This blog isn’t dead (it just smells funny)
This post was delayed more than necessary. It is, above all, a compilation, a myriad of conclusions, delusions and emotional places I've visited in recent months, so do not expect a particular topic, factual accuracy or strict chronological order.
Mr. Lanari
few weeks ago, talking to Polly in the kitchen of my house I needed to tell about Mr. Lanari. For some reason he had been thinking about those days. His image was a reminder that I rearranged notes appeared as subjects that probably would forget everything in a year or two, while I was up the collar of his jacket, knowing that we were now on me, my clothes and winter, or when I was kneeling on Tristan Narvaja atándome the unclean cords that had been dragged through the washing of the turtle. That night with Polly had to talk about a lot of things, but there nervous in the kitchen, I just went out that memory, the story of Mr. Lanari, or rather, the memory that was built by Mr. Lanari, the gentleman I met when he was seven. He was in his second year of school and the San Juan circulated a mandatory reading material and exercises titled "The Four Seasons." Naturally, the cover was a picture of four lockers, with a bright sun in the upper left corner, holding sad leaves of a tree on the right, followed by a twilight landscape, overgrown with rain in the bottom, continued through a meadow full of flowers. Mr. Lanari was one of the many stories contained in the book , and of the academic material, except the above cover is the only thing I retain in my memory. As he recounted the story of Polly, I began to realize that there were many, many reasons for that remain in my head. I started to tell that story, the story of a man made of wool, a day after enganchársele a thread in your dog's teeth, begins to conduct its activities without knowing fraying, as is walking around the city, with the spool of wool pulling and legs start to disappear, then waist, then the neck and arms. In the projection room of my memories, the man arrived at his grandmother's house and as soon knocks on the door, passing through the doorway, the man disappears completely. Forever. While not remember anything particularly traumatic at the time to read it, now I think demolishing sad story, especially apparent unconsciousness that Mr. Lanari. But something darker in the matter. In my memory Mr. Lanari went to work, bought meringues, went to get money to the bank, is took a bus. In those trips I imagined talking to people, friends or shift workers, and none of them was aware that talking to a guy with half his torso missing. So, now that he thought, had not a certain complicity between the city and all its inhabitants, so that Mr. Lanari disintegrated without even realizing it? Or was that Mr. Lanari always knew, and simply doing his final destiny as a noble citizen, a slow and methodical kamikaze by the last mandate of a higher order that his will? Or, rather than a cog in a megasistema Finally, I was not saying at one point "hey grandma, here I have it, walk into your door, I did everything that was expected of me, I worked, I bought these meringues, now look at what I have, I have become? The possibilities were endless and do not take me long to think about that seemingly innocent children's story as a story about the disheartening phagocytosis of the subjectivity of the middle class man in the big cities, an allegory about the erasure of individual identity in the mass culture of Peronism, or a treatise on the slow mental disintegration in a fractured society of relational networks. He had even thought of slow suicide cases where all, even the same sufferer contemplate the slow disintegration nothing we can do about it. I thought anorexics feel how your heart is a dry fruit punch and beat just under the skin. I thought drug addicts, waiting for that blunder that never comes, the gram rather than tearing down the barrier ends, like the skin of Mr. Lanari. I even thought of people as anyone, killing little by little in jobs they dislike, in women who do not love, in houses that they will never pay. I thought about this and I told Polly. I told him that if he be a psychologist, could invent a clinical syndrome "Lanari".
