- Words being thrown in the air like
feathers. No answer. Nothing. You are invisible. No matter what you do, no
matter what you say. When you realize you are not special that your efforts are
in vain that you are just another number.
-Are you drunk?
- No.
- Quit that bullshit, will ya?
- Tired of people. Tired of humans,
those stupid animals that believe they worth something. They are flesh and
blood like everybody else, still… I´m just tired to believe people can change,
tired to believe people can see others, and treat others as they´d liked to be
treated. I´m tired of my hope. Tired of my dreams. Tired of my beliefs. Tired
of this feeling, this empty feeling that will never go away, no matter what I
do, no matter what I say, It will be there forever, waiting, wanting,
welcoming, cold, till I succumb to my very own misery. I want to take off this
mask. I just want to take off this mask. My real me is so scary. The mask is so
pretty.
- What do you really want?
- What everybody wants. Happiness.
- You know it´s hard, don´t you?
- If it was easy life would be
worthless. Is there a secret? To be
happy. Is there a secret?
- I don´t think so.
- I wish there was. But I´m a
number. Nothing else. A number only.
-That´s so sweet! You are bounding
already. – Julie says while reading a magazine.
- She doesn´t like me. Not one bit.
- You know my mother cares only
about her dog right? You shouldn´t be wasting your time.
- She is in our living room, eating
our food, sitting on our chair talking about our lives, and you are here,
reading a magazine as nothing was happening. You started this war and the one getting
bombed here it´s me.
- You are such a girl.
- IT`S YOUR MOTHER!
- I know!
- Please do something.
- I´m doing already! I´m in the
kitchen, reading a magazine and God that feels great.
- She says my clothes aren´t well
ironed, the chicken is too salty, the sofa doesn´t match the carpet and that we
should get married in a church. She even has a specific priest!
- Father John?
- Do you know that guy?
- I probably knew him before I knew
my mother.
George reasons slightly worried.
- Should I be worried?
Julie nods.
- She bought us a Jesus Christ
painting. – George continuous.
- How big?
- Bigger than the TV.
- That´s a record.
- It´s sitting in front of the
dining table. It makes me feel guilty for my entire existence.
- Just don´t look.
- He stares at me as I was eating my
brother. Get that thing out of my house.
- The painting or my mother?
George pulls the magazine away.
- Hey! I was reading that.
- The Mama Gertrude´s knitting
magazine?
- Mama Gertrude has interesting
articles.
- If she writes as she dresses, her
articles must be as interesting as my grandma´s curtains. I don´t want to eat my food with your mother
and Jesus judging me. Please!
George starts imitating the Jesus
painting, suffering, palms together, not too convincing.
Julie frowns:
- What are you doing?
- I´m begging.
- I´m almost felling sorry for you
right now.
He tries to make it a little better:
- Is there your sex face going on
there? – Julie asks.
George gives up.
- As long as I am out of her
subjects I´m fine. – She continuous.
- Me marring you? You are in her
subjects.
- She is my mother, is her duty to
make my life miserable for making her eat pork rib and dunots for nine months.
- She thinks you are marring me
because you need a green card--
- And you are a trump who plays
piano to get some “mangos”.
- She said that?
- We had this conversation before.
- Mangos? Your mother said mangos?
- She doesn´t even know your name.
- I noticed. She calls me Froot
Loops. I never made jingles for Froot Loops. I´m Coco Loco.
- Just tell her you eat your
crunches with whisky and she´ll forget all about the jingles.
- I´m going to hell.
- Well that depends if you rather to
drink orange juice or whisky.
I had just ordered dismissal from work. I felt
my life stopping in a certain way, my mind was getting too quiet as balls of
hay were passing rolling from a side to another of inside the brain to the
disquieting sound of silence. That morning I got up as usual, mid afternoon and
I´ve decided that silence was driving me crazy. I´ve decided I would get myself
rid of the deaf dust housed in my temples. I wanted a guitar. I had money and
creativity was dying little by little, so that seemed the most clever thing to
do.
I put on a ordinary clothes and went out
stepping at all the instrument stores I´d find in my path. They showed me
guitars, they talked about the wood, the fabrication, the brand… But the balls
of hay were still rolling.
I was tired.
I stopped at a store.
There were old guitars.
Would you have a blues guitar? I asked.
Grandpa Jack came down the stairs. He was the type of guy who didn´t
attract women in a long time. Striped, green and yellow flower stamps would
cover his body. It was like time had passed by and he hadn´t come to realize
that.
A few scratches and scars here and there.
Marks of age.
And I believed I´d die in silence. He sang.
I shook his hand.
I heard the sound of the trails.
Grandpa Jack smelled like aged wood and Whisky. He sang me some notes
among a sharp Mississippi accent .
Close ya eyes. Mumbled the old man.
The sun would go down the horizon, orange and warm above the huge fields
of cotton flowers. The dry and reddish trails of the train would parboil
distorting the ground clay. Grandpa Jack would chew tobacco humming sad notes
while lulling the young body to a rocking chair.
I see the temple dust going away along with the wing, giving room to the
hoarsely humming of the old Jack.
Oh It is good to be back. He sings.
It´s been time I didn´t sing ta anybody.
Music builds train trails
From where I come from,
The ion mumbles and moans
To the crying souls seeking their freedom
Where the house of the rising sun
Awaits always welcoming, hopeful
So close we rise to run
To sing our stories, so wonderful
With no theory no prose
To laugh
To cry
And to
finally remind
There´s
no barriers nor chains
Only
hope remains
And
once again
Silence
is silent to the numbing song
To be
heard, to be loved
To the
voice I thought would die alone
Once again I open my eyes, I´m back at the store. Grandpa Jack is
sitting on my lap, his wood smells like good old whisky, and his voice quiets
for a moment. However I smile knowing every time I want I can go back to the
House of the rising sun where his voice remains eternal.
And finally my camera is fixed, that´s how I look like.
This is my version of the St James Infirmary song. As many blues songs it was played by different artists. However it became famous through Louis Armstrong at mid 20s. This version is inspired by the british musician Hugh Laurie and the Copper Bottom Band. I hope you enjoy, and please comment!
