía que seguir igual. Ya sabemos lo que paso después: cacerolazos, saqueos, 19 muertos, cinco presidentes en dos semanas… Por eso sería preocupante que Kirchner tuviese la misma postura.
Que se vaya? No, que escuche. Porque no todo esta tan bien como ella y los que la rodean quieren hacernos creer. Porque no todos los que no son amigos tienen que ser enemigos. Para eso son las cacerolas, para que deje de mirar al costado, y los tres años que le quedan en la presidencia sean bien utilizados.
Yo estoy muy satisfecho por como se desarrolló la protesta en Londres: con ruido, con el himno, en paz y sin banderas partidarias. Subí un par de fotos a twitter y una a la página de Arenin, con una frase de Gandhi (“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” – Sé el cambio que quieras ver en el mundo). Y en seguida apareció alguien preguntando si tenía algún plan (con dos signos de interrogación), o si iba a seguir sentado esperando que alguien más hiciera el cambio por mí.
Sé el cambio que quieras ver en el mundo
Y en lugar de contestarle inmediatamente, como tenía ganas, y con lo que hubiese degenerado en una discusión inútil y que nunca me interesó, me puse a pensar.
Los carteles pedían diálogo, honestidad, no más corrupción, no más inseguridad. Y yo me considero una persona honesta, no soy corrupto, no genero inseguridad. Sí, me falta socializar más y hablar más, para generar un verdadero diálogo, pero estoy trabajando en eso.
¿Y el cambio? Ya sé que no soy un líder mundial que transformará el mundo. Pero desde mi lugar, trato de educar a mi hija para que sea mejor persona que yo. Trato de que mis alumnos entiendan, piensen y sean creativos. Y ahora empecé un nuevo trabajo de apoyo a alumnos discapacitados en otras universidades (por ahora tengo dos). No digo esto para que me aplaudan, ni para ganar elogios: nunca me gustó presumir de mis cosas, como lo saben mis amigos de Argentina.
Así que quizás sí he cambiado. Mi vida esta lejísimos de ser perfecta, o de acercarse a la felicidad, pero mientras que hace dos años no podía levantarme de la cama y hace un año no tenia donde vivir, hoy estoy tratando de cambiar, de ser mejor, y así mejorar el mundo, aunque sea un poquito.
Miguel Mateos – Patria ya no duermas
Se disfraza de eufemismos
se distrae con cualquier cosa
se emborracha cuando gana
y amanece un forastero en su cama
sueña con todo lo que le han quitado
para volverlo a tener…
Juega al poker con extraños
que la embaucan, le hacen daño
y deja puercas leyendas en los baños
indignada por su ingenuidad…
y hace gala de una historia
que esta siempre por empezar
sabe que si uno no llega a ser uno mismo
no le sirve a los demás…
Patria, ya no duermas
Patria, ya no duermas…
con tus hijos venideros
se escaparon las cigüeñas
y te buscan, te reclaman
para que los vuelvas a tener…
se hace caca en el río
y su sueño dura un siglo
ella sabe que en los sueños
no hay culpables, ni perdones
y sube uno a uno los escalones
de aquí a la eternidad…
y nos hiere con su beso
que nos llena de tristeza
pero elimina la torpeza
en el arte de amar…
Patria, ya no duermas
Patria, ya no duermas…
que tus hijos venideros
se han abiertos las venas
y están listas transfusiones
para que los vuelvas a tener…
y te buscan, te reclaman
para que nos vuelvas a tener
Patria, ya no duermas…
Sean eternos los laureles
que supimos conseguir
que supimos conseguir
coronados de gloria vivamos
o juremos con gloria morir
o juremos con gloria morir
For a long time, the only thing that I celebrated on 31st October was my parents’ wedding anniversary. When they got married, only a few months had passed since the man had landed on the moon (allegedly). And in Argentina, there was no such thing as Halloween, or Noche de Brujas (Witches’ Night), as it has been translated over there.
For that date, I stayed awake till the very small hours of the day (or is it the night? You see, In Spanish, we do have a word for that time that goes from midnight to dawn: “madrugada”), so I could ring them and congratulate them for their 43rd anniversary. I thought that I should wait until they would come back from having a nice dinner out, as they have usually done for so long. My parents have always enjoyed a good meal, and once they even insisted for my sister and me to cancel our own plans and go with them to some expensive restaurant in Recoleta.
