Tres Ponts

After a productive summer I faced a low period that gloriously finished with 3 weeks of training and finger injury at the end of August.  The (short) time off from climbing gave me another chance to delve into myself and look for the sources of energy and enthusiasm for life.  After a gulp of clear water from the endless lake of Cavallers, I am back again to the game - climbing a little more every week, and trying to keep up the good resolutions from the mountains.  A gecko chose to migrate into my appartment during these rest days, and for me it is the sign that i can and will climb strong again, whatever the poor green thing jumping and crawling around my kitchen might think for itself while secretly laughing at stupid humans.

To start again, again anew, I first baught a car, and then climbed, and climbed again.  Although some of my resolutions pleaded for a life with more to it than climbing, for the moment climbing took its biggest share unabashed, again.

*****

I finally visited for the first time the very interesting and little known climbing crag of Tres Ponts, situated south of la Seu d´Urgell, and north of Oliana, a village known itself for the very hard routes put up there by Sharma and co´.  The crag is very good especially if you are into the harder 7th grade, with long routes of pulling on jugs intermingled with some technical limestone slab moves.  It is unfortunately starting to get polished, following the fate of Siurana or Rodellar on a smaller scale, but the crowds are still pretty low - and hopefully will stay that way.  It is in the shade in the afternoon and thus is one of the perfect summer destinations in the pre-Pyrenees at 2 hours from Barcelona. 

I indulged myself with 3 almost consecutive days at Tres Ponts, sampling several good routes there.  It is again one of the places where it is better to bring a strong team member to get the draws up as there is some airmiles to be done in the distances between bolts.  Thus, for instance, I was unable to get to the anchors of the topo´s #36, and my project - Alt Urgell - also has an exciting run-out just before reaching the anchor and on the steepest section of the wall.  Sometimes I wish so hard I had a drill and could just put a couple of extra bolts on these crazy routes - it always seems like the FAscencionists - all respects due - never think about the poor frightened chicken of the rest of us, especially the shorties like myself, that have to struggle mentally and physically in the limit to clip those bolts.  And there was a time i thought sport climbing was easy!.. sorry, end of the rant...

Below is Edu on his hardest project - Instincte Salvatge, very good - but also very loooooong endurance 7b+ that I would rate closer to 7c, one of the classics and to be recommended in Tres Ponts:

The company had a good time all around - here is the newcomer to Catalunya, the Austrian Martin, showcasing his heel-hooking on his first redpoint in Spain, an easy 7b that is erroneously rated a whole 7c in the topo, the first pitch of an 8a to the right of Alt Urgell: 

And here Pau starting that same Alt Urgell, a good long 7c, belayed by Josep, and showing off his now muscular back:

I took up the challenge of Alt Urgell too, finally enjoying a hard slab workout and facing my fears on the top overhanging finish.  Below, working the moves, pictures by airborne Pau:

and again

and more

Happiness is a warm gun

This incredible interpretation of Beatles' song Happiness is a warm gun by Marc Ribot took me by surprise.  The song itself was in its time censored by BBC because of its sexual symbolism, although others have said the warm gun might have been a reference to heroin instead of Yoko Ono.  Melody's lingering beauty captured with only a guitar and gentle finger strokes by Marc resonates stronger than words though.

Better late then never

For Alex. Pictures from his website...

Мне нравится, что Вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не Вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной
Не уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной
Распущенной-и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.
Мне нравится еще, что Вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не Вас целую.
Что имя нежное мое, мой нежный, не У
поминаете ни днем ни ночью — всуе...
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!
Спасибо Вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что Вы меня — не зная сами! —
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце не у нас на головами,
За то, что Вы больны — увы! — не мной,
За то, что я больна — увы! — не Вами.

Smith Rock?

Again, climbing, this complicated game. The summer is almost over, I have started training, and it is time to think new projects, look deeper for motivation - and try not to get injured...Hard times, reading Eva Lopez and trying to forget another finger that hurts...