As I said in that conversation happened a few weeks (now reissued this for The blog, a few months). Polly had promised to catch that story sometime. Internet is a faithful servant and understand that I need to do any digging in moth-eaten books of the past to the material. Now, just before sending the link, read the story of Ema Wolf and I realize something: Mr. Lanari is never completely disappear. Yes, I was that dog, the lint entangled in its teeth, the bakery and Grandmother, but when Lanari comes home, she finished sewing it again. I do not know whether to feel happy for the poor man, or fraud against a much more friendly, but less conclusive. But now I think the need to have wiped out Mr. Lanari, that dark brotherhood that my whims made at the memory. And I think this need to killing him and raising his death on a pantheon of theories, metaphors and deceit, as a dead hero become random, as that body may Paraguayan just decided to move it to Plaza Independencia, talk, rather than the Mr. Lanari, or late capitalism, or of Peronism, the mental state I've been going through all these years.
whiskers God was sitting with one of my patients, finding out who was Sulma Lobato. While I watch the program trying to contain my desire to destroy the TV to kick or go to Buquebús to bomb the American channel, let my eyes wander through some corners of the nursing home that the Gold Coast when you go into a nursing home seems to be put on a wetsuit and dive into the sea Tues Everything moves at a different pace and when you least expect it, you find yourself talking leisurely, sitting down with extreme caution for something that never will happen. Several of the old (which is practically all you need) have proved very interesting characters or tragicomic, but I stop at a particular lady. I sat with my patient in a small room between the beds improvised TV of some of the old. From here you can see part of living room and kitchens. Is the background I see a lady, name unknown. Since I've gone there, the lady has maintained a tight silence that acquires another dimension with a very neat appearance, even beautiful for age. I think in his youth must have been a very nice woman. I realize that reminds me Vilariño Idea. I'm thinking about all this, with an eye on her, lying with his face hard and challenging on the bed and the other in the old transvestite who sings a theme that he apparently wrote. Come the warnings and is something surrounding me with joy, taking advantage tell my patient some social aspects that suggest the same (if we like bardear FUCAC fonopréstamos notice.) By the way, when you finish the round and becomes the martyrdom porteño hear a voice from the bed of the lady. It is there that I find her lying with a smile that had never been drawn in the face. There is a strange move that I can not decipher it. After a few minutes watching, I realize that you are stroking the air. It is an imaginary cat, which is attached to his waist, to which she seems to be talking with particular affection. I think that on cold days like these, having a heated cat bed is always very useful, yet it is imaginary. But it is there that an attentive ear and hear what he says the old. He is speaking God. Cost me a little, but ended up realizing that God is the cat. The image seems to me beautifully disconcerting. There is no doubt that the hallucination of the woman is extremely megalomaniac. It is noteworthy that the megalomaniacal delusions mystical characters tend to pivot between feeling to be at the complete mercy of God, a mere piece of flesh pierced by the rays (as chosen by him or like hell you are attempting to destroy) and be God . However, the lady gives a twist to this megalomania that I find fascinating: no need to deny the existence of God, to suffer their designs or occupy his throne makes him a kitten. That's what I call having control. At eight o'clock I have take me to go to the PSC. The image of an interdepartmental waiting a dirt road, at eight o'clock at night in a quiet coastal town, with the collar of his jacket up, watching the steam emanating from my mouth as I try to hold on to some loose theme that I have recorded on the phone, give a different consistency to all my thoughts, which seem to be the last or first of something else.