So I rang them, and, to my surprise, they didn’t hold any celebrations this year! “After so many years, it is kind of a nuisance”, justified my mother. Yes, she have always had a lot of trouble while looking for a present for my father: she used to drag me to the shops, stare to the windows, ask me for any ideas, and always complain about how difficult it was to get something for someone who already had everything he needed.
But still, that have never stopped them before. Later in our conversation, she complained about the “new” festival. “I don’t want to celebrate my anniversary on a Halloween night”, she moaned.
Call it globalization, commercial opportunity, or an excuse for celebration, the truth is that there was nothing like that in South America when I was a kid. My first Halloween abroad, some ten years ago, was in Bogotá Colombia, and I saw all the kids dressed up, and the pumpkins, and I really hated it. It looked so foreign, so artificially implanted, that I decided to stay inside and hope that no trick-or-treaters would knock at the door.
This time around, other memories were trigged by this date: that of a year ago, just days after the incident, when I spent Saturday evening travelling with my suitcase from Central London to Acton, from one hotel to another, while a lot of people dressed in costumes were heading in the opposite direction.
Maybe for that reason, or because I was going to meet with some new people, some others that I have seen quite a lot (for my standards) since the last Olympic Games, and with some elusive others that I haven’t seen enough, I decided to attend this year’s Arenin’s Halloween Party.
Even as I have got used to the celebration now (and here, in the UK), it was still a fancy dress party! I haven’t wore a costume since primary school, and I had always felt uncomfortable in situations like those.
me, in full make up custom for the Halloween party
This time around, however I didn’t care what other people might think, and my only worry was what was I was going to wear. Maybe it’s due to me finally growing up. Maybe it’s due to my not yet fully conquered independence. But with the determination of going, all dressed up, and not just wearing a mask bought only for the occasion, I bought some face paint (maybe a bit too much), I looked at some pictures in tumblr, and made up my mind: as that would be my first time with make up and a brush, I went for something not that complicated. So, armed with an eye-liner, some black and white paint, a picture taken from google and a small mirror, I applied the make up. The result was a skull. And for the compliments that I received and the people that asked to take a picture of me, it was a good, scary skull indeed.
It’s time for me to assume my creativity, I thought with some pride. Pictures from other made up skulls from people that proclaimed to be artists almost pressed hard enough to leave aside this modesty that had handicapped me for so long.
But still, and surely inspired by my new look, I exaggerated my mimics of a very disturbing song from Dave Matthews Band called Halloween. At least, disturbing for me: people say that it’s about a lover that left him. I still think it’s about a serial killer. And of course, not as disturbing as hearing my five-year-old Cinderella going through the chorus while getting ready for her own party a few days later.
And on my way to the party, I wrote the draft of a poem. That night I could finally be a baddie. Not just the guy that understands everyone and everything. So, vaguely inspired on that song, and on another girl that I once met, I was putting pen to paper while smiling to people on the tube.
Later that night, such girl said hello to me at the party, and I couldn’t come up with more than an awkward reply, as I had convinced myself that I would never see her again. Besides, I have just buried her on my way there!
Dave Matthews Band – Halloween
Hey little dreamer’s eyes open and staring up at me
Oh little lonely eyes open and radiant
Wait until I come and I will steal you
Wait until I come I’ll take your soul
Wait until I come and I will steal you
Wait until I come and I won’t go
Darlin’ dreamin in the night
Shadows on the windows
Lead oh and everyone go
Well leave me on the night
I will give you lightning
I will not relinquish light
Oh little dreamer eyes open and raving here
Wait until I come and see you little girl
When we come I’ll leave with you too
When we come I’ll let you come low
Hey we’ll leave it all behind
Oh and then the nightmares
I’ll fill them in good time
Oh they will seat your mind
When the light hits
And you maybe’ll ask me
Why do you run around here
Why do you come inside of me
Why does it rip me out in dream
Why then why then watch this little fuck
Going away
Why this lonely
Why this lonely
Why this lonely love
Why this lonely
Why this lonely
Why this lonely love
Halloween
Carry on
Bury all
Bury all
Bury all
Bury all
Bury all
And in this dream
Tell us are you satisfied with fucking
Don’t walk away
Don’t walk away
Don’t walk away
I’m talking to you
Love is hell
Love is hell
Love is hell
Love this I’ll tame you
