Harkaitz Cano

According to the doctors, you lack calcium in your bones
and what they've just told you
sounds like an old person's disease.
‘An old person's disease and a woman's disease', whispers
your conscience
beside your left ear.
A woman's disease, that's a laugh. To tell the truth,
you wouldn't mind at all
coming back as a woman in your next life:
any transformation is a convoluted way
of gaining power, if you manage to retain
a shred of memory of who you were before. But old?
It's time you started to accept it.
Everything is a matter of time or
lack of time.
You put on a record a friend gave you
when you turned fifteen;
you can't bear that music for even five minutes.
Someone knocks on the door, a starving person,
‘You owe me for February'.
This may be the lament of a poor wretch
who finds death before his time
in a second celestial request.
February, the cruelest month.
An answer for the landlord comes to mind,
‘for religious reasons, would you mind
if we forgot about February, and I'll owe you
for two Marches instead'.
But you keep quiet.
The frame of the open door barely keeps you on your feet.
‘You owe me for February', you hear again.

You feel it, yes indeed,
the leech in your bones
now has a name:
February.
...

Medikuen arabera, kaltzioa falta zaizu hezurretan
eta zaharren gaixotasuna irizten diozu
azaldu berri dizutenari.
«Zaharrena eta emakumeena» arduratu da zehazteaz
ezker belarriaren parean bizi zaizun
kontzientzia.
Emakumearenak grazia egiten dizu, egia esan
ez litzaizuke batere axola izango
hurrengo bizitza batean emakume jaiotzea:
boterea izateko era bihurri bat da
aldakuntza oro, aurrez zinenaren memoria zati bat
gordetzen jakinez gero. Baina zahartzearena?
Hori ere onartzen hasteko sasoian zaude.
Dena denbora kontua da edo denbora
faltarena.
Hamabost urte bete zenituenean lagun batek
oparitutako diskoa jarri duzu tokatan;
bost minutu ere ezin duzu jasan
musika hori. Atean jo dute, gosekilen bat,
«Otsaila zor didazu»
esaldi hori, heriotza denborak baino lehen
topatu duen gizajoren baten kexua dateke
bigarren instantzia zerutar batean.
Otsaila, hilabeterik krudelena.
Bururatu zaizu erantzun bat ugazabarentzat,
«arrazoi erlijiosoak medio, axola al zaizu otsailaz
ahaztuko bagina, bi martxo
zor izango nizkizuke hartara».
Isilik geratzen zara hala ere
ate irekiak nekez eusten zaitu, «Otsaila zor didazu»
entzun duzu berriro.

Senti zenezake, bai horixe,
Otsaila
badu ja bere izena
zure hezurretan bizi den izainak.
...

Ogia, lagunak, ardoa. Hurrenkera horretan. Frankenstein doktoreak sortutako munstroak esaten dituen lehen hiru hitzak.

*

Hainbeste borroka, katramila, sesio; hainbeste literatura eta hainbeste harrokeria, azkenean, bueltan-bueltan gauza guztietan pentsalari greziarrei arrazoia emateko. Edo are okerrago dena: zure gurasoei.

*

Ume irlandar lealistak errana, handitzean zer izan nahi ote duen galdetu diotenean: "Preso ohia".

*

Felt, Arthur Millerrek sortutako pertsonaiak esana: "Aukeratu beharra dago: gizakia fidel izan dakioke bere buruari edo fidel izan dakieke gainerakoei. Gainerakoei fidel eta norbere buruari fidel izatea, hori ezinezkoa da".

*

Emazteak senarrari: "Gu biotako bat hilko balitz, ni Parisera joango nintzateke bizitzera". (Sigmund Freuden txisterik gustukoena)

*

Garraio publikoetan galdutako beste egun bat: zail egiten zait idazlea ala garai batean komertzio biajante esaten zitzaion hori ote naizen bereiztea gaur bezalako egunetan. Idazle hitza ere biajante hitza bezain sasoiz kanpokoa eta iraungia ote den susmoa gero eta errotuago nire baitan. Egin leku predikatzaile berriei.

