There is a lot to say about this. To begin with, Maragall did not choose a commercial title at all. Univocal, yes, clear, of course, but zero as far as appeal is concerned. I was lumbered with this poem at school, when I was just fifteen. I admit that It should have been some kind of inspiration to me -I started to immerse myself in deep thoughts terribly early- but perhaps as a reaction to the teacher devotion to the poem or perhaps due to my lack of experience with the matter it touched, La vaca cega (The blind cow) left me cold at that age. At least I must say I did not laugh, as some of my classmates did.

It took me some fifteen more years. One day, I don’t remember how, I found myself reading this poem on the computer screen. I had not read since school. And I realized I was crying. Suddenly, everything it said came to me so intensely that I couldn’t understand why I had not see it before. Using a real fact he observed in 1892, Maragall made a masterpiece of poetry.

Shortly after, in a show dedicated to Maragall, I asked to recite precisely this poem. And I didn’t want to read, I learned it by heart and recited looking at the audience. I felt that I finally had reconciled with it.

Sorry if I am repeating myself, maybe you’re fed to the teeth with the old little cow, but it’s perhaps the last post of the year, and I’d like to finish 2008 sharing real feelings with you (come to think of it, are there non-real ones?).

Topant de cap en una i altra soca,
avançant d’esma pel camí de l’aigua,
se’n ve la vaca tota sola. És cega.

Here you are, the entire poem summarized in a nutshell! “Una i altra soca” (Every stone), the sense of repetitive pain. “Avançant d’esma” (coming without any zest for life), she has no other reason to act than that of mere subsistence. Her blindness has isolated her from the rest. “És cega” (She’s blind). That’s it. Any further questions?, could we say.

D’un cop de roc llançat amb massa traça,
el vailet va buidar-li un ull, i en l’altre
se li ha posat un tel: la vaca és cega.

Any more direct and sour description of human cruelty? Or defencelessness? Or fate? On one hand, intentional attack. On the other hand, disease. And in the middle, an innocent being. Ok, it’s a cow. But is it only a cow? And if it is, doesn’t it make you think anyway?

Ve a abeurar-se a la font com ans solia,
mes no amb el posat ferm d’altres vegades
ni amb ses companyes, no: ve tota sola.

Having had and lost hurts more deeply than having never had at all. “Com ans solia, més no amb el ferm posat d’altres vegades…” (As before, but not with the proud gesture of old times …) Before, firmness and company. Now, weakness and loneliness. Striking verses.

Ses companyes, pels cingles, per les comes,
pel silenci dels prats i en la ribera,
fan dringar l’esquellot mentre pasturen
l’herba fresca a l’atzar… Ella cauria.

“És cega” (She is blind), “La vaca és cega” (The cow is blind), “Tota sola” (All alone) i “Ella cauria” (She would fall down). Look at the verse structure used by Maragall to lead and re-direct us non-stop to the main topic. At the beginning of this passage, however, fully-motioned verses. You can imagine the other cows in a quick walk to the rhythm of cowbells, enjoying the nature in their cowly way. You’re even about to forget the topic. But the last two words bring you pitilessly back to reality.

Topa de morro en l’esmolada pica
i recula afrontada… Però torna,
i abaixa el cap a l’aigua, i beu calmosa.

“Topa de morro” (she hits her snout), just as she had hit her head a while before. The waterhole rejects her like her companions, like every beautiful thing in the world. She moves back, “però torna” (but comes again). This “comes again” looks terribly hard to me. It’s a surrender to the pain, an humiliation not to die of thirst. Equally brilliant is the adjective usage. She moves back “afrontada” (taking offence): rejection hurts, but drinks “calmosa” (calmly) she accepts her fate.

