Nadaism is not dead

Do you want to know if a person who passes all the time doing nothing would be able to live a normal and happy life?

... I will not work, I will not engage any activity in the long or even in the medium term - but I'll need help! Please check out the nadaist contract at the bottom of the page

... and there's other pointless investigations ongoing, just take a look to the bar on the right hand side

Monday, September 17, 2007

If you work with pigs

There's a poem I wrote 4 or 5 years ago, now that I know some former colleagues are listening...

Si trabajas con cerdos el olor no se va.
Llegas a casa y te lijas la piel,
te arrancas las uñas,
las limpias por debajo, y te las vuelves a poner,
frotas uno a uno cada cabello,
abrillantas las axilas y las curcusillas,
haces un enema en cada poro de tus pies,
pero el olor a cerdo sigue ahí.
Puedes pensar que tu trabajo no te afecta,
que desdoblas tu personalidad cuando te vas
y la recompones cuando vuelves,
que puedes mantener tu yo íntimo intacto,
que continúas impermeable a las exigencias del guión.
Pero recuerda: si trabajas con cerdos se te queda el olor.

(Translation into English will follow soon, basically it means if you work with pigs you might think when you get home you clean yourself up, get a shower, and the stink will go, but if you work with pigs you'll smell.)

The idea is actually older; around 10 years ago a friend working as an IT consultant told me about a friend of his who was working in a pig farm.

I remembered about it yesterday during my connecting flight from Frankfurt to Istanbul. I was sitting just beside the wing, and the noise from the engines was quite loud, annoying. But then I realised there were other noises there in the background: the sound of turning the pages of a newspaper from the guy sitting next to me, some quiet conversations (it was late already), the blonde stewardess walking around... and I realised that I could enjoy and relax if I tried to focus and listen to those ambiance sounds, then the dominating clatter of the engine got further and further away...

The guy sitting beside was Turkish. I switched on his reading light (during take off they'd switch everything off, he was reading and he didn't seem to know about it), and after that he was helplessly trying to talk to me; his english was so bad, he spoke good german but I only know a few words (like "kleine" and "grote", some numbers). It was silly, however agreeable at the same, he guy seemed happy meeting me, a foreigner travelling to Turkey. If I understood well, he was going back to visit his father at hospital; lung problems, surgery?.

Probably he had had a long journey from somewhere in Germany, his hands were black dirty and he smelled like a pig. (Is that the reason why I remembered about the poem -or was it because of the noise of the engine?)