Tuxedo man
Today it rained for
the whole day, but the sea looks as beautiful as always or even more, from the
urban wharf, on the wooden pier, where the kid's ice cream melts in the
summer; but today, we are in the middle of this smooth and melancholy nebulose.
What a beauty - green
color.
Here I learned that
freedom is not free, americans
preach it this way, "freedom is not free", and they practice it! Look at their
streets, their people, their jobs, their pace, their actions, emotions, songs
and life. Here you can go out to the street dressed as you feel like, holding
hands with whomever you want, here you aren’t the son of anybody, here you are
not the bastard around the corner, nor the angel on fifth floor.
Here you are everything and nothing. Here you won't be judged for the good things neither for the bad, until you demonstrate something. Here Tabula rasa (blank slate). For this is the freedom city and the one with open and closed doors. Here you can screw it up, but you have an opportunity to try not no.
Here you are reborn.
And there are not only feelings that surround you everyday.
Here there are people that do not think the way you do.
Here you have to struggle to introduce yourself to the heart of the one's who walk by you in the street.
Here you are a kind of permanent immigrant but a happy immigrant, one that feels at home.
I would like to tell them that I love them like the child loves all the things he sees for the first time.
I would like to thank them for building this friendly city, with effort, day by day.
And suddenly I arrive. I'm seeing him there, he's outside the brownstone house, at the stairs,
he is a marevelous cat. Egyptian elegance. Crystalline blue eyes, large, fixed. Expectant. Bored. Certainly, eyes that aren't dreaming, they are only very present. The potence of his black pupils, fill the void.
Aside, the tuxedo man, caresses the cat trying to think what he should do, "how is he suposed to continue?" but he doesn't succeed.
Rain stopped, temperature is pleasent, lots of fallen leaves and the smell of rancid rain continues steady.
Here you are everything and nothing. Here you won't be judged for the good things neither for the bad, until you demonstrate something. Here Tabula rasa (blank slate). For this is the freedom city and the one with open and closed doors. Here you can screw it up, but you have an opportunity to try not no.
Here you are reborn.
And there are not only feelings that surround you everyday.
Here there are people that do not think the way you do.
Here you have to struggle to introduce yourself to the heart of the one's who walk by you in the street.
Here you are a kind of permanent immigrant but a happy immigrant, one that feels at home.
I would like to tell them that I love them like the child loves all the things he sees for the first time.
I would like to thank them for building this friendly city, with effort, day by day.
And suddenly I arrive. I'm seeing him there, he's outside the brownstone house, at the stairs,
he is a marevelous cat. Egyptian elegance. Crystalline blue eyes, large, fixed. Expectant. Bored. Certainly, eyes that aren't dreaming, they are only very present. The potence of his black pupils, fill the void.
Aside, the tuxedo man, caresses the cat trying to think what he should do, "how is he suposed to continue?" but he doesn't succeed.
Rain stopped, temperature is pleasent, lots of fallen leaves and the smell of rancid rain continues steady.
Versió original:
L’home del
vestit
Avui ha plogut tot
el dia, però el mar es veu igual de bonic o potser més i tot, des de
l’embarcador urbà, sobre les fustes del passadís a l’aire lliure, on els gelats
dels nens es desfan a l’estiu; avui però, som enmig d’aquesta nuvolosa tova i
melancòlica.
Quina bellesa de
verd.
Aquí he après que
la llibertat no és gratuïta, així ho prediquen aquests americans, “freedom is
not free”, i ho practiquen! Mireu els seus carrers, la seva gent, les seves
feines, el seu tarannà, les seves accions, emocions, cançons i vida. Aquí pots
sortir al carrer vestit com vulguis, agafa’t de la mà de qui vulguis, aquí no
ets el fill de ningú, ni el cabró de la cantonada, ni l’àngel del cinquè pis.
Aquí ho ets tot i
res. Aquí no se’t jutjarà ni per bé ni per dolent, fins que demostris quelcom.
Aquí Tabula rasa (Taula rasa). Per
això és la ciutat de la llibertat i les portes tant obertes com tancades. Aquí
la pots cagar, però tens una oportunitat per intentar no fer-ho.
Aquí tornes a
néixer.
I no nomès són
sentiments el que t’envolta cada dia.
Aquí hi ha gent que
no pensa com tu.
Aquí has de fer un
esforç per introduir-te al cor dels que et passen pel cantó.
Aquí ets una
espècie d’immigrant permanent però un immigrant feliç, que es troba a casa.
Voldria dir-los que
els estimo com l’infant estima tot allò que veu per primera vegada.
Voldria donar-los
les gràcies per haver construit una ciutat tant simpàtica amb esforç dia a dia.
I llavors arribo. Allà
l’estic veient, és fora la casa, a les escales,
és un gat
meravellós. Elegància egípcia. Ulls blaus cristalins, grossos, fixes.
Expectants. Avorrits. Certament, no somnien, nomès estan molt presents. La
potència de les seves ninetes negres, omple el buit.
Al costat, l’home
amb el vestit, acaricia el gat i intenta pensar què ha de fer, com ha de
continuar?, però no se n’ensurt.
I ha deixat de
ploure, la temperatura és agradable, hi ha molta fullaraca i l’olor de pluja
rància continua estable.
