Summer of..?

Being myself a school little boy we used to visit family:

my older cousin had a poster on the wall, which I and my younger brother feared a bit, wondering what could that Infernos be?

I used to wonder if the characters in the poster were hellish, how many abominable crimes they committed and how obscure and sordid their lives were.

For some reason I related the image to the Hells and to the blood, and the summer of January or December or February didn't help, either, to imbibe my mind with something else than the sanguine warmth and the canicular dormitories of Hades... when I looked at

the poster?



Of course we were taken by force there, we were too little to decide where to go or where to go not, we just went where the adults said.

Those summers of the early 80s were somehow mystic in our  -still soft- cerebra, while, for the adults of those times, the epoch didn't represent anything mystic or magical at all, just a same continuation of the bland, pedestrian and unremarkable quotidian-ness

we noted how their embittered faces lacked any enthusiasm or interest, how the spiritual fatigue, and a general domestic fastidiousness marked their rictus with the fatal ugliness of the municipal tedium.



Later I knew about the characters of the poster, and later yet I became one of those adults, whose facial features were so curiously sour, dare one say, vinegarish in their acidulated disenchantment but... for some reason, I decided to walk not on those shoes, and I conserved the astonished fever instead of the tedium, the sardonic grimace instead of the defeatist ennui, the ludic and shameless spirit instead of the pathetic apathy.


Instead of that torpor that implores for the sepulchre.

































Being myself a little boy we used to visit family.