I think of the lady's possible dementia or psychosis in the same process by years, but then I start thinking if it's true, if God does not actually exist, being nothing more than an imaginary cat old resident of a nursing home on the Gold Coast
Three Songs: Heroes / I've got so much to Give / Dancing with myself
1) Heroes, just for one day
Since most of the children of MTV (more than many of us fulfill the destiny of Oedipus to time and form), Heroes met through the soundtrack of Godzilla that topic curiously inconsistent with the plot of the film by the Wallflowers. I knew it was a cover of David Bowie, but by then between all my melomanía was a funnel that emptied into the jug Radiohead and latent homophobia typical age, Sir chameleon was a matter quite foreign, of which little I was interested to investigate, even in the knowledge that other cover, The Man Who sold the World "played by Cobain and CIA circles that I drove was practically an institution. In fact, Godzilla had unearthed another hitazo, Kashmir, Led Zeppelin, but Puff Daddy was in charge of making a restoration of that issue in a way that would, within a logical architecture and design, in tune with the neon lights Chartres Cathedral. Beyond
the melody that you hit one, the issue had not called me too much attention. The reasons can be seen with the naked eye, a very nice guy (because we will accept it, must be of the most beautiful rock to remember) making promises to his beloved on a world created to suit both their own private world where they can live like kings, while the real world is falling apart (in the video, Jacob Dylan sings his fanciful promises while New York is destroyed by Godzilla.) The myth of love as a place, a closed world in which for a moment the environment is blurred is a leit motif repeated since time immemorial, from the Greeks (with the gods kidnapping the lethal taking them to Olympus, or Hades) to the romantic (the promise of death as the other side of the bridge where the lovers are reunited under other rules.) And if it is a copper cable that runs under the skin throughout the artwork of the past two centuries, possibly because the plays almost invariably love that feeling. That moment of invulnerability, the bottomless identity to form a unitary construct with the other, those little moments of madness that the pantheistic idea that all evil in the world can be solved to the extent of how much one wishes that someone is almost Miniature Christianity (after all, faith is love Or so they say). So when Jacob Dylan and she promises that he will be heroes, just for a day, not saying anything that has not been said before.
In the last two years I have intermittently to dig small pearls scattered over the genius of David Bowie. David Bowie is one of those examples where the content becomes a moment of form. And vice versa. Nothing to do not refer to Bowie himself, the world of science fiction, full of glitter, sensuality ambiguous. It is, so to speak, a metamúsico . But Max Capote & Dani Umpi are too, then the quality issue does not lie in that fact alone. Bowie, is first and foremost, a great performer. Has a quality of a record jump desafectivizado, alien, almost robotic at times histrionic intensity, drag, human, all too human.
And then yes, it is strange that only now I came across a song Heroes size.
The song appears in the self-titled album, which, along with Low and Lodger part of the "Berlin trilogy" by Bowie and Eno, in a studio located just a few blocks from the famous wall . Placed in front of the complex and intricate laboratory product is Low, Heroes is a party but a party Bowie as host, which, as we all know, has the credentials to be a very different from what we might expect.
tells the story of the completion of the subject, that it was intended as an instrumental piece, a clear tribute to the kids of NEU! (Whose discography contains the song "Hero"), against whom Bowie and Eno are drooling to the ankles, as anyone who knew what was happening in European music. In fact, seemingly beyond the classic kraft (with the chorus well marked bone marrow of the song), just call attention to the wall of sound , seriality of the subject, in the best style Motorik who had coined the weaknesses of Dusseldorf. But back to Eno, note that when making the item, rather than the letter was inserted after the word which gave its name to the song was just something that sounded every time I listened. And it can not be more right, beyond a letter completely romanticist, is a triumphant feeling throughout the song, Fripp's guitars are like rays passing through the subject, in that repetitive bass line is as the reel keeps the kite at arm's length from the earth. And then I think what has Bowie Heroes, which I feel when I listen to on a hinge, about to blow up everything I was, am and wanted to be, while the version of the Wallflowers I had not created anything in particular, beyond the two subjects to be more or less isomorphic. And listen to the two, I see the two videos from youtube, with two windows open in parallel and then I realize that precisely the central point, the center of gravity of the matter is Bowie, Bowie has always been. Dylan's version jr. is heroic, but the whole feeling and imagery are figurative. When he says and I, I will be king, and you, You Will Be queen, he is promising something in encrypted form, as a lover who writes to his loved a corny "I'll give you the moon" knowing that you can not really fall for this gift to the doorstep. And yet, when you see that other video, with Bowie sporting a silver mesh, can notice that the English really think it will be king, and such is their belief, such is the emotion with which he sings that, he ends up believing . That feeling, that of a non-metaphorical language, that of believing the story is something that was lost and found likely to return to pop. It is this notion, the way almost hysterically screaming We Could be heroes, with pure feeling, yet with the body completely rigid, as if to receive the impact of a wave without moving peek, which radicalized that romantic feeling. Jacob is a nice guy who knows the right words at the right time, even though the world is crumbling around him. Bowie's crazy, it seems to be yelling from the porch of the house, promising this to his lover, with the spacecraft parked at the corner.