Collage by scovophoto

and a tiny thought goes out into the wild to Chloe Graftiaux, too quickly, too soon...

Caravan Palace

This little piece made my day today, thanks to Rafa for the pointer, and with dedication to Wall, who finally sent his 8a in Freyr, the GsTQ:

African Wall

This w-end was some slab therapy time.  After recognizing my gone endurance flailing at St Llorenc, i focused on what i like most - granite, in my favorite sport climbing spot, Cavallers.  The time was well spent with friends assaulting African Wall, the jewel of the crown.  Best topo available - still not completely right as there are actually 2 7bs after "Somos los congitos", 7a, Flipin Palan, and then Black Mamba. Topo by Tranki.

More homework was thus done at African Wall this summer - the day started with inspiration: an onsight of Black Mamba.  It seemed easy and good, was over too quickly as i went weightless from granite mushroom to mushroom.  Then to continue with the serpents, i tried Cobra Canaries, first 8a off the 6b traverse (el mejor 6b del mundo), but it was too hard for this time (NEED NEW SHOES!!!!).  So to get the spirits up, I finished by onsighting another slab reptile, the Flipin Palan after Pau generously left me many a draw on it.  Thus, work left to do: Smith Rock, Cobra Canaries, la Frambuesa, and a little closer to my actual strength on slab right now - redpointing Cris.

Pau had his best w-end ever, redpointing first Massa Kumba, and then Los Illegales the second day:

Xavi decided on alpinism and la Traversia de Agujas de Traversani on the first day, and sport climbed with us on the second, here below on the 7a+ joining Massa Kumba:

And myself working hard the CRIS, an incredible futurist line, dedicated to Cristina Gomez Garcia.the Cris:

And again:

I left the route with 2 falls, it seemed pretty hard for 7c, I would upgrade it to 7c+ - incredible feat of imagination required to bridge the available holds on this one...

Afternoon Sessions at Sant Llorenc

To know people is wisdom, but to know yourself is enlightenment

To master people takes force, but to master yourself takes strength  (Lao Tzu)

This summer the time has finally arrived to visit the famed Sant Llorenc, an interesting climbing area situated on top of the Matadepera town, known for having the highest per-capita income in Spain.  It is probably the best-managed online area with a pretty comprehensive topo available here.  St Llor is also an area with a high concentration of difficult climbs - starting with 7s at Gruyere or Paret Gran, and moving to the Siberia for the hardcore 8s.  Here one can meet on hot summer days such stars as Ramonet, onsighting most 8s of the Siber, or Helena Aleman training for her next send.  There is also some place for the mere mortals, to work, sweat, and cuss the bouldery routes.

Climbing at St Llor is special in its own way.  Although it is conglomerate like the near-by Montserrat, it is different in many ways.  It requires much more endurance, dynamic moves, and pure explosive force the boulderers are so good at harnessing.  It is basically at the antipodes of my climbing style - but I thought it still might be good to work out here a little, especially given the 'chuchuflu', or the heat wave that makes climbing anything at this time of the year a rather painful exercise.

Thus, we have been going up the dirt road for many days in a row with Pau, picking up lines and cussing at the challenges.  Pau did well, sending his first 7b+, and onsighting 7as.  I did not do much, falling off most projects here and there - although it is all good, all training for some invisible fuzzy future and mastering Lao Tzu's advice.  Pau eternalized one of those moments with his first full-blown 1-minute video of the afternoon sessions, proudly presented below, with Par climbing Performance in the background (another proud send!!):



S'hi ha d'anar from Pau Freixes on Vimeo.

The Three Worlds

by one and only Mr. Escher.

Rambles around Chamonix II

Rambles in pictures.

