The hour of darkness

Beautiful, the last couple of hours of light in London this evening. Playful and joyful, the latter sun. How different the land looks, how different the spirits of people! The way from Euston to Muswell Hill was unrecognizable, not at all shy, streets and roads, people and houses, stores and pubs clearly showed, a welcome opening of live as the bus advanced. How different from the dark nights of cold winter, when only the immediate road is in sight, when the land seems to be undercovered, hidden in fortresses, as a frighten animal, as a oyster locked in its inexpugnable shell. Amalia and Ambrosio, Amalita Hortensia, Bolita de Oro, la Tete, Chispas and La Senora Zoila, the creepy creatures of the underworld, Quetita, Robertito, Yvonne, the lonely Clodomiro, disgusting Hipolito, Becerrita, Carlitos, Santiago and Ana, all the characters and their sad, terrible stories seem to come out of Vargas Llosa's novel, dress in flesh and sit alive around the people I see.

From Fortis Green, the fleshing glasses of the tall buildings in the background says a farewell to daylight, all little eyes in tears of fire. The big buildings of the big London, clang at the bottom of the picture, beyond irregular, brown-colored patches of naked trees, burn-like trees. Peace and reconciliation at this hour, mild weather; the songs and odas of birds: what are they? where are they? From the sea-gulls flying around the defiant monsters of Tottenham Court Road, to the black craven walking the grass in Highgate Wood. Blackbirds, blue tits, gold-crests, woodpeckers, mag-pipes, robins... Oh, the wonderful sounds of life for the urban dead.

The morning of Saturday was gorgeous as well: The City now doth, like a garment, wear / The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, / Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie / Open unto the fields, and to the sky. (William Wordsworth). However, as the morning expanded, the cold silenced the articulate sun and, at the end, brought the rain. As well, a thick layer of mist and dirt, dark as coal, entered my self and wreaked havoc with it. Between two endings of light and beauty, a tough rope of desolation and auto-annihilation, this weekend. It was the hour of darkness. The tidal waves come and go, periodically, but with each return they grow in intensity and devastation, an instable Fourier-series type of thing. Got me tight and ill, reduced me to a mash of skeletal bones, liquified, shook me in powerful hand. Blackness everywhere, pain, suffering. Pain is still here, will last a little more, still. Only the Marie Curie daffodil in my jacket's lapel remain yellow, which I wore with pride. A pin of yellow in a sea of dark.

Something must be done, something, to stop the beast tearing me apart. Each time gets worse... . This must end here!