15 de nov. 2015

the rain

And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Bob Dylan based on a true story

It's this time of the day when certitudes are liquefying and the back pain progressively evaporates on the mattress. In bed, an open book, a sleeping phone and a hibernating computer. In bed, myself turned into a sleeping puddle, transitioning from the solid to the gaseous state. On the other side of the window spider legs spinning ice, bird steps on the frost, cat nails on the floor, stilettos on the asphalt, lead feet tap dancing. A storm against the glass that sounds like a plastic bubble symphony, like popcorn in the frying pan.

Next morning, a combined back taste of wet cardboard and coffee smell pull your eye lids. Stretching the numb muscles to the corners of your bed, rolling from east to west, looking for the north you've lost through the night, looking for the pole star in the window. But it's day time, the clouds hurry past the blinds and the rain drops sneak over the glass surface.

With the strength of all the mythologic giants, uncovering the bedsheets feels like an exfoliation, you lean the legs on the bed edge and with the eyes closed, you jump the cliff that separates dream and vigil. You step your feet over the day and feel the cold in the soles. Water in the bedroom. In the corridor, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bath room. Water in vertical flow by the window and stagnant water on the floor of the floor.

In the kitchen D prepares breakfast, turning the toasts, pouring coffee, with or without milk she asks with her pajama rolled over her knees. With milk. And yogurt with honey and staring through the windows. Water flowing above the level of the sea and below the poverty line. At bird sight, honorable citizens looking like ants on their way to work jumping from car to car while the police orchestrates the traffic of people on top of their vehicles.

In the street, water up to your knees, looking for the way to the office depending of flows of this expanded sea, mixture of mediterranean, nile and dirt. In the corner of the desert road, a fishermen's boat covers the ride downtown and citizens wait in line standing on the ceiling of a tramway station. As if nothing ever happened everything keeps happening.

Wind keeps blowing through the window leaks and through the chamfers of this accidental venice. Electric cables dance an acrobatic swing from pole to pole, left right loop jump and fall. Electric sprawl on the urban river, electrocuted passersby like fish farm corpses. Overflowing tunnels, sandy skyscrapers. You give up and resume the way back home, urban salmon.

The army has entered into action and they patrol the main alleys by boat. The sand bags stacked in front of strategic buildings have become castaway islands without palm tree. Dry soldiers keeping guard on the tip of the iceberg. In his dark wooden thick curtained bureau the president waits for on the phone for his call to be answered. I've said call the responsible. We have no records of responsibility, your excellency. I've said call someone, anyone. He will change the direction of the catastrophe with a shift of the ruddle.

First measure: dismissing the governor, who collects the mug of the american university where he graduated and picks the snorkeling glasses from the drawer. A defeated wall street wolf passing on the command to the a sea wolf marshal, from now on the boss of this dirty water archipelago. Second measure: declaring the state of emergency. Your predecessor already declared it three years ago, your excellency. Declaring the state of urgency. You rubricated it before the elections, your honor. Declaring the state of siege. You imposed it over the whole territory to protect the national borders, mister president. Declaring the drought. Third measure: with immediate effects.

All land lines have been taken by ephemeral inflows cascading from the balconies of every house. The new military governor executes the orders with an iron fist. The avenues are covered with the presidential order printed in plastic canvas, streets are covered with waterproof flags and the leaks are covered with the remaining electoral banners of the last vote. And the rain persists in its raining over a flooded and plasticized city.

The lack of results and the saltpeter are undermining the authority and before the iron fist starts rusting, the arrests begin. The drought has been declared, says the presidential order, thus any expression of support to the liquid enemy will be prosecuted and punished. Umbrellas, raincoats, swimming suits, water wings and any other weapon contributing to the social alarm is forbidden. The orders are executed with the usual diligence and police stations, jails and waiting rooms are progressively flooded with detainees.

But it keeps raining outside and in front of the futility of being waterproof, we start liquifying little by little. Dissolving in the rain turning into drops. Turning into puddles. Turning into beaches. Turning into oceans until we start sinking. 

Text originally published in spanish in Nativa magazine