Beu poc, sens gaire set. Després aixeca
al cel, enorme, l’embanyada testa
amb un gran gesto tràgic; parpelleja
damunt les mortes nines, i se’n torna

“Beu poc, sens gaire set” (Drinks just a little, she’s not very thirsty): Here, once again, I see a description of a lack of zest for life. She raises her head towards the sky. I do not think it’s a random sentence. In fact, the sky is “enorme” (enormous), which makes our cow even smaller, and her “gesto” (gesture) is “tragic” (what a great thing to use this word!). Imagining the cow blinking over her died pupils makes you shiver.

orfe de llum sota del sol que crema,

Two words to be noted here: “orfe” (orphan) and “crema” (burning). The light has left her orphan and the sun burns. As a result, she only feels the burning, the negative side, but she can not see the world lightened by the sun. Good grief!

vacil.lant pels camins inoblidables,

Can someone be insisting and masterful at the same time? Yes, here’s the proof of it. “Vacil·lant” (faltering), again that sense of insecurity against the former strength. And why are the roads are “inoblidables” (unforgettable)? Because she’s not able to see them, she needs to know them much better than the other cows.

brandant lànguidament la llarga cua.

I remember that at this point teachers always say how reading this verse aloud recreates the rythm of the cow’s tail when moving from one side to another. In addition, you can imagine her going away with that faltering step that brings you infinite sadness.

I’ve always loved textual analysis -had real trouble in finishing on time when I did my exams-. Analyzing this poem could take many pages, but I think I’ve said more or less what I intended to, and there’s no problem in Maragall being insisting, but I’d better go right to the point.

Now I invite you now to read it again (you can see the catalan version below, along with the translation Miguel de Unamuno wrote in Spanish) free of comments, not to make you sad or depressed, but to get carried away by sensitivity and compassion. And your tears are welcome if they come, as tears that spring from deep feelings are a perfect way to water the soul.

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We all love it. Now I don’t make everything by myself, as I used to do years ago. We share taskes according to age and tastes (which are obviously related). I’m the responsible for thinking and creating the scenary, the little girls place the characters and make it snow, and he lends a good hand in do-it-yourself and lighting matters.

What we could pretentiously call “creative process” of the crib’s construction, as far as I’m concerned, has a first phase in which I am absolutely unbearable. I apologize to the victims for the past as well as in advance, but It’s something I can’t help. I look at the empty tables, side by side:

And I ask myself how will the landscape look this year. I place the house first and the rest finds its place gradually, only not always so fast as I’d like it to. At this point, questions like “what will you put here?” or “will the kings have a long path to go?” become as anguishing as impossible to answer, If you know what I mean…

Finally, everything is more or less prepared.

When Saint Cork appears, things are far from ready. This is a moment loneliness is more welcome than ever, because in a rapture of anarchy I start to collect any object I think than can come in useful. A CD case? Maybe the shepherds will feel great lying there. A cardboard strip? Properly folded it will turn into wonderful stairs. A metal tray for food? It’s the best pond for little ducks. Here again, questions like “why are you undoing this?” “what is your mousepad doing here?” or “so, you don’t want this box anymore?” are so logical for those who make them as annoying for me. A nice mp4 with ear-stuck headphones is a good way to get
concentrated.

As in a miracle, things seem to fit in the end and the project goes on. The moss starts to cover holes and manipulation evidence, also leaving a heavenly-scented room, a beautiful crib and heaps of living bugs that in the best of cases crawl above the plastic tablecloths and in the worst start to fly around. I always wear gloves when placing the moss.

After some four hours, I seat in a calm releaf and let Pandolfi and Pirindola decide about the figures and the climate. I always tell them to distribute the shepherds properly and not to make it snow too much. As we had an empty corner in the background paper, they wished a Merry Christmas in several languages:

And that’s it. Now for some details:

This year the shepherds have nice stairs to climb to the cave.

The Angel flies over the shepherds with the priceless help of the head of the family.

The three Kings have a long way to walk (we have to buy camel-riding kings, I know these are not the suitable ones… anyway the crisis can explain why they decide to go on foot).

The little ducks splash on the pond.

And last but not least, when we bought the moss they gave us a Christmas plant as a present: a perfect colored spark for the stable.

Welcome to our crib!

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Dec

17
' '

Aparences (Appeareances). A sequel.

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Dear friends,

XeXu, in his blog, began a story about three old friends -two boys and a girl- who meet and talk about their lives. Carme wrote the next part from each one of the characters’ point of view. Assumpta went on decorating it and Rits had her turn too. When Carme suggested me to partake, I felt delighted and got started at once. Just to make it a bit more familiar to you, here are the links to follow the story until my part that, as you will see, is also open to anyone else’s imagination…

APARENCES I. XeXu: The beginning.

