Friday 30 October 2009

The King of Pop

Halloween '09, SENIORS.

Michael Jackson Tribute

(Video shall be uploaded soon.)

Saturday 24 October 2009

Guardian Angels

Bell rings, he dumps his books atop his locker and runs to fetch his lunchbox. A long day, tiring stretches of class after class after class and only a few faces to talk to and trust. He has to sprint to the doctor now, on the other side of the city. He plugs his headphones in, and walks downhill to the tram. Today's weather is nice, cool but sunny. Yesterday it had been downpouring, and he had eaten candy with his sister in the rain. The colours would melt onto their hands and faces, unintentionally tie-dyeing their clothes.
After a long tram ride, he hops off and takes the bus. Then, after a long bus ride, he walks several streets. The hospital is near his house, and he's been to it several times, but he never manages to find it. He ends up somewhere on Floridablanca and now he knows he's too far. A few metres ahead he sees a woman strolling with a Down's Syndrome teen. He walks behind them, and knows he has to ask somebody where Calle Manso is. He accelerates, and when he stops to talk to them he realises they were speaking in English. So he asks:
"Sorry, do you guys know the way to, uhm, Calle Manso?"
The mother responds, "Oh! Well, we're going that way, we can take you. Are you going to the hospital?" A conversation starts. The guy asks "Mom, is he a friend?" His mom responds that he's just an acquaintance, possibly to spare him the embarassment. The boy asks "But what's his name?" His mom tells him to ask him himself, and he does. "Felipe", he responds. "Felipe... Hi, my name's Scott."
Once we got to the hospital I thanked them, and said bye to Scott. I wanted to ask for their phone number, or give them mine, but I was embarassed. Was it right to do so, or would it make me look like a stalker? I don't know, but I didn't, and I honestly regret it. Things like this make me wonder if, on the most unsuspecting of days, there are people up there who lay everything out for you, but leave you to take care of what they have laid out. Many a time things have worked way too perfectly on the strangest of days, those days where you're about to lose hope and don't really expect anything great to happen but embrace them for their normality. I do regret not giving them a phone number, taking Scott out to the movies one day, becoming friends. I do regret it, and if I could go back I would skip out on social conventions and take the risk. I'm hoping that, on another day like yesterday, the stars will align and another small miracle will occur, somewhere.

Sunday 18 October 2009

Abismo

Today, I write in Spanish.

Urgencias. Uno entra, imaginandose una larga espera, pero es atendido en cuestion de minutos (es domingo, es temprano, no hay otra explicación). Recibe una pulsera con sus datos, las puntas del adhesivo se le agarran a la piel, sigue las lineas amarillas en el suelo y toma un ascensor negro, subiendo hasta el cuarto piso del abismo para encontrarse en
Traumatología/Otorrinolaringología. Después de hablar con la secretaria, desemboca en otra sala de espera. Las paredes son de baldosas de un marrón feo hasta la mitad, donde sigue con la pared pintada del blanco tradicional, típico de edificios de principios de siglo. Las ventanas son de un vidrio opaco, otorgandole al hospital un aspecto lúgubre poco apropiado para un sitio a donde la gente se viene a curar.
Hay diez sillas, aproximadamente, y en aproximadamente cada una de ellas se encuentran (aproximadamente) diez personas. Lo primero que uno ve son los ojos rojos de un paquistaní que se sujeta la mano fuertemente con un pañuelo. Las tres ancianas del grupo son las más charlatanas, y se dedican a conversar con una joven sentada a un ángulo de noventa grados de ellas que va con el novio. Hay un par de personas más, y estamos yo y mi padre, de pie. Se reconocen los doctores de urgencias, que vuelan por el hospital con sillas y tumbonas que teleportan pacientes ensangrentados y heridos. Pasa uno con el pie enyesado y con una uña bastante decrépita.
El paquistaní (en Barcelona cualquier persona de piel oscura y acento extraño es paquistaní, y dueño de una tienda) está llorando. Intenta explicar algo entre sollozos: aparentemente, se cortó el dedo.
Uf, piensa uno.
-No, no, pero no solo se cortó el dedo...
Dice la vieja sentada a su izquierda. La joven pregunta si se trajo el pedazo de dedo.
El paquistaní explica que estaba con una maquina de embutidos, y que se lo cortó hasta la mitad de la uña.
Traduce la vieja de la izquierda:
-Es que el dedo quedó triturado, no quedó pedazo. Por eso duele más.

