Legitimation of Deafness and Distance

Eventually managed to gather enough inches around the shoulder for it to breathe a little. Across the seventy percent nitrogen newborn strip, a balding nape was waving through the rail bumps. Contending the no man’s land is some barely standing senior-vice-under-bro, passively residing in some silver cuff link, too eyebaggy to make the years of Monday-Friday worthwhile. One cannot see their eyes, as the slightly rotated head reveals a left earbud the size of a walnut.

The opposite elbow is solid, enforced by the firm handgrip, relentless to the sudden curbs on the underground L curves, and shading the bag single bracket-ly held from its weight. Hanging under the load, a loud threesome of toni metallici standard poured out by little Spaniards too young to order beer, even in southern Europe. I believe one was attempting to listen to the fast-flowing blubbering - words so natively pronounced they melted together - but at every bit, just as idioms were processed, the ears went greedy and ultimately let go of the tiktok talk… for everybody else to enjoy.

Bodies in metro, back to default. Way too busy throughout the stops, not thoughtful enough to walk the city across.

Line Five resounds in its greenish layout and complies proudly to its public service. It copes daily with barrel plotted inflows of people – chubby wagons entre Rubén Darío y Pirámides – then progressively spreads the outliers to lowly corners of the eastern suburbs, conversely bringing a fair share down to the churros bangla at Canillejas bus station. After long working hours it goes back to dark, for a good four-hour rest, void of the day’s drawled resonance.

It is very hot underground, while upstairs October is serving a late transition. In southern mid-latitude continental metropolis, from a Milanese Saturday evening to a Sunday morning one can witness shirts turn into coats, roaring blue hours crawl back to the aphelion to leave skydives of gloomy watery particles linger across the streetlamp light. One week later, on a Monday afternoon, cold pinches will grasp one’s uncovered skin, Madrid mildness is feezed, its warmth hijacked, cozy couch season begins.

Easier and faster does the fall cover calles, one might run away to escape seasonal depression.

Swinging through a city owning luxury seats in one’s nostalgia, beloved and desired through many rounds of beer. Although this time no Institutions will be attended. No loose pints, no amazing museum, just a touch of hesitation. Just a few days in the spirit of slow, friendly gatherings, gladly less relevant than past rendezvous. Is it true that forsaking familiar scapes fosters change? Doubtful. Especially for those who can afford to overthink; the lack of proximity to warmer scenarios represents a niche-y No. 1 cause of memory loss.

Mind be minding elsewhere, loosing track of path by the hour… and lost the history, lost the perspective. As the fingers lose contact with the handrails and the elbow gets weaker, three kids on a metro wagon face unremarked risk of a heavy bag hitting their heads.

Clearly, a messy set of reasons brought about the necessity of decisions. A clumsy pal at Leoni lost&found desk begs for missing control.

But control is alive on a spectrum, and in such vanity no organizational skill is required, rather it is discouraged. A kind reminder: this time no Institution will be attended. Bodies share no contact with management. Hopefully the maze will be played by the underground version of managing: coping.

What one does is one copes, at turns one will bare, until the dashboard is balanced and starts over to dare.

Drifting out of a crowded carriage, will one remind their name? Furrowed facets approaching the stairs to outflowing contemporary tunnels. Pinches on earlobes, then on the forehead, hard to establish whether caused by the cold or the effort of not being old and crooked enough to take metro elevators. At least the shoulder can revolve full circle again, and the last step will allow that well awaited full lung breath. Inhale. Exhale.

There is some continuity underground, chaos is bounded by the intersections, and even line switches stay on the same notes. Conversely, once outside, the shimmering melodies fade; giving way to an evasive mood. Rocky gazes of people, the sticky raindrops crash upon hoodies and balconies. The broken rhythm of stop signals conduct a rippled soundtrack. Taxis. Parataxis. Traffic lights at every angle, a blasted riffraff rejected at the doors and gateways. How can one gain the peace to stop thinking?

The knees are free to bend in the cycle of walking. Six meters across the road opposite kneecaps revolving. Space gets more widespread, sentences reduced. Some car pulls over and two women get off to a raging old man with slow reflexes. The market is close to his home, but the fervor of the market economy has made it all dangerous for the elderlies. Even sweets & flavored chewing gum at the registers have grown past ideologies, nobody stares at the Brooklyn’s as a liberal statement, let alone knows what was hidden behind Cinnamon gum.

Bodies on sidewalks, casually inhabiting. Stressfully gazing on benches and silly small dogs. Thinking the city across plazas, buildings, parchi, convenience stores.

Realizing that decisions are often buffer solutions, one is pulled towards upstairs and downstairs.

Somewhat like on a pendulum where cycles are constant with periodical vertigo, background noise in big cities is a contemporary device to make thoughts unclear. They cannot stop, and gradually mix up and get messier. There is a perpetual battle between vibrant ideas and their resonance.

It gets hard to cope, let alone to manage. One needs to slow down a bit.

Gradually the clutch is pushed down, and the brake along. Little by little, getting to a full stop.

Cesura. Full brain, empty basket.

Turning back to the countryside to catch jujubes and wild rusticani.