Sunday, 25 October 2009

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

Dagje Amsterdam (un día en Amsterdam)

Si te cuento, que hoy en las apretadas calles de Amsterdam vi a un par de niños blancos como la leche, chocando puños con un agente policial oscuro como el café tostado, que les sonreía y les seguía el juego.

Que pasé por el parque de diversiones del Dam y vi a un puñado de chicos lanzado gritos de furor al balancearse en un remolino que casi tocaba el cielo.

Que vi a una joven posando frente al Sex Museum. Que al lado opuesto de la calle, unos padres juguetones fotografeaban sus pequeños, cuando se divertían subiéndose sobre las resbaladizas esculturas de coloridos elefantes hindúes.

Si te cuento que crucé a la parte norte, y navegando en el ferry me di cuenta que a pesar del invierno prematuro, el sol me calentaba y que sólo unas finas nubecillas se asomaban a ver el río y sus largos barcos desde lejos.

Si te cuento, que la mesera del lugar donde almorcé tenía el pelo canoso y largo (más allá de los hombros), adornado con flores de plástico y las muñecas rodeadas con aros dorados que sonaban como campanillas de monasterio.

Si te cuento, que en la estación central vi a una joven pareja. Sentada sobre sus piernas, ella le arropaba el cuello y él le tocaba su nariz con su nariz.

Si te cuento, que en el tren de partida, la adolescente frente a mi asiento me sonrió más de una vez, y volvió a sonreir cuando reemplacé mis oscuras gafas de sol por mi lentes de montura azul acqua.

Que a través de la puerta de cristal, en el vagón de primera clase vi al sesentón más guapo del mundo charlando con dos chicos que soñarían envejecer como él.

Que el paisaje plano y sereno me habló y me dijo que no podía ofrecerme montañas, pero que me regalaba el lento atardecer y el verdor de los pastos.

Si te cuento que ya era de noche al regreso y que la gente ya no sonreía. Que al desmontarme del tranvía un joven esbelto, con maletín y traje de oficina encendía un cigarrillo y caminaba fugazmente, como si no se diera cuenta que ya era hora de olvidar el trabajo y amar lo que le quedaba del día.

Si te cuento que al llegar a casa, a pesar de sentir la soledad y el frío abriéndome la puerta, me miré al espejo y le pregunté a mi reflejo con una amplia sonrisa: que sería de la vida sin un 'dagje Amsterdam' ?

También se quiebra (mi primera entrada en español)

Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cuando a falta de caricias
Tirito el invierno prematuro
Tentando a ciegas el molde
De tu cuerpo en mi lecho
De tus manos en mi sexo
De tu aliento empañando mi piel


Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cómo me vacías y me desnudas
Cómo me lanzas al hambre
Y me entregas a lo incierto
Tiernamente,
Como si me mimaras toda
Sin contarme de un final


Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Cuando le hablas a mi boca
Con destellos de besos
Y pétalos marchitos
Ajando mis voz, mi silencio
Mi dulzura por ti
Mis sueños contigo


Ya ves amor, lo que deshaces
Como ramas robustas
quebradas por tormentas de borracho aliento
Como preciosas piedras de cristal
cayendo a golpes sobre lo más duro
Como un corazón suave y puro
desgarrado a mordidas de rabia


A tu insólita partida, amor
Violentamente,
Sin reparos,
Mi amor por ti
también
se
quiebra



21.10.09

Wednesday, 14 October 2009

A moment, just a moment (or the frugalities of life)

When I am on the streets I am usually a hungry observer. In spite of the passers-by, the traffic and the rushed air, there is always that one moment where these busy surroundings seem to disappear in bliss. It is that second, that scene, that moment where something magic happens and captures me completely, almost in absolute slow motion. Those moments tend to touch me as well as feed my fantasy; and as the best photography, they are like images that we regret not having taken and only the story as we saw it, is there to tell.

This is a short recollection of those instants where I experienced the bliss, the magic, as I led myself be captured in a moment. These are loose episodes of ‘just a moment’ which is part of a greater story that I wish I could have followed for the rest of the day, sometimes seasoned with the imagination that this curiosity triggered then.


***********


Kind eyes meeting each other, smiling as they gaze, but no one dares to say ‘hello’.



A puppy barks at a MUCH bigger and confused dog.



A toddler blows a kiss to a complete stranger, who had just waved him a kiss. But the mother doesn’t look happy.



A beggar thanks and smiles after a penny.



Two teenagers, holding hands, point at a pair of sneakers on a window shop.



A fast-walking blind man smoothly clearing his way to the train as he waves his stick, and firms the leash of his dog.



Fresh white tall roses rest in a biological trash bin (I should have taken them).



The wind teases the sad feathers of a seagull lying dead on a liquid red spot.



A break-dance street show and a clapping boy on a wheelchair.



At the park, a grandmother with a child blowing soap bubbles as she obeys him and chases.



A silly joke and a toothless old man laughing widely, and people don’t know why he is laughing but they laugh because of him.



The flower seller offers red roses to a young man who buys a dozen on his way to the cemetery.



A couple fights on a corner and part ways, each of them head in different directions, only he turns his head, many times.



Two friends finding each other for the first time in ages: the giggling, the hug and the words ‘you look amazing!’



A gray haired couple waiting for the bus: he sits, she stands with her arm around his neck and talks whispering in his ear.



A very rude man curses at another man who, in change, without saying a thing, walks away, in each hand, tightly holding his wife’s and child’s.



The ice cream seller and a crying child pointing at his favourite frozen flavour melting on the pavement.



A shoplifter is being handcuffed and people slow down their pace but pretend they’re not looking.



On the bench where I kissed him for the first time, two young men cuddle.



The hallelujah singers preach the word of Jesus on shopping evening, in every two sentences, the word ‘hell’.



During three crazy days, the bright yellow bags with big black letters and people shopping in madness, as if buying stocks for their nuclear shelter from the Harrod’s of The Hague.



The Hari Krishna guy who told me to go a cash machine when said I had no money.



It’s been raining in late autumn and a young thing girl with punctures and scars in her bare arms sells her wet and last ‘homeless newspaper’ in front of a supermarket.



The street workers stop their noise to look at a woman but say nothing and with pleased smiles, they start drilling the pavement again.



The proud girl and her most-handsome boyfriend who turns around to look at a passer-by: a tall long-legged woman, in heels and a mini skirt.



A man that looks like my father but is not my father or a man that looks like my dead friend but it’s not him either. A woman that looks terribly like me, but it’s not me – and she smiles and I smile, as if both meaning “I know what you’re thinking”.



Oh well, what the hell does SHE really know I think? Who does SHE think she is? She only sees what she sees. I, instead, ‘photograph’ her story.