October 25, 2020

‘Autumn’, by Jorge Fauró – La Provincia


'Autumn', by Jorge Fauró

‘Autumn’, by Jorge Fauró

I notice the arrival of autumn because the piece of sea that stretches towards the breakwater in front of my house begins to break proudly against the stones of the jetty. The calm is no longer so chic, and the customary blue Mediterranean plain with which I greet the dawn has given the baton to little white sheep rocking on foam-filled breakers many meters from the coastline, out to sea, playful in that swing of salt water armed at the whim of the currents.

Sometimes I hear the waves beat furiously against the seaweed walls, there is no longer a trace of bathers sunbathing on the rocks And fewer and fewer fishermen, rod in hand, spend the night by the shore, passing the time, lighting up a handful of rock with their mobile phones until they form a group of distant fireflies waiting for a hook to be taken. lechola, a dentex or what do I know.

The red sunset sun turns the water orange-red. Lovers of paddle surfing return to shore to take over from the fishing boats that can be seen as luminous points beyond the buoys, keeping their distance, from here to there, prowling around the tuna fish farm where fish abound. shoals of remoras that are falling into the pots.

When I wake up, still with the sun about to break on the horizon, I see them sailing back to port and I realize that We should not have the same concept of loneliness. One can be alone in the middle of the crowd and quite the opposite between the sea cold in the morning and the fluttering of a flock of cormorants that escort the ship to port.

Autumn has a lot of melancholy. Dawn later and night earlier. I guess the days without looking at the calendar. For that I already have the boxes that are left empty in the pillbox. In the morning that of the heart, that of tension and the anti-aggregator; before going to bed, the cholesterol one. And so on until you discover that the week has flown by and you notice that you have to replenish the magic pills because Friday has arrived.

Someone told me one day (and it sounded good to me) that we had concentrated life in a pill: a pill to start the day, another before eating, a pill for before exercise, another for after, a pill, another for studying, a pill for before dinner and another for after the poles; a pill to fuck and another for after doing it; and finally a sleeping pill.

And so on until the next day. The pandemic it has also changed the seasons. Before, autumn was prone to recollection and getting lost in the grooves of an old vinyl (crasss, crasss); dive into a Don Winslow novel or dive conscientiously on the couch and enjoy a series feast.

Now we do not see the day when that Friday night of yesteryear comes when he took us out to the streets to sin, to mark for you a night of revelry of those that you told over and over at every dinner with your friends; those weekends leaning on a bar observing the skill of the waiter while he gave the beer the right level of foam, the ideal pressure to stare at the coming and going of the bubbles that move anarchically inside the glass of beer , awaiting that first unique drink that gives for a 300 page essay.

We are going for 200 days of pandemic and autumn already seems different. I want autumns like before. I want to step on the dry leaves and smile without a mask; being able to speak to your face and whisper in your ear; pour that drink unsuspectingly from the glass, pay in cash, and shake hands with the waiter when I return home to find myself again facing the rocks with the fishing boats returning home.

I want autumns like before. I want October like the old ones, when the cough prolonged an innocent cold and the sneeze announced the simple warning of a cold. It depends on us, as well as on Sánchez, Ayuso, Barbón or Feijóo, that the most beautiful season of the year returns. But I really tell you that this fall has all the earmarks of being shit.

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