Mexico City @ Jan 2011
Night Nr. 1:
Having dinner with two friends under aristocratic roof of an old colonial hacienda in the south of town. It is Saturday evening, the patio enlighted and just the sound of water, men, mostly elderly, in absolute not-fashionable suites and ties, but biutiful ( the Mexican expression for Schönheit), slowly and calmly talking to their ladies. The ladies, mostly elderly, are wearing, as expected by us and by standards of social normative discourses, Haute couture, talking loud and are full of an pride, which, as it seems to me, belongs to the air of this hacienda. No gringos, no Frank Sinatra, who I love and who would totally fit to this space. Perfecting the atmosphere, a singer and three instrumentalists performing boleros: sin ti; remember the fabulous "Trio los Panchos" in 1960 or it was 1955 here in Mexico City, the recurrent dream of mine, or quizaz quizaz; listen again to the sexy accent of Nat King Cole in "in the mood for love" of Wang Kar-Wei, and the notorious noche de ronda; think on those days in Duncker13, breathing the greenness of the tree covering my windows.
Nothing else than this huge rush and virulence of memories, always present in images of my mind and never vanishing out of my sight, nothing else than the persistent echo of sounds, accompaning me during years and never fading away into the labyrinth of times; nothing else has got a substance, metaphysically and at its very essence physically, as these short moments
has had induced. Air, a glance, a voice, and the smell of chilli. This is, finally, the stuff, of which we are making our recurrent dreams. They are real.
While listening in vivo to bolero classics, while jocking on our live, remembering old times in Invalidenstrasse or Weinbergpark, suddenly a call for my friend Ignacio M.: a case with two shots in the head is waiting for him in ER, then, a race to the hospital, looking at CT scann images, OR for brain surgery.
Is that really the moloch? Yes, more real than the "Reality principle".
