Una chorretada difícil de comprender / Lorenzo García Vega

A Hard To Understand Squirt

If you don’t know about the crocodile that circles me, it’ll be hard to understand what I’m about to say here.
     What I saw, very white, and later, having heard someone say, to someone else, that it was enough, the presence of a maharaja for a pain in his neck to disappear.
     Nothing, a pretty yellow bird, but someone else said that just by using the Manager (sic), or a black pebble, “the cover of the mountain” would come crashing down. There’s a knife that opens without opening, the other one ended up saying.
     A little bit of death won’t hurt. He went to a little box of chocolates. Someone tossed it, and it landed in the patio of a jail, full of starving prisoners.
     The nuns of the Sacred Heart send me the Mater Pages every month, but I’m barely able to buy the shoes I wanted in the fur shop where I’d been. You see, I was listening to the absurd allegations of some clients, cowardly and combative.
     My grandfather was in the habit of making his own cigars —they were cigars with yellow paper—. But now someone the Argentines call a “boludo.” This “boludo” escaped the very moment —smoke-filled night— I began to think of him.
     It was five in the morning. It had been a while since I’d left the Publix where I worked as a bag boy. Twenty-five decrepit old ladies, dressed up as little girls were at the Home. The horror! So then I started to think about how, in the Publix, they owed me two weeks of sand. What did this mean?
     The deserted sidewalk. The undead man staring right at me. Raining which is a happiness. I’m gonna go out with the painter Baruj Salinas, but before that someone dictates how I should paint. Afterwards, I hear about something more or less like this: someone, who’s left for Oregon, leaves the toilet seat cover for his grandma.
     The devil whispering to me on the little cart I drove, when I was a bag boy at Publix. Where will I take him? I ask myself if that little cart might actually be inside me.
     What was the painting I set out to make, when I thought I could be a painter? I discover myself insisting. Romans? The opposition to a matrimony?
     It seems like an argument. A wedding should not take place.
     There’s a tenuous pinkness, in all of this.
     And I can finish by saying that the son of the heroine —a barber, as far as I can tell— is happy when he learns that she’s the only one who’ll escape. But how many colors does it take to say this?
     I don’t even find out how sad I am.




{ Lorenzo García Vega, Erogando trizas donde gotas de lo vario pinto, Madrid: Ediciones La Palma, 2011 }