*

Ez erortzea da eraikinen berezko joera (J.R. Amondarain).

*

Esperientzia da lortzen duzuna, nahi duzuna lortzen ez duzunean (Ratab Manzil).

*

Seme-alabak gerraren jarraipena dira, beste bitarteko batzuekin.

*

Xake-taulan falta den piezarik garrantzitsuena: bufoia.

*

Zure fedea meharra eta hauskorra dela diozu. Baina zer fede ez da mehar eta hauskor? Mehar eta hauskor ez den fedeari beste izen bat eman behar genioke: xalotasuna, ameskeria, diziplina.
*

Jainkoak inkontzienteei laguntzen die. Tamalez, haiek ez dira enteratzen.
...

Bread, friends, wine. In that order. The first three words of Frankenstein's monster.

*

So much fighting, so many squabbles, so many quarrels; so much literature and so much arrogance, round and round about everything; in the end, the Greek thinkers were right. Or worse: your parents.

*

A loyalist Irish child, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up: ‘A former prisoner'.

*

Felt, one of Arthur Miller's characters: ‘A man can be faithful to himself or to other people - but not to both'.

*

Wife to husband: ‘If one of us dies, I'll go live in Paris'. (Sigmund Freud's favorite joke).

*

Another day wasted on public transportation: it's hard for me to tell on days like today if I am a writer or what they used to call a traveling salesman. The suspicion has taken root in my mind that the word writer is as outdated and obsolete as the word traveling. Make way for new predicates.

*

The natural inclination of buildings is to not fall down (J.R. Amondarain).

*

Experience is what you get, when you don't get what you want (Ratab Manzil).

*

Sons and daughters are the continuation of war by other means.

*

The most important piece not on the chess board: the jester.

*

Your faith is limited and fragile, you say. But what faith is not limited and fragile? A faith that is not limited and fragile we would call by another name: naïveté, illusion, discipline.

*

God helps the unconscious. Unfortunately, they don't know it.
...

For Nietzsche, hope was the beginning of loss.

But we can be even more radical:
the beginning of anything is the beginning of loss.

We all lose, but some lose more slowly
than others.

‘How's it going?' we ask mercilessly.

‘Slowly', we answer, without really knowing.

Losing slowly is what we call winning.

But I, who do not love losing, love to lose myself in the forest.

Especially in forests
of music and breath,
skin and bark.
...

Nietzscherentzat, esperantza zen derrotaren hasiera.

Baina izan gintezke erradikalago ere:
gauza guztien hasiera bera da derrotaren hasiera.

Guztiok gara galtzaile, soilik batzuek beste batzuek baino
polikiago galtzen dutela.

"Zer moduz zabiltza?", galdetzen dugu, dohakabe.

"Poliki", erantzuten dugu, jakin gabe.

Irabaztea esaten diogu, nonbait, poliki galtzeari.

Baina nik, galtzea maite ez dudan honek, biziki maite dut galtzea basoan.

Batez ere galtzea azala eta musika,
eta arnasa eta larrua
darien basoetan.
...

Zure agendan egonagatik sekula
ezagutu ez duzun jende hori da.
Gogoratzen saiatu arren arrotzak zaizkizun
izen eta zenbaki horiek guztiak.

Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak ez dizu sekula aitortuko
baina badaki
zerua ez dela urdina
samuraien izarekin egindako banderen zurrumurrua bereizten badaki
haizearen menera dagoenean.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak, jende horrek du
benetako bertigoa.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak ezingo luke
gau-club batean edo kafetxe bateko hormen artean lan egin.
Teilaren bat aske egon daitekeen susmoa dutenean
trazatu keinuak adierazten duen eran,
teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendea tango zalantzatien
irakasle izan zen
ez hain aspaldiko bizitza batean.

Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendeak presa-orduak eta jende pilaketak
saihesten ditu
jendetzak eta autobusek eta leuzemiaren usainak eta gehiegi hitzak
mundua bere buztinezko artesietatik
amilarazteko arriskua balego bezala.
Teilatuetan lan egiten duen jendea ez da fido
goizeko bostetan kale hutsez ere,
eta teilatuetatik jaisten den apurretan
espaloia utziz errepideko zebrabidea zapaldu aurretik
oin bakar batez ziurtatzen du lehenbizi
asfaltuaren gogortasuna, zer gerta ere,
oinen pean ibai izoztu bat
hondoratuko zaion beldurrez.
...

