Here I am, another day trying to spit out words, one after another, trying to shape something that until a while ago did not even exist. Every time it's harder and harder, first because as time goes by, there are fewer topics to write about. Second, because as Luis Landero says, literature was born from the seed of travel and people do not know how to live without stories. Again I quote Landero, sorry to be repetitive, lately I only read his work. We need stories to live, but to write them, you must first live them. This whiting that bites its tail is my torment. The last two years I have barely lived, I could erase them from my existence, like that phase in which silkworms turn into chrysalis and then turn into butterflies, do you remember? You are a child, you enjoy collecting mulberry leaves to feed the four worms that you keep in an old shoebox. You appreciate how each day the little ones grow and change their skin and color, you are happy, but in one of those, in the fourth molt, they enter a brief period of sleep, and once they reach their maximum size, they expel a liquid excrement to start spinning its silk cocoons.
After waking up every morning and before any other routine, you greeted and fed your worms, but they emancipate themselves from you, and they don't do it like the YouTuber leaving their homeland, they do it defecating and wrapping themselves in their own excrement. Is there anything less rewarding and sadder than this? I don't think so. A childhood trauma. If ever someone dares to say that I am ungrateful, I will always have the replica of ... and what of the silkworms?
The pandemic has been my own chrysalis. God, how I wish I hadn't gone through that! No travel, nor human relations, nor work… Rubbish. The optimists, beatific, happy with little, will say that there was something good, that dolphins swam through the canals of Venice, it made us rethink things, we learned to do yoga or something similar, and the silkworm cocoons end up become butterflies. Fuck that! That damn virus has taken a year or so of my life, but wrinkles, alopecia, bone pain, accumulated fat, the price of Rolexes and my craving for one garment or another have not stopped growing.
Rolex Chronographe Antimagnetique ref 4537
I come to talk to you about the latter, my thing is not writing: for that read Landero. I am much more egotistical than that, I want to talk to you about my disorders, that anxiety about wanting things; jackets, windbreakers, coats, shoes, sneakers, watches, chairs. Yes, damn it, chairs. I am superficial and a materialist with a diagnosed cure, buying. The doctor recommends it, and I cannot refuse because I am that guy. Thanks, Ivan.
But I have learned to buy, now I strictly follow the rule of the chicken coop: that which comes in must go out. Do I flike the CQP Racquet shoes? I must sell, exchange or give away the other shoes of different brands that I have in huge quantities and that unfortunately I use less and less. Because sneaker freaker always, but I don't know, either I'm getting older or more classic, and less is more which I end up adhering to even more than the chickens themselves. This has not always been the case. Before, colorful, new models...a collector. Sneakers everywhere, doesn't matter how, a kind of tabloid journalist. Nike, Adidas, Asics, New Balance, I had them all. At 7 years old, while children asked for the Red Power Ranger from Santa Claus, i asked for Charles Barkley's Nikes. Oh yes, I was the kid Macklemore and Ryan Lewis sang about in "Wings". Those wind chambers made me fly, touch the net. "Mom, I did it! I'm Like Mike!" "Of course, son, but put your tongue back in your mouth or you'll bite it off!" I didn't pay her any attention and that's what happened. A bite and stitched up.
One changes affections over the years, but from temptation, who is free? Now I don't want Barkley's Nikes - although I wouldn't mind, mine, the ones I wore when I was in elementary school - but certain things still tempt me. Among others, the CQP Racquet. Another, and I really can't get out of my head, Ripense's denim shirt. Well, I like everything about Andrea… What coats! What suits! But, either I run out of clothes in the closet, or I manage with his shirt, which is no small thing. In the end, it's difficult for you to like a denim shirt more than others because in design all are little different from each other, but Andrea's is different. I'm not going to go into details, just look at it and now compare it to any other, you see? That's what I was telling you.
Sweaters, I want sweaters. Autumn arrives and suddenly i'm wanting to wear sweaters. Because of the cold, because of identity, I feel good with them; turtleneck, v-neck… I fantasize about the box-necks and Shetland wool. This time I don't want the softness of cashmere, I want resistance, classicism (again), to feel like JFK on one of his trips, protection against the cold, I want a JPress in a garish color -that's why classicism should not be taken to a level of dullness- and I want to tell you about it. The time, the desire and the muse will dictate if I finally do it.
I want Isamu Noguchi's sofa, Carlo Mollino's as well as Charles & Ray Eames' chair, and one by Edward J. Wormley. That structure in white maple, cherry, copper and brass, accompanied by wool upholstery that keeps me awake at night. It doesn't matter if it doesn't fit in my apartment, I'll buy everything and I'll keep it in storage for when I have a bigger house.
Denim shirt by Sartoria Ripense
Ray Eames sitting in one of his chairs
I want some Single Monk Strap in suede by Yohei Fukuda. I want them the way they appear in his Instagram, simply perfect. And a jacket with a guncheck print. I don't know how yet, if it'll be a teba or sport coat, if it'll have Marling and Evans or Holland & Sherry wool. But I do know who will make it. There are times you meet the love of your life in a bar, and others in which you meet the guy who knows how to dress you to achieve the former. Roberto de López Aragón is that guy. He doesn't need details, he's a mentalist, he always knows what I want.
That belief, a bit absurd, persists, the one in which the interesting man doesn't want "material" things, that being materialistic puts you at a lower class, as though you have no right to live, to feel. Materialistic! Superficial! Call up the Inquisition and get him out of here. Even with an uncontrollable ego, I cannot assume the role of "interesting guy", but I can accept the belief that materialism and superficiality places us at the last leg of the race, which is almost worse.
The great culprit of this is that subspecies of psychologist cum coach or blogger. Sorry, I can't handle them, they have a more uncontrolled ego than a soft one, and that's saying something. These people focus almost everything on the whim. "The superficial and materialistic person guides their life by their whims, and if they do not succeed, they are filled with negative emotions that end in a deep malaise", they explain full of verbiage. Oh! If they only knew about my imagination, about the number of Patek Philippe watches that haunt my mind, each one more exclusive and unattainable... And still, here I am, happy, I have not decided to throw myself from the top of a bridge.
Henry Ford said that superficial men believe in luck and circumstances. The strong believe in causes and their effects. I still think that the goal that Sergio Ramos scored on us in 93 was my fault, for not wearing pants… And, do you know what? It's funny.