Well now we have this: the Madrid gray and disheveled, absent-minded people to cross the rain, what the hell is this water that falls from the sky?, Seem to be wondering. This morning, walking through a neighborhood semiperipheral (Acacias) the picture could not be more disturbing, that time between sadness diluted cloudy own housing blocks of brick and dark green awning style English Levante (Alicante eg, home serial killers.) Over there I saw many people alone, especially old, looking to not know where through the fine rain. Who are these people who roam the deserted streets lonely? Are they ghosts of the past that infernal serving time walking in these places so gloomy, inhabited by teenagers leaving the school anorak and dilapidated parks outskirts of gravel and metal? I think so: I said once that in Madrid there are several points of contact between the beyond and the here, the cafes of El Corte Ingles. They bring together a picnic elderly who are dying and those who just died recently and are still not integrated into Hell, to gossip a bit. Once, he even saw my late father of Callao sipping a gin and tonic . The question is whether they serve pancakes with cream are earthly or unearthly, I suppose it's a matter of taste.
And security guards, I wondered at the Opencor of Acacias. Are they spirits or mortal flesh and blood? A difficult this curro, humble and simple people have to learn first hand the evil, the System, to the other side, denouncing their classmates (social, I say, not school) to multinational corporations. To be a security officer, to be kept in a museum room, better to be a Zen master and control transcendental meditation, if not, I can not explain. How to endure eight hours standing around doing nothing? Do they mind blank? I'm sure many have quietly developed complex philosophical systems that one day mankind will know overwhelmed. Hey, you look at the picture from behind the line!
why the security officer always exceeds its tasks: collect the dirty plates left by the people at Burger King, recommended books in the library of El Corte Ingles, unsuspecting buyers guide at Carrefour. That boredom is torture Guantanamo! There is one that should know in Lacasaencendida. Saving works of contemporary art exhibitions wearing his brown uniform, always alone in rooms where there is unbearable strobe lights, weird noises and projections rompetímpanos volume even more bizarre. It has a pretty little pen. For recreation staff receives them the brochure and is offered for a guided tour of amateur ("If you have any questions I'll explain") that everyone rejects ("this guy is crazy") but everyone just to hear it Uncle intrudes. And it does shit, the guy, I've understood many things that are presented by him (face to understand what is stated or opens or presented but not understand it, is fundamental to my gigs) . My mother even asked if he had studied art history or something. "No," he said with visible emotion, "but I really like."
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