They are people you don't recognize
even though they're in your address book.
All those names and numbers that are strange to you
even though you try to remember them.

People who work on rooftops will never admit it,
but they know
the sky is not blue,
they can hear the murmur of flags with samurai stars
when they face into the wind.
People who work on rooftops, these people know
true vertigo.
People who work on rooftops could not
work at a nightclub or within the walls of a café.
The gesture they make
when they suspect a loose shingle suggests
they might have been teachers
of a hesitant tango
in another life not so long ago.

People who work on rooftops avoid rush hour
and mobs,
as if crowds and buses and the smell of leukemia and the words too much
weighed too much,
might press the world down through cracks in the mud.
People who work on rooftops do not trust
even the empty streets at five in the morning,
and the rare times they alight,
before they leave the sidewalk and step on the crosswalk,
they first test it with one foot,
test the hardness of the asphalt,
fearing that this frozen river
might crack beneath their feet.
...

Motelago doa denbora atzerriko hirietan;
horregatik ihesak, horregatik aire konpainia eskasak, horregatik jet laga
-edo ezustean liluratu zaituen usain ezatsegin hori-;
horregatik planoei buruzbehera begiratzeko joera.

Motelago doa denbora ezezagunen etxeetan;
horregatik hotelak, horregatik bisitak, itxaron-gelekiko gogo hori;
horregatik kaleko sirena hotsen abiadan anbulantziak su-hiltzaileetatik
bereizteko grina asegaitza.

Motelago doalako denbora gorputz arrotzetan;
horregatik zain egon beharra ekarriko duten maitaleen xerka;
horregatik zauriak, motelago doalako denbora zaurien gainean.

Mina eternitate faltsu baten promesa faltsua delako.

Esplorazio guztiak,
kepiak buruan edo hartza-larrua soinean egindakoak,
zaldiz, mendiz, airez edo itsasoz egindako espedizio guztiak,
heroikoak eta eguneroko ostera txikiak
-Scott, Shackleton, Duvoisin kapitaina-,
erlojua geratzeko,
denborari trabes egiteko ahalegin xaloak ote ziren?

Motelago baitoa denbora beti elurra apartatu edo
aihotzarekin oihanean sasia garbitzen zabiltzanean.

Bide ezagunetan, aldiz, azkarrago pasatzen dira orduak.

Hori da ordaina: galduta zaudenean doala motelen denbora.

Amildegian motelago lautadan baino.
Basoan motelago xenda seguruan baino.

Xendan dagoenak, basora begiratzen du beti, bertan laino.
Basoan nahi luke galdu denbora,
bera denboran ez galtzeko eta
denborak ez alferrik galtzeko bera, akaso.

Esanda doa:
inork ez du egundo denbora malgu hori errenditu.
Katedun erlojuetan katebegi huts gu,
basoan umeak egin eta basoan galtzen diren umeen
ipuinak egiten
jarraitzen dugu.

Motelago igarotzen delako denbora beti
bide ezezagunetatik goazenean.
...

Time goes more slowly in a foreign city;
therefore escapes, therefore inadequate airline companies, therefore jetlag
- or that sudden captivating unpleasant odor -
therefore the tendency to read maps upside down.

Time goes more slowly in strange houses;
therefore hotels, therefore visits, a fascination with waiting rooms;
therefore the insatiable desire
to tell ambulances from fire trucks in the swift wail of a siren.

Time goes more slowly in unknown bodies;
therefore the search for lovers that spring from new delays;
therefore wounds, because time goes more slowly over wounds.

Because pain is the false promise of a false eternity.

All explorations,
undertaken with military caps or wrapped in bearskin,
on horseback, in the mountains, in the open air or by sea,
heroic or daily strolls
- Scott, Shackleton, Captain Duvoisin -
are they but pathetic attempts to stop the clock,
to bet against time?

