EL MEDICO

La medicina comienza a ser parecida a la antigua religión. Ibas a la iglesia y te arreglaban el alma, y dabas una limosna con la esperanza de que el cura dijese una palabra al todopoderoso en beneficio tuyo, y te recomendase para la eternidad cuando estirases la pata. Hoy vas al médico con una intención no muy diferente. A por píldoras. Hay toda clase de píldoras sin las cuales, te han dicho, probablemente no vivirías mucho tiempo. Porque tienes cosas que están fuera de control. Las tiroides. La pituitaria. La tensión arterial. Ellos han ido a la universidad y tienen un certificado que avala el hecho de que saben. Hay que hacerles caso, no vaya a ser que la espiches antes de tiempo. En España el sistema de salud es admirable. He oído a la gente quejarse de que muchos médicos no son agradables. Eh, no son camareros. Es la gente que te salva la vida. Tienen derecho a estar de mal humor. Te ven los riñones, el higado, el esqueleto, por radiografía. Como no van a estar irritados. Pero lo que no debía pasar es que estén locos. Eso ya es demasiado. Voy al centro de salud para que mi médico de cabecera me de unas recetas. Pero está, como a menudo, de vacaciones. El sustituto es un señor con traje de primavera, gordito, con bigotes de asas torcidas hacia arriba, y un anillo de mujer en el dedo meñique. Raro, pienso. Para colmo, el cartelito que ha puesto sobre la mesa con su nombre dice: Dr. Santiago Ramón y Cajal. Bueno, pienso, será de la familia del gran genio de la medicina, lo cual redunda en beneficio mío. Me mira con ojos de pez enfadado,. "¿Qué se le ofrece?". Parece talmente que quisiera venderme algo. Le digo que vengo a por mi receta mensual de píldoras para la tensión. -¿Para o contra?-pregunta él-Haga el favor de especificar. - Bueno, supongo que contra. -En resumidas cuentas, es usted hipertenso, no hipotenso. -dice- -Si. respondo- un pelín preocupado. -Pues ya va ustede tirando todas esas pastillas al retrete. No le receto nada. La pastillas le van a hacer a usted polvo. Olvidese de ellas ahora mismo. - dictamina. - Pero. ¿y el efecto rebote?-le pregunto, ya que he sido advertido de que, si se deja de tomar las pastillas de golpe, la tensión se dispara a niveles astronómicos. - ¡Qué efecto rebote ni que cojones¡ Déjese de chorradas. Yo me responsabilizo. Me voy a casa muy contento, porque detesto esas pastillas desde que empecé a tomarlas. Pero a los tres día, un dolor de cabeza inaguantable me lleva de nuevo al centro de salud. La tensión anda, de pronto, por los techos. Pido que me digan donde está Ramón y Cajal, para cantarle las cuarenta. Me informan que ese señor no era realmente médico, sino un chiflado que se había colado en el sistema con informes falsos. - Pasa mucho en Estados Unidos, ¿Sabe?. -Sí- contesto-pero ese cabrón casi me mata. Quiero procesarle. - No se queje demasiado-me dice la enfermera- A otro paciente no casi le mata tambien, pero encima le vendió un puente romano que dijo tener cerca de Antequera, por diez mil euros. Palabra de honor, que esto es cierto. Y que ya nunca me siento del todo seguro en el despacho de un matasanos.

