Inside A Hat

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood, open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, there is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.

-Wish,vacillate, make yourself feel at home but don't stop writing. Can you find me in your dreams or am I too real, too solid and irresolute.

Where do these words come from if it isn't from your twisted head that takes no reins for his ideas. It would be stupid to think that my character has nothing to do with you personality. Even if I am a fragment of a larger story, couldn't you pick for me a better role in my own fictional life? Why am i an actor that plays all these characters, if I'm still the same spine that holds their tensions which are to be posited in a flask... The very same one that you picture hanging from my neck. What is that, a sort of punishment?

is the ulcer of my dreams

a strange confession? To want to fly by my own means and not being able, even when it is clear in my memory that I've done it before. To ask your friends to help you out in order to get frustrated by their inability to do so. That's it, I have had enough of you.

• Then, it is obvious and predictable. Thus, it is boring.

(a new night, a new page, and the story continues to be trapped in the discussion)

• I cannot go to the bathroom because it's dirt makes mine look ridiculously cute. That is the first thing that came to my mind this morning. Why? Why would i think such a stupid thing? How is it that you make me think of this, or that you allow me to question you in this way? It is clear that you want me to or else we would not be having this conversation.

Where are you today? Your voice cannot be heard and I barely feel your presence. Have you set me free in order not to hear my voice anymore? Intertwined or not, our relationship goes beyond the words you write for me. If even you character realizes how empty your words are, what's left for those who hear my excuses and recriminations. It is an empty space where I can dream with all I have. Sometimes I can see my own house, my chair, but I know they don't exist. Everything is black around here. That explains only that this world absorbs all the light, that the painters' hand took less than a minute to conceive of me in my context. You forgot to give me a story, a place I could call home. Tell me why it all looks like it comes from a dark pit, from a magician's hat that has never tasted magic.

It is only reasonable to believe in you, but it is absurd to believe you.

You draw my face and paint my gestures, then, why don't you want to reach my hand to pull me out of this vacuous ...oh writer, if there was only an island to escape to, to be lost forever. If there only were a book and a girl, or an angel in the winds, who could tell me that this life will prosper. Where did Nietzsche write that conviction was a prison? Give me freedom, something I could invite inside this hat. But before give me a door, so it could stand wide open.

Vaco... I'd like him for a ghost. Can you make him appear? (he walks around the room and finds a banner written behind a curtain where it reads: “derecho de autor”)

a gold fish? A fucking goldfish at least, he said out loud as if it was the end of a monologue he rehearsed in his head.

It is all part of a dream with grotesque proportions, with a midget and a bold woman spitting fire -or blood for what I could see-

Of all things, I beg of you, write my silence.

An Irish idea

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves.

God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his tors from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

Alas, a brave new world!

A bus could be heard on its way up the sloppy street that runs meters away from the window he had opened and, confusing the echoes of the wind, the barking dogs gasped for new air as well. There are so many voices getting lost in one sentence that, at times, the writer is not sure if what he says is what he had planned to or the very words he hoped to leave out of the conversation. Like a storm that comes from the south, words seem better uttered when they come freely. Not like the slam of crap that I say, thinks the writer, which is only the result of an idea that has been ricocheting, for who knows how long, and sounds only like the echo of a rustyintention; definitely not like a word.d

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves. God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his torso from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood,open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.

what's this frenzy!

All in is the writers guess, when the chance to change luck had never appeared so sweetly. An orange is ripe, then, it is difficult to decide if one should take the time to peal it or if it will be cut in half. Hands in poker have little to do with taste although they can easily propitiate a sawer evening.

One of the characters at the table decides to go for all or nothing and gets the little bets because the other two, writer included, will not risk any chips until the first hand unravels some hope. This situation elucidates the problems and differences between hopes and expectations. The first character has little or no chance of survival in the game but hopes to recover. With that in mind he builds his expectations when the other players do not take the bate and fold immediately after he has said all in. At this point, specially when the little trick proves itself lucrative a couple of times in a row, the first character builds up his expectations. Maybe the other player plays the hands and even looses some big chunks. This is good for the writer since he sits back and lets the animals wound each other without them even noticing it. Now the first two cards look promising, this hand he bets moderately and hopes to bite a little as well. In fact he does get some profit. On the next hand, regardless of what cards he has been dealt he bets a moderate amount just to generate a big win for any of the players. That means that either he will get a nice win or one animal will bite a good piece of the other one. Expectations run high at the table since everybody seems able to win. “All in” says the first character but the writer sits back to wait as he plays small to see the first three or fold with the hope of a powerful first pair. Nothing helps when the world conspires against you, if you loose there is no turn around and you will end up betting the same bed that safeguards your hangover body until the first hours after noon. Sheets and pillows serve you well but they are of such little importance in comparison to the mattress. Where could a person literally crash if not in that small piece of heaven which pushes you up in dreams with its spirals.