Leading away, Bienvenue au George V, 1ere Pointe de Nantillon, awesome picture by Xavi:

Trio on the summit, Marcal, Xavi, and myself:

Marc the mountaineer on the ridge (not looking down!!!):

Crux traverse of Fin du Babylone, Brevent, Marc daring the rain:

Some objectives remaining - Rognon du Plan Inferier, head-on view on American Beauty (or time to train hard again...):

Rambles around Chamonix I

It has been already 5 years I have been coming to Cham on and off, for skiing, ice climbing, rock climbing, or what is generally known as mountaineering or alpinism.  This year is no exception, although it has been an anti-climax of a trip, making me wonder if i really want to be in this expensive, posh, and tourist-jammed town over and over, again and again.  Some long-due realizations:

* risk-taking in mountains is a habit; only by doing it over and over does one manage to shut up the instinct and become blind to the dangers of avalanches, crevasse crossings, ridge walkings etc.
* sport climbing does make you stronger in the mountains: after many years of trying i finally feel good and compfy trad climbing 6as...
* mountaineering is very inefficient, and my patience is rather limited, especially given the realization that i could be working on a project somewhere warmer and enjoying the process much more
* partner is the key word, as always, and oh, hard, how hard it is to find someone who could both inspire me to give it my best, and make me feel warm and fuzzy in my own skin
* taking the latter two propositions together, my motivation seems finally to be waning, maybe it is high time to stop wondering and looking always higher to such routes as Digital Crack or American Beauty, and just stay at the sea-level? Maybe Jonathan the Seagull was completely crazed and wrong?

With all of these wonderful and deep realizations so clear, i hope i will not forget them next year and not rush off again to the old dear mountains just because they are there.  This post is just a self-reminder, that maybe, just maybe, a vacation in Kalymnos or Rodellar could be a much better option given my current priorities, capabilities, and interests...speaking to the deaf, i know.  All this makes me think of Escher's dragon, tirelessly biting at its own tail, while hopelessly trying to become three-dimmentional, in a Sysiphe kind of way:

In Escher's own words:

However much this dragon tries to be spatial, he remains completely flat. Two incisions are made in the paper on which he is printed. Then it is folded in such a way as to leave two square openings. But this dragon is an obstinate beast, and in spite of his two dimensions he persists in assuming that he has three; so he sticks his head through one of the holes and his tail through the other.

Back to Freyr

One of the climbing schools I used to go to frequently was Freyr in Belgium.  Although from the outside Belgium seems like a flat country without much interest for vertically-minded adventurers, it hides well  some jewels for the initiated ones.  Freyr is one of these spots, rightly named for the Scandinavian god of productivity, sun, and rain.  It is one of the biggest climbing areas serving the North of France, all of Netherlands, and Belgium.  Even people from Germany and Luxemburg show up for some fun.  There are several separate rock formations, and over 300 mostly bolted routes. 

However, one has to be warned that climbing here has started in 1930ies, and that means that routes are (extremely) polished, especially in the easier grade.  Moreover, Belgians are proud in having a pretty spicy grading system, so don't get disappointed if you don't send the same grades here as in the more Southern places.  Freyr is in a way similar to St Llorenç near Barcelona, it needs some getting used to to start appreciating climbing there, but there are loads of very good climbs when you get started.  Below myself on one of those jewels, Heroine, 7a+:

Back to Freyr for me also meant seeing some good old friends I haven't seen in many years now.  One of them is Marc, one of the first people to tell me I had to become a sport climber one day, and to show me what difficult climbing was really about, in Ettringen, of all places.  He also inpired me in other ways, for instance to go look for his rock route in Peru (that unfortunately I never climbed), or to actually climb Grand Capucin and Petit Clocher du Portalet together.  Here is Marc leading the mythic God S(h)ave the Queen, an incredible 8a, from which the tradition says you have to be lowered down directly into the river Meuse.  Marc is still climbing strong and good, and maybe even coming to do longer routes with me later in the Alps:

And Wal, my first ropemate in Belgium, who introduced me to Freyr five years ago.  We used to play chess and discuss climbing philosophy in Chamonix, the classic bar on top of the Belgian rocks, full of climbers on hot summer days.  Now with new owners it is even more expensive, although climbers still keep coming there for a good Belgian beer after, or even before the climbing.  Wal gave up on his epic attempt to climb Schwarzenegger, another myth route in Freyr, after braking the crux hold on it and giving it over 100 tries...  He seems to be in top shape and climbing strong anyway.  Below Wal, working up to his highpoint of the day, same setting on GStQ, the first hard move on the traverse:

Finally below myself, cool photo by Marc, following the same line, awesome moves, but a pretty hard project, that might motivate me enough to come back with my shoes and harness here someday again:

Surreal World of Magritte

After experiencing Catalan and Spanish flags through one exciting week-end in Barcelona, my next encounter with nationalism took place yesterday during the celebration of the national holiday in another pretty divided country, that is Belgium.  Coming from the outside as i do, it is usually hard to agree and understand the need for separation and different identity in these seemingly such interesting and culturally rich countries.  Oh sure, yes, there are all the historic, although to tell the truth usually mainly financial, reasons for all the discontent. However, it was somehow a pleasure to see Belgians united for once, partying all together with their army, king, and political elite.  

My highlight was a visit to the new Magritte museum in Brussels, that for the day charged only 1 euro for its, it has to be said rather meek, collection.  Nevertheless, it was very well housed, introduced, and displayed.  Magritte is an interesting outsider to the glamorous life of painters in the XXth century. Held on a short leash by his life-long love with Georgette, he never managed to get full-heartedly accepted into the Paris circle of surrealists, and decided to live in a stand-alone bourgeois mode with his wife and friends in Brussels.  At the same time, he was a prolific artist, and a volcano of imagination and brilliant ideas for his work.  His final success came to him in the US, of all places, although now he is reveered in many an intellectual gathering.  Despite this success, most of his life he dressed like a respected banker rather than a crazy surrealist, the reverse side of the mirror to his flamboyant counter-part Dali.

One of the pictures that impressed me most during this visit was the below Art de la Conversation.  I find it a very good painting, located in that space somewhere in the middle ground between subconscience and the mind, where Magritte situated most of his works.  The two gentlemen conversing manage to build a huge structure, with the dream playing the center-stage, although simultaneously defying the laws of gravity and language.

The other picturte that left its mark on me was this, Domaine d'Arnheim, a theme Magritte followed in several of his paintings in the decade before his death (in 1967), inspired as he was by Poe stories.  Maybe because the paysage looks a lot like the North-side couloir to the left of Frendo spur, and Auiguille du Peigne is so tastefully transformed into the bird trying to get free out of the ice, or maybe because the picture also signals some possibility of hope, birth, life, coming from this austere twilight zone of the mountain.  One way or another it is a painting worth having a thought about:

These ideas go hand in hand with the book I am currently reading, Hofstadter's GEB, and specifically paintings by Escher mentioned there.  Basically Hofstadter talks about inifinite or strange loops, something Escher was really good at showing graphically, for instance in his Drawing Hands below.  The animate is born from the dead matter, hands come alive from pure imagination and lines traced by a pen.  Maybe it is just my mind playing tricks, but Magritte, his Ceci n'est pas une pipe etc. seem to be working on the same wavelength.

Alors on danse

el Vianant

Project-based climbing is about training and training again, going back to the same old route for many a time, with desperation, inspiration, and persistence, all of it a price to pay for the quick, short, and elating moment of infinite possibility and incredible lightness of being. The process is full of uncertainty, outside conditions, stress, and the enduring need for control.  Controlling your own body, or more precisely reaching this connection between the brain - knowledge of all the moves, memory of foot and hand holds, visualization of the exact feelings and sensations on the rock, - and the body, - the repository of knowledge, the willful executive agent.  The intellectual aspect of it is so full, so incredibly intense, so much about being passionately alive there and for that exact moment.  Either you can choose to agree that no ultimate attempt could be made, that it is too hot, you are too tired, too nervous, not ready, that next time might be better - or you can rebel, say no, now is the time, pain is irrelevant, absence of skin is irrelevant, tendons don't hurt, temperature is perfect, but the main thing - the vital crucial thing for me - is the pure joy of it.  To make the route not the enemy, but a testpiece that has to be tasted and cherished like a meal at a good restaurant, as a good glass of wine or cava, that has to be experienced to the fullest, giving it all the respect, and all your effort. 

