Brujería

For some unimaginable, blah reason my sadow[sic] appears p-projected on a wall of edifice in a street of the ville of Oviedo, and there is a sun.






I could not explain to myself why the shoes of the women that walk that street are so high, and why their soles are cork'd... suddenly, no!:

an old person sucks a gelato alla italiana seated in a chair of one of those restaurants that put tables on the sidewalk, to pretend that they are Parisian, or Belgian

is an old woman, actually a witch, who sucks the ice cream, and looks at me with the incisiveness of a condor


I suddenly realize that I have megafaculties and observe the almanac that is in the interior of the restaurant, hanged on a wall, using my retinal super close-up vision: my eyes get opened like two eggs of marmosa:

it's 6 of August of 1970!


My sensors indicate that nothing which is happening here is really happening, though it's so vivid that it hurts in my skin, even if it's a drem.


It's a world of 1.970 saturated with a white evil 
all splashed on the stucco walls

the people talk with verbose gyrations that I don't comprehend

they make movements when they talk-walk-laugh-eat that I don't understand

movements and airs that belong to an epoch where I don't belong... and even so
and even so...

and even so I scrutinize this uncalled for, this extraterrestrial voyage into a past, with the eagle eyes and the astonishment and the fear of the Conquistador Hernán Cortés when he observed the profound avenue of Aztec pyramids for the first time?


I am submerged in a white image, horrid

beautiful, fragrant, color crema

Fellini-esque


I realize that I am in a world that's much more innocent, but also more bestial than my world of 2.013

my home, my home of 2.013, the temporal home where I am really now, and I am really I... 2.013, the only place where I can be really I

where I can... BE at all?

I shout, I hate this place of 1.970 and its sick light that inundates my retinas with a repugnant creme color: I shout, I shout, I get dizzy, I puke replete of nausea and vomit, puke, yes I puke over many people at the park, I puke on children and mothers non stop, and shout, and puke, because I am in a brutal world without color TV or compact disk


a Guardia Civil comes walking like a penguin to see, he suddenly stays like a stake in front of me and asks me what's up




as the cop touches my shoulder, the rain starts falling on Oviedo:




the imago fades, dissolved like a shot of snow into a crystal ball: 
where I am? Where I was?















Where I am?










The digital clock is curtain that falls behind the nightmare: its green numerals announce a disproportionate hour in a dawn of 2.013, chronometrically infernal for my brain that still doesn't rationalize









some seconds later, in the nothing of a vigil that was not, I actually wake up in my bed: from my hair, tiny rain drops fall on the pillow.