VACUUM (NADA)

A veces no quiero nada,

o mejor dicho, nada quiero,

o si prefieren diré, para ser mas claro,

que a veces quiero Nada,

o que Nada es lo que más quiero

Y vean que no es servil conformismo

ni discreta austeridad;

es solamente que a veces me basta apenas 

un poco de Nada, sin adornos ni añadidos, 

y digo que nada más que Nada 

es en verdad lo que quiero. 

Entonces el silencio amigo habla

y mi alma callada le responde,

imaginando el deleite supremo,

el vacío voraz, el banquete de Nada,

en que mi Nada engulle 

esas palabras que, ya muertas,

se quedan en la garganta,

o aquellas que al cruzar tu dintel

se deshilachan en un humito azul, 
como de luna de papel,

y vuelven a ser, otra vez, 
                    y por fin, 
                             nada.

Sándalo Naranja

WW ( without words)

Me, the humble researcher, again. I am diving today into the realm of wordless activities. Please pay attention.

Wordless activities, part I. 

1.- Kissing, most notably. Kissing is wordless by necessity, but it is interesting to think that we use for kissing the same physycal means we use for talking: lips, tongue, teeth, air. Like words, kisses may have punctuation and articulation. You can use words between kisses, but technically, one needs to shut up to kiss properly. Other kissing modes may allow for words, at least in the person who receives the kisses. For example, I can see myself kissing your hands with devotion, while listening to you with pleasure (oh well, just an example of many). 

2.- Walking. My preference: holding hands. Hands holding provides a communion of feeling, expressed wordlessly. From palm-rubbing in freedom to passionate intertwined fingers, there is a world of intention in hand holding. No need further explanation. I think.

3.- Meditation, à deux. Many possibilities here, from mere contemplation of nature to more advanced forms of vacuum creation. Words and thoughts are kept at bay. We feel energized and cleansed. Then words may return, with vibrant brand-new meanings.

4.- Hugging/embracing. I don't remember in ALL my life having wanted so much ANYTHING as I do want embracing you. Gosh. Heavens. Oh, where was I? Ah, yes. Embracing. Bodies touch, arms surround the Other, we give alternatively affection, protection, we express all sorts of wordless things just by adding pressure or releasing it. By holding it or letting go. Hands are given a wordless voice to explore, to recognize, to invite. Some embraces can get so passionate that legs work actively in it, as well. Some authors, more rigorous, consider that, etimologically, "embrace" relates to "brace", bras, brazos, braços, arms, and propose other terms when leg activity is involved (see Parra, 2013: 41), when he proposes for the spanish language "abrazo" and "apierno", respectively).

5.- Love making. We could debate until midnight if love making should be considered per se a wordless practice. Nobody doubts that words can be exciting and inciting, offering a dIrect way for lovers express their feelings and manifest their preferences. But let us say as well that silence CAN be a wonderful background for love making, allowing the lovers to express through countless ways the ineffable nature of their love. As everything in life, the wisdom will come with the balanced combination of both.

There are many more WW (without words) activities, namely caressing.

I don' t want to tire you. 

I want (to invite) you.

YOU ARE SUCH

You are such, that I am cursed, or blessed, to remain thirsty and hungry of you forever. I better get used to the idea.

This is why in my dreams the time for delight seems as infinite as your beauty, and thirst and hunger are but a distant remnant of the daytime.

As I stop and smile my timeless smile, a wind of desire sweeps my mind. My smile has been courting vertigo, loneliness, oblivion. It has crossed valleys and spellbounding distances. 

My desire is like my smile: old and new, plural, manifold. My desire is as endless and inapprehensible as your bouquet of beauties. 

All I care for in this bountiful world has your name imprinted. 

For you run through my veins.

                   

For I drown in your eyes. 

