The broken Mist

NANTES

Posted in Uncategorized by Jiménez-Smith on September 28, 2008

I already miss him. He arrived and we shared the room for several weeks. One of my best friends who suddenly fled to Barcelona and decided to come back to Mexico and he would stay at my house for a while. His vacations made the telephone of this house ring. It ringed a lot, thrice an hour just because he was here. Everybody was after him. Not only that my mobile suddenly had the double of text messages of women that ever, but it became a routine. It became an everyday certainty that someone is with you whatever happens. He stood by my side when I became a smoker outside the hospital doors. My iTunes was as his as mine, and everything was shared for a brief moment in space. Like the time when he called me just after High School when his father misread something and kicked him out. It was then and it was just some hours ago that I had in the pragmatical sense of the word a Brother. Someone whom I would eventually blame for not washing the dishes or the other way round; someone who could ask me sincerely to prepare some breakfast considering his hangover. When someone smashes your life with so much of his, or hers, it becomes a shared well-being. A new grip. A play list of the most listened tunes states as much who am I as who he is.
Somewhat slightly dazed, someone very glamorous would say. Those are the only words I can think of since I reject the fact of the harsh reality. A reality of solitude where the airport becomes a break point. A solitude of white vinyl that happily merges Champions League and G-Pop sounds. Am I denying the point of realising that this kind of waving of the hand singing Hallelujah, since we both heard it about ten times last Thursday’s morning, is the kind of physical movement that precedes a Depression? Probably a cat that already misses him is the most striking memory of this coming back alone to the room that I still refuse to claim as just mine. Now I have to turn off everything. Tacit words: I say that I’ll read and he knows that nine times out of ten I fell asleep immediately and has to turn off everything. I always get up earlier, wake him up. The past tense keeps frightening me: He WAS, as if he were slightly dead because I can think of no other combination of words than those two, when I’m sit in this room, writing as he would see me. Just a couple of days ago, I was doing just the same but he was beside me, whether playing with the cat or eating Choco-Krispis. He ate some kind of food 24/7. I still don’t understand that but I do miss the random sound of the cereal box, at any improbable hour. Although those things made a huge crunch inside his head and I’m always wearing headphones, we shared. We listened.
And I almost listened Leonard Cohen and his secret chord. I just hugged my other closer ones. I hugged H . . . who had to flee as well. Not Barcelona but Coapa. And again there I was, listening already to a secret playlist of 25 songs that we shared for some months. But Hope is here. And Buckley and Cohen too. And Michael Cera. And Beirut. And Ratatat. But I’m glad to say that La Casa Azul, today, rules everything. The vinyl, the white vinyl he brought from the ramblas is my most deared record right now.

He’ll fly over Nantes. Another of his fav’s.

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One Response

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  1. Gabi said, on September 29, 2008 at 5:55 pm

    You know where you can find more hugs if you need them


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