Un amigo de Facebook, argentino y porteño, a quien no conozco pero con quien de vez en cuando nos intercambiamos emails, posteó hoy, para sus 98 contactos, y tipeado desde su celular, el siguiente ensayito. Está en inglés, por razones que él explica al final:
I could use a good cry.
Say, crying for two hours, barely making noise, shaking my chest and shoulders a bit.
By myself. A movie theater sounds just fine. Maybe El Patio, early in the afternoon.
A good crying needs no comforting friend or symphaty looks.
I have lots of crying pending. I rubbed my brother’ s ass while my aunt was giving the eulogy for my late father.
The man was there, gray in his coffin, and I got a kick out of playing the turrito. I really loved that man.
I cried for a second when my son emerged from his mother’s womb. The
guy shitted the place all over, and I stopped crying to follow the
nurse’s drill, he kept on yelling and shitting all over. My son is my
kind of guy.
I once left a woman, and the day after I was late to a meeting, in a
cab, working on my phone. I cried for a second, but I arrived and I
payed and tipped the cabby and I swichted from sad to smile. Can’t
remember who was waiting for me.
I do need to cry, but not in spanish. In spanish, crying is a blue,
quiet, long, long, mourning. We all have a great grand mother who wore
black for twenty years, keeping sorrow within.
I rather cry in english.Not a snobbish gesture. In english,you cry a
river for the relief you get while you are at it. To put that thing out
of you. To let it go.
I’ll figure out how to open the damn dam, and I’ll make some water and I will let it go.
Leyendo estas cosas a veces pienso que la ficción no es necesaria: lo mejor de un escritor, casi siempre, es él mismo.