                                 Sándalo Naranja

A Cidade

Poderias nunca ter vindo, mas vieste. A grande cidade agora é tua, também, sim um bocadinho. A cidade é de todos e, às vezes de ninguém. Mil pessoas todos os dias de manhã a enchem de passos, nas ruas, nas paragens de autocarro, no metro, nos jardins, nas universidades, nas escolas, nos escritórios, nos cafés, nas esplanadas. Risos, olhares fugazes, outras vezes tristes, outras vezes atentos, outras vezes felizes, outras vezes apaixonados, outras vezes desesperados, outras vezes cansados, outras vezes parados, outras vezes, ainda, distraídos, outras vezes.......
 A cidade é como se fosse o mundo em ponto mais pequeno, mais próximo do teu corpo e do teu pensamento apesar de toda a variedade de personagens, um espaço físico menos controlável mas ainda possível de lá chegar, uma fugacidade inacreditável, uma riqueza que às vezes, por pena tua, não consegues abarcar, mas querias, desejavas ardentemente que assim fosse.

Os dias podem ser infinitamente imensos e variados ou não. Quando, no primeiro dia, de regresso a casa, entrei no autocarro, um silêncio de granito, daquele pesado e antigo, respirava-se em golfadas fortes. Pensei que fazia falta haver música naquele espaço. Ao final do dia, aquela melodia beijando os olhos, os lábios, afagando os cabelos de todos nós que ali estávamos. E Mozart surgiu-me logo de imediato. Aquela frescura quase infantil capaz de iluminar até o mais escuro canto do mundo. Como um jardineiro que planta flores entre os paralelos da calçada. O génio do que é humano e conhece deus no seu mais íntimo de si.
E o autocarro parou. Desci. Parei para  atravessar na passadeira  à espera que ele passasse e continuasse a sua marcha. Mas então olhei e vi. O condutor acenou-me com um gesto de permissão simpático e lento. Atravessei e senti atrás de mim  aquele ruído que, aos poucos, se torna tão familiar aos meus ouvidos.
Desci a rampa e aproximei-me de casa. Sim. O dia chegava ao fim e sabia que ao abrir a porta teria Mozart para me receber.

AMAN

GLORIA or THE WRATH OF GOD

For those skeptical chaps and lads who claim that there is no guy in the sky, this exemplary tale should provide a moment for reflection.

Humankind never knew how close it was that day to total anihilation. God had a lot on His plate, that morning.

-FUCK THIS SHIT, REALLY ! I AM GOING BACK TO NARNIA!

Gloria looks at Him, half in disbelief. It looks like God is about to lose His marbles. Again. His thundery voice turns Heaven into a windy and highly unstable place. Anything but heavenly, really.

- Yes, Gloria, I mean the Winter Palace, and I mean it RIGHT NOW. Call them, Gloria, please, and let them know to make the necessary arrangements for my arrival...

God is visibly tired. In His inmortal kind of way. He looks depressed as well. Gloria, God's executive assistant and devoted lover, looks at Him with affection, as if gently calling for a little patience and common sense.

- Oh, my God... but what on Earth has happened now?

- What has happened, you ask? I am furious... FURIOUS! This is what has happened. I did not feel this furious since Sodoma and Gomorrah, by golly... I really need a break, Gloria. I cannot take no more of this Goddam shit, I swear to G... I mean, to Myself... Please, Gloria, shall you take care of all heavenly issues while I am away at Narnia...? I am in need of a break. I fucking deserve it. 

Gloria does not answer immediately. She never does. She wisely times her reactions in order to contain God's raptures of fury. If Heaven is still a relatively peaceful place, it is thanks to Gloria's diplomatic handling on all godly affairs.

- Don't you give Me that glorious look of yours, Gloria... I am just fed up with those morons... I am done with Mankind. Listen to me, I cannot get even one more millennium of that shit. I am through with those... assholes...! 

Gloria looks Him in the eye (well, yes, literally) with her "no bad words" look, as if telling Him off.

- Yes, assholes, Gloria, I mean it!

- Please, Honey... do me, and yourself, a favor... do not pronnounce those words again... - Gloria asks, finally - Besides, I remind you, a swearing God is something utterly pointless, not to say pathetic... Gods should always refrain from swearing, Dear. If anything, gods are used by people on Earth to swear in their names, not the other way around.

Gloria has a pair of beautiful, glorious eyes, and a silhouette capable to awake the senses of even the most angelic spirits. Both her regard and her demeanor are always serene. When she is not around to sooth God with her infinite charm and beauty, sharp intelligence and cheering humour, He becomes easily grumpy and thundery. If Mankind has avoided destruction by the hand of unforgiving divine fury, to this day, it owes it largely to Gloria's intervention. 

