The Graffiti Cure


He's 72, my father. He's big, he's a big man and walks slowly. He suffers from apnoea, a respiratory sleep condition. When he goes to bed, he has to wear a mask, similar to the ones worn by asthma sufferers, but this mask is connected to a tube which is connected to a big machine which sits on the bed side table. When I first saw him with it, I felt bad that he had to go to bed with all that palaver. But it's all for the best, he could stop breathing in his sleep.

My father can't sleep, he goes to the toilet, then to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He takes out some Parma ham and a chocolate mousse. He likes eating, my father and he seats in front of the telly. He's indignant, my father, when he hears about what is happening in Afghanistan. During the day time, he hurls insults at the telly, at those responsible, especially, at Bush: hijo de puta, cabrón (son of a bitch, bastard). At night time, he mumbles these very insults while getting more and more exasperated at the bombings, the killings, the casualties, the exploded civilians, those who remain to witness the chaos. It's not the apnoea that causes his insomnia, it's the world he says. Thieves, bastards.

He watches 24 hours news. His anger mounts and mounts as mounts his impotence. Night after night, he can't sleep and while he's awake he thinks about abuse of power, injustice, the dead, the innocent, the displaced. He shakes his head. His anger has the contours of sadness and frustration. He starts crying, my father.

He goes to bed. He closes his eyes and puts on the breathing mask. He sees a long, grey line of human bodies walking away from their land with bundles on their backs. He himself had to run away from Chile. He knows what is like to have to flee your land, to have no home. He knows that to feel rooted is one of the most vital and least recognised needs of the human soul. He knows that exile is that bundle, a burden you carry through life. He first went to Finland, then Britain. English ladies were mad about Chilean refugees. That's how he met my mother. But he couldn't stand the weather. So they went to Spain, settled there. He sees the long grey line again, remembers his own sleepless nights thirty years ago, swallows saliva, gets up and sits in front of the telly but doesn't switch it on. He stares at the black screen. Bastards. He knows that refugees, the exiled and stateless peoples now form a new group of displaced insomniacs. He goes to a cupboard and looks for a pot of red paint. He opens it and looks for a brush. He finds a big brush. He gets dressed. It is 4.00 am and he leaves the house with the red paint and the brush. He starts the car and drives aimlessly around the city. Then he thinks about the bridge. The famous suicide bridge. He goes there. He's afraid. He's shaking. He opens the pot of red paint and with trembling hands, he writes: BUS ASESINO. The paint drips from the letters but the message is clear. He then realizes he has misspelled 'Bush'. Scared and proud, he laughs. He's relieved. He drives back home and finally he's able to sleep.

The following day, he tells my mother, my aunt and me. He's proud, he wants to take us to the bridge and show us the graffiti. I feel ambivalent. My father, a graffiti artist? Isn't that a teenage activity? My father shows us the graffiti and I can see the trembling hands, and the rush and fear when he misspelled 'Bush'. I don't know what to say. My mother and my aunt laugh. I look at him with a mixture of perplexity, sorrow and admiration.

The graffiti gets cleaned the following day. He can't sleep, my father. He spends his nights hurling insults at those responsible for destroying other lives. He sleeps during the day. One night, he takes the red pot of paint again, the brush and off he goes, to the suicide bridge. It's Saturday night, there are young people in the streets. He waits in the car until there is nobody in sight. Then he writes in big red letters: BUSH BLAIR BIN LADEN ASESINOS. He gets in the car and drives home, but there is a police car following him. My father is terrified. He can't afford a fine. He has been a law abiding citizen all his life. He has never been in prison. He's going to get it, my father. The police asks him to stop. They check all his papers. And then tell him that his exhaust pipe has become loose and that he should take the car to the mechanic. My father tells us laughing, the exhaust pipe! he thought he was going to be serving time! We are all concerned about my father. He says he's expressing what he feels, this deep disgust, that he's doing something. I ask him why he doesn't use spray and he says that paint is more durable, that he doesn't like spray. My mother takes a picture of the graffiti the following day and then the following day the graffiti is gone.

My father can't sleep as he remembers leaving Chile. He never talks about Chile, as if what happened was unsayable. With the Iraq war, the endless nights before 24 news begin again, the insults, the impotence, the inability to cry begin again. He knows it's no cure for insomnia but he gets his pot of red paint, goes to the suicide bridge and with trembling hands he writes: BUSH HUSSEIN BLAIR AZNAR ASESINOS. Then he goes home and he still can't sleep, but he feels a bit more rested.


©Susana Medina, 2005

'The Graffiti Cure' was first read at 'Insomnia', Oxo Tower Wharf, London, 23rd June 2005

29th June-15th October

LES MARVIELLES DU MONDE, Musee des Beaux Arts, Dunkerque, France
Donde las mariposas revolotean from Cuentos Rojos will be translated into English and French. A small book in Spanish, French and English will be produced to be consumed at the exhibition

Reading May 19th
Blog Rimbaud
Exhibition of Souvenirs del Accidente until October 2005
Castello di Rivara, Centro d'Arte Contemporanea, 9 Corso Ogliani, Torino, Italy

Thursday 2 June 6.30
Jueves 2 Junio a las 6.30

Instituto Cervantes
102 Eaton Square
London SW1W 9AN
http://londres.cervantes.es

As part of the series 'Spanish Errands', Susana Medina will be reading from Souvenirs del Accidente, a collection of aphorisms, ballads and poems published by Germanía

Como parte de la serie 'Españoles Errantes', Susana Medina presentará
Souvenirs del Accidente, un libro de poemas, baladas y aforismos.
Editorial Germanía. Colección Hoja por Oja, dirigida por Jose María Parreño y Jorge Riechmann

Souvenirs del Accidente
Libro de poemas, baladas y aforismos, 96 págs
Editorial Germanía. Colección Hoja por Oja, dirigida por Jose María Parreño y Jorge Riechmann
diciembre 2004

Editorial Germania S.L
ISBN : 84-96147-45-2


www.casadellibro.com




Available at the European Bookshop, 5 Warkick St, London W1B 5LU
02077345259 www.eurobooks.co.uk

Puntos de venta en España:

Librería El Buscón, en Madrid
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