EVICTION

WORDS

Besieged in his bedroom, Moisés joyfully moves the stool over to the window, draws back the curtains slightly, and rests his elbows on the knees, with forehead pressed against the glass and chin on the palm of his hands. His diligent eyes immediately start examining the surroundings, searching for possible threats. Even if there are any, they don’t have to be taken into consideration, as the boy has ignored them and doesn’t delay for a single second his desperate encounter with the house.

The walls undermined with abandonment, the plants climbing, the tiles broken, but the call of any stray cat cannot be heard, as it could be expected, nor the ailing groan of the rust or the imperceptible surrender of the roof. In their place, a ferocious coming and going of vehicles is heard, and the screech of invisible people invading with their corruption the old mansion enclosed by ruins.

Moisés observes the dark, mysterious openings and suddenly he pushes a rickety windowframe open. The stinking spittle of solitude welcomes him from every corner and every flight of the stairs, from every pipe and every floor tile; desolation dwells where emptiness hasn’t reached yet; where emptiness doesn’t exasperate, decadence alarms. Moisés explores every room without fear, because there’s nothing to be afraid of in that calm full of insects. The plague of the city is eased in that insane and exciting silence. Moisés is trembling nervously, and his fingers are breaking the abyss, caressing the edge of his own soul. How lonely must that old house feel, so vast and frightened!

Moisés feels the pain of that eviction in his own skin, which suddenly has lost all his clothes to our surprise. Like in a macabre game, we follow the trail of each garment forfeit through the corridors until we reach a mattress.

MOVIES

All about Lily Chou Chou, Shunji Iwai, Japan, 2001.

Lined up clumsily along the irregular slope opposite the school, the kids await the sign that spurs their legs on, although, before we can even get to hear it, a stampede of spirited bodies sweeps us away.

With adolescent energy, the youths run up the hill in total disorder, a pair of hands moving the air out of the way, a couple of eyes gaining ground, all approaching the summit recklessly. And, without prior agreement, everyone, sooner or later, reaches it. But their feet don’t stop there; on the contrary, they quicken and, with a flush of joy, jump.

Over the cliff, the bodies embrace freedom; however, none warned them that the price of wings is blindness.

MORE


Rubble, by Desártico.