Moving Day

 Today's moving day... and lately it's been nightmare after nightmare. Barely sleeping and not at all happy, I tend to attach and almost imprison myself to the blurry memories of old. Memories that soon will entirely vanish, I think... for there's no more space in this life that I have to store them or the guts to bear them.

It's moving day but it's also an anniversary. A dream called "Music" once became my entire life, burning so deeply and hot that it made lava run through my veins. Had to juggle too many things at the same time to hide myself from a dangerous world or become dangerous... and did it all the same.

At this point, the world has finally forgotten me whole but the many scars and so little inspiration I left behind may not be healed but at least surpassed with the life that went on and on and on. Not for me and yes, at the same time.

The day that I cherished the most was both the dream and the start of the end. That's my anniversary. The highest of highs and the unraveling of so many changes that changed it all. Bone deep. And I remember it all: the smiles, the faces, the music flowing in the air with all the nutrients to keep you alive for a thousand years; the gasp, and the crying. A discourse that many never understood from me and tried to love against the odds, and the unfathomable passion to create and destroy, all the same.

Ten years have passed and for the first time in the last six of them, I dare to speak, to feel and think about it again. Not enough fuel in my heart would bring me to a time before the time, to the place I was there before it all happened again: the crowd, the bumping heart, the claps, the love... there's not enough fuel in my heart, anyway. And then, I remembered (ironically) the first and last thing. The first piece I ever learned, all those 20-something years ago... and the last thing I can still play without a score. "Linda (vals)". I know at least 3 people who will grunt but for all the hate the world used to hate me, none will ever surpass a thousand times more than I hated myself for every one of those.

I've lived 37 of your years on this planet someone so creatively called "Earth", yet for me, each day was a lifetime to survive. Now I lived and died every day in my mind and heart for millennia, endured the impossible, and was reborn again in the morning, sometimes. Other times I ended up dead for longer and still went out. None of the times my wish to die entirely was granted. And here I "am".

I don't know if I was able to call myself a musician before but I know I no longer am. If the future holds for me that word again, as well as many others that I kept in the deepest parts of my very essence, I don't know. I can only remember the waltz. The impossible was my every day and I seemed to make it happen with so many to thank for. And in the end, there's only a waltz to play and pray for that never leaves me, with my dearest, longest, and only companion, the one that I attached myself to when life happened, and loved me back when I never deserved it, my guitar.

¡Feliz Día del Músico!

Behind the mask

 You may never understand, acknowledge or empathize with who I am because of what's behind your mask.

For so many times I showed my real face to you with clear skies and the darkest clouds covering my eyes, in a silly attempt to connect with the wrong outlet.

I peaked behind your mask and saw what was in there and kept our life together going no matter the ugly or the hard or the beauty of it. Of who you are.

And loved you...

Difficult word, that is... love. You fantasize with a country without hunger or disease, war or death; with green pastures and joyful songs in every straight street or corner. Nothing but. You see the pastures but there's life ongoing and the ants and bees and butterflies bother skin and bones. 

And sometimes there's more... and rainbows only appear after the hurricane. The winds that lifted you in all the skips and hopes became that very storm you were afraid of. 

There's beauty in all of it... but you don't want the work from morn to dusk. The task is due but there's a new mask to wear for the day... and in the night there's a feast in all desires. 

But no talk of sadness that comes with love. Of loss and emptiness. Ergo, you were the very mask that prevents that happiness.

You won't know me or understand my words. Not until you remove the mask to see all the rainbows that you missed when I was pouring love as it was infinite.

Half-a-life

I apologize in advance because it is very well possible that you don't want to read me anymore, that you are tired enough to get to know me and what you know is tiresome and hurtful already, what else can be known? what "secrets" could be darker? how can I find more ways to "hurt you" in this stupid process of learning to "live together"? It has to be in English so I can get detached a little bit from what I'm about to tell you… you may think you know it but you were not prepared to know it yet to understand it and you may not be prepared now. You may need to understand it for history is repeating itself and I've tried to avoid it with all my strength for which I have none left while you played a key role to make it happen without knowing or willing to.