APARENCES II. Carme. El noi despentinat de les ulleres (The hair in a mess, glasses-wearing boy).

APARENCES II. Carme. Ella (She).

APARENCES II. Carme. El noi alt i guapo (The tall handsome boy).

APARENCES III. Assumpta. Lídia, Miquel, Toni.

APARENCES IV. Rits. Saül Benet.

My part:

APARENCES V: L’ALBERT.

L’Albert va deixar el mòbil sobre la taula, satisfet. S’hi va pensar i va arrodonir l’obra: el va apagar. El Toni havia comès un error de passerell enviant-li l’sms que havia escrit per a algú altre. Ara havia pogut fer-se l’ofès i el tindria als seus peus. No creia que li fes el salt en absolut; el Toni era el típic noi amb identitat sexual per definir que acabava de descobrir el plaer del mateix sexe: no acostumaven a canviar de joguina de seguida, i ell, que el coneixia bé, havia sabut fer-se imprescindible. Acabar-lo de collar amb un missatge havia estat un regal inesperat, com haver aconseguit festa del gimnàs aquella tarda.

Per celebrar-ho, va sortir al carrer. Li agradava viure a Ciutat vella, perdre’s pel carrer Comtal o pel Portal de l’Àngel i observar la multitud. La feineta com a monitor li havia esmolat encara més els sentits: sabia com tractar i com utilitzar tothom, i no se n’estava. La natura l’havia fet tan atractiu per als homes com per a les dones, i no se n’estava.

Quan va començar a anar al gimnàs, el Toni tenia tot l’aspecte de portar temps a la gossera demanant adopció. Un matrimoni infeliç, unes mirades significatives quan es tocaven… Treballava a una de les primeres multinacionals del país, sospitosa d’escàndols financers. Les notícies vetades pel Gabinet de Premsa de l’empresa eren la targeta de presentació que l’Albert necessitava per tenir les portes obertes d’algun diari important. Ja era hora que comencés a exercir el periodisme, seria dels implacables i agressius. Mentre era al llit amb en Toni no podia deixar de pensar-hi. No li va ser difícil convèncer-lo per fer desaparèixer uns quants papers. Ara només calia esperar un temps, engegar-lo a pastar fang i fer servir la informació.

Va anar a parar a una petita granja i es va permetre demanar un suís. Ja faria després una taula sencera d’abdominals. Òndia! A la taula del fons hi havia la noia d’ulls castanys que anava de tant a tant a fer bicicleta! Sempre li havia agradat, tenia un bon cos i una mirada molt bonica. Ella ni se’l mirava quan entrava, sempre amb presses, a la sala del costat. Estava amb un noi d’aspecte tímid. “La típica rata de biblioteca quatre-ulls amb el cap esbullat que desperta l’instint maternal”, va pensar, envejós del lloc que ocupava, al davant de la noia. També va decidir que, de moment, ella no era un bon objectiu: es mirava el quatre-ulls amb massa adoració. “No siguis carallot”, va pensar. “No és només això, és una noia forta. Tu només saps treure profit de les debilitats.”

Aquesta idea el va deprimir una mica, però només un instant. Va desviar el pensament cap al director del gimnàs. Quines ganes tenia de dir-li que plegava! Era un imbècil que es pensava que una cadena de gimnasos el farien menys imbècil. Almenys li devia donar una bellesa irresistible, perquè l’última xicota era de bandera. Lídia, li semblava que es deia. L’amo l’havia col·locada a les oficines, a l’altra banda de la ciutat, i cada tarda, quan el venia a buscar, feia una mica d’exercici. Era la reina de l’aeròbic de les vuit. A l’Albert se li va il·luminar la cara. Quan deixés el gimnàs, la Lídia seria un objectiu perfecte. Era evident que no era feliç. Se la prendria a l’amo i se l’enduria al llit amb qualsevol promesa de vida nova. Segur que ella ho estava desitjant.

Ben mirat, no podia renegar del gimnàs. Li havia proporcionat prou satisfaccions, tot i que marxar seria la més gran. Potser només ho sentia per un paio: en Saül. El molt criatura deia que era representant de perfumeria, sense saber que fins i tot l’olor que feia era de detectiu privat. Ara el tenia content perquè havia aconseguit perdre una mica de panxa. Tan patètic que feia llàstima. Tot un perdedor al que no li convenia perdre de vista, potser li seria útil algun dia. Que li agradessin les dones era un petit problema, però ja trobaria ell algun fil d’on estirar.

