Ir al contenido principal

La cómplice

El cuadro de bicicleta es femenina, es un soporte rígido en forma de un hermoso paralelogramo, líneas reales que se atreven a convergir físicamente entre tantas  líneas imaginarias, después vendrán los aros, como estrellas que acompañan a una constelación en el cielo, marcan la conformación y el impacto que visualmente muestra la bicicleta final.




La vida de una baika es efímera si su portador decide que sea fútil, que no trascienda en el plano de lo material, pero tendrá una vida larga cuando su transportador, su cómplice, determina que la gravedad de su socia en el camino llegue más lejos que el objeto, la memoria perpetua mejor que los hechos en sí.

Los caminos que recorre la vida son extensos y sinuosos en muchas maneras, pero en otras ocasiones son deliciosos y francamente serenas, sobre todo cuando existe una compañía, ciertamente lo bueno sabe mejor si es compartido, y pensar en el camino sobre una bicicleta me recuerda a esa sensación de camaradería.

______


The accomplice


The bicycle frame is feminine, it is a rigid support in the shape of a beautiful parallelogram, real lines that dare to physically converge between so many imaginary lines, then the rings will come, like stars that accompany a constellation in the sky, mark the conformation and the impact that the final bike visually shows.


The life of a baika is ephemeral if its bearer decides that it is futile, that it does not transcend in the material plane, but it will have a long life when its transporter, its accomplice, determines that the gravity of its partner on the way goes further. than the object, perpetual memory better than the facts themselves.


The roads that life travels are long and winding in many ways, but at other times they are delicious and frankly serene, especially when there is a company, certainly the good knows better if it is shared, and thinking about the road on a bicycle reminds me to that feeling of camaraderie.

Comentarios

Entradas populares de este blog

Life under the bridge

Dawn returns in the morning, the hills do not exist, the shadow is caused by the twenty floors of the twenty buildings that are surrounding the street at dawn and dusk, the sun hardly exists either, only a couple of minutes at noon. Sidewalks on my street were narrow, the street was forked and had several dead ends, all we had was greenery, clean air and a lot of leisure time. Today, nowadays, there is no longer that of the old neighborhood. The walks are rare, the people do not know each other, the noise and dust prevail, the bicycle is a fossil of yesteryear. That is why I return from time to time a couple of times a year to that street and ride my bicycle, ring the bell and greet the neighbors, because the spirit does not change even if the body changes, things return to their initial state. And there I find myself in the middle of life and in the middle of the road, between the two sidewalks that move further and further away from each other along the length and width, I am a voice...

The good time

In the corners there are many stories, there is always an immense possibility of knowing the incredible adventures of a few or simple and flat gossip from the majority of people around. This is how I met a passing traveler, a one-day character, he was an older young man who for many years had been wandering around on his bicycle from here to there. He had come to our neighborhood over a summer, he was in the Atelier to repair his baika assembled from a wheel alignment. When the older young man, whom I do not remember his name at this time, talked about his pilgrim journeys, he did so with a certain conviction of memory, shame and pride. - I was never afraid of walking on the roads at night, - he said with that certainty of walking victorious - what I feel is an electric sensation of knowing what there is after a certain place and after another and so on forever. The family, well thank you, the slave labor, the money and the property, they are nothing to me. I am from the road, I am the...

La Verde

Mr. Yé is very grumpy, he gets angry easily, he is a middle-aged person who lives near the Center, I knew him because he always scolded me when I did a moderately bad job on his bicycle, a solid steel wheel 28 with muddy tires , with a small flashlight placed in the middle of the handlebar a little rusty from the rains throughout the year. La Verde was as he called it, the bicycle could be dirty on the outside, a little neglected due to the weather, but deep down Mr. Yé had a lot of affection and appreciation for his means of transport, for his traveling companion among the twilight mists and the clarity of the night. The mood changed Mr. Yé when he rolled on top of his Green between the sidewalks of the city. Not long ago I learned that La Verde disappeared, it was stolen by some petty thief in the middle of a winter, I learned that Mr. Yé had lost his spirits and that he has been more curmudgeonly than before, his health has also worsened, he looks sad and angry with everything. Life...