Redpointing el Vianant, 7c+, Montserrat, the crux move:

Thanks to all that have supported me in this undertaking, and the many belays in the excruciating heat - Pau, Juanjo, Javi, - and most of all Uri. Thank you, again.

Things have changed

by Bob Dylan

A worried man with a worried mind
No one in front of me and nothing behind
There’s a woman on my lap and she’s drinking champagne
Got white skin, got assassin’s eyes
I’m looking up into the sapphire-tinted skies
I’m well dressed, waiting on the last train

Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose
Any minute now I’m expecting all hell to break loose

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

This place ain’t doing me any good
I’m in the wrong town, I should be in Hollywood
Just for a second there I thought I saw something move
Gonna take dancing lessons, do the jitterbug rag
Ain’t no shortcuts, gonna dress in drag
Only a fool in here would think he’s got anything to prove

Lot of water under the bridge, lot of other stuff too
Don’t get up gentlemen, I’m only passing through

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

I’ve been walking forty miles of bad road
If the Bible is right, the world will explode
I’ve been trying to get as far away from myself as I can
Some things are too hot to touch
The human mind can only stand so much
You can’t win with a losing hand

Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet
Putting her in a wheelbarrow and wheeling her down the street

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

I hurt easy, I just don’t show it
You can hurt someone and not even know it
The next sixty seconds could be like an eternity
Gonna get low down, gonna fly high
All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie
I’m in love with a woman who don’t even appeal to me

Mr. Jinx and Miss Lucy, they jumped in the lake
I’m not that eager to make a mistake

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

Granite Summer

I have decided to treat myself this end of June with a week of a granite cure. For some reason granite is my favorite rock - it is the king stone. Maybe because of Yosemite, but more likely because of New England, and my first imprinting experiences of doing multi-pitch on Cathedral, Whitehorse, and Cannon there.

When I started climbing, around the first week or so, I already heard the mysterious and powerful word of multi-pitch, specifically a route called Thin Air buzzing up the Cathedral Ledge.  It is a 5.6 that takes 4 pitches and a crowd of willing alpinists trying out their new shiny cams and anchor skills learned through John Long's book.  Me too, I followed the same road well-traveled, read Freedom of the Hills for a reinforcement, and eventually got on the line, generously belayed up by Kevin and Cory, my first ever multi-pitch! Thanks for taking care of me, guys!

It is actually a funny story, my climbing beginnings, when I think about it now.  Freshly out of college, I invested my hardly won money from the previous internship at Gillette to first buy a car, and second climbing shoes and a harness. I saw real climbers previously, on a trekking trip to Zion National Park.  Just before a storm when hiking down from Angels' Landing, there were these bodies hanging from the wall in front of us. I had no idea what they were doing - climbers, someone told me. After that, I was so impressed by the sight, I started looking through the internet, the newly minted medium that supposedly could answer any question one had ever had, and figured a little bit more what climbing was about. I was young and still looking for a way to define myself. Maybe reading Rushdie´s Satanic Verses at the same time had something to do with my attitude as well. Not sure, anyway, I got myself an account on rockclimbing.com, bought climbing shoes, a harness and a screw gate, and showed up at the next meeting of Mass climbers at the Quincy Quarries, the local Boston crag. And sure we go again, Quincy was granite! My first climb was a 5.6 layback, I clearly remember how strange and difficult it seemed. And somehow I was hooked right away.  Below is a picture by Nelson, aka the Pirate, from those early days, toproping a 5.9 in QQ:

Long story short, this summer, as a tradition now seems to call for it, I have gone back to the classics, the good old granite walls. And where else to find them then in the Pyrenees, close to my new found home? Now the time is ripe, the weather has settled, and the rock is calling.  In a nutshell, it is time to explore another new place - Ventosa and its wide variety of climbs on offer.

