KALEID▼SCOPIC

       Those who were born around the nineties. Without any relevant thing to tell; without any specific era to belong to apart from the technology. We are not romanticism, we are not renaissance nor realism, nor Dadaism , nor the Catalan avant-garde of Dali’s generation. We are not Pablo Picasso, nor Pablo Neruda, nor Garcia Lorca. We do not belong to any movement. We could choose to be whichever we want which sounds to me as never being actually any of them, as not being more than a blurry and indefinite fog that no one gives a shit about.

       You cannot say that we are the generation that suffered the effects of heroin, LSD and mescaline’s boom in the sixties. You cannot say that we were those who were there when cocaine was arriving to ninety percent of the Spanish homes for the first time. There isn’t any specific drug that define us because almost all of them where invented when we were born. We are the generation that hates every minute of the week and just waits for Friday to arrive to be able to take a nocturnal bath in whiskey seasoned with MDMA. We are those who will get a gram of cocaine to make party infinite when the sun rises up on Saturday mornings instead of going back home. Those who, because of being so sentenced to this never-ending stimulus of this capitalist system, turn so thirsty for something to provide us an electric shock from the inside and there is nothing better than the feeling of flying like there is no tomorrow in whichever corner of Barcelona, full of alcohol and this mix of all you have ingested during the night and the next morning. Those who spend the whole entire day smoking pot and hash just to get ourselves up from the fall we took from the high point that we were last night, because then it does not hurt that much and also because the only thing that being conscientious provokes is to show to us a reality which we do not belong to.

       The lost boys, the empty era. Apparently so full of everything everywhere for the excess of products in supermarket’s shelves. For the huge variety of colors, smells and flavors in the beauty products section and the thousands of different lotions that no one needs.

       Those who have been raised with the TV as a pet that has convinced us that someday we’ll be someone rich, gorgeous and perfect. But we are not and we don’t give a shit about it even though the rest of the world does bullshit like starve to death voluntarily or spend thousands of Euros for some asshole to give them a new nose or face or magnifique pair of jelly boobs.

       The era of instant pleasure; fast food, the fastest coffee machine, the fastest cell phone, the fastest internet connection, the fastest car and the slowest and most useless brain in consequence.

       Those who, being too thirsty for change, try to reflect on how different we are from the crowd by buying shit that would distinguish us. But always under this never endless consumerism penitence; pay for having the most extravagant hairstyle, pay for having the T-shirt with the most radical message on it, pay for new rolls of film, pay for the pants with the most singular print on them, pay for spray cans, pay for new strings for the guitar or bass or contrabass or violin or ukulele or who the hell knows what, pay for all the tattoos and piercings that cover our body surface, pay, pay, pay, pay, pay, pay, pay, pay as a biography of each and every one of us, damned-wretched-aimless-wandering-bodies. To pay even for decomposing in a fucking hole meanwhile worms eat your human remains sitting on an expensive ass box that you had to pay for too. Pay even if you want fire to consume you. Pay for pissing because every time that you flush the toilet the water bill increases. Pay even for dreaming and, do not fuck with me saying that dreaming is free because you don’t dream floating in the air but in your fucking mattress or sofa or chair or solid surface that some time someone had to PAY FOR.

-KALEID▼SCOPIC     April 2012