Cutting Gordian Knots | First, not last.

He just returned from the obligatory military service when his mother died of loungue cancer and cardiac attack. He was 20, and he never wrote a single letter to my mother in the two years he was away destined in southern Spain and the Canary Islands. I have heard many times, since child, his drunken stories about his adventures with portuarian whores and all the cruel pranks he was doing to the comrades he didn’t like. He also discovered a great passion while serving the franquist transitionist government which he hated; photography. As some kind of intelligence undercover agent, he was assigned to take images and register the ships entering and departing the Island. He did not enjoyed reading since being a teenager, neither liked military history, so he didn’t know about Garbo in the 2nd World War.

He was an ignorant rogue, a proud ignotant; a coward, a thief, a joker, a punk, a despote, and a bad kaótic agent; an unconscious Abuser of Freedom. One of those persons that chooses not to accept and embrace their own hate so they become voluntarilly unaware of their own feelings, but also willingly blind, unconscious about the impact and consecuences of their hatred transmisions and generations. One of those human beings which, even having developed a great suprasensorial perception, voluntarily tries to supress it under the iron fist of a sick and damaged process of reason. A father that tried to teach and legate the best without giving even closely proper example. Like a healer trying to heal the Flue s(he) also carries and spreads. As someone limbed trying to help walking someone with are feeling pain themselves.

A Bad Choice. A mistake. Generation of Kaos.

Neurodegeneration.

His father died two years later. The family was broken apart. They came from the banks of the Ebro river, focus of the main battles of the Civil War, where entire civil, non-combatant families were executed and the historical records kept in their towns were burned ‘til ashes, destroying their heritages, memories and dynasties. My great grandfather, a forestal ranger and path-worker payed by the 2nd Repúblic was assasinated while trying to help a communist family to flee towards the Pirenées and the Rolán pass. A generous and kind family, setteled in a small town near another river, el Llobregat, in Catalonia, brought peace to their minds, among many others forced to flee from home. Although settled delicously coincident and ironically, in ‘La Plaça de la Pau’ or Peace Square they transmited a silenced but intense hate for those recognized by them as fascists, which were the army and the paramilitary.

My father started a process of psiquiatric recovery that was abandoned after a month, never taking it back. He instead took the way of the ‘Movida’; drugs, sex and rock and roll. All the drugs he could take, buy or steal. He never wanted to read ‘Más Platón y menos Prozac’, as Plato was taught by catholics whom he witnessed and experienced their abuse and those whom he recognized as fascist ene mies. Never was interested in a Story written by the winners of his losses. He felt an enormous void, never wanting to truly cut the Gordian knot, figthing, defeating and embracing his deamons (or dáimons) as loved ones. unable to focus in any other thing than basic arithmetics, games, phothography and to listen, but not to investigate or create any kind of music or any kind of art, other than familiar photography. He always had a weird love for free speach and a strange but sometimes clever and refreshing humor. I remember him telling, quite a bit drastically, to my sister and me, being 5 and 6 years old, while we were at the small, dirty, noisy local amusements and festivities:

“–You know what, son number 1, daughter number 2? I know it is a hard truth, but you both were, what I call, beloved mistakes. Your mother and I never intented to have children. It is true, but you both, marvelous accidents, were so strong that broke the DIU’s and condoms, in that order, that we couldn’t denny the Will of Nature. You’re both my most Beloved Surprises, and I will always want to take images of you, but I have learned to control myself. You know Papa never wants to take pictures of his own. I feel like I am stealing my own soul … You know, like the Far West movies! Be aware, my son, my daugher, pictures steal souls. Éia Ella, Éia Ella, Éia Ella, Ella, Él! –kept singing in a gutural voice while dancing like a lunatic, smiling just with his lips.”

In that moment, I felt transported, carried away, like I felt I was connected to the often kaótic emotional psikhé of my father, and it was in a delicious, peaceful, purely state of mind. I saw the intuitive way my father was, as his grandfather, to build ways and clear forests. A moment were pure beauty and the horrible, magnificient truth kept the balance in the bridge between the positive and negative balance of an inspired state. In that moment, I understood my father was a making a net through unity of emotion, mind and body, like the old tales of the ancient taoist chinese poets. That day I understood my father, normally unable to see or tolerate the personal, material and corrupt order ruling the World, he had a natural sense to percieve beauty in anywhere, except himself. I remember I felt admiration and pitty for him maybe fot the first time. I felt united to him by Love

The next day he taught me to kill.

I broke his heart the day I also started smoking.

He still wonders why.

Methástasis.

(Manchadas la mano

de sangre, lágrimas y tinta;

el Odio Pinta)

Rubért.

Journal III

The World Is Alive
Not a tool.
This piece just loves itself
Sane ego, Eros in agony.
No Song for now.

Alma Mater


1st of July

“When the path ignites a soul, there’s no remaining in place.
The foot touches the ground, but not for long.” —Hakim Sanai

A cycle has ended, and we’re headed to times of uncertainty. For some, it means fear; for others, renewal. I am well aware that no words I can say will do any justice to anybody’s feelings, but just like other people successfully do, I’d like to soothe my friends with a spark of hope. We’re told that, somehow, we’ll make it alright. Those are the probabilities, they say; but everybody fears the underprivileged, smaller side of statistics. In the end, who knows? My own position appears paradoxical, and not the best to offer any relief. While I usually feel indecisive over little things, I also tend to be ruthless when in comes to life-changing decisions. An unclear path pulls me to the edge and…

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