The logistics are rather simple - go up from the Cavallers dam, 2 hours bring you to the refuge, and another 10 to 20 minutes to various walls, bolted for the pleasure of occasional visitors.  The way now is somehow complicated by the destroyed bridge.  Here is Juanjo, my rope mate for the adventure, crossing laboriously the new contraption:

Ventosa climbing is incredible, but only if you enjoy slabs and crimps, and don't care about excruciating pain in your feet after many meters of crawling upwards.  Ventosa is full of it all over, just bring good shoes and enjoy.  First of all, the Eden (topo by Tranki):

Routes done: Clara Luna (onsight), Elvis la Pelvis (onsight), Gisela (onsight ***), Fan fan (redpoint ***).

Second, there is the Vermeil - it is probably the best wall I have seen so far at Ventosa, here it is, reflected in the Tumeneja de Baix lake, still full of ice at this time of year:

And the topo of the wall, again by Tranki:

Routes done: only one, called "the best" by its author - the incredible Lilita Wildstyle (in blue above).  I found a very strange, my own way of doing the crux traverse, practically in static using a foot much lower than normal, and crimping and underclinging my way to the other side of the slab.  It took me a while, and basically destroyed the rest of my climbing day, but led to success the day after during an inspired piece of climbing that took me straight up to the anchors.  One of the best routes I've ever done, a jewel!!!  Here is a close-up, with the rope hanging in Lilita:

Finally, to finish off the appetite of a hungry sport climber, there is the fascinating wall of the Tabletom Sea Cliffs, in the picture below.  The prominent crack in the middle is a 7b+ 40 m wonder, Divertim-nos fins a morir (probably in reference to the final off-width before getting to the belay chain), yes, bolted, and no, I was too destroyed to try it this time.  And as dessert, there is an 8a+ on the left, following the outside corner, the Ascensor para el cadalso, maybe a long-term project waiting for the next trip?

Experiences become real only after writing about them, at least for me.  I still have to come to terms with the awesome climbing up at Ventosa and my longing for mountains and these magical lines of granite, bolted or otherwise.  To finish, here is Juanjo, meditating, (happily?) about life in general, climbing in particular:

Destivelle on top

It sounds like a good movie, funny - i was up on Capucin with Marc when the movie was being filmed and big metal platforms were left all over the place for the cameramen. We even used one of their fixed ropes when our rope got stuck during another night rappel. After several tries, we summitted on top of a mix between the Directe des Capucines and the Bonatti route. What a place, Chamonix, when again??

El Rio, Julio Cortazar

When i was growing up in Ukraine, i was fascinated by books.  This unquenchable thirst was transmitted to me first by my father, with whom we would visit his friends and always borrow a book from them.  In Soviet Union it was difficult to find the good books - thus one would not go to a shop or a library when looking for a book - but go see a friend instead.  It was almost a tradition for the self-respecting intellectuals to amass full editions of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, or more prosaically Cooper, Defoe, or Verne.  And then my mother, who taught me French, enabled me to enjoy French authors in what i for long believed to be the most beautiful language to have ever been created by the human spirit, - Proust, Stendhal, Balzac, Mauriac, Gide, St Exupery, Camus, Sartre, etc...

When i grew up a little more, i got emancipated and started visiting the libraries, with my best friend.  There, enmeshed into the dusty and lugubrious air full of moisture and deteriorating yellow paper, we would ramble through the rows, looking for the gem stones, the gifts to us, growing up girls, from all that big full-blooming outside world.  And we would receive the gifts gratefully, sometimes stumbling upon these strange, forgotten books that would make us dream and enter into incredible, unimaginable realities of these strangers, quickly to become friends and teachers, - Marquez or Borjes.  One of them strangers managed to impress my adolescence strongly - that was Julio Cortazar.  These authors were surprisingly being traduced to Russian - the only language in which world literature was available in Soviet Union, as well as several years after independence, - because of their acknowledged sympathies to the left, and despite any other irrevocable alien thoughts they might write about in their crazy books.