Gairebé se li va escapar un crit quan va veure l’hora. El Toni ja devia haver arribat, entristit i submís. Li quedava la segona part de la representació, a casa. L’Albert es va aixecar, va pagar, va passar pel costat de la parelleta empalagosa i va enfilar el camí. Quant de temps continuaria fingint amb en Toni? No seria gaire, no volia veure’s embolicat en res. Li havia dit que la exdona era molt gelosa, i a la molt mala pècora no li seria difícil trobar un perdedor com el Saül per fer escudella de draps bruts…

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Dec

12
' '

Calents i contents (Hot and happy): Erotic tale.

• This day in History:

  

I’m finishing my post about our crib. In the meantime, let me tell you that on thursday november 28th, an erotic tale I wrote as a proposal from our beloved Veí de dalt was read in the radio program Calents i contents, in ONA FM -103.5 if you listen to it from Barcelona-. As I tend to be synthetic and too straightforward, my tale really couldn’t care less about the program timing. That’s why the Veí had to lenghthen it a bit by adding a few gorgeous words I feel extremely grateful for. Just not to be boring nor getting someone else’s credit, here’s my version -the short one- and clicking here you will be able to read the final one, as well as hear the corresponding audio. Sex: an amusing subject to write about, and even more to practise. Come on, let’s do both!

TAN DIFERENT

Estaven acostumats a les complicitats amb la natura, però aquell dia semblava que tot era més viu que mai. La sola visió d’ella nua ficant-se a l’aigua, retallada contra la claror, l’havia fet desitjar-la quasi dolorosament, i en canvi va fer el que qualsevol altre tarda hagués estat impensable: esperar.

Es va girar cap a ell. L’aigua li jugava per sota els pits i de tant en tant li anava i venia pels mugrons amb més obscenitat que delicadesa.

- Que no vens? Es va capbussar, i en sortir les gotes li guarnien la cara, el coll, els llavis…

Va entrar a l’aigua a poc a poc, sense deixar de mirar-la. Pensava que es posaria a nedar, com sempre, però l’esperava dreta, acaronant-se els pits amb suaus moviments circulars de les mans mullades. Quan van ser l’un davant de l’altre, li va passar la mà per la cintura i es van besar en un joc febrós de llengües, llavis i dents, mentre ella li havia trobat el tronc inflamat i ja el sacsejava rítmicament.

Intentava contenir-se mentre buscava la petxina doblement humida, però ella li impedia doblegant-se cap a ell i aixecant els malucs.

No podia més. L’asseuria al damunt amb un moviment inesperat i la foradaria sense contemplacions.

No sabia si li havia endevinat la intenció. Un segon abans el va mirar fixament, va somriure, el va deixar de sobte i es va posar a nedar cap a la vorera tan de pressa com va poder. Passada la perplexitat, la va seguir.

Assecar-se al sol era un plaer afegit després de sentir l’aigua del llac envoltant cada centímetre de pell. Aquell dia, plaer i agonia barrejats. Semblava tan disposada, tan plena de foc, i en canvi no el volia? Mai no li havia negat res i precisament aquella tarda…

…aquella tarda ella, capiculada al costat, va allargar la mà i va continuar el que havia començat a l’aigua. Ell va recuperar immediatament la poca consistència que havia perdut.

- Avui mano jo, recordes? Deixa’m fer… una vegada més.

Va tancar els ulls i s’hi va donar. Ja no era la mà, sinó els llavis d’ella que lliscaven amunt i avall amb parsimònia, i l’escalfor de la gola que l’acollia, i després la llengua que li resseguia l’espasa fins a la punta i s’entretenia en breus llepades delirants. No podia estar-se quiet. Va avançar els dits entre les cames d’ella i els va enfonsar en un cau que regalimava de desig, de calor i d’urgència.