All those nights awake make the writer howl to the moon as he prays to God and the Virgin, his Virgin, for the well being of those he loves. At least he speaks to someone, at least he hopes to be protected while the desire to be in some other place makes it clear that he is not omnipresent. He thinks he should be protecting the source of his inspiration, to walk next to her and be the link to earth of those mood swings. Clearly he thinks too much, there, the reason for why he is awake. Omnipotence is not part of his repertoire either, but he is alright with that. The doubt is if there is anybody or higher being who can hear him howl and listen to his prayers, for the moment there are hopes only. He hopes well, of this he is sure -but i would not bet on it.

_All in! (He yells and falls asleep).

The head is slightly tilted to the right while his back arches between the mattress and the wall behind the bed.

One morning he wakes up, ready to confront anything except his own desire for peace. What this means for him is a battle that is part of a larger war he is yet to figure out. Some of the details which have not been figured out yet need to be put together in such a way that its ensemble resembles a face, a name. So far the battles are fought by one person that is singularly dwelling beyond his own control. It is a fucking stupid day, so messed up that one would only need the swine flue to think of something worse. When the writer woke up around noon, probably some time after noon, the double quarter pounder contributed to keep him down as much as gravity prevents one from levitating unwillingly into the atmosphere.

That was the resume of one day, and now there seems to be a lot more to come. It is true that he feels like something has closed. When the doors do not open, he does not push but waits outside or inside- for there is no certainty about his stand. There is so much he would like to be doing, so many places he would rather be. Specially far away, somewhere underneath the sun to get sunburned and feel alive. The rain, which he loves and yearns at times, only comes down under a gray sky. This color is in itself a sensation that clogs the stream of life -something he considers to be the happy times. If something is closed it may simply appear to be in such state when in reality it is a cloud that can be easily trespassed. What is closed it is clogged and nothing more, now he only has to wait to regain his life so the energy gives him the power to decide on which side of the cloud he rather be. All of a sudden he regains control, walks through the cloud, kisses the sky and turns back -back to where he stopped dreaming in his sleep.

While it gives its back to the writer, the guitar lays on its side about thirty centimeters in front of him. He played some tunes that day but they came out so dry that it was better to stop. There is a magic point at which one forgets the chords and notes, where the fingers repeat the same tune incessantly and the mind submerges into the soul. Very much like making love and all the contrary from chewing limes. Its a strange place where all that lays a mile ahead can be anticipated from a point of perspective that lines up all the major shapes in front of you. It is much like having sex for the second time.

Consideration can result in the sharpest blade. Thinking about what one does it is not that different from operating a water boiler with your eyes shut, there is no surprise (nothing can be done wrong).

It is despicable to be sorry about your own regrets, to lament about the act of repentance. All in all it is nothing more than a cat inside a bag that is beaten to hear the screams without ever daring to look into his eyes. There is something diabolic about those eyes -that's the first guess the writer had. But on a second thought there is something worse about the behavior of men. This cannot be reduced into words but can be understood in practice. The writer thought of the times his actions became abominable in retrospective, and was appalled. Then, he tried to think about the thoughts that would have projected those actions even further, and was lucky to have forgotten them. But, while spinning the same bottle, he realized the horror behind having forgotten these particular reasons -which justified his actions no more than in his own personal head. As he forgets the reasons for that cruel behavior he thinks of how many other people use, or have experienced, this coping mechanism. It is probable that only those who can have forgotten all about reason. Even piety comes down to be judged when there are no explanations behind it. What, then, can a man think of mercy or even love? Are they simply a link between one moment and the other? Everything looks like a big pile of shit but its stench cannot be detected. There go the appearances -or comes the running nose.

Bitter with the choices he has made, and the people he chose, the writer finds it hard to conquer peace. It is, now, under siege. Cornered by his resolutions, the only weapon he has got at disposition is a writing machine which, ironically, had been wounded in battle and remains scared-faced. From his window he sees the bars that keep him safe, with their shadow on the white walls of brick. Although his eyes transform the light that comes from a cloudy, dirt looking, sky his hands could never touch it. Even if he tried, he could not get his torso out of the window to feel the strong winds either. On the TV the weather man announced hurricane winds for the east part of the country that is no more than a couple of hours away. When a storm comes one can savor freedom. Tonight the writer will renew the air -he's got to.