debate a la española

En una democracia, o, mejor dicho, en un capitalismo medianamente democrático, ne se debería permitir que una linea de supermercados acaparara todo el mercado y abriera una única franquicia para servir a todo un pueblo de seis mil habitantes. Pero si se le paga la suma apropiada al alcalde, se puede conseguir dicha remunerativa exclusividad. Por eso en nuestro pueblo o villa, mañana y tarde, es un horror hacer la compra. La lineas al cajero son interminables, y recuerdan a aquellas fotos de grandes multitudes apiladas para recojer la comida donada por la Cruz Roja en Moscú, poco despues del colapso del comunismo. Tampoco, en una democracia, deberían hacer los regentes de un supermercado que las chicas de la caja, a menos de seiscientos euros mensuales, hicieran la colocación de los alimentos en las estanterías, fregaran el piso, y otras labores. Pero así es, en la Epaña de precios a nivel europeo y salarios tercermundistas casi. Aún así, algunas de las dependientas consiguen ser amables con los clientes. Esto es muy importante pare que todo funcione bien en la sociedad. Si a un juez le venden los huevos y la leche con una sonrisa, hará despues su trabajo sin caer en la inquina que le habría provocado un mal trato. Y es sabido que las maestras de los niños pequeños tienden a desahogarse con estos si se las enfurece en la linea del supermercado por la mañana tremprano, lo cual a su vez hace que los pequeños tambien se acostumbren al mal humor y crezcan malencarados. Por eso yo aprecio a Paca y siempre quiero que me cobre ella. Claro que nunca hemos hablado de nada personal. Pero tiene los ojos bonitos y verdes, el pelo negro, como a mi me gusta, y hasta este mediodía me parecía inteligente. Yo no me creo demasiado inteligente. Soy, me parece, normal, aunque mi madre pensaba que era un poco denso. Hoy, tras la discusión con Paca, tengo mis dudas acerca de la inteligencia mía, la de ella, y la inteligencia en general. Resulta que compré un paquete de rollos de papel del vater, una cajita de tomate frito, y unas cuchillas de afeitar. El día era soleado y alegre. En la calle ya, miro el recibo y veo que junto a este hay otro papelito que me hace partícipe en una especie de rifa de algo que llaman "la cesta de la suerte". No sé que clase de cesta será. El caso es que el papel dice "la cesta de la suerte del 3 de abril" Así, sin más. Entonces me percato de que estamos a 5 de abril. Solo por curiosidad, vuelvo a la tienda y le digo a Paca, sonriendo, que ya estamos a 5 y, entonces, ¿cual es el sentido de darme un papel para una rifa que se celebra el 3?. Ahora ella me mira como si yo fuera, definitivamente, retrasado mental, aunque aún se muestra amable. - No- dice- la rifa, que no es en realidad una rifa, no es para el tres, sino que empezó el tres. Confundido, le pregunto: - No es que tenga mucha importancia para mí, pero ¿no sería mucho mejor dar la fecha de cuando se hace la entrega de la cesta que la fecha en que alguien tuvo la idea de organizar esta rifa? Ahora ella se lo toma a lo personal, como si ella fuera la organizadora de la rifa o la dueña del supermercado. -Y si no le importa mucho, ¿ para qué me hace darle explicaciones? Muy cierto. Pero el meollo de la cuestión sigue sin esclarecerse. _Ya. ¿Pero no le parece que sería más lógico dar la fecha de la celebración de la rifa?-pregunto. Y así durante quince minutos. -Oigan, ¿es para hoy?-grita uno con grandes puños y peludo, que, por alguna razón , lleva un peluche en la mano. - Me agradecerá que averigüe para cuando es esta rifa- balbucéo, estupidamente. - Me importa tres cojones la rifa- dice él, pero no tengo todo el día, algunos curramos. - Me alegro de que no sea unos de los cuatro millones de parados... Y así hasta que salí, finalmente, convencido de que Paca ya no me miraría nunca con los mismos ojos. Y entristecido por ello.

