Mantrash zinkin flow
(Abel Lescay debuts as a columnist for our magazine. Once a month these texts will arrive with "mantrash zinkin flow" and accompanied by the art of another of our regular collaborators: the illustrator Alejandro Cuervo. Like a kind of spell, and with the restless gaze of its author —who is also a musician—, this section that we are opening today does not seek to be pleasant for everyone. We prefer it weird.).
Dawn. Yesterday I fell asleep while a Bad Bunny song was playing. Every night he spends on his motorcycle, over and over again. And he sends me his low subs from the club. I'm not jealous, but that song makes me want to be and causes me a problem. Another day when music doesn't do me any good. That I don't want to listen to Kendrick's album, or one more Motomami, or anything.
What happened to me with old music? Spinetta and Emerson Lake and Palmer. Santiago Feliu. I put them and they don't fill me up. Bjork, it hurts not to hear you. I feel like they lost a place in me. It's something in the sound, I don't know, something in the intention. Since Tokischa came into my life, the rest lost their sensuality. Before I used to caress myself listening to The Doors, it drove my waist crazy and empowered me towards the stars. A motorcycle passes without music. It is like an insect.
It is a white morning. I slept alone, I chatted with my friends. Ernesto sends me songs. Gabriela wants to make a record. Marlon proposes projects to circumvent censorship. Jonathan points me towards psychoactive music. I'm not pa 'na'. I went on vacation, no beers or anything. I no longer remember the track of the Fito album that I liked the most, how do I find it in the Telegram bot? I spent the eclipse hearing screams, and now I'm scared. Under my tiles the pigeon of the sparrows wants to eat. I already had breakfast. What music do I play?
Ah, better not. I leave the silence to take a good look at the clouds. The music is in them, the usual music, the one that passes and doesn't go away. Bach, Ileana would say. But not. The music of les humanes is like les humanes. The music of the clouds. And again. Music. Let the clouds fall. The lizards. the auras A tractor.
Having grown up in a town, I like that I know the rhythm of the horses. Always with their carts. More tired than the train, but just as alive. The problem is in the sparrows that screech all day. After an hour they shut up, but at that moment all the neighbors turn on the televisions. The news really sounds quieter for a while. it goes on fade through the months. Today the bell tower rang three times, and after a while, it rang three more.
Look how I complain without listening to the banana plantation. Let's focus today. To meditate a bit.
In the afternoon I work. I take the opportunity to make a promo: every Sunday at the Casa de la Amistad we do good rock and roll and have fun. Somehow we hope that the money goes to a company that many months later returns it to the earth mutilated and devalued. This country. But it doesn't matter because I love my job and my mom still supports me. And I have friends who invite me to smoke, they buy me a beer, and we rock. Talking is like making music. There are people who speak in jazz, others in rock, others act like animals, but I still understand them.
When I stopped loving music, I went to the mountains at dawn. I sat under a tree that was always full of crickets that sang softly, pizzicato. There I saw the moon go by, the bats, the clear sky. I saw that the tree was blacker than the sky. And what does that matter? I don't know, the music of the crickets came from that void, from a black spot opposite the stars. And the dogs from afar. And a guy who passes. And be careful not to be the police, I'm talking about curfew times. Once I was fined three thousand. I was in the park — listening to a clap, officer.
Yesterday was a member's birthday. We went to the house of dealer. The guy is a fan of Bad Bunny and he brought us down a summer without you complete. It seems that the ragman is illuminati, because it has some old themes that say something. It's okay. I already thought that Paul McCartney had died. But his latest album is fuming. Regarding Bad Bunny's… yes, I would like to hear it on the beach with many beers. In the visualizer 360 I lose all the data watching him scratch his balls. But it makes me sad. I miss something. Aaah, I'm not complaining anymore.
And you? What did you hear this morning? Do you like classic music. You live so close to the theaters...! I would love to, but since I was little a fire burned me and I came home to listen to rap. Have you ever played the piano? You know?... I haven't felt well playing the piano for a long time, but when you and I played, and I smelled your hair, my chest against your back, my head on your shoulder, I cried a couple of times, like when I wrote poetry with the keys. I'm not jealous, but who is that bastard, tell me who is that bastard. Na ', lie, is that the song does not leave my mind. Damn Bad Bunny.