2) I've got so much to Give , Barry White for president
"It's great to be with you tonight in Santiago de Chile. In America we have heard a lot from Chile. Many journalists asked if I had heard Chile before. Let me tell you, everyone in America has heard of Chile. The more work as a team, as a unity, what the world will hear about you. There is nothing that the people of Chile can not be overcome with unity, strength and love. "
With you, Barry White. Today
beyond appear in an episode of Ally McBeal embedded in a wasteland of FOX programming, or serve as a theme song for Trespass (reason enough for my mind unfortunately ended suturing 're the first, the last, my everything with the image of Jorge Rial), Barry's music does not sound much around here. When appears, it usually does pelícla framed scenes where the romance is self-conscious, at the edge of irony. Something like "let's pretend we're lovers." As with Let's stay together , Al Greene, or Let's get it on , Marvin Gaye (except the honest use is given in High Fidelity ) lyrics White usually appear in the film as sobreevidencia of some aspect of a cheesy less romantic, retro insight of the movie, something to point to some element slightly ridiculous, but still within loving empathy. However, what was not always so. In the United States has circulated the idea that black lion and hairstyles ubiquitous handkerchief border between funk and medieval (if not, look at the video) was, in a way, one of the variables that had an impact on a population explosion the late seventies. Something like the platonic father of an entire generation. Of course, that is a mythical construction, but all the myths have roots that intertwine with reality. In any case, you have to ask now is not why most do not hear Barry White, but why it has stopped listening and was heard in the seventies. If you see videos
as this early presentation Loves Theme , where we see Barry conducting a symphony, swinging the baton with an immense joy, while the set of violins, guitars and wind played his score in a really loose, but the disciplined time, one can perceive a different way to produce and feel the pop, something unthinkable, untranslatable in times of mash ups and protools, archaeological remains of an empire lost or buried. As a movement that has many more genes in common with punk than people think (the allegation to the party, some sensuality and hedonism, ignoring the existence of bands like Parliament and definitely were political- a set of values \u200b\u200bis also present in the other gender, only painted on the canvas in tones less luminous) disk is usually a style, a world which is lightly esteemed in our present, limited to praise drunk that they throw 24 August (evening of nostalgia, not for visiting Uruguayan Benito last post), or some clerical oldies radio, which makes those issues much more than that: mere switch of some sensitivity kidnapped and sold as cigarettes to the listener. However, when you listen to whole albums of Barry White (not a Greatest Hits, but the album as a conceptual and fully meaningful work), he realizes that there emotional gold in that forty minutes, there is more than just erotic prosthesis. Trivial as it sounds just a maker of romantic songs in front of Aristotle and St. Augustine can be said that Barry found something that had always escaped as majuga in the hands of philosophers, religious, and scientific writers, in their music is a divine proportion alchemist, able to unify the pleasures of the flesh and love, sublimated into pure spirituality. The homo sentimentalis , fascinated with its mirror image, can interpret either role, but not both at once, and over time this mutual alienation, that gap, was widening, as if they were blowing up the two sides of a canyon. As evidence of this, just how little spiritual often intense sex representation in film, and how often boring and not very horny people to be representations of "making love" (as paradigmatic image could include Tara amorous defloration Reed in American Pie, possibly one of the most bland sex scenes of the story.) But with Barry White-except perhaps only Serge Gainsbourg, "is different, and one will turn some calls where the world becomes a machine that pumps blood to the crazy at heart, brain and further south.
But all This video came to herein above. It's 1979 and Barry White was invited to perform at a Chilean television. It does not seem necessary to indicate the times we live chile, lost to one of the bloodiest dictatorships in Latin America, with the DINA functioning as a fucking machine oiled and Pinochet with his full powers as President of the Military Junta