Cómo reencarnamos día tras día

Tanto las sociedades como las personas son máquinas de repetición, instrumentos del universo para volverse sobre sí mismo y repetirse siempre de manera distinta.

También son máquinas de cambio, hechas para alterar sistemáticamente el devenir.

Porque el mayor misterio no es de dónde vienen las cosas –su causa– o hacia dónde van –su fin–: es saber por qué continúan existiendo del mismo modo que antes –su permanencia; o impermanencia, si preferimos el término contrapuesto pero idéntico.

No es el Creador, Brahma, o el Destructor, Shiva, quien importa; es Krishna, el Conservador. Y la pregunta eterna: ¿Cómo conseguimos seguir siendo «yo» o «nosotros»? ¿Cómo consigue nuestra sociedad seguir siendo como era?

O en palabras de Krishnamurti: el verdadero misterio es ¿cómo reencarna mi yo de ayer en mi yo de hoy?

Un hombre que vive nunca pregunta ¿qué es la vida? y no tiene teorías sobre el vivir. Sólo los que viven a medias hablan del propósito de la vida. (J. Krishnamurti)

Prestan su voz a mi alma

Leer a ciertos pensadores me produce una curiosa sensación. Bateson, Kelly, Polanyi, Hayek, Wittgenstein, a veces Edelman, siempre Munz; Watts, Yutang, Chuang-Tsé…

Si tuviera que explicarla diría: siento que prestan su voz a mi alma. En el fondo ya sé lo que postulan; sólo que no sé que lo sé. Y tampoco sé explicarlo; pero lo sé.

¡De hecho, la parte más difícil es alcanzar una explicación verbal!

Una demostración palpable del “conocimiento tácito” del mismo Michael Polanyi.

No te vayas sin luchar contra la noche

Habitualmente, los creadores luchan con denuedo. O más bien, no les gusta rendirse…

La Belle Dame Sans Merci, de John William Waterhouse

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, de Dylan Thomas)

En camino

El Camino

Oh I’m on my way, I know I am, somewhere not so far from here
All I know is all I feel right now, I feel the power growing in my hair
Sitting on my own not by myself, everybody’s here with me
I don’t need to touch your face to know, and I don’t need to use my eyes to see

I keep on wondering if I sleep too long, will I always wake up the same (or so)?
And keep on wondering if I sleep too long, will I even wake up again or something

Oh I’m on my way I know I am, but times there were when I thought not
Bleeding half my soul in bad company, I thank the moon I had the strength to stop
I’m not making love to anyone’s wishes, only for that light I see
‘Cause when I’m dead and lowered low in my grave, that’s gonna
be the only thing that’s left of me

And if I make it to the waterside, will I even find me a boat (or so)?
And if I make it to the waterside, I’ll be sure to write you a note or something

Oh I’m on my way, I know I am, somewhere not so far from here
All I know is all I feel right now, I feel the power growing in my hair
Oh life is like a maze of doors and they all open from the side you’re on
Just keep on pushing hard boy, try as you may
You’re going to wind up where you started from
You’re going to wind up where you started from

Cat Stevens, Sitting

La vida es una canción

When you’re falling awake and you take stock of the new day,
and you hear your voice croak as you choke on what you need to say,
well, don’t you fret, don’t you fear,
I will give you good cheer.

Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.

If you wait then your plate I will fill.

As the verses unfold and your soul suffers the long day,
and the twelve o’clock gloom spins the room,
you struggle on your way.
Well, don’t you sigh, don’t you cry,
lick the dust from your eye.

Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.

We will meet in the sweet light of dawn.

As the Baker Street train spills your pain all over your new dress,
and the symphony sounds underground put you under duress,
well don’t you squeal as the heel grinds you under the wheel.

Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.
Life’s a long song.

But the tune ends too soon for us all…

Jethro Tull, Life is a Long Song

A veces tienes que hacer cosas malas

Hace veintiséis o veintisiete años, y por razones que no vienen al caso, mi padre y mi abuelo tuvieron que secuestrarme.

Lo hacían con la connivencia de mi madre -era lo mejor para mí, y todos lo sabían.
O casi todos: por eso tenían que secuestrarme.

Estábamos en Bogotá, mi madre y yo; y mi padre y mi abuelo tenían que traerme de vuelta a casa -a la que iba a ser mi casa.

Así que me tomaron, subieron al coche y no pararon hasta llegar a la frontera.

Nadie iba a detener a un hombre como mi abuelo -guapo, seguro y dominante- para pedirle los documentos del bebé que llevaba consigo. Pero supongo que se moría de miedo mientras cruzaba; porque -según cuenta mi padre- ni bien salir llevó el coche al máximo.

Hasta que mi padre puso una mano en su hombro diciéndole: “Tranquilo, ya pasamos…” Mi abuelo frenó a raya, aparcó, apagó el coche; se miraron, me miraron, me tomaron y me abrazaron, entre los dos, llorando.

It don’t matter to me
If you really feel that
You need sometime to be free
Time to go out searching for yourself
Hoping to find time to go to find

And it don’t matter to me
If you take up with someone
Who’s better than me
’cause your happiness is all I want
For you to find peace your piece of mind

Lotta people have an ego hang-up
’cause they want to be the only one
How many came before it really doesn’t matter
Just as long as you’re the last
Everybody’s moving on and try to find out
What’s been missing in the past

And it don’t matter to me
If your searching brings you back together with me
’cause there’ll always be
An empty room waiting for you
An open heart waiting for you
Time is on my side
’cause it don’t matter to me
It don’t matter to me….

Bread, It Don’t Matter to Me

Nada que decir cuando se ha terminado

Limelight

They were married in the old Churchyard
And they promised to be true to each other
No matter how hard their lives might be
But like meteors that fell through moments parallel
They were soon to cross
And on different plots of earth they both did fall
Though their lives had really not been hard at all

Oh my what a shame
No One’s to blame
It just happened that way
And there’s nothing you can say
When two people say goodbye
Oh my

Two brothers, promised they’d return
When the war that they were fighting was over
But only one lived to keep his vow
And the story I was told said he lived to be quite old
Before time won out
Someone asked if he knew what they both fought for
But he could not recall he’d ever been to war

For there’s nothing you can say when it’s over
And there’s nothing you can do when it’s done
There’s no battle you can win
And there’s nothing to begin
That’s not begun

On this moment, I recall your face
And I wonder if you still think about me
Occasionally I still think of you
And I watch the river flow and I know I must let go
But it’s oh so hard
For the waves are all around my small canoe
I had always hoped this boat could carry two…

Don McLean, Oh My What a Shame