Three hurrahs to Gloria in Excelsis! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

- Sorry, dear, of course you are right, you are always right. I will try to keep my cool. But it is hard, it is hard...

- Com' on... You are God... Nothing should be that hard for you... Let me tell you once again, Your Highness: You are simply too demanding. Your creatures do what they can... They are clearly limited by their own... uhm... limitations... Yes, their own limitations, that's it...

Gloria is, perhaps, together with Brigitte Bardot, Caterine Deneuve and Juliette Binoche, one of God's Most-Accomplished-Creations-of-All-Time. She places a beautiful, slender hand on God's left cheek, affectionately. She can be so damn lustful when the opportunity requires it...

- Hey... don't misunderstand me, Almighty.  I love it when you get mad. You look powerful and sexy. Mmmm... Old Testament type... revengeful and punishing. I damn like it, by God, it turns me totally on, and You know it..! But now I must remind You...

- ... Yes, dear Gloria, I know, I know... You ask me to be calm and that's alright. But don't tell me this is normal. it is not. I am so disappointed with Mankind...

Poor God. He looks genuinely worn off, as if He had gone through several exhausting eternities.

- Just look at the poor devils...! It took them more than ten thousand years to build their idea of civil rights, and now they are letting these crappy politicians to dismantle everything in less than two decades... And you ask me to be calm...! 

-Yes, Almighty, this is exactly what I am asking you...

-...but where is the sense of community, the ideals for the common good? Where is the left, by Mysake...? You know how challenging was hard wiring evolution into my creatures... How can I remain calm now while I watch this civilizational setback happening before My own divine eyes? My design is collapsing, dammit, can't you see that?

Gloria adopts a scholarly demeanor. She is proud of herself and her abilities to handle God. 

- Take it easy, Your Almighty... You, better than anyone, know that everything flows from a moment of chaos to the next moment of dissolution... Come on, YOU designed it yourself! "Enthropy", you named it... And let me remind you at this point that you seemed quite satisfied after you were done, remember? What could you expect from enthropy, but a winding road filled with some progress and an awful lot of failures? To me, your design is still beautiful, specially as seen from here, of course. 

- Yes, yes, Gloria, I know you are right. You know, I am so happy I made you. What I would do without you...! If you were not here to stop my hand, I believe I would have sent these scoundrels to their bloody and painful deaths several times now... 

Then, He ponders a bit and asks: 

- Tell me... Do you think I could have done this better? What the hell did I do wrong with them? Do you see any flaw in my work?

- God almighty...! You ask me some questions, My Lord...! You are the perfect One here... Do you expect me to correct your divine creation? My functions are restricted to keep your agenda and prevent your bad temper from terminate de world prematurely...and... Well... 

Gloria looks sensually and adds with a velvety voice:

-... And if I am allowed to say, some delightfuly kinky sex as well... But now that you ask me... Yes, I believe mankind could benefit from some changes... maybe it is not too late, after all...

-Like what, Gloria? Please enlighten me...

God tries to stick to the main subject, but His lover's reference to their sex life has fired some desire on Him. Gloria continues her train of thought:

-Well... Have you ever noticed that the most lucid members of Humankind are plagued with doubts? Conversely, the most stupid ones are precisely the ones that are more fanatic and never question themselves... 

-Doubts, Gloria? Do you mean doubts about their faith?

-No, Dear Lord... Nobody has much faith in religion these days, if you allow me to say... I meant doubts in general, doubts about everything. The natural skepticism that is the privilege of truly smart people... The sharpest tend to question things...

-You are right...

-... and well, Gloria. This characteristic is a good thing in itself... It made possible the development of science, for instance...

-... yes, but on the other hand, so much independent thinking hinders people from congregating around one fixed idea and make it develop quickly... Constant questioning slows down the whole process...

-Yes, Lord, this is exactly my point. If you want an idea to spread quickly, a preacher who preaches fear of punishment to a brainless herd will do a much efficient job than a handful of independent thinkers.

-You are so clever, Gloria... This explains why these scoundrels did never make real progress...... Instead of worrying about their well being and uplifting their community standards, they have been obsessed with Me, so fearful of my punishment... No wonder how war and the greed of a few prevailed...

