DE MARIPOSAS Y CAZAMARIPOSAS

El fin de toda mariposa es ser admirada. No en vano dedicó su vida de oruga a poder desplegar sus alas y volar. La mariposa nació para ser libre, pero siempre hay quien la engatusa y la atrapa en su red. ¿Qué cómo se atrapa a una mariposa?, te preguntarás. Fácil, siendo más dulce que las flores que haya podido conocer.

El cazamariposas es un ser de almas turbias; desea a su mariposa, la anhela, la persigue, la seduce...y cuando al fin la atrapa (porque a una mariposa no se la puede poseer), cambia las sábanas de miel por alfileres de cristal para añadirla a su colección.

Como mariposa de alas rotas te puedo decir que no dejes que el cazamariposas de sonrisa de azúcar te embrolle; para evitarlo mírale a los ojos. Sus ojos son de agua y te verás en ellos reflejada. Céntrate en tu espejo para poder huir y no mirar atrás.

Para el cazamariposas sólo serás una más, mariposa, una más. Quizás la más linda, quizás la más colorida..., pero en el fondo una más.

FASCINADO

El señorito Malabar hace equilibrismos de desorden sensorial.
Arma y desarma piezas de rompecabezas rítmicos.
De su habilidad hizo un juego, y de su juego profesión.

Pam, pam, pam.

El señorito Malabar añade una pieza más al puzzle.
Hipnotiza a todo aquel que osa seguirle el juego.
Él está tranquilo, nosotros estamos en tensión.

Más difícil todavía.
Pam, pam, pam.

El señorito Malabar hace lo imposible.
Se arroja al vacío, sale de su zona de confort.
Del juego hizo un reto, y del reto su obsesión.

Pam, pam, pam.
Pam, pam, pum.

No pasa nada, borrón y vuelta a empezar.
Lo difícil no es caer, es volverse a levantar.
Ese, sí, ese, es mi señorito Malabar.

WINTERLONG

Una noche fría de mayo ambos salieron para entrar en calor. Los dos venían de pasar el invierno tiritando en una cueva.

Y así fue como la estalactita, fina y alargada, hizo de cada una de sus lágrimas de invierno un centímetro.

Y así fue como la estalagmita, redondeada y maciza, despertó al sentir el roce frío y húmedo de la estalactita.

No se formó columna, el mismo calor que las unió las separó.


Cosas que pasan en las cavernas de Barcelona.

IT'S IN HIS KISS

I saw her kissing him. She was pushing it, throwing herself at him. Her face was glowing, her eyes were sparkling. She couldn't help touching him. Her body was playing along the tune in her mind.

I saw him kissing her. He stood still while listening to the tune in her mind. He didn't want to dance along. His face was tense and he was letting his eyes wander.

I wonder why.

NIÑO BURBUJA

El niño burbuja disfruta de la brisa. Cada vez que los dos hermanos juegan a hacer pompas, el niño burbuja intenta volar más y más alto. A veces otras pompas se cruzan en su trayectoria y le obligan a volver al punto de partida, donde un nuevo soplo le dará alas para seguir soñando. El niño burbuja vive con la ilusión de poder encontrar la pompa de jabón perfecta, esa que le aleje del círculo y que le permita viajar lejos. Al niño burbuja le gusta jugar con las pompas a su alrededor, aunque con su roce a veces se destruyan. Cuando eso sucede, el niño burbuja recupera rápidamente el equilibrio y sigue ascendiendo sin mirar atrás.

Al niño burbuja le encanta fusionarse con otras burbujas, pero sabe que cuando eso ocurre pierde altura, así que juega a unirse con alguna pompa y a soltarse limpiamente para poder así seguir su camino. Porque si una cosa tiene clara el niño burbuja es que las pompas que le rodean no comparten su objetivo. Ninguna de ellas quiere salir del círculo. Algunas ni siquiera aspiran a tocar el cielo. El niño burbuja lleva ya un tiempo preparando su salida, y al oir a los hermanos preparar la mezcla de jabón sabe que hoy ha llegado su gran día.

Los dos hermanos han aprendido hoy cómo hacer pompas de jabón gigantes. Ahora ya saben que necesitan mezclar 10 tazas de agua, 4 tazas de lavavajillas líquido y una taza de jarabe de maíz. El niño burbuja observa con atención a los dos hermanos mientras sumergen el alambre en la mezcla, y como si de una varita mágica se tratase, nace la que sabe que será la pompa perfecta. Sin dudarlo se sumerge en ella y disfruta del momento. La luz del sol hace que la pompa sea multicolor. El niño burbuja se relaja mientras la brisa le mece. Los dos hermanos siguen con la mirada la trayectoria de la pompa, que cual cometa escapada en el cielo sube y sube hasta perderse tras una nube.