As you know, my parents split while I was very young. I was two. With that, for me, the child came across a lot of different things, frustrating and difficult to digest. Not even a skilled psychiatrist will know for sure or understand the consequences until it's too late because what you feel is unique, although it looks like any other thing in the world. How unique? The many a burden no one notices, unaware of your battles until you lose. You never win. The hurting smiles, the tiresome happy, and the constant questioning about life, its meaning, its importance… and what is love. It all hurts because your battle was not with the couple, the mom and the dad, and it wasn't even your battle. But now it is and you debate to understand the world with only half a heart, one leg, one arm, and one eye. You become a half-being wandering the streets. 

The rest of the world would not matter and there is no love so grand that suffice. There is so much struggle within and not enough good answers to make anything of that. Why are you happy? Why are you sad? Why are you not here? Why have you come? How little time we spend together and we need to meet again: to get to know the stranger, to accommodate, to listen to the blurry face talk in riddles, to dress the ugly with pearls… and try to make up a wound so hurting that bleeds every single day.

My father disappeared for so many years. For me it was decades but I think it was about 4 years. And I never got him back as he never had his son to raise. And it is not only bitterness or angriness or silliness as you may think. It's a burden, as I said before. You love the concept, the figure but it never fits. And I had other role models, of course… my mother had my sister's father for her but I still had no father and yet another blurry figure in the making. Then, you met another partial figure that I came to cherish a lot but it was still a half-father, half-nothing. Very early I had to rely on my grandfather also: a grand figure, far from any mortal. A sort of godly man so versed and skillful. Yet, another half figure in the unmixable mix of things to try to understand. 

But the worst was my own father when I tried to compare or fit or fix or entertain the idea of what a father is without knowing him and knowing all these other half-nothings, borrowed, like fake limbs attached to the ghost limb, not to the body. And learn to walk, then learn to love me. How can I love myself when half my life is missing? how can I fathom the idea of who am I with half the information? If I must fight all the time against that figure so essential to be recognized and loved and understood and cared for and visited, why is it not here to do those things and put the burden on my shoulders? That's only half the story.

You think, as you said, you've noticed some "things" in their behavior. As they are trying to be happy they are constantly angry with everything, even themselves. And they love with a love so magnificent that they will hurt you in many ways yet still be there to make you happy and let you try. That's only half the story but not even the tip of the iceberg for the real thing.

And my mother, she tried. Tried with all her heart to hide the disappointment, the hate. She became a warrior that "works it all", almighty and ever sapient. Silently resilient with a strong and happy life, so it seems, yet absent for the jobs taking its tolls. The caregivers, the extended family, the friends... more and more half figures that don't mix and never relate. Everybody gives their best for the happiness they think we needed yet are ignorant of what world was built inside.

The doubts, the yelling, the punches, and the solitude. All the darkness out in daylight, with hints that everybody knew but it's not for them to go to war with it, just to throw some silly tips and movements and very "wise" words to stood up and overcome it, to make a whole life out of nothing or half a nothing with some weak happiness, easily turned to stone.

But the father's side tries. On top of their absence, he puts money to be responsible and now he can't be hated. Instead of days, we put vacations in which we try to know each other but we don't like each other, really. We try to be friends but we are strangers. And when the father-son comes into the plate it is rejected. Why a craving for something becomes rejection? why if you try so hard, it starts to hurt more? What happens with all the love that is supposed to be there yet it vanishes at the moment of intention? The grunts, the wants to see, the discomfort… the food that I don't like or don't eat or can't, the feeling when you're hurt but there's not a known figure to reach to, the loneliness; the running hugs, the tears of joy, the kisses, the sleeping together, the learning and the valuable moments… the life that seems to be complete just for a moment and the second after is destroyed. Minute by minute repeating itself. Question after question trying to be answered without saying, without tackling the ugly truth, the tiredness, and then the yelling. The demands for answers, the wrong answers, the right and awful answers… there's never a good answer, an answer "enough" to make it all stop. Not even in denial. Not even making up a life so grand and far and precious that will overcome this feeling: half a life, well lived or not, it doesn't matter.