The war and the Annex

In Canada, I frequently had the unsettling experience of discovering that people who were supposedly anti racism and spoke strongly against it in public, would suddenly, under the influence of drink, in a private situation, turn on someone who was non white and declare to him, in a more or less hypocritical fashiuon, that Canada is a white country and that he was there only because Canadians are such nice people.
Similarly, it is typical to find anti conservative, liberal Canadians speaking out against American foreign policy, only to immediately perceive that they actually, in a hidden way, admire the power wielded by that neighbouring nation which they, mistakenly, consider almost their own, being English speaking white brothers.
The insidiousness of this Canadian attitude is noticed by other countries, and it is found repellent.
I was told once by a Scot in Marbella, Spain, that Canada was a place were no one said what they actually felt unless they were drunk and in a group of like minded people.
But Canada has had good leaders who have shown a moral fibre perhaps superior to that of most of the people they actually rule. Thus, Chretiene kept Canada from entering a coalition which, under American leadership, went into an illegal, and stupid , war.
One may well ask why, if the push against Sadam in Irak was illegal, as it is universally claimed now, the offensive against Ghadafi in Lybia, is not. Is the backing by Nato so holy that it makes one invasion legal where the other, carried out without its permission, is not? Why?
Yet we do not see millions of people everywhere taking to the streests in protest. No one seems to think this is as important as the attack on Irak. Maybe because since oil is not so much the issue here, at least visibly, there is no reason to complain. Since the american oil lords are not obviously the ones to critizice here, perhaps a general protest is just too boring and it does not provide protesters with the proper sense of righteousness.
Yet people are sureley going to die just as they did then, and I am refering to civilians.
The CNN reporters are covering this war with a revolting attitude of self agrandisment, and with a suspicious kind of glee. Pure entertainment. Yet I keep thinking that this is a much more dangerous situation than the Irak war.
One of the reasons why is, that Sadam, in spite of all the American propaganda trying to connect him somehow to Bin laden, was actually an enemy to the teocratic terrorist movement, and he wasn´t particularly appreciated by anyone, as he was in fact a kind of communist, Arab style, while Ghadafi has been relatively friendly to Western interests up until now and therefore treated as a sort of excentric but, in the end, rather amusing little dictator.
Yet the truth is that this agression against Lybia is a show of military might at a time when the economic shape of the planet is quickly changing. the united States, although some Bloor Street dreamers still would like to think so, are no longer the powerful nation they were. They have grave troubles at home and abroad, they are economically hurt and the dollar is lower than the euro. Europe, too, is going through a stressful time, while the prediction of economists for the last twenty years are coming true: that the Eastewrn powers, China, India, and so forth, are the new world hegemonies.
And they are, even militarily. Which is why this show of force by the West is a dangerous farce.
Putin has expressed his dislike of the actions taken by the West. China has followed. Suddenly the West has some very powerful antagonists to their gang -ho meddling in the internal affairs of what are, after all. sovereign nations.
Germany stays clear of any commitement to the West in this case : Smart Germans. What happened to the notion of all for one and one for all which was the basic axiom behind the formation of the huge political entity that is modern Europe?
Japan is out of commission, dealing with its own terrible tragedy, and cannot play key ally to the West now. Not that it would, since it would probaly follow the German model.
But Canada, with a leader who does not wish to show any anti American feelings, even if he has to put Canadians at peril in the process, commits to a war which is welcome, I am sure, by those who, as they critizice the States for its political excesses and its outdated swaggering, feel an interior pride in being part of what they consider an empire.
Yet that empire can be crashed now if only China, Russia, Iran and other powers eager to see the end of Western superiority decide that they had had enough of the bull shit.
I think Armaggeddon may be around the corner.
And some clever folks around Bloor and Spadina will wish they had stuck to talking about art and love, and left politics alone.

The mountain boy and the master visionary II

So, up in the hills, utterly apart, eclosed only by the snow, Rabrindanath knew that in order to understand what was said to him by the life about him, he himself should not talk.
It is the folly of humans that they will talk when a river speaks, that even if they are alone they will say things to themselves, in their minds.
But no human being had ever said any truth, since no one had had the patience to fully hear it from the silence. You only know a human knows some of the truth when he or she says nothing. Those who do are indistinguisable from the rain or the snow. They affect you silently.
If some one can tell you a truth, he will hurt you unwittingly. Who can open the eyes of a proud ignorant without causing him collapse? And the bearer of the truth is put to death.
It was the time of war and of great natural disasters. Had there ever been any other time on this earth of turbulent streams of water, fire and blood? Rabrindanath wondered one thing alone: what was the logic behind those who had just been born dying suddenly, in an earthquake, in the burning waves of a volcano?
He was alone in a valley high up in the mountains: It was snowing heavily, yet he could hear streams of swift water running under the snow, the wind far in the summits, and invisible wild horses galloping in the mist. The pain of knowing was within him exclusively. Why?
He was told then that he should not contemplate death as being real. It was the pain of dying, and the losing of their existence, that humans feared. But the sooner one died, the quicker one would return, for the body is nothing, and the soul finds bodies to reenter as soon as it flees the plane of the material.
Being born also caused pain. Pain is the result of any process and of any transformation, and of all journeys from spirit to matter and back to spirit.
Rabrindanath heard that from all the things that moved about him, the snow, the wind.
He walked a long time , until night came. Then he fell on the snow, exhausted.
He could die, or not, it didn´t matter.
Horses of cold ice, blue, white and purple, were flying across a huge pale moon. The sea was roaring far away in his dream. And the world was at peace, although drowning in tears.

love poem

My soul is wild, thats calls you to it-

Wild as a river or a wood.

And it is useless to seek in it

a gentle mood.


I am like turbid waters running

they may not turn around

and never give to the same root

nor the same ground,


You heard a whisper but it wasn´t

the call of love.

And now the hungry sea before us

shall have us both.

angels

an image hides the soul within
so that the blind alone can see

one clear word alone can unveil
the unperceived beauty of a face

a bow before the darkeness may
reveal the worlds hidden there

one whisper of love will let you pass
into the loveliness of their heart

Without

i went outside of myself,
away, where i wasn´t myself,
like one who turns on a road´s bend
and sees the mountains right there,
the snowy mountains, just there.

i took my pain somewhere else
where no one could pay it heed,
my tears to some other place
where nor you nor i could heed them
and alone in the silence there
they flowed, a river.

i woul never take you with me
to where I alone should go
though you may want to follow me there
just to know...