El niño burbuja sonríe. Vaya a donde vaya, ya no será atrás.

RAT RACE

It is this time of the year again. Summer is getting to its end and the racers are taking their positions on the tracks. The rat race is about to start!

This is a private event, and the organisers have made sure rats cannot see one another, in order to guarantee the rats' privacy. This is a must, as rats need to be sure their strategies will not be made public.

The first rats to get to the finish line will start biting their winter supply of cheese. It is a truth universally acknowledged that rats have access to plenty of cheese in wide-ranging flavours, textures, and forms during the summer, but as soon as there is a change in the weather they get anxious and join the rat race.

It is not easy to place a bet, and therefore I have decided to simply observe and enjoy the game from my seat.The youngest rats are fast and determined, but get easily distracted from the objective. If someone throws a bit of cheese to them, they will stop and eat it, even if it is a bit of rotten cheese. The rats who already have a cheese supply at home are not as fast as the youngest rats, but they do have the lowest rate of injury because they know the game and they play it safe.

From my seat I can smell the desperation coming from the rats who are not good at this. Most of them will probably abandon the race at the sight of the first obstacles placed on their way. They sweat, they stop and step back, then they step forward, then back again. Not a nice view for the audience, who will throw anything at them to help them give up.

Some rats play in teams: they have someone guiding and encouraging them until they get to the finish line. But rats are not good team players, and rarely enjoy the prize, as they feel they have put less effort than the others to get it. Most of the times they take some bites and leave the place to join another rat race.

And then there are the veterans. Those that come year after year to get their share of cheese. They know their way on the track, they know what to do, they are acclaimed by the audience and usually receive a special treatment from the organisers.

Of course there are new contestants every year.

The rat race has started. Place your bets.

UNDER THE BRIDGE

I went into the back of a taxi, gave the address of my hotel to the driver and relaxed. It had been a long day, having travelled from Majorca to Madrid to go to a concert and meet some friends. It was late, as we had been partying in some pubs until 3 am. I was wearing a skirt and a black top under an open jacket.

I wasn't drunk, I was more tired than anything. I just wanted to get to my hotel and sleep. The driver started asking me questions to which I answered politely with a Yes, I don't know or a No, so that he could notice I wasn't in the mood to engage in conversation.

The questions went from weird to weirder. He went from asking if I had had a good time that night, to ask me if I had received many sexual propositions. He started to smoke, which is forbidden in Spain, and I started to feel nervous. I looked out of the window, hoping to recognise the streets we were driving through, hoping to reach my destination. I started to wonder if we were driving in the right direction. I started to hope we were.

At this point he was speaking on his own while I tried to ignore him. He went on and on saying that it was a pity I hadn't hooked up with anyone that night, that I was probably out there looking for sex and that he could have sex with me if that is what I wanted, that he knew of a quiet place we could go to, where nobody would disturb us.

I said: No thank you, I just want to get to my hotel.

Suddenly I saw my hotel and felt relieved.  But the driver didn't stop. He drove into a smaller and quieter street, stopped the taxi and locked the doors. He looked at me and I saw the look in his eyes. I knew that look. I had seen it before. The look of an animal with an urge.

He came onto me, half of his body on mine, one hand touching my breasts and the other one under my skirt. I didn't move. He mumbled that I wanted him and that I would receive the sex I deserved. I avoided his mouth and kept saying: No, I am not looking for sex, I just want to go.

He stopped and went back to his seat. He showed me his dick and started touching himself. He came onto me again, saying that I wanted his dick, that I was a whore who was asking for it. I could feel his cold filthy fingers on my skin. I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I kept saying: No, thanks. I just want to go.

And then something happened. He stopped. He went back to the driver's seat. He asked me if I was sure I didn't want to have sex with him. I said I was sure and gave him the money for the ride. He stared at the money in his hand for a minute or two, -God knows what he was thinking. And then he unlocked the doors and I went out. I started to walk fast to my hotel and didn't look back.

I felt disgusted about the incident, but I didn't feel bad about myself because I had done nothing wrong. If anything I felt lucky.  Had I been drunk, had I been a tourist or had I been a young girl I am sure I would have been raped, or worse.

Some people have asked me why I didn't note down the license plate number. Excuse me for just wanting to run away, go into the hotel and lock the door behind me.

Some people have asked me why I didn't go to the police to report the incident and give a full description of the assailant. Well, I was not in my city and I just wanted to put it all behind.

Everybody deals with these things in their own way. I simply found the way to live with what happened. But then again, I was lucky. Really lucky.

I just hope I never see that look in a man again.