Tal vez fueron demasiados colores o demasiadas formas, aquella noche fue terrible. El sitio más alternativo de la ciudad(Santiago de Cuba) estaba vibraba, pero de una manera distinta. Tal vez fue, en cambio, de fecha o el horario en carteles demasiado cargados qué poca gente lograba descifrar del todo(tal vez eso fuera parte del encanto) de la manera que fuera “El Carajo" parecía otra cosa. El evento, que normalmente albergaba “Modo Split" en encontrada invadido por andamios.
Normalmente, la gente que iba al Split iba a sorprenderse y a eso íbamos. El enorme mural qué iba tomando forma mientras la gente iba llegando no parecía un elemento extraño. Aunque decenas de ojos persiguieran a todos los que iban pasando, ojos que avizoraban el nacimiento del “Dios Árbol":desde una semilla rostro. Luego del pasillo una amalgama entre disco, pasarela y cine bajo las estrellas. Era una zona de caos a todo gusto. Frente el mismo espacio que hacía de barra y cabina del DJ se distribuían los instrumento de la pequeña jazz band que iniciaría el desmembramiento del caos.
Cuando la música ya había comenzado a amoldarse a los gustos heterogéneos de los asiduos a lo alter una voz rompió el espacio y todo se hizo silencio. El director del espacio, casi en lágrimas maldecía. Tal vez fueron los vecinos, impulsados por la música alta, el ensayo previo de la banda(el propio hombre estaba achicando) tal vez era la fluencia de gente rara, su color de piel o sus moños. Fuera como fuera todo quedo en silicio, aquel hombre semi-borracho hacía sentir culpable a los presentes (sin intención, al parecer) por ser parte de aquel caos en pausa. Cuando sus palabras cesaron, ya no había cine, la jazz band cargaban sus instrumentos, el DJ la ponía las bridas a la música ya no parecía tan salvaje, la pasarela no pasó, la gente comenzó a marcharse procesando lo que acababa de pasar, el mural siguió en marcha. Tal vez para el resto, fueron demasiados colores.
Maybe it was too many colors or too many shapes, that night was terrible. The city's most alternative spot was vibrating, but in a different way. Maybe it was, instead, the date or the time on posters too overloaded that few people managed to decipher completely (maybe that was part of the charm) in whatever way "El Carajo" seemed something else. The event, which normally hosted "Modo Split," found itself invaded by scaffolding.
Usually, people who went to Split were there to be surprised, and that's what we were there for. The huge mural that was taking shape as people arrived didn't seem out of place. Although dozens of eyes followed everyone passing by, eyes that anticipated the birth of the "God Tree": from a seed to a face. Beyond the hallway, a mixture of disco, catwalk, and outdoor cinema. It was a chaos zone to everyone's taste. In front of the same space that served as a bar and DJ booth, the instruments of the small jazz band were set up to begin the dismantling of the chaos.
When the music had already started to adapt to the diverse tastes of the regulars at the alternative scene, a voice broke the space and everything fell silent. The venue director, almost in tears, cursed. Maybe it was the neighbors, spurred by the loud music, the band's rehearsal (the man himself was visibly flustered), maybe it was the strange people flowing in, their skin color or their hairstyles. Whatever it was, everything turned to silence, that semi-drunk man made those present feel guilty (unintentionally, it seemed) for being part of that paused chaos. When his words ceased, there was no longer any cinema, the jazz band packed up their instruments, the DJ reined in the music, which no longer seemed so wild, the catwalk never made an appearance, people started to leave, processing what had just happened, the mural continued on. Maybe for everyone else, it was too many colors.
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