| Mientras instalo un Windows 2008 con su SQL Server 2005 para unas pruebas, he ido paseando por algunos vídeos y me apetecía compartirlos. El tema clave es "The gift" de The Velvet Underground, una historia de amor combinada con "A gift". Luego, algunos vídeos de Lou Reed y de John Cale. Espero que los disfrutéis. | I'm installing this sunday a Windows 2008 with SQL Server 2005 for test purposes. Meanwhile I've been watching some videos I like to share. The main one is "The gift". The Velvet Underground's urban love history. Combined with "A gift". After these two songs, some Lou Reed and John Cale videos. I hope you will enjoy. |
The gift
| Waldo Jeffers estaba en el límite. Era mediados de agosto, lo que significaba que llevaba separado de Marsha dos meses. Dos meses y lo único que tenía eran tres cartas sobadas y dos conferencias muy caras. Realmente, cuando terminaron las clases y ella regresó a Wisconsin y él a Locust, Pennsylvania, había jurado mantener cierta fidelidad. Saldría de vez en cuando, pero sólo como diversión. Le sería fiel. Pero últimamente, Waldo había empezado a preocuparse. Le costaba dormir por la noche. Y cuando lo hacía, tenía horribles sueños. Se mantenía despierto por la noche agitándose y revolviéndose bajo la colcha, con lágrimas brotando de sus ojos mientras imaginaba a Marsha, sus promesas vencidas por el alcohol y la dulzura refinada de un Neanderthal, sometiéndose finalmente a las últimas caricias de la inconsciencia sexual. Era más de lo que la mente humana podía soportar. Visiones de la infidelidad de Marsha le perseguían. Durante el día, fantasías de abandono sexual empapaban sus pensamientos. Pero el caso era que nadie entendería cómo era en realidad. Solo él, Waldo, entendía eso. Había llegado intuitivamente hasta los rincones y grietas más recónditas de su psique. La hacía sonreír. Ella le necesitaba, y él no estaba con ella. ¡Ah! La idea se le ocurrió el jueves antes de que empezara el Desfile de Máscaras. Acababa de cortar y arreglar el césped de Edelson por un dólar cincuenta centavos y había mirado en el buzón para ver si por lo menos había algunas letras de Marsha. Sólo había una circular de la Compañía de Aluminio Amalgamado de América preguntando si necesitaba algún toldo. Por lo menos se preocupaban de escribir. Era una compañía de Nueva York. Se podía llegar a cualquier parte por correo. La idea le convulsionó. No tenía dinero suficiente para ir a Wisconsin de la manera tradicional, era cierto, ¿por qué no enviarse a sí mismo por correo? Era ridículamente sencillo. Se enviaría por Paquete Postal de Entrega Inmediata. Al día siguiente, Waldo fue al supermercado para comprar el material necesario. Compró una cinta adhesiva, una grapadora y una caja de tamaño mediano adecuada para una persona de su estatura. Juzgó que con un mínimo de golpes podría viajar de manera bastante cómoda. Unos cuantos agujeros, un poco de agua, por supuesto, unos bocadillos, y probablemente iría tan bien como en clase turista. El viernes por la tarde Waldo ya estaba listo. Se había empaquetado, y Correos se había comprometido a pasar a recogerle a las tres en punto. Puso en el embalaje "frágil", y mientras se sentaba en el interior, acomodado entre la goma espuma que había colocado cuidadosamente a modo de colchón, intentó imaginarse la mirada de asombro y felicidad que reflejaría el rostro de Marsha cuando abriera la puerta, viera la caja, diera una propina al repartidor, y la abriera para ver a Waldo por fin allí en persona. Le besaría, y quizá después irían al cine. ¿Por qué no se le había ocurrido antes? De repente unas toscas manos agarraron la caja y se sintió elevado. Aterrizó con un golpe seco en un camión, y salió hacia su destino. Marsha Bronson acababa de arreglarse el pelo. Había sido un fin de semana muy agitado. Tenía que recordar que no debía beber tanto. Aunque Bill había sido bastante agradable. Cuando terminaron, le dijo que aún le respetaba y que al fin y al cabo aquello había sido natural, y aunque no, no la amaba, sentía un gran afecto por ella. Y después de todo, eran adultos. Oh, cuánto podía Bill enseñarle a Waldo. Pero aquello parecía ya tan lejano. Sheila Klein, su mejor amiga, cruzó la puerta del porche y entró en la cocina. "Oh Dios. Da pena este mundo." "Ajh, te entiendo. Está tan anticuado." Marsha se apretó el cinturón de su bata de algodón con puntas de seda. Sheila pasó el dedo sobre unos granos de sal que había en la mesa de la cocina, se chupó el dedo e hizo una mueca. "Se supone que tengo que tomar píldoras de sal, pero", arrugó la nariz, "me dan ganas de vomitar". Marsha empezó a darse palmaditas bajo el mentón, un ejercicio que había visto en televisión. "Dios, no me hables de eso." Se levantó de la mesa y fue al lavabo para coger un frasco de vitaminas rosas y azules. "¿Quieres una? Dicen que son mejor que un filete." Trató de tocarse las rodillas. "No creo que vuelva a probar un daiquiri en mi vida." Se abandonó y se sentó, esta vez junto a la mesa del teléfono. "Quizá llame Bill", dijo ante la mirada de Sheila. Sheila se mordió una piel del dedo. "Después de lo de anoche, pensaba que habrías terminado con él." "Sé lo que quieres decir. Dios mío, era como un pulpo, las manos por todas partes." Gesticuló, levantó los brazos hacia arriba como defendiéndose. "Lo cierto es que al cabo de un rato te cansas de pelear con él, ¿sabes?, y después de todo no había hecho nada el viernes y el sábado