-Yes Lord...You thought this little twist was very clever at the time of creation... But maybe it was not such a great idea... the fear of You sparked the flame of individualism. In short, right wing thinking gained the ability to organize itself around the idea of fear, while lefties were framed by the right as naive hippies...

-It is true... I have never noticed that, but I reckon your description is accurate. The result of it is that the brightest guys are hindered by self doubt and second thoughts, while the rest are a mass of morons who act blindly following their faulty brains without ever thinking that they might be wrong...

-Exactly, Almighty... No wonder things are not going so hot on Earth. 

-And what now, Gloria? I am tempted to destroy the whole damn thing and start over, giving more attention to these details I overlooked before... Tabula rasa, Gloria! What do you think? I feel young again!

-...

-What, Gloria?

-My God... You men, even in divinal version, are so blunt. If You ask me Dear, I would just rewire the newly-born brains, or souls, or whatever You call it, with a new predisposition for empathy, peaceful dialogue and community-oriented action. These scoundrels, as You call them, just need a little help. Just reprogram the new babies and allow ten or twelve generations, and You will see what your Mankind is capable of. 

-You are miraculous indeed, babe. You know what? Cancel the Narnia arrangements. I stay here. Let's have some quality time, you and Me, what do you think? That dress of yours is making me crazy, truth must be said... 

- Thank You, my Lord. You will make me blush...

- ... and tomorrow I will start thinking in the rewiring. Or after tomorrow... Hey, if God cannot procastinate a bit, nobody can.

Sándalo Naranja

THE PIER BECAME YOU

Today, I let the time pass by

(not that it asked my permission,

not that the bastard needed my agreement)

But I let it pass all the same

Yet do not think I was idle

for one thing is to let the time pass by

and another one is to let it go

I was busy, in fact:

I walked on the sands, 

tasted the salt,

and saw the waters foaming, a bit angry

In the pier I offered to took a pic 

of two corean friends

who giggled like crazy

(one of them had a terribly green skirt

and looked terribly nice)

And as I did these things

I never ever forget to let the time pass by

No, no, not even for one second

The sun was high 

and I went into a trance

I filled my eyes with all the blues

(training to gain some expertise,

an informal Master in Shades)

and although this poem may lack

a proper unifying topic,

the day would not be complete

without saying that all this time

the pier became you

Sándalo Naranja

CHICKEN À LA SANDALIX

Today's menu: 

Scarborough Chicken (my creation): parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Chicken, vegetables, pasta. Today we will use maccaroni.

This herbal combination was past through hundreds of generations from an  ancient druid spell. Not intended originally as a culinary recipe, but rather as something linked to the féerique  magic, geared towards winning the gods' protection during wartime. 

The experience failed as such, but proved useful as an elixir to conquer your lover's desire. Since that day, druids made love, abandoning their initial interest in war, thus counting themselves proudly as the first hippy people in history. 

If you ever try it, made by my hands,

  ... then you will be a true love of mine...

Consider this as a friendly and loving warning. 

Sandalix, the good cook

YOUR CHARLESTONIAN HANDS

By all means, wine, yes....we must toast soon... What would we wish without wine? There is nothing impossible, or so i have come to think. Just choosing the right wine, and a bit of planning, that will do it. 

I am informin' you, dear, that I am initiating a private passion with your hands. Starting today. Your eyes have such a magnetic field that it was impossible for me to divert myself from them, till now. But today I tried several techniques (yes, I did) and I can say I was at least moderately succesful in focusing on your belle epoque hands for a few seconds, with the foreseable result of falling desperately in love with them.

You are beautiful. These words were very near my tongue today, almost caressing my lips, but something else crossed in their way (maybe another thread of conversation). So I pronounce them now, for you.

Sándalo Naranja

DAWN

You accompany me in my morning walk, today. How nice of you. We walk on the wooden pasarelle, inhaling the fresh morning air, admiring the minute light changes as the sun rises. 

At Sandy's, we hold hands and leave the pasarelle. We set foot on the sand. You take off your sandals and pick them up with an elegant and charming gesture. I admire the way your fine feet hit the sand, leaving a lovely mark at every step. 