My father once typed the whole "Master and Margarita" from Bulgakov as it was a forbidden book at the time, so we used to have the typed copy of this book in our small home library.  To continue the family tradition, i would transcribe my favorite pieces into a little diary i used to have.  I remember clearly spending hours writing down the Russian version of El Rio, by Cortazar.  It is somehow dizzy-like and funny to be able to read it in Spanish now... The mystery seems to have evaporated from the text, it does not seem as wonderful, intriguing, and mystic as it used to 15 years ago.  Anyway, in memory of the past, here it goes, using just the copy and paste function, and Internet search instead of hours of persistent work copying one word after the next:

El Río

Por Julio Cortazar
De Final de Juego

    Y sí, parece que es así, que te has ido diciendo no sé qué cosa, que te ibas a tirar al Sena, algo por el estilo, una de esas frases de plena noche, mezcladas de sábana y boca pastosa, casi siempre en la oscuridad o con algo de mano o de pie rozando el cuerpo del que apenas escucha, porque hace tanto que apenas te escucho cuando dices cosas así, eso viene del otro lado de mis ojos cerrados, del sueño que otra vez me tira hacia abajo. Entonces está bien, qué me importa si te has ido, si te has ahogado o todavía andas por los muelles mirando el agua, y además no es cierto porque estás aquí dormida y respirando entrecortadamente, pero entonces no te has ido cuando te fuiste en algún momento de la noche antes de que yo me perdiera en el sueño, porque te habías ido diciendo alguna cosa, que te ibas a ahogar en el Sena, o sea que has tenido miedo, has renunciado y de golpe estás ahí casi tocándome, y te mueves ondulando como si algo trabajara suavemente en tu sueño, como si de verdad soñaras que has salido y que después de todo llegaste a los muelles y te tiraste al agua. Así una vez más, para dormir después con la cara empapada de un llanto estúpido, hasta las once de la mañana, la hora en que traen el diario con las noticias de los que se han ahogado de veras.

    Me das risa, pobre. Tus determinaciones trágicas, esa manera de andar golpeando las puertas como una actriz de tournées de provincia, uno se pregunta si realmente crees en tus amenazas, tus chantajes repugnantes, tus inagotables escenas patéticas untadas de lágrimas y adjetivos y recuentos. Merecerías a alguien más dotado que yo para que te diera la réplica, entonces se vería alzarse a la pareja perfecta, con el hedor exquisito del hombre y la mujer que se destrozan mirándose en los ojos para asegurarse el aplazamiento más precario, para sobrevivir todavía y volver a empezar y perseguir inagotablemente su verdad de terreno baldío y fondo de cacerola. Pero ya ves, escojo el silencio, enciendo un cigarrillo y te escucho hablar, te escucho quejarte (con razón, pero qué puedo hacerle), o lo que es todavía mejor me voy quedando dormido, arrullado casi por tus imprecaciones previsibles, con los ojos entrecerrados mezclo todavía por un rato las primeras ráfagas de los sueños con tus gestos de camisón ridículo bajo la luz de la araña que nos regalaron cuando nos casamos, y creo que al final me duermo y me llevo, te lo confieso casi con amor, la parte más aprovechable de tus movimientos y tus denuncias, el sonido restallante que te deforma los labios lívidos de cólera. Para enriquecer mis propios sueños donde jamás a nadie se le ocurre ahogarse, puedes creerme.
 
