How Much Sand In A Railcar

crisis overabundance of anger

I do not know about you, but to me every time I less interested in politics. It's not that important. It is, very much. To be honest, which I am increasingly less interested are the politicians. Years ago, a commanding said that Spain was going well, and others, who do not mandaban, enseguida lo contradecían porque no estaban de acuerdo. Hasta hace no mucho, el que ahora manda hacía como si la palabra crisis, con sus seis letras, no existiera en los diccionarios, y ahora aunque se muestra tan convencido de su capacidad para sacar las cosas adelante, da la sensación de que ni siquiera los que están más cerca de él se atreven a afirmar con la misma rotundidad sus argumentos. Mientras tanto los otros, los que antes mandaban, en lugar de dar soluciones parece que prefieran frotarse las manos mientras esperan a que les llegue el turno, como el equipo de fútbol que sabe que para ganar la eliminatoria le basta con aguantar el balón hasta que el árbitro pite el final del partido. And between them, between those who govern now and then and did not send before and now sent sent, the street people, like you, like myself, sitting in the stands waiting for the match, boring and goalless once finished.

The thing is very bad, and I get the feeling that still has to get worse. I think it's the green shoots or any date in which some bright bold venture to predict as the end of the crisis. And maybe this is not even the crisis, but rather that most are afraid to admit: this might be the reality, normal, though it costs us to accept it, and everything we have experienced so far has been more than a mirage. It's so sad to see how to accept. Travelling in Spain and in the best locations for any city to find the facades of local buildings and decorated with huge posters announcing assignments, sales offers or emergencies such as the ruins of a glorious past that never seems to be the same again.

When I'm writing I usually read novels that have nothing to do with my work, to distance, because I oxygenates. I do not know. I am these days with Steinbeck and The Grapes of Wrath . How curious and wonder what makes me read a novel written over seventy years ago by an American writer, happens in a place so far from my country, and that each page makes me think that the story of Tom Joad and his family, all families that the Great Depression pushed from the fields of Oklahoma to the false dream California dreams tend to be false or are illusions when you're desperate, "is so similar to many people now.

© Andrés Pérez Domínguez, March 2011