TELL ...::'em all !::...

Siempre me preguntan porque me fascina esta banda. Será que en días como hoy en que llego cansado a casa, con ganas de tatuarme alas para poder volar de dolor, veo las cosas en la Atmosphere que Ian Curtis veía. Un chico que creció en Macclesfield, nisiquiera Manchester y cuya motivación más conmovedora resultó ser ver a los Sex Pistols. Eventualmente se presentó como cantante y letrista a Bernard Sumner; Ian amaba leer a Kafka, escuchar a Bowie, Bolan y ver cine de Herzog.

Ya no partimos de buscar un accionar digno de ser ejemplo universal. Justo ahora llego a mi casa y me recibe un suave lecho de problemas; la génesis del hombre moderno, parte del alma que se disgrega, de la ventana del pesero desde donde se aprecia como suben las reses al matadero, Ah, Chingá! ¡Yo también me subí! No hay culpa, sólo polvo del trabajo, vapores tóxicos. En qué momento las estrellas dejaron de verse sobre este vidrio empañado, sobre el reflejo del café más bien frío. Hoy doble momento para apreciar. Así es, función doble de la poética, cada quien su Atmosphere. . . Todo ese lugar común para decir sólo que:

El hombre solitario posee directamente los mundos que sueña.

Gaston Bachelard, Poética de la Ensoñación

LISTENING ...::Absentism::...

It's something I have always had. I'm not the type of man who likes to consume alcohol. I don't likedrugs either, it's like a condition I've never understood. It was late and they brought a bottle of absinth; I knew it could be different this time, but it was more than a lack of feelings for the alcohol than the intuition of something ominous. Hope brought the spoons and the sugar, he knew how to prepare the drinks. "First, you must have a shot of it, in order to understand the different tastes. . .

And so we did. I felt it like anesthetic or something from a hospital, the sweet gustation resulted familiar to me like a recovery therapy, serum could have replaced it. After that, the meeting started with the preparation of the spirits. They took a beautiful red jar; my friend took the absinth and poured it, the light deviations of the green liquid smashed within the red walls of glass of the jar making some color that I could have swear was turning to sound. Then, once the jar was half filled, we put some sugar in the spoon and and set it on fire with a few drops of the absinth. Then we took some ice and water and filled some glasses. It was almost ready. The last detail was the spoonful of sugar that later would be the most sublime candy ever eaten.

We had a toast, we remembered good times. I remembered some red landscapes when I last glanced the jar before drinking. A dressing gown and some breasts, discreetly craving to get out. So I took a deep breathe and swallowed it. Immediatly I had a sip of cold, deliciously fresh water. It was like having the Alps refreshing my guts. For me the water was special, but it was because I hadn't had the chance of eating the remains of sugar in the bottom of the glass. The iced-water had cleared my mouth and tongue and the sugar fell to the desert. It was a wasteland with tongue surface and only the sugar brought the life back to it. I got sweetened by the drinking of absinth, and went absent after that. I don't know where did I left the bottle, nor the glasses as a matter of fact. In fact, I don't remember where I left my friends and body. The last thing I saw, was some part of the river Thames and my reflection had some wings upon it.