Es va incorporar i es va asseure damunt d’ell, d’esquena. Van encaixar perfectament, amb un soroll fluïd que el va excitar tant com intuïr-la fregant-se el sexe, com veure-la moure’s amunt i avall, altre cop retallada contra la claror, les galtes glorioses colpejant-li el baix ventre, com sentir el pessigolleig fred de l’aigua que passava d’aquells cabells tan llargs al seu pit i s’escolava costelles avall fins tornar a tocar l’herba. La va agafar per la cintura. Els moviments es van fer cada cop més intensos, gairebé frenètics, només hi havia sol, i aigua, i verd, i delícia, i ella… ella, que estava a punt, com ell, que va esclatar, com ell, amb un crit profund, sense final, que va posar en tensió els dos cossos amarats d’aigua i de suor, mentre tot el voltant semblava que callava i es rendia al seu èxtasi infinit, irrepetible.

Es van separar i van quedar ajaguts, panteixant. Ella, arraulida, recolzava el cap al ventre d’ell, mirant avall. Li venia de gust veure com la tija perdia fermesa i es tornava minsa i suau. Ell estava seriós.

- Saps una cosa, nena? Hem vingut aquí un munt de vegades, però avui ha estat tan… diferent que he tingut una sensació estranya… com si estigués mal fet.

Ella li va fer una llepadeta comprensiva.

- Sí, rei. Jo he sentit el mateix. I saps una altra cosa, tu? -va dir Eva, mentre allunyava la poma que havien mossegat feia una estona amb una puntada de peu – mai no m’ho havia passat tan bé.

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Dec

6
' '

Changing plans.

• This day in History:

  

Today. Still wet after a nice shower, I find mysekf thinking about lots of things. As far as my blog is concerned, i think in some ideas for my weekly post. Maybe that one… or that one… or taking advantage ot Whity again… or that drawing still in project…

“Laura!”

… o that poem I keep remembering…

“Laura!”

…

“Who’s calling?”

“YEEEEP… PAUM!” (The bathroom’s door does not open properly).

“Can we build the crib this weekend? Now that I’ve got rid of that cold I’m eager to do it…”

“Oh, yes, there’s a crib contest at school and we’d like to partake!”

Must I describe their bright eyes and wide smile or you are imaginative enough?

Ok, no words then. I promise a huge report of the building activity and its results.

Have a nice weekend!

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Dec

1
' '

The school II: The meeting.

• This day in History:

  

I suppose the owners of may telephonic companies received our economic support before the target was reached, as more than one call got to parents, other friends, brothers… anyway, in the end Núria and Gemma -a big, big applause for them from the bottom of the heart- succeeded and we were summoned to an ex-classmates dinner.

More than twenty years is really something. I always said these meetings were just an excuse to release one’s morbidity and reckon which proportion is bigger, that of the wrinkles or that of the fat.

I must admit I was wrong. Since the instant we started to exchange emails with attached pictures, I saw a degree of illusion and affection in everyone that made me feel both thrilled and surprised. And there we were last night, almost forty girls of almost forty -some were forty already- looking and hugging one another, laughing like the children we would not be anymore.

Or maybe we still were? Engaged in questions and thoughts about life, among pictures of our children and husbands, I could not help feeling as if we were back in time. All of a sudden, playing an innocent prank, we had put our desks in row and were chatting, perhaps waiting for some teacher to come, maybe in an unexpected break, like that of gymnastics when it rained and we couldn’t go outside. Betti, always sweet, Sílvia always cheerful, Anna C so responsible and Anna B so outgoing. Susanna, who still explained things with such personal grace, Esther, with whom I probably shared more moments than I will never share with any friend again…

Teachers, pharmacists, clerks, a tube driver… Many of them have children: two, three… I looked at them all so healthy, happy, terribly cute, and felt absolutely proud of my generation.

“You have to make me a drawing” -Said Gemma handing me a sheet of paper- “Whatever that comes to your mind… a girl.” In a nervous hurry, I drew what you can see below: a student in her forties, playing with a “yo-yo” and wearing an uniform as well as fishnet stockings and high-heels.

They knew me well, remembered I was a good student but tended to make friends with the naughtier girls, remembered how I liked reading, writing and drawing.

Last friday’s night made a change to all my memories, like the change of a background curtain in the theatre. I will never be able to see them the way they were at school again. I will always think of them the way life has made them, more than twenty years after, and I will feel a deep emotion only those who have lived such a beautiful experience can understand… and also all of them, of course. The Escolàpies of 69.

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