PROCRASTINATION

I) 

Va baixar Av. Vallcarca avall amb la guitarra a l'esquena, com si fos Hackelberry Finn carregant un sac de patates una tarda d'estiu prop del Mississipi. Avinguda Vallcarca desemboca a l'al·lucinació que és plaça Lesseps. Hackelberry Finn baixa Gràcia avall i topa amb el vagabund del barri que sempre es mou en patinet i que arrossega un carro metàlic. Després passa un altre vagabund en patinet. I un altre. Els dos porten un barret al cap i una cueta que els arriba a mitja esquena. Ben aviat s'inicia una mena de dansa de vagabunds amb patinet a la plaça de la Virreina. Hackelberry Finn arriba a casa. Fa una mena de dinar-berenar a base de gaspatxo i baixa a la plaça amb la guitarra al braç i la serenor de sempre. Les hores són plàcides a la plaça del Sol. Cau la nit i tornen els vagabunds en patinet. Hackelberry Finn segueix tocant.

<<Jo vull tocar una música que no soni trista ni alegre, que soni com la vida. Però només sé fer escales menors.>>

Arriba diumenge. Des d'alguna finestra de la plaça del Sol es veu el perfil d'una nena asseguda davant d'un televisor de moltes polzades que mira per enèsima vegada la pel·lícula Amèlie. I just és aquella escena en què la protagonista li demana a la seva amiga hostessa que carregui el nan del jardí de son pare amunt i avall i li faci fotografies als punts més emblemàtics de cada ciutat d'Europa i més enllà, també a Nova York i a Tòquio. I el pare d'Amélie que ni s'immuta. La nena està embadalida davant la pantalla i no sent la música ni trista ni alegre que Hackelberry Finn segueix tocant fins que se'n cansa, per carregar-se després la guitarra a l'espatlla i procedir el seu camí mentre esquiva indiferent, un cop més, la dansa dels vagabunds en patinet. 

II) 

There we stood, absolutely brokenhearted, Alberto and I.

We were in a weed club, on the outskirts of the city. He'd just rolled his blunt because it was my former plan to just sit there and make him roll one. “Catch me up later for a beer at night,” he'd said, “Maybe invite me over, wherever you live. I can get anywhere I want really fast with my motorbike, you know.” But I was lazy back then when he offered that, so I said “Nah, let's just meet there in the club, see you in AlPacino.” AlPacino is a house with a big entrance and a balcony inside. You can look through it and see the neighborhood guys sitting on the other sofas upstairs, with the standard big blunt in their hands.

A guy from the neighborhood who works in AlPacino spent most of the time showing us both some random videos about cute cats in all sort of positions. His looks were those of a street fighter who'd been raised in a big family with little money. I could see my sort-of-speak friend  getting nervous. It was me he wanted to talk to. And still, there was nothing him nor I could say. Not that we could directly mention our huge disappointments. It was useless. They were stupid disappointments anyway, and we both somehow knew it. Hundreds of thousands of people starving all over the world and we feel miserable in the face of a Romantic disillusion. There were no wars, no scary threats directly affecting our lives, and still we remained unhappy, Alberto and I. It is a sickness some call desire (he desired me, I desired someone whose name I can't remember), and we felt ashamed of it. Life just seemed ungraspable as we stood there rolling another and watching cat videos. Some men were playing videogames upstairs. Every once in a while somebody would come around and pick tiny plastic bags containing weed. The street fighter finally abandoned us to our sorrow.

"So you accepted me back in your life? I mean, we're seeing each other."

"M... You know? I know you think I'm mean and all this, but I'm not, really. I don't know why I never answer your messages. Not that I do it on purpose."

"Yeah, you just don't care, right?"

"Maybe. Anyway, you seem to be one of these guys who never gives up fighting aren't you? I think you are."

"Not always. Sometimes I don't fight that hard. Only when I feel it's worth it. Only when I'm really interested in someone."

"It is hard to draw the line between interest and obsession."

"Yep, it's a thin line."

Not that I really wanted him in my life, nor did I really want to discuss anything with him. I just felt like sitting there and smoking a joint while I heard a freak talk about cats. This is the curious thing about weed, that it implies procrastination beyond all possible troubles and illusions. So it goes.

The weekend came.

That Thursday evening I had left Alberto in front of the Pakistani shop in front of AlPacino and I made it quite obvious to him that we were not going to kiss each other. He was wearing a coat with a hood rimmed by tiny feathers and he had bags of air under his brownish, sad red eyes. He turned his back on me and I did the same but for some reason I suddenly decided to stop to look at his back once more (and I caught him doing the same). I had this redemption feeling one has after acting according to what she thinks is proper and emotionally-healthy behavior.

So the weekend came, and with the weekend came Carnival. There I stood on Saturday night in front of a building that looked like a church but was actually a club/centre for young and alternative people who enjoy getting drunk in a priceless-friendly environment. The place was crowded and the organizers had had to put themselves in front of the doors in order to control the massive human traffic that was blowing in and out. Skinheads were disguised as skinheads and hippie girls were disguised as hippie girls with brighter dresses and make up. Inside of the room it smelt of blood, sweat and beer and I was next to a guy who was literally on my butt and whispering nasty things in my ear. Every now and then he would place his right hand holding a bottle of vodka in front of my chest, so as to assure me I would never run out of alcohol as long as I let him convince me of having lowbrow sex anywhere. I thought it felt good to be inside there because of

a) the nostalgic music of my childhood that was playing and

b) the cocaine I had taken while waiting for the metro together with my vodka friend and some other random night animals.

Thanks to both drugs and music the world of Saturday night fever seemed a good place to be, no matter if a street fighter presumably coming from a big family with little money -indeed, my vodka friend reminded me of the cat freak from AlPacino- had his hands on me. All of a sudden I got too near the vodka guy (not a friend of mine at all) and I decided to run outside where nobody would dare touch me nor pretend I'm his, etc. Outside nobody touched me nor pretended I was his, so I took a walk around and then checked my mobile phone for the last time of a night which would soon turn to dusk. Alberto had sent me a couple of Watsapp messages with too many flirty-funny faces on it. And then I thought, there I stand, completely drunk and happy and a bit brokenhearted. Playing the never-ending game of procrastination. Procastination of self awareness. Love.  And Social Revolution.