By José Gandue @Gandour
Editor's note: I'm not a fatalist, but I love writing about how I imagine hell, the apocalypse, and, on a smaller scale, my own funeral. All the stories, at their core, share a common element, which can serve as a source of relief, or, conversely, as a trigger for nightmares: music.
Today I've retrieved a text I published five years ago, which, after giving it a fresh look and adding a few details, I wanted to share with you. I've also included, at the end of the text, the five albums I'd like you to play when, hopefully far off, I depart this world. I think it's better to share this material with you now with certainty, rather than relying on the conjectures of some of my friends after I'm gone.
The image chosen to illustrate the article is called "It's the end of the world," and was made in 1824 by the Frenchman Nicolas Toussaint Charlet.
Who would have thought that just when the world comes to an end, it doesn't rain in Bogotá? And yet, we have a beautiful sun. The end of the world will greet us in shorts and a t-shirt. I've decided to await the consummation of the planet and all life, including my own, wearing a red t-shirt with the cover of Screamadelica printed on the chest.
Nothing to be done. The president addressed the entire nation, attempting to offer words of encouragement, but ultimately revealing his true colors. He knows we live in a region of the world where we must resign ourselves to the decisions of the powerful nations, and because we never even uttered a peep and always believed in the wisdom of the superpowers, we only realized too late that our belated rebellion was futile. Even when it comes to dying because of others, we are cowardly and resigned.
From those missiles launched from the Mediterranean towards Crimea, we suspected there was no turning back, but believing in gods who never spoke to us It made us think that some kind hand was going to break the strongest. Today we barely see each other from the windows of our crumbling houses, knowing that not even a shout or a gesture of slight love will help us.
Yes, we turn to that famous title of the REM composition, and repeat “This is the end of the world, as we know it”But, to be honest, We barely feel good with music and we hardly ever reach meekness. Those with their partners by their side have gathered to chase their last orgasms and mutter their spent breaths, awaiting the explosion. Others, with their entire families, including their deluded children, have gone out into the street and, with the attitude of tourists, their sunglasses fixed on the sky, waiting for the flash that will blind them. My only refuge is playing at being the DJ of the apocalypse And with my stereo's batteries soon running out, I started reminiscing about the great music that has played throughout my life.
While it taps Here comes the sun, I wonder if what they call heaven is only meant for Beatles fans, Or will some heartless jailer torture us in the venues of the next stage for being so naive as to so devotedly support the exquisite arrogance of the British quartet, compared to others who They defended the howl of the savages in search of the last refuge from rage.
Then, perhaps because the cruelest humor boils in my body at the least appropriate moments, I play part of the overture. 1812 Tchaikovsky's, precise at the moment the cannons thunder. Then, my neighbors begin to weep, swearing that the final outcome has arrived. In an act of madness, I go out onto the balcony and in an inappropriate Shakespearean outcry, I mumble the proclamation of Henry V on St. Crispin's Day:
We few, we happy few, we, band of brothers;
For he who sheds his blood with me today
He will be my brother; however vile he may be,
This day ennobles his condition:
And the gentlemen now in their beds in England
They will be considered cursed for not having been here,
And they will hold their manhood in low esteem when they hear talk
to him who fought with us on Saint Crispin's Day!
Neither my recklessness, Not even the words of the Bard of Avon bring a glimmer of hope to the neighborhood.
Seeing the first glimmers of the apocalypse appear, there's nothing left to do but close my window and try, with desperate leaps and in short intervals, to jump from New Order to Perrosky., From The Jesus and Mary Chain to Fito Páez and his city of poor hearts, From Charly's rubber shoes to The Pogues' crooked teeth. 20 seconds of London Local Time, thirty The Universal, Blur's "Blur." Dave Brubeck peeks out, but Mad Joan is chasing him. Bach lingers for a few minutes, but then explodes Saint Maradona And that's when I begin to beg the memory of Diego, of D10s, to do something about it. One album after another, and the despair keeps growing.
Finally, exhaustion overcomes me and I look at the bed with longing. It will all be over in a few minutes, and I decide to leave only one vinyl record playing: Holy Colors, by Cerati – Melero. As I lie down, I can feel the entrance of A trip around the universe:
Today that thisásplendid
and that everything illuminates you
Let's take a walk
A trip around the universe
Make a wish
Our souls as we fly
are the clouds más brilliant…
turbulence…
And to sail between planets…
Lap…
Higher, higher and higher
I close my eyes as the trembling spreads. I, who have rarely believed in a higher power, clumsily pray., knowing that it won't even bring me peace. As the final sound echoes within my walls, all I can manage is a stupid prayer to myself:
Thank you, tyrants, thank you for so much madness. Seriously, I thank you for so much insanity, so much arrogance. and the grace of having given us his cruel smile until the very last moment.
The stereo needle stops abruptly. It was time to sleep, there was no way around it.
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Exhibit: Records for my funeral