And it's equally terrifying from every side, but not for the side that never cares or never tries or is not aware of what is happening. Even today, in all of this understanding that my life has brought to my door, with all preparedness and extra knowledge, with my own kids too… there is not one second of my life where I can be not scared or crippled in fear and doubt and anger, that is not pain or sadness and solitude, an immense aching for love.

Bucket List

The typewriter starts to sound again. All its rustiness and dirt are being removed by the slow movement of thoughts that are trying to take the leap towards the paper, for the first time in years. Many have died, tragically, in the past few months and many others have been accumulating in this sort of cemetery that my brain has come to form around my whole existence, heavily guarded by the twins, loneliness and grim, in which all hopes are put on.

I’m running towards death…

In essence we all are. Some try to escape it, others just walk down the path slowly. I’m just running towards it the same way one may run to embrace a loved one. I’m in love with the concept of dying a peaceful death instead of living this painful life I’m married to. I’ll cheat life with death every day the same way I’ve been trying to prolong my destiny to achieve a thing or two. Not necessary.

...where I belong.

How long would it be to be long gone? I don’t dream of victory over death or over life anymore. I’m just filling up my bucket list. So much has been checked in 36 years but now’s the time to stop adding to the list. The neverending story of desire, success and failure. I managed to become almost everything I wanted to be… I also managed to be the opposite of the same. I fought through wind and hail, got caught up in many a storm, and learned to plane, to spread my wings, even broke and with starving heart, body and soul.

I’ve become more than I expected…

In the thousands of years that I lived in just the current time I’m living, I saw the many faces god and most of the time appeared before the peoples of the world with a grave face or even a smile… changed voices, acted surprised when I knew the answer before the question was made… went from nothing to everything in a second and then, crashed ominously against my own, to die time and again, a thousand times too.

...and it’s more than enough.

What is to be expected when I’m gone? We don’t even know what being gone means… gone where? How can I keep imagining the sadness I might sow and grow into the hearts of the people that is not even here by my side? I know a thousand people that may still remember me but how? The time has come to settle and become quiet for once in a lifetime in which many would hit me in my mouth just to shut up… how many have already erased my face and name and life from theirs? I know a bunch that already did and they were the closest to my heart. They are wise as everyone else that did it… I’m just obsolete.

The thoughts that were rushing are now silent again. Many words were killed before they were posted. The painting in the wall stopped staring to the poor old writer while mourning the many words that never made it. Now, it’s just about finishing the bucket list of useless things that'll put a smile and die a peaceful death with all the words we never said.

De la importancia del Director y otras cosas indispensables

El ser humano es, por naturaleza, un habitante de comunidades muy variadas. Incluso desde el período de gestación y la primera infancia hasta los últimos días de vida, todos los seres humanos participamos en diferentes tipos de actividades grupales. En esencia, cada actividad, aún en grupos muy reducidos, representa una oportunidad de explorar y descubrir las características propias de la personalidad y cómo es la dinámica de la comunidad en la que vivimos.

La familia, como primer y más importante núcleo de la sociedad, representa el lugar en el que se trabaja el terreno sobre el que se construyen las estructuras de pensamiento y conducta más sólidas y determinantes. Los impulsos, pensamientos y reacciones en los momentos de crisis, de peligro o de éxtasis, son generalmente producto de procesos concebidos desde el vientre, en la relación con la madre y el padre, hasta los primeros logros importantes como el hablar, caminar y los aprendizajes básicos de la etapa escolar. Principios y valores se van desarrollando de la mano de los padres, hermanos y familiares. Hoy, con tantos tipos de familias producto de nuestra sociedad cada vez más incluyente y amplia, por la violencia o por las ausencias, lo construido en éste paso indispensable, se convierte en todo un reto para la humanidad.