así que de alguna manera se lo debía, ¿sabes lo que quiero decir?" empezó a rascarse. Sheila se reía tontamente tapándose la boca con la mano. "Tengo que decirte que yo me sentía igual, incluso al cabo de un rato", se inclinó hacia adelante dando un suspiro, "yo también tenía ganas". Ahora la risa era escandalosa. Fue entonces cuando el señor Jameson de la oficina de Correos de Clarence Darrow llamó al timbre de la gran casa de madera estucada. Cuando Marsha Bronson abrió la puerta el hombre le ayudó a entrar la caja. Tenía su juego de papeles amarillo y verde firmados y se fue con quince centavos de propina que Marsha había cogido del pequeño monedero de color beige de su madre en el estudio. "¿Qué crees que es?", preguntó Sheila. Marsha tenía los brazos cruzados en la espalda. Miraba fijamente la caja de cartón que estaba en el centro de la sala de estar. "No lo sé." Dentro del paquete Waldo se estremecía de excitación mientras escuchaba las lejanas voces. Sheila pasó su uña por la cinta adhesiva que cruzaba el centro de la caja. "¿Por qué no miras el remite y ves de quién es?" Waldo sintió latir su corazón. Podía oír los pasos nerviosos. Ya faltaba poco. Marsha dio una vuelta alrededor de la caja y leyó el membrete garabateado con tinta. "Ah, Dios, es de Waldo. Ese idiota", dijo Sheila. Waldo temblaba de expectación. "Bueno, podrías abrirlo", dijo Sheila. Intentaron levantar la tapa grapada. "Ah", dijo Marsha, gruñendo, "debe de haberla clavado". Volvieron a tirar con fuerza. "dios mío, hace falta una taladradora para abrir esto." Lo intentaron de nuevo. "No se puede coger por ningún lado." Se quedaron quietas, respirando pesadamente. "¿Por qué no traes unas tijeras?" dijo Sheila. Marsha fue a la cocina, pero sólo encontró unas pequeñas tijeras de coser. Entonces recordó que su padre tenía un juego de herramientas en el sótano. Bajó las escaleras, y cuando subió llevaba una gran cuchilla en la mano. "Esto es lo mejor que he encontrado". Estaba sin aliento. "Hazlo tú, no puedo más." Se hundió en un mullido sofá y exhaló ruidosamente. Sheila intentó hacer un corte en la cinta adhesiva en el extremo de la caja, pero la hoja era demasiado grande y no había bastante sitio. "Maldito trasto", dijo muy exasperada. Entonces sonriendo. "Tengo una idea." "¿Qué?", dijo Marsha. "Espera", dijo Sheila, tocándose con un dedo la cabeza. Dentro de la caja Waldo estaba tan paralizado de excitación que apenas podía respirar. Tenía la piel ardiendo por el calor, y sentía los latidos del corazón en la garganta. Ya faltaba poco. Sheila se puso derecha y fue al otro lado de la caja. Se arrodilló, agarró la cuchilla con las dos manos, cogió aliento y hundió la larga hoja a través de la caja, a través de la cinta adhesiva, a través del cartón, a través del acolchado y justo a través del centro de la cabeza de Waldo Jeffers, que se partió suavemente haciendo que pequeños arcos rítmicos de color rojo brillaran de forma intermitente al sol de la mañana. | Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear. Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and he wasn't there (Awww...). The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist. By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off. Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again." She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place." She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly. It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room. "I dunno." Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon. Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god, it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with xpectation. "Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut." They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still, breathing heavily. "Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath. "Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling, "I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her finger to her head. Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun. |
A gift
| I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world Responsibility sits so hard on my shoulder Like a good wine I'm better as I grow older And now I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world It's hard to settle for second best After you've had me You know that you've had the best And now you know That I'm just a gift to the women of this world Responsibility sits hard on my shoulder Like a good wine I'm better as I get older And now I'm just a gift to the women of this world You know That I'm just a gift to the women of this world Just a gift now I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world | I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world Responsibility sits so hard on my shoulder Like a good wine I'm better as I grow older And now I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world It's hard to settle for second best After you've had me You know that you've had the best And now you know That I'm just a gift to the women of this world Responsibility sits hard on my shoulder Like a good wine I'm better as I get older And now I'm just a gift to the women of this world You know That I'm just a gift to the women of this world Just a gift now I'm just a gift to the women of this world I'm just a gift to the women of this world |
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