Different authors and authors will write and read a creative text about what they see from their window. The podcast will be uploaded to the CDN's social networks and will remain in our Soundcloud.

  • Maria Velasco

The next Wednesday, April 22 on our channel Soundcloud, the playwright María Velasco invites us to listen to a new sound creation about what she can contemplate from her window in these days of confinement.

  • Alfredo Sanzol

From my window

I talk to my mother every day. She is eighty-one years old, and my mother relays every day to my aunt Esther and my aunt Carmen how we are. The three live alone, and well, in these circumstances, living together helps, but they have had to be alone, like so many people in this country, almost five million, according to statistics, and of those five million, forty-two percent, that is to say two million, is over sixty-five years old, like my mother and my aunts, and of those two million seventy-two percent, that is, one and a half million are women like my mother, my aunts, and the mother of a friend who turned years ago a few days ago. My friend told me that it was very sad to imagine his mother spending her birthday without anything special, and especially without seeing anyone, and especially without having anyone's contact. She, like mine, are people who need special protection, but a sincere and loving embrace of twenty seconds awakens the hormone of oxytocin and produces a therapeutic effect on the body and mind, protection that is also necessary, as well that my friend came up with a plan and put it into practice. He went to his mother's house, opened the door, and at the entrance he took off all his clothes and put them in a plastic bag. He took out a bottle of hydroalcoholic liquid and fed it all over his body without leaving a single piece of skin. He put on his mask, and so, as his mother brought him into the world, he said: Mom, I can hug you now. They gave each other a big hug. It lasted more than twenty seconds. I imagine it would be exciting. My friend did not give me details because he is from the north, but he did tell me that the two were happy and that with that smile on his face he dressed again and left. Well, this plague is producing stories that just a month ago we couldn't imagine, and this one, the one about my friend's mother's birthday, is the one I have seen from my window. A hug to all.

You can download the text of Alfredo Sanzol in PDF HERE

  • Pablo Messiez

From my window

About a year ago, I bought a tree.
A tall, thin tree with a few leaves, somewhat sad.
He looked like a Giacometti. Godot's Tree.
I was working on the Happy Days version, so I thought it was good company. And that it must be nice to write under a tree.

As the days went by, the leaves seemed increasingly languid to me. More sad. Having been dark green, I began to pale and I became concerned about the health of the tree. For the relevance of the idea of ​​bringing him home. Light was not lacking. Neither attention. But what if you were in need of other things? The field, the sky, things that do not enter the houses. I was overwhelmed. I Googled (in my life, the previous two sentences usually go one after the other and in that order). I read that it was a drunk stick and that the care and light I was receiving were adequate. Would it be a feeling of mine then? Would sadness be mine?

Leaves began to fall. They were few, so it was a period as distressing as it was brief to see one by one falling the attributes that made it more than just a stick in a pot.

In a few days, the lines were bare. The long, diagonal trunk and its final bifurcation in four branches pointing to the ceiling, like the stunted fingers of a pleading hand.

I spent hours looking at it. Would that still be a tree? Would there be life in it? I couldn't help but see those unfolded branches as a request. But of what? Of air? Of heaven? I took it out on the balcony. And I kept watering and caring for him and looking at him from my desk every day, thinking: Is that still a tree? Will there be life in it?

Time passed. The jobs and the days. And the virus came into the world.
Very soon I had to be in bed with a fever and a cough. Now seeing another window, the one in my room. It is without a tree or plants.

Now I was languishing. There was no doubt. Desire, gone. The body sad. Like a tree without leaves. From my convalescence I saw the enthusiasm in networks of people doing things (how much enthusiasm, how many things). He listened to the occasional applause (how much discipline) and hoped that the hours would pass, that the boredom would pass, that something would happen.

And it happened. Life, which moves (how lucky).
And it all made sense again like so many other times after so many other penalties.

And I went down to the desk. And I looked out the window. And I saw the bare tree again. To the sun.
And then I noticed the tips of the branches unfurling in tiny new ways.

I went out onto the balcony to get a closer look. They were leaves! Future sheets. He was alive! The tree. It was running its course. It had not been death. It had been fall. You can't always be flourishing. It is time to dry. Losing the sheets. Join forces. Let it pass.

"All greenery will perish." But also, it may be again.

From my window, Calle Atocha is bare, like my stunted tree looking at it.
And I cannot become a Buddhist (which I would love but it doesn't come out) and look at all this death without judgment. I miss people. Noise. The touch. The things of being together. I miss the leaves on the tree.

But I look at it and see that it continues there, growing. Without caring or ceasing to care about their growth. Letting what happens happen.

I have a lot to learn.

You can download Pablo Messiez's text in PDF HERE

  • Clàudia Cedó


I get up
I tidy up the house a little.
I do my exercise routine
I shower
I prepare a good breakfast
And I start to write with a coffee in front
It's half past nine
She still hasn't woken up
When he gets up there will be boobs, and naps, and incomprehensible chatter that makes you laugh
When I get up I won't be able to write often
I will do it between takes, when he falls asleep, when he wants to stay in the hammock alone
When he gets up, my work will take a second place.
I will see it from afar, like the mountains in the background, which turn blue
And the ones in front, the closest ones, are green and clear, as more important.

But one day there is someone who coughs on someone else.
And that second someone goes to the market and coughs on the food that many more buy
And so a virus begins to spread that will eventually reach my small town, forcing all of us to seclude ourselves in our homes.
Also to him
Then a new day will begin.
When she gets up there will be boobs, and naps, and incomprehensible chatter that makes you laugh
But I will not stop writing
Because I will not be alone with the girl.
He will be there, who will be able to see her wake up every morning.
That you can enjoy and take care of it
And my work will once again be a mountain in front of me.
One of the green and sharp
One of the important ones.

I realize the privilege of being able to live this confinement like this.
Of not having to share space with who treats me badly
Of having a space to share with someone
Of having orders to write
and a job that I can do from home.
Not to be sick or vulnerable to be.

But this confinement has also helped me to realize how necessary equality is between paternity leave and maternity leave.
Because having your own room is important.
But also it is to have time to enter it.

You can download the text of Clàudia Cedó in PDF HERE

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