Because time always goes slower as snow is removed
or as the machete clears brambles in the jungle.

But on familiar roads the hours fly by.

This is the price you pay: time goes slowest when you are lost.

Slower on a cliff than on the flatlands.
Slower in the forest than on a safe path.

The rambler always looks to the forest, to the mist there.
He would like to lose time in the forest
but not lose himself in time or
not be lost by time, perhaps.

It has been said:
no one has yet conquered flexible time.
Mere links in the chain of time are we,
bearing children in the forest and telling
children's stories
lost there.

Because time always passes more slowly
on unfamiliar paths.
...

Badago garai batean asko maitatu eta orain
urtebetetze egunean soilik deitzen diozun jendea.
Lan kontuak haizatu eta mesede eske deitzen diozuna.
Fakultateko inozoren bat, zure frakasoaren tenperatura berritzeko
hots egiten dizuna: "ni ez, baina bera… inoiz ez".
Badago emazteak utzi zaituenean soilik deitzen diozun jendea
(senarrak utzi duenean soilik deitzen dizuna, bestalde).
Badago gertuago balego hainbeste deituko ez zeniokeenik.
Badago kontu hartzeko deitzen diozun jendea,
kargu hartzeko hots egiten dizuna.
Badago lau urtean behin deitu arren, masailez masail
eta arimaz arima izpiritua epeldu eta zurekin dagoela
sentiarazten dizun jendea.
Badaude basamortuko ispilukeria diren deiak,
komertzial zapuztuak; le interesaría si, le ha tocado un.
Badago jendea, "deituko diat nik berehala".
beti norbait garrantzitsuagoa duena beste adarrean,
-eta gero ez du deitzen-.
Badago jendea, hari whisky bat ez ordaintzeagatik deitu
eta azkenean deia tragoa bera baino garestiago ordainarazten dizuna.
Badago deitu ezin diozun jendea, haserre dagoelako zurekin,
edo kartzelan, edo zutaz ahaztuta, edo hilik; faena bat.
Badago zurekin hitz egiten duen bitartean
sudurzuloa haztatzen duela gehiegi nabaritzen zaionik.
Badago jendea sekula telefonorik hartu ez
baina beti hor dagoena txirrin-hotsak zenbatzen gela ilunean,
-edo, xanpaina kopa eskuan,
mahats ale bana irensten txirrin-hots bakoitzeko-.
Badago jendea ez dizuna deitzen,
badakielako beste norbaitek hartuko duela agian;
badago jendea geratzeko deitzen dizuna
eta badago bere geratzeko modua
telefonoz mintzatzea bera dena.
Badago hilaren hamahiruan deitzen dizuna beti,
malenkonia esoteriko apur batez, beharbada.
Dakizuna berresteko deitzen diozuna.
Kontra egin diezazun deitzen diozuna.
Edo markatzen hasi eta bere telefonoaren azken zenbakia
jada inoiz gogoan ez duzuna.

Eta gero dago, zu bezala,
oso bakanetan deitzen diodan jendea:
adibidez su-eten bat eman, edo apurtu,
edota elurra ari duenean kanpoan,
esateko: "eta orain zer?",
edo, "elurra ari din hor ere?",
eta zuk: "bai, ari dik".
...

There are people you once adored and
that you now call only on their birthday.
People you call to fume about work and ask for favors.
A fool from the department who calls you
to measure your failure: ‘not I, but he... never'
There are people you call only when your wife has left you
(and who call you only when their husband has left them).
There are people you wouldn't call so much if they were closer.
There are people you call to demand an explanation,
who call you to scold.
There are people who call once every four years
who warm your spirit and make you feel
they are with you, cheek to cheek, soul to soul.
There are calls that are desert mirages,
failed advertising: would you be interested in, you've won a.
There are people - ‘I'll call you right back' -
who always have someone more important on the other line,
and then they don't call back.
There are people you call so you won't have to buy them a whiskey
and then the call costs more than the drink.
There are people you can't call, because they're mad at you,
or they're in jail, or they've forgotten you, or they're dead; it's a drag.
There are people who all too clearly pick their nose
while they talk to you.
There are people who never answer the phone
but who are always there counting the rings in a dark room,
or who, champagne in hand,
swallow a grape with each ring.
There are people who never call you
because they know someone else might answer.
There are people who call you to get together,
and people whose way of getting together
is talking on the phone.
There are those who call you every month on the thirteenth,
with a trace of esoteric melancholy perhaps.
Those you call to confirm what you already know.
Those you call to contradict you.
Those you start to call but never remember
the last digit of their number.

