A veces me apetece escribir en el vacío, incrementar, yo tambien, con algo de basura el vertedero de la red. Solía hacerlo en otro sitio, con bastante audiencia, pero hackearon algunos accesos, entre ellos, el mío, (no es un delirio persecutorio, tengo un e-mail de los administradores). Aquí me propongo ser moderado.
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There are degrees of madness, and the madder you are the more obvious it will be to other people. Most of my life I have hidden my madness within myself but it is there.
(…)
Most of my young and middle-aged life was spent in tiny rooms, huddled there, staring at the walls, the torn shades, the knobs on dresser drawers. I was aware of the female and desired her but I didn’t want to jump through all the hoops to get her. I was aware of money, but again, like with the female, I didn’t want to do the things needed to get it. All I wanted was enough for a room and for something to drink. I drank alone, usually on the bed, with all the shades pulled. At times I went to the bars to check out the species but the species remained the same-not much and often far less than that. In all the cities, I checked out the libraries. Book after book. Few books said anything to me. They were mostly dust in my mouth, sand in my mind. None of it related to me or how I felt: where I was-nowhere-what I had-nothing-and what I wanted-nothing. The books of the centuries only compounded the mystery of having a name, a body, walking around, talking, doing things. Nobody seemed stuck with my particular madness. In some of the bars I became violent, there were alley fights, many of which I lost. But I wasn’t fighting anybody in particular, I wasn’t angry, I just couldn’t understand people, what they were, what they did, how they looked. I was in and out of jail; I was evicted from my rooms. I slept on park benches, in graveyards. I was confused but I wasn’t unhappy. I wasn’t vicious. I just couldn’t make anything out of what there was. My violence was against the obvious trap, I was screaming and they didn’t understand. And even in the most violent fights I would look at my opponent and think, why is he angry? He wants to kill me. Then I’d have to throw punches to get the beast off me. People have no sense of humor; they are so fucking serious about themselves. Somewhere along the way, and I have no idea where it came from, I got to thinking, maybe I should be a writer. Maybe I can put down the words that I haven’t read, maybe by doing that I can get this tiger off my back. And so I started and decades rolled by without much luck. Now I was a mad writer. More rooms, more cities. I sunk lower and lower. Freezing one time in Atlanta in a tar paper shack, living on one dollar and a quarter a week. No plumbing, no light, no heat. I sat freezing in my California shirt. One morning I found a small pencil stub and I began writing poems in the margins of old newspapers on the floor.
I still feel the madness rushing through me, but I still haven’t gotten the word down the way I want it, the tiger is still on my back. I will die with that son-of-a-bitch on my back but I’ve given him a fight. And if there is anybody out there who feels crazy enough to want to become a writer, I say go ahead, spit in the eye of the sun, hit those keys, its the best madness going, the centuries need help, the species cry for light and gamble and laughter. Give it to them. There are enough words for all of us.
“My Madness” by Charles Bukowsky.
Qué dice la gente
La forma de ponerse en marcha es dejar de hablar y empezar a hacer.
Walt Disney
Son nuestras decisiones, Harry, lo que muestran quién somos, mucho más que nuestras habilidades.
J. K. Rowling
No llores porque se acabó, sonríe porque sucedió.
Dr. Seuss