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.