I stop there for a while. I gesture, urging you to keep on walking, and I stay a bit behind, just to watch your movement, to be a spectator of your beauties as your slim and lovable body moved nonchalantly across the dunes. 

I think you secretly smile at my voyeurism. As always, your walking cadence hipnotizes me. Finally I run to you, catch you by the rocks in the seashore. The waters are already caressing your feet and you smile serenely. I take your hand and walk with you through some bigger rocks, climbing to the top of one of them. 

There, facing the ocean and with the sun raising majestically on the opposite side of the sky, I cup your face with my hands and kiss your lips. You hug me softly and sweetly. We rub slowly and playfully our faces against each other. Cheeks, noses, eye lids, lips, temples, all dancing the simplest dance to the music of the waves. My soul fills with your love. Your warmth I will keep in my heart forever.

Sándalo Naranja

THE PIRATE'S LOVESONG

You are my compass star

You are my measure

You are a pirate's map

My buried treasure

Sándalo Naranja

FREEWINGS

Her blush is like no other. A choral sunset of blues and flesh and vermellion.

She is alone, reminiscing, and she blushes. It's a blush that belongs to her, and to her alone. The blush flows from her previous thoughts, which seem like arrived from a distant past, their presence only denounced by a rumour like a candle flickering.  

On her house, a quiet morning time that looks at her from the breakfast tablecloth. In the air, a strong coffee aroma. The light filtering through the curtain reveals the tiniest particles of dust, floating lazily on the sunbeams. 

I sit there, with her, on one of three free wooden benches. I am not really there. I watch her from beyond time and space. Like a ghost, perhaps. The once harmonious motions of our hearts seem forever lost. What would we do without words?

Yet, I feel her going through a brief lapse of something that could be called joy. There, in her own house, where she usually wears that apron of disbelief, that grey veil of sadness, yet not thick enough to cast a shadow on her beauty. 

But now music pours from the radio and she sings joyfully over the music, following the winding paths of the singer's voice like a second skin. She is loose, she cannot imagine I am there, watching her with a smile. She shines. Her eyes shine, she blushes. 

Yes, she blushes, that little stream of joy runs through the kitchen walls. As she sings, the breakfast dishes vanish like magic.

She switches the music off and sits at the table, by my side. She holds a pencil, her delicate hand chatting with her own mind-eye. She draws something like a circle. The object has some magic to it, and I think it is obviously so much more than a circle. She draws directly from her heart, using definite motions. Everything on the paper starts as a geometric form, and then turns into something else, like alchemy, a  sortilège of sorts.

Yes, she holds the pencil with some reverence, like a a pilgrim would hold a candle. She makes a mental note to buy more paper. This is maybe her hundredth dragonfly. She does not colour her drawings, but inside her blue eyes she can feel the shade of pale yellow on the wings of this one. All the dragonflies are different, all ready to fly, free and easy. 

When the kids come back, after school, they will collect the new dragonflies passionately, colorfully illuminating their mother's drawings with a symphony of crayons. Another ritual. Like her singing, like her sadness. 

But for now everything is still at home. She inhales the coffee smell and keeps on with her reminiscence. A bitter thought crosses her mind: she did not fly when she could.

Freewings, she pronounces loud for herself as I watch, mesmerized, the circles and forms her hand draws on that paper.

I may not see her again, ever.

                                                                                                  Sándalo Naranja

EL TREN QUE ME ALEJA

Yo soy yo, claro. No me vengas ahora con dudas sobre esa cuestión. Sólo me faltaba eso ahora. Es cierto que a veces ni sé dónde nacer... Hay días en que no entiendo la danza de los astros, y voy caminando fuera de mí, y parece que nada me toca... 

Pero yo soy yo, el idiota ese del espejo. De eso no puede haber dudas. Dudas no. No hoy, no ahora. Yo soy yo. 

Ahora me he venido a este rincón obscuro del alma para olvidarte mejor, mujer. Ya sabes que me gusta hacer las cosas bien. Y si bien amé, ahora también me toca olvidarte de la mejor manera posible. Y no es fácil. Me caes encima como le caen a uno las sombras al anochecer: así, inevitablemente. Me caes encima como siempre me has caído, en forma de recuerdo y de deseo, de vibración blanca, de razón negada, de felicidad substraída. 

