Trips to nowhere, by Olga Merino

Tuesday, January 18. A beggar watches life from a corner of the neighborhood, surrounded by knickknacks rescued from the garbage, among them an hourglass that turns over when I am about to cross the traffic light: the fluorescent green dust falls inexorably to the lower bulb of the clepsydra. In his altar of trophies, the homeless man also treasures a sexless mannequin; rather, half of him, from the trunk down, a pair of lower limbs sitting on a stool, so well shaped that they seem about to sit up to start walking. Where would they go if they suddenly gained the gift of movement? Looking for your other half?

Thursday, 20. Days of road and blanket, of nomadic life, are upon us. Dinners in hotel cafeterias still disheartened by covid. Train and airport days, of touring the empty Spain, the emptied, the half-pensioner, the saturated, the perplexed, the exhausted and candied… In the hotel in Madrid, a poem by Gil de Biedma decorates the wall of the room that has touched me, some verses that speak about the sands of all clocks: “Then the years go by, and life / (too confused to explain by letter) / will make us more lost. / Some in the others, the same in the shadows / at the end of a corridor fainting & rdquor ;.

Thursday, February 3. dawn on a provincial AVE station; it’s cold outside. Behind the walls full of graffiti, behind some dead rails, a small cane field appears, one of those that tend to sprout spontaneously in the vacant lots of dumbfounded Spain. While waiting for the train, a bunch of women – it seems that they have left their husbands at home for a girl trip – comment on the recent death of the father-in-law of one of them and the words that the man spoke at the exact moment before expiring : “Shut off the water; It is very cold and the pipes burst & rdquor ;. To die like someone who leaves for the weekend, turning off the light, the gas tap, the water stopcock. See you later, Maricarmen.

Wednesday, 9. Several fellow writers cultivate the hobby of capture graffiti, the conversations that keep the walls and the walls that they bump into in their comings and goings. David Castillo has found a very large one at the Mundet station, on the green line: “He no longer really kisses. You don’t dance like before & rdquor ;. And Javier García Rodríguez has claimed a piece of big game, in the streets of Oviedo: “I smile but I’m with the runrún & rdquor ;.

Saturday, 12. award ceremony of the Goya. The voice of José Sacristán, the bearing, the humility of remembering where and who one comes from, and above all the recognition of all those people who “every year, either in a bunch or in a string, continue to buy my garlic & rdquor ;. Beautiful words. Having the last name Sacristán imposes character, I suppose; he places you immediately behind the curtains. Whenever I think of him I remember the movie ‘The Journey to Nowhere’, which he directed Fernando Fernan Gomez, about a traveling troupe that travels through devastated post-war Spain, and the words spoken by the award-winning actor in the film: “Where is the manna for comedians? On what land will it fall that is ours if we are from nowhere? We… of the road & rdquor ;.

Monday, 14. For a trip to nowhere (or to hell), that of Mañueco in Castilla y León: advancing the elections with the belief that he was going to devastate to, cataplum, throw himself into the arms of Vox. What a calculation error.

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Tuesday, 15. Seville. conference at the university Oscar Lopezdirector and presenter of ‘Página 2’, the program about books on TVE, and of Charo Ramos, two of the best cultural journalists in this country. Despite or perhaps because of the brilliant exposure, I go out with ‘low’. every time is the fabric of cultural journalism more precarious (and of the other). In this relentless transition to the digital, it cannot be that culture and analytical journalism end up becoming an Indian reserve. Ah, journalists, freelancers, artists, comedians of the league, where are we going?

Friday, 18. Fire within the PP. would it have exploded ‘ayusogate’ without the setback in Castilla y León? Probably, the internal struggle would have remained buried for a while longer. In any field, thriving experts often never remember where they come from. Oh, Married… As that old saying goes, “if you’re on a strange path, don’t lift your tunic too much.”

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