The time of year is approaching when, in mid-August and lying on the beach of Areas, ten meters from the beach bar O Telleiro de Nel, with my son playing with other children and my friends organizing dinner in a WhatsApp group in I am not here, I think about the desire I have to get to Madrid, lock myself in my study without air conditioning at six in the morning with several missed calls from the night before demanding articles or chapters, and that the computer hangs leaving 600 unsaved words, I slammed the mouse against the wall, got into bed shaking with anger, and spent the rest of the day unable to get up with another anxiety attack. And to be able to go back later, day by day, slowly, under that feeling of happiness that implies leaving the bad behind, a happiness that would not be complete if it did not know that the bad is going to return.
The phrase “you have arrived from paradise” is by Lucía Berlin the day when, after equal and happy weeks with her newly detoxified husband and the children in a cabin, on a beach and fishing for what they ate, she saw the camel from his partner and, hours later, the two men in front of a campfire, seeing them putting on a pick; her husband leaned back, camel forward, over the fire. “He came from paradise,” she said after burying the body overnight, “I’m going back to real life.” Was it true or was it a story? The story as it was recalled by the writer Juan Forn in one of his back covers on Page 12. Yes, I found a story that is even better than this story: one in which Lucía Berlin recounts her quiet days and in love with her husband when her friend and neighbor Peggy gives the man a gift: a box with twelve vials of pure morphine . “A little present for Bud.” “(…) He must have seen Buddy and me kissing, he must have seen us happy. How was he able to send that box? “, Berlin writes in Welcome Home.
Achieving happiness is a crazy job, but one day it will be necessary to open the melon of how little it costs, and the satisfaction it gives, to burst it voluntarily, conscientiously, from the anecdotal like vacations to the transcendental like addictions (often overlapping). Why? Once a doctor told me that my interest in going down to the well was how much I enjoyed going to the surface, but that on the surface I no longer knew what to do, I could not find a routine to hold on to or a world that pleased me, hence The first thing I would do if I got to heaven one day would be to dig.
I think he’s right, but I never gave it to him and I never plan to. My drama is not so much peace as boredom. Except for love, I have hardly any consistencies. One of them was precisely Juan Forn, an Argentine writer and journalist who I have been reading for many years in Page 12. It has been quoted here several times to vampirize it (like today), which is even worse than plagiarizing it, because at least with plagiarism there is no cynicism of the quote. He died last Sunday at the age of 61 of a heart attack. He did things for the privileged, like spreading the desire to read and write, and he did it relentlessly, as things that move curiosity and passion are done. It is the lack of people, not the lack of one, that demands the biggest comebacks, the impossible comebacks.