Pero si es así me pregunto qué estás haciendo en esta cama que habías decidido abandonar por la otra más vasta y más huyente. Ahora resulta que duermes, que de cuando en cuando mueves una pierna que va cambiando el dibujo de la sábana, pareces enojada por alguna cosa, no demasiado enojada, es como un cansancio amargo, tus labios esbozan una mueca de desprecio, dejan escapar el aire entrecortadamente, lo recogen a bocanadas breves, y creo que si no estaría tan exasperado por tus falsas amenazas admitiría que eres otra vez hermosa, como si el sueño te devolviera un poco de mi lado donde el deseo es posible y hasta reconciliación o nuevo plazo, algo menos turbio que este amanecer donde empiezan a rodar los primeros carros y los gallos abominablemente desnudan su horrenda servidumbre. No sé, ya ni siquiera tiene sentido preguntar otra vez si en algún momento te habías ido, si eras tú la que golpeó la puerta al salir en el instante mismo en que yo resbalaba al olvido, y a lo mejor es por eso que prefiero tocarte, no porque dude de que estés ahí, probablemente en ningún momento te fuiste del cuarto, quizá un golpe de viento cerró la puerta, soñé que te habías ido mientras tú, creyéndome despierto, me gritabas tu amenaza desde los pies de la cama. No es por eso que te toco, en la penumbra verde del amanecer es casi dulce pasar una mano por ese hombro que se estremece y me rechaza. La sábana te cubre a medias, mis manos empiezan a bajar por el terso dibujo de tu garganta, inclinándome respiro tu aliento que huele a noche y a jarabe, no sé cómo mis brazos te han enlazado, oigo una queja mientras arqueas la cintura negándote, pero los dos conocemos demasiado ese juego para creer en él, es preciso que me abandones la boca que jadea palabras sueltas, de nada sirve que tu cuerpo amodorrado y vencido luche por evadirse, somos a tal punto una misma cosa en ese enredo de ovillo donde la lana blanca y la lana negra luchan como arañas en un bocal. De la sábana que apenas te cubría alcanzo a entrever la ráfaga instantánea que surca el aire para perderse en la sombra y ahora estamos desnudos, el amanecer nos envuelve y reconcilia en una sola materia temblorosa, pero te obstinas en luchar, encogiéndote, lanzando los brazos por sobre mi cabeza, abriendo como en un relámpago los muslos para volver a cerrar sus tenazas monstruosas que quisieran separarme de mí mismo. Tengo que dominarte lentamente (y eso, lo sabes, lo he hecho siempre con una gracia ceremonial), sin hacerte daño voy doblando los juncos de tus brazos, me ciño a tu placer de manos crispadas, de ojos enormemente abiertos, ahora tu ritmo al fin se ahonda en movimientos lentos de muaré, de profundas burbujas ascendiendo hasta mi cara, vagamente acaricio tu pelo derramado en la almohada, en la penumbra verde miro con sorpresa mi mano que chorrea, y antes de resbalar a tu lado sé que acaban de sacarte del agua, demasiado tarde, naturalmente, y que yaces sobre las piedras del muelle rodeada de zapatos y de voces, desnuda boca arriba con tu pelo empapado y tus ojos abiertos.

Readin' - Books of the Year

My second year of serious learning is coming again to its close.  Taking stock, my favorite books this year have been:

Nelson and Winter, "An Evolutionary Theory of Economic Change"
James March, "On Leadership"

And yes, surprisingly there are only 2 books, and not much to choose from.  One of the reasons might be the concentration on reading papers - only preparing for my exam i read 198 papers lately, and much less books.  Shamefully, it has been a very long while as well since i touched any crude or good novel.  Anyway, to compensate a little, my planned summer reading list includes the following:

Viviana Zelizer, "The Social Meaning of Money"
Stuart Kauffman, "At Home in the Universe"
Duncan Watts, "Six Degrees"
Holland, "Emergence"
Strogatz, "Synch"
Karl Weick, "Social Psychology of Organizing"

New Project - Vianant, Vermeil de Montserrat

I finally forced myself to get on the sharp end, and start leading the Vianant, my project at Vermeil de Montserrat.  And there was even a photographer around, immortalizing the day! :)  Starting up the hard 7a+ slab:

Traversing to the dynamic move, first crux:

Sticking the dyno on lead:

Going through the second crux:

Unfortunately I fell after the next move.  Now i only have to redpoint through the whole sequence and get to the chains.  I surprised myself with a pretty good first lead, after several top ropes and persisting nightmares about leading this monster.  Photos by Juanjo, thanks to Pau and Juanjo for encouragement, patience, and belays!!!