Dicen mi nombre, y después de echarme bronca porque lo mío no es urgencia (concuerdo, y culpo a mis padres por haberme llevado-- mi madre insistió después que igualmente una infección me podía perforar el oído) me dicen que vuelva a la sala de espera, porque el doctor tardará ("Y más aún por lo tuyo", me dice la enfermera).
Ahora solo habla la anciana alfa (la que una vez estuvo al lado del paquistaní- él ya no está más, y ha habido un reagrupamiento de asientos, todas las viejas se sientan juntas). Su marido se rompió el pie y se hirió la cabeza porque no quería soltar un vaso cuando se cayó por las escaleras. Ahí caí en que era el de la uña chunga. Anteriormente, la doctora le había estado retando. "Otra vez el vaso? Mejor que se rompa el vaso antes de que se le rompa la cabeza", decía.
La esposa de este hombre también había dicho nosequé sobre algo 'metastasisando', y honestamente espero por lo menos que no hablara de su esposo, justo era lo que le faltaba. Ella había perdido sueño por todo esto la noche pasada.
Ahora llaman a que pase el novio de la joven. A él se le había caido una lampara en la cabeza. Estaba mareado. Eso, en realidad, es peligroso, ya que se le podría formar un hematoma, y este le podría bloquear la sangre a alguna parte del cerebro, causando un derrame. "A mi amiga le pasó", dice una vieja secundaria. "¿Ha sangrado? Mejor que sangre," dice otra.
Han traido, en silla de ruedas, a un hombre que había visto en urgencias. Este se había caido de una bicicleta, era uno de los pacientes softcore, como yo. La verdad es que los pacientes de este hospital tenían todos algo que contar, pero sus historias no me daban pena, ni miedo o asco, sino ganas de escuchar más. Lo que sí impresionaba eran las baldosas aquellas marrones, y la luz turbadora que impregnaba al lugar, que parecía oscurecer más que iluminar.
Pasa una vieja en camilla con una venda ensangrentada en la frente, flotando con uno de los doctores que vuelan por el hospital. Le señalo la hora a mi padre, nos tenemos que ir. Cancelamos el turno y bajamos por unas escaleras metalicas, oscuras, rodeadas de baldosas marrones...

Wednesday 14 October 2009

Just as phoney as it could be...




"I don't want realism. I'll tell you what I want. Magic!... Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misinterpret things to them. I don't tell truth, I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it! "


-Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire





Wednesday 7 October 2009

Marilyn Monroe

Okay, so the days are now much better than Sunday - Monday (haha okay, I see my depression period was short). Well, today I just have one question. Seeing as how popular my last entries were--0 comments, thank you-- I would like some responses... Well, you do know my obsession with golden age movie stars. Sorry for the cliché topic and person.

Now, do you think
It would be worth it
To give up your name, your hair, your eyes, your face, just erase yourself, to go from Norma Jeane to Marilyn Monroe?


I haven't thought about this in a long time (seeing as my obsession with becoming a legend is mostly smothered by now), but I don't know. You would live a damned life, but it would be beautiful. And who cares about how you feel, you don't live forever! But the memory of you does, and that would be one of perfection. Yet again, people wouldn't remember you, they'd just remember that image (although that will happen even with your true persona, but the image you're remembered by each person will be more like your true self).

Ah, the beautiful and the damned.

Monday 5 October 2009

Made a mistake in my life today
everything I love gets lost in drawers.
I want to start over, I want to be winning,
way out of sync from the beginning...

Oh, I just did so bad in calculus, leaving half an exam blank, and not quite getting nice results in anything else. I'm so stressed... and confuseed (dazed and confused).

And not only because of academics.

(I do apologise for the moodiness of late posts, many of you know why it is. If you don't, tough love. Oh, and my summer pictures are developed, but I cannot scan them. I'm really looking forward to doing so, though).

I wanna hurry home to you,
put on a slow, dumb show for you,
and crack you up.
So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain,
God I’m very, very frightening
I’ll overdo it...
-The National, Slow Show



Sunday 4 October 2009

What's this I hear?


Distance makes the heart grow weak.
No, no shapes at all,
Nothing real or artificial,
No energy or heat,
No troughs, there are no peaks...
-Empire of the Sun, Without You