raw A.

Twenty-three steps. This was the number he had to go up to get to his office on the second floor of a three-storey building on Brussels’ expensive Avenue Louise. There, his personal assistant always waited for his arrival in the morning at 8.30 am to brief him on the day’s agenda and remind him of the most important commitments of the week. His PA’s name was Jean-Marc. Efficient. Handsome. Young. Single. French.

Forty-three years. This was his age, not Jean-Marc’s, Michael’s. Black hair. Grey eyes. Handsome. Intelligent. Ambitious. Rational sometimes. Emotional often. Bored easily. Married with two girls. British father. Italian mother.

Fifteen as a corporate lawyer. He was good at his job. Clients appreciated his work with expensive fees and gifts. He gave them back one of the best lawyers in European competition law the European education system can get. That is why he could afford having his own firm. Alone, against the Baker & McKenzies or the Freshfields, Bruckhaus, Deringers that populated the trade. Big law firms with dozens of lawyers. He, only him.

Seven days a week. If Michael would have been just a lawyer during all this time, he would have probably killed himself. He had not. Nothing of the sort. He had another life besides being one more puppet of the multinational legal system in which he navigated in his dull life. A life that provided him with the thrill he needed to keep his body and mind on this earth. A second life that was going to change his first life forever.

***

What does someone do in a bunker? And in a train station? The answer seems quite straightforward. The bunker guy protects himself, the station guy buys a ticket and catches a train. But they are also doing something else more relevant to the transformations that the new information environment is making possible.

The people in the bunker are isolated from the world. Their primordial value is security. They want to protect themselves and their property. In principle, they have everything they need inside the bunker. Whenever they need something else they know where to get it. They quickly get out of the bunker, go to the predetermined place, get what they need and go back straight after. All the information they get is contained in the bunker, and in the few trips to their “trusted sources”. They live in a self-inflicted closed information environment, with nearly zero occurrence of serendipity.

And at the train station? Read more…?

Dawn far over the sea. Walking next to the beach. His thoughts were lost in a myriad of things. The night was precious. His memories will keep it for ever. Friends, music, sensations and her. Dancing crazily with someone he won’t probably see again, but who has marked him well deep in his soul. His house approaching, while his feet are dragging his body unwillingly. Each step is one step away from that heaven he just was gone from. “I won’t forget”. Blessing and curse. Chasing what’s gone it’s futile.

I have a personal blog (@ribo) where I mix life events and ideas. It’s a good place for its purpose. But now I feel the need of something more pure to publish my raw thoughts and stories. Simple. White. One column. No tag clouds. No pages. No calendar. No nothing.

This is a clear space for my thoughts and the stories I write. Here I will just rant about topics I find interesting. Here I’ll write my stories. Nothing about my personal life. Just thoughts and fiction. It’s raw A.