Amor De Días
Street Of The Love Of Days

Thursday, work meeting, 10 in the morning, it's hot. I'm wearing a crappy brown suit bought from Zara, a tie of the same color over a purple shirt, and I'm wearing elegant shoes. The table is oval and gray, the walls green and white, I sit down with five other people who start exchanging the customary greetings even though no one cares about anyone else present. I focus my attention on trying not to vomit the two coffees I've had between the alarm going off and entering the elevator ten minutes ago. It's not enough to just keep your eyes open to swallow a sip of coffee (quote). Eighteenth floor. Every one of these meetings has a sense of uselessness that leaves me feeling alienated and vulnerable, yet here I am, with my headache, my thoughts looking for an open window to escape, my stomach still unable to digest the sugary absinthe gulps, my mind trying to explain why I'm here, while simultaneously bringing up a name lost in the fog of who knows when: Amor De Dias, love of the days, those that have passed. I heard them last night, yes, I convince myself of this. We're all here, my manager is wearing a colorful dress that makes her look even more of a mom than she already is, the Neapolitan is introducing topics while in my head a hammering music echoes, revolving in E minor, G, D, B minor.

"Street Of The Love Of Days," that's what the album was called, yet I remember it as calm as the sea at sunset, a refined Iberian Indie-pop with calm and sleepy atmospheres, boundless tranquility from the collaboration between Alasdair MacLean (The Clientele) and Lupe Núñez-Fernández (Pipas); that tranquility I'm seeking every time a nameless anxiety works its way through my guts. I blink three times and see that my manager is already writing something on her notepad, her strict feminine order making her jot down the date at the top right, the meeting topic underlined in the center, and a first bullet point for a future list which is still blank; I realize I'm sweating on my forehead and, to disguise the fact that I don't have a scrap of paper, nor a pen, I connect the computer and open a blank txt. "Foxes' Song" opened and closed the album almost illuminated by candlelight, every song that comes to mind is fragile, small, now I remember "Bunhill Fields", dark, "Season of Light", melancholic, "I See Your Face", nocturnal and relaxed. The Neapolitan keeps talking, now he's standing, the old lady occasionally interrupts him, my manager extends her list of bullet points, the silent bald man writes, the supervisor plays with the BlackBerry, I risk falling asleep at the thought of "Dream (Dead Hands)" that already challenged me the night before with its sleepy melody, which seemed to me like the Eminflex commercial where elephants jump the fence. Luckily, "Late Mornings" comes to mind, happier despite Alasdair MacLean's effort to whisper as much as possible, just before the Neapolitan calls on me for the famous status update. I swallow bitterly, wipe my hand across my forehead, and begin to speak, even though now the gloomy atmosphere of "Harvest Time" is ringing in my ears, its crystal-clear voice, its brass, its mid-air arpeggios.

Anyway, it's my turn, I speak. I have a breath that smells like I brushed my teeth with a toilet brush. When I finish, "Harvest Time" is also over, who knows what the hell I said but from the faces I see, I think I managed. The faces, just those, all fixed on me now as if they mean to say "you're one of us" (E minor), "we'll support you" (G), "we must work as a team" (D), "together we will win" (B minor), "we must guarantee results" (E minor), "we must reach the goal" (G), "we must meet the deadline" (D), "we'll always be with you" (B minor). No, not now, today I don't belong here, today I'm cradled with the mortuary idea that "Birds" and "Touchstone" gave me yesterday. Now I sail away, helped by Amor De Dias, because that's where I want to go, to Spain, Greece, Portugal, or Tennessee. Why? Because it's far away (another quote). Far away like "Wild Winter Trees" was able to take me for a short time, the time to suffocate a thought, a sugar cube in my absinthe.

"Street Of The Love Of Days" is boring, yes, but it's an album that has its moments. Break, the Neapolitan asks if I want a coffee from the vending machines, I suppress a retch and reply "maybe I'll have water."