Eres, serías, hubieras sido, fuiste. Me cuesta horrores conjugarte, mujer. Solo de pensar que para pensarte debo situarte en algún punto entre el pasado y el futuro, se me cae el alma a los pies. Por no tener que conjugarte más sería capaz hasta de no pensarte, y así poco a poco me iría haciendo al olvido. Quiero subir a ese tren que me aleja de tí. 

Ya ves... me inventé un barco, una liturgia de faros y castillos, de ángeles de bronce, de flores rojas, de iglesias de espuma, arena y sal que llevaban tu nombre. Ahora debo aprender a descreer en esos credos, debo intentar enredarme en otras algas, en otros sueños. 

Yo no soy yo, ni mucho menos. Veo a ese otro en el espejo, mirándome, y pienso que sólo puede tratarse de un imbécil. Un desubicado. La imagen devuelta a mis ojos no puede ser sino un equívoco, un descuido, un lapso, un lamentable error. 

Y entonces miro más allá de mí, ya sí al otro lado del espejo, transfigurado, absorto, y soy yo también, el que para vivir tuvo que perforar ese espejo, el que tuvo que aniquilar la posibilidad de verse reflejado ahí otra vez, porque un día más reflejándose y estaría muerto, envenenado de azogue, de olvido, de indiferencia.

Yo soy yo, y no lo soy. Por eso escribo, y por eso ya no estoy aquí. Por eso ya no regreso. 

                                 

Sándalo Naranja

TAN CALLADAMENTE

Ya no está aquí,

el agua bajando se la llevó,

fue bastante rápido, la verdad,

quién imaginaría algo así,

pero les digo que sí,

que ya se fue,

que ya se ha ido,

y permanece ida,

fue una especie de clic

y ya no está,

y mis pasos ya no siguen los suyos

ni mis ojos ya la rebuscan 

entre el diario naufragio del tráfico,

y ya no sé si fue ella la que se marchó,

o si fui yo quien la desapareció,

aunque en todo caso vivo contento

desde que esa lluvia se la llevó,

¿o fueron las lágrimas,

curvas como meridianos,

las que al final ahogaron tanta espera,

tanto silencio feo,

tanta belleza acribillada,

tanto fulgor imaginado,

tanto futuro por venir?

Sándalo Naranja

AS PALAVRAS NA NOITE

sem querer, sem que nada o pudesse prever, assim sem marcação na agenda verde, a lápis, e já está.
não percebes porque te aproximas, porque vais, porque foste, mas sabes, tens a certeza que é por ali.
e é essa certeza que te faz estar vivo e acreditar na luz nascente de cada dia do mundo, no mundo dentro da tua vida, da luz mais profunda capaz de ter caracterizar no espelho dos olhos daqueles que te deixam entrar sem receio, como o rapaz de fato e gravata verde escuro, saquinho preto, de letras douradas na mão, no metro, naquele fim de dia tão dorido e pesado.
e tu vives com esses olhos dentro de ti, iluminando as horas e abrindo-te o caminho na folha dos cadernos, no ecrã da máquina mágica, nos intervalos do trabalho, nas pausas do café sem gente e com cadeiras vermelhas que combinam com a garrafa de coca-cola.
olha: para ti esta linha de água corrente e incessante, noite dentro, como todas as palavras capazes de te fazer acreditar nas possibilidades impossíveis, no teu coração, nos teus sentidos, nas tuas dúvidas. acredita e não desistas e vai. és mais livre assim, completamente livre e sem correntes porque sentes e mesmo ao contrário do mundo virado ao avesso és tu.que a portas se fechem, ou melhor que a aquela que se abriu se tenha fechado por momentos, não importa. ou se importa, será assim para os outros. haverá um dia no qual todas as palavras ganharão corpo e te darão aquilo que te pertence. é teu, faz parte de ti, como tu fazes parte dessa parcela ausente. acredita. sempre. esse dia chegará e com ele asas e aí não terás medo e serás pássaro porque o teu coração já o é.
aquele abraço para ti, hoje, na noite cantada, porque são momentos como estes que nos fazem acreditar que os amigos nascem das ondas do 
mar.

Aman