SEE .:Plans: Part I:.

It's all black. The walls, the clothes, the tears. The DJ arrives and he does not know what to expect. At this particular venue he has not even started and they are already crying.

As the morning passes by, the people arrives to the place, almost everyone are youngs and mates of old times. The music covers everything with a Long Black Veil, as Cash liked. I also liked it that way. Nobody is surprised, they all knew this was about to come, but when, it's hard to say. As I prevously said the music enhances the people to melancholy, and all they know that music is embracing the last of their bones. And then, in the middle of a silence, they realize this is not a party. Its a funeral.

They are all dressed in black. Somebody opens a red wine meanwhile the DJ spins a Joy Division set and there is a flavour of the wine, floating in the air, scentlessly, but they all know it's there. It's blowing their minds. The funeral, Ian, the wine, it's all too fast. The ground crumbled once and no more. Somewhere at the campus, a girl is crying in secret, because in secret tombs lies the secret loves.

They all tried at the church not to burst in tears. The last note clearly explained the details, NO church, the DJ, the friends, my ashes future location, everything.
Anyway, they arrived to my house expecting to see me, and I saw them with pale faces ( obviously not as much as mine), and my explanation to this is only that the spining of old records catches feelings of the most hard past. They all know this and I knew it well when I told my mom about how not to lost in confussion listening to a jazz session.

The last time we were all together was at the graduation, they were all dressed as if all the hall was about to get married, and in a way we all did, we married to our Fates, our Hopes and most important, we married with the loneliness of the rest of the life. Alone, alone so alone. These lines crawled my brain weeks and weeks until the night arrived. The tears were bitter that night. They all heard my speech, they all liked it. I wrote something to be remembered and this time I would have read it unless the disadvantage of the incapacity of action. The same disadvantage that invaded young Hamlet ran away from Denmark and flooded me with it's black, bitter, windy and dry humour. That night, the DJ spun the eight minute lenght version of "Einstein on the Beach - Knee 5" and everybody wanted so desperately to hear my last speech that they all cried in silence. And as the song ended I cried too (though I still don't know how, my unmoveable body it's a mistery).They all knew it was real, too real to be fictional realism. A reality participating other fictions.

All the assistants, or at least most of them, shared too hard touching experiences. Trips, lovestories, beds, and other events of their lives too hard to ignore. These bound them and leaded al them to an authentical honesty and they were all open. When somebody smiled, they all liked it, if somebody plied to the heavens, they all respected it. They all knew ech other too well and inside the group was nor corrupted feelings, neither lies. Any single trace of heart dishonesty. A glassy grieved congregation crying that one of them, one of the Spiders form Mars, fell too hard to the Earth, too hard to get up again.




TO BE CONTINUED. . .