And then there are those like you,
people I call only rarely:
to call a truce perhaps, or break one,
or when it's snowing outside
just to say, ‘now what?'
or ‘is it snowing there too?'
and you say, ‘yes, it is'.
...

Ospitale bat baino deprimenteagoa
guza bakarra dago
eta ez da hilerri bat
baizik eta ospitalera doan linea erregularreko
autobus bat jendez betea.
Jende hori nork bere radiografia besapean duela
sobre batean begirada ez zu eta ez ni
ikustera ailega ez gaitezkeen putzu sakon batean
galdurik
hunkigarria da kimioterapia eman dioten
sei urteko haurraren sehaska irribarrea
agureak radiografiak leihoko argitara lerratzen
«begira: horko puntu zuri hori da» aldarrikatuz
alegera
eta batez ere bi emakume horiek hizketan
Nine Inch Nails zure walkmaneko musikari gailenduz
atzoko malkoaren amildegia gainditu nahi duten
hitzak entzutea
«ikusiko duzu», esaten diot nik nire senarrari
«ikusiko duzu gurpildun aulkia ekartzen dugunean
ze paseo emango ditugun biok
Korrekaminos eta Koiotea deituko digute, Ismael».
Korrekaminos eta Koiotea
zirrara bat sentitzen dut hori entzutean
eta gero paralisia ezker eskura edo eskuinekora
hedatu zaion zehaztuko du emakume adoretsuak.
Bakoitzak bere radiografia besapean
bere minbizi kuota bere
abandonua bere kristalezko
begia edo bere 96 graduko gibela
hori hunkigarria ez bada
intzinera gaitzatela haizea aizkora bihurtu arte
gure arnasaren zain dago Ismael
imajina dezakegu oraindik
pertsona baina denbora gutxirako agian Ismael
xakera jolasten hankak estaltzen dizkion
manta eskoziarraren gainean
batzuetan hasperen eta beste batzuetan irribarre
egiten duen bitartean pertsona oraindik Ismael
biziduna ezen ez marrazki
«Korrekaminos eta Koiote, argi ibili
ikusiko duzue
gurpildun aulkia ekartzen digutenean».
...

There is only one thing more depressing
than a hospital
and it's not a cemetery
but a bus full of people
on the regular line to the hospital.
Those people, each with his x-ray under his arm
in an envelope, gaze
lost
in a deep pool that neither you nor I will ever be able to see.
The cradle-smile of a six-year-old in chemotherapy
rends the heart.
Old people holding their x-rays to the light of the window,
‘look: it's that white spot there', they proclaim
joyfully,
and especially those two women you hear talking
over Nine Inch Nails on your walkman,
words
that struggle to scale the cliff of yesterday's tears.
‘You'll see', I tell my husband,
‘you'll see what walks we'll take, the two of us,
when they bring us the wheelchair.
They'll call us Coyote and Roadrunner, Ishmael'.
Coyote and Roadrunner.
I shiver when I hear that,
and then the brave woman adds that the paralysis
has extended to his left hand or maybe to the right.
Each one with his x-ray under his arm,
his quota of cancer, his
abandonment, his glass
eye or his orthopedic glove.
If that doesn't rend the heart
let them incinerate us until the air becomes an axe.
Ishmael awaits our breath.
We can imagine it:
Ishmael, a person still but perhaps with little time,
playing chess on top of the Scottish blanket
that covers his knees,
sometimes sighing, sometimes smiling,
a person still, Ishmael,
life but not still.
‘Coyote and Roadrunner, pray as hard as you can.
You'll see
how things are when they bring us the wheelchair'.
...