Así mismo, durante la etapa escolar, desde los primeros años de jardín hasta el estudio profesional, se nos envuelve en un ambiente totalmente diferente al hogar pero, complementario. La primera renuncia importante, los retos. El juego, las peleas, la curiosidad insaciable, los aprendizajes, las tareas, los premios y la competencia, la diferencia, el bullying. La escuela se ocupa de la construcción de las paredes de la vida, el conocimiento universal, del otro, de la dinámica de existir y del sobrevivir. Llegamos únicamente con lo que la familia nos ha dado y debemos empezar a conocer lo que la humanidad ha desarrollado durante milenios. Nos relacionamos con personas muy variadas y administramos su nivel de importancia en nuestra vida. El profesor, el compañero, el amigo, el amor, el enemigo, etiquetas que van apareciendo para describir y clasificar. Aquí conocemos a nuevos seres que nos ayudan a moldear, re-encausar o, quizás, cambiar lo que traíamos con la base del hogar. Se ponen a prueba los principios y valores aprendidos hasta el momento, se descubren las pasiones de la vida y se consolidan los lazos que nos mantendrán a flote, que nos darán una razón para vivir.

Codo a codo, como parte integral y catalizador de estos procesos, se encuentra la actividad artística. Cada una de las artes representa una oportunidad única de comunicar, expresar, reflexionar sobre lo aprendido en las diferentes etapas de la vida. El acceso a éstas, es primordial para potenciar las habilidades cognitivas y sensitivas, como la creatividad y la conciencia, que serán indispensables para el buen desempeño de nuestro papel en la sociedad, como actores positivos, impulsores de la humanidad.

En el teatro, por ejemplo, podemos disfrutar de historias, de cambiar por un momento y reflejarnos en los otros, crear discursos que generen cambios o, simplemente, contar historias, en grupo o en solitario. La pintura y la escultura nos conducen por un viaje más interno en conexión con diferentes materiales hacia la resignificación del entorno. La música le habla al espíritu, incluso sin palabras, a través de los instrumentos o la voz. El arte, siempre trae consigo la interpretación y reinterpretación de las realidades propias y ajenas, la búsqueda de belleza, de la “perfección” en cada movimiento, sonido, color, palabra; el esfuerzo y la dedicación para obtener una recompensa que se plantea sublime, cuando soy yo mismo quien la busco. Todas las ideas sobre mí mismo y sobre los demás se ponen a prueba, se superan y se impulsan nuevos caminos, a través del arte.

Con el paso del tiempo, a medida que todo se hace más industrializado, técnico y fragmentado, las personas de todas partes del mundo se están dando cuenta de la necesidad de un vivir más integrado con lo natural, con lo humano y que nuestro actuar esté más conectado y sea más consciente. Esto nos lleva a preguntarnos, como artistas, dónde radica nuestra importancia, junto con la de nuestro quehacer. Los grandes pensadores, pedagogos y artistas de la historia nos dejaron preguntas y respuestas parciales, desde todas las latitudes del mundo. Nos preguntamos sobre el sonido y su conexión con las diferentes capas de nuestro ser; de la importancia de los cantos maternos, tradicionales y modernos, hasta las composiciones más elaboradas, incluso desde las matemáticas; del desarrollo de la audición como elemento indispensable para vivir en sociedad y para el canto, para la música; del pensamiento teórico como herramienta impulsadora de la comprensión del yo; incluso de la importancia de colorear apropiadamente las vocales, en el canto o la voz hablada, para ¡mantener el discurso de manera coherente!

El canto coral se abre camino con una amplia gama de herramientas que alimentan ésas búsquedas, permiten la construcción y reconstrucción de los valores y trabajan por el compromiso con el trabajo grupal, a través de los elementos de la música. En este sentido, la labor del director adquiere nuevas proporciones: nos estamos enfrentando a la responsabilidad de fomentar, desde la actividad musical, los principios que ayudarán a cada individuo en su proceso de formación como parte integral de la sociedad, que en cada gesto de la mano, encuentren una indicación clara que les permita expresar, en conjunto, sin perder su individualidad, que al participar de la actividad coral les inspire a transformar sus vidas y que, a través de estos procesos, se impacten las mentes y corazones de todas las personas del público, motivándolas a hacer lo mismo con sus propias vidas.

¿Quién quiere ver un director rígido que no transmite nada? Por más perfección que encuentre en la técnica de dirección, su actividad fundamental es la de transmitir, comunicar. En sus manos están depositadas las esperanzas de cientos de personas que, sin saberlo, cambiarán sus vidas para siempre, para bien o para mal.

La posta

Normalmente sería más fácil escribir, pero hoy no es un día de esos.

Al son de una música nueva para mí pero que escuchaba en mi corazón desde hace tiempo, se me abre un espacio entre las nubes que no me dejan ver la luz, para intentar descifrar hasta donde se ha llegado.

El decrescendo lento de toda la agitación de los últimos meses, me deja reflexiones de batallas perdidas y ganadas, pero sobre todo, un provenir que todavía no dimensiono en su totalidad. A pesar de mis propias lágrimas y la brújula perdida, de repente, los hombros me han servido para cargar más de una vida que ha tendido a encontrar reposo en mis palabras.

Y me gustaría creer que eso representa un alivio para mí y los demás... pero cada vez se siente más como la posta dejada por quienes antes y ahora hicieran de mis maestros y que guardan una esperanza en mi caminar.

La posta pesa unos 10 kilos por ahora, pero tiende a engordar cada día.

Sube y sube de peso porque se alimenta con toneladas de lágrimas que se ha tragado la piel y que los ojos no dejan ver; con las miles de palabras que se ha llevado el viento; con el esfuerzo de miles que han desfallecido y los ejércitos que no han sabido superar a los titanes que desfilan por el campo de batalla arrasando con cada paso todo sin mirar atrás.

Y yo que ahora no tengo cara y corazón para afrontarlo todo... 
Y, bueno, la vida me ha puesto aquí a pesar de todas mis malas decisiones, de todo el orgullo y la irresponsabilidad... mi oportunidad de dar, justo a la hora en que me he quitado todo...

Requiem alla Polaca

Tenía los ojos más azules que había visto jamás y brillaban con una luz tenue, casi sin quererlo. Y su sonrisa le hacía relucir el rostro lavado por las lágrimas de toda una vida. Su pelo, aún vivo, le recordaba los años juveniles en los que todavía soñaba. Y en sus manos se podía ver el cansancio de las caricias jamás recibidas, jamás dadas.

No tomó sus pastillas esta vez y su camino se oscurecía cada vez más. Casi no sintió su ausencia por las charlas amenas que compartía, pero sus ojos llenos de insomnio revelaban lo contrario... y una sombra siempre revoloteaba en su ventana.

Sólo un día por cada año de vida le tomó contarme todo. Se enamoró al instante del cabello oscuro y los ojos grandes, de las noches infinitas en que por primera vez fuera feliz... y en menos de un mes las historias llegarían a su fin llevándose su última sonrisa de mi lado.

Sus pasos siempre rodearon abismos interminables y a tientas se apresuraba a no dejarse caer, aunque amaba el vacío que la llamaba a sus entrañas; entrañas de una madre que jamás le sirvió de hogar y vacío en las entrañas de un padre que la mató un segundo después de nacer. Ya no tendrá que sufrir más las largas tandas de golpes en el alma y en el cuerpo que la vida le propinó por 28 años ni los días y noches sin amor que la dejaron virgen de caricias y besos por encontrar siempre algún patán que sólo la quisiera robar.

Escuchó por primera vez mis conciertos, que le dediqué con emoción y vivió sus últimos días soportando con dolor cada pensamiento absurdo que su enfermedad le puso en frente. Una guerrera del dolor que no supo aguantar más, pero que al conocerme pudimos luchar juntos y enseñarnos mil cosas, a mil kilómetros de lejos.

Sobrevivió tanto tiempo que fue casi un milagro conocerla. Ahora, tal vez descansa ya sin haber recibido los abrazos que necesitó y el calor de un hogar que un día pudo encontrar aquí. Carmen vestirá de luto hoy y con ella seremos dos los únicos que verá en su entierro; los únicos que la conocimos un día y la amamos de verdad, que creímos en su luz y que la vimos apagarse poco a poco, aún sin desfallecer.

Vivirá siempre en mi alma el recuerdo de su voz de soprano que nunca escuché cantar pero que escuché reír mil veces aún cuando su corazón quería llorar. A la guerrera de la vida, que supo amar aún sin creer en nada, con Amor.

Salud! My Lady... que el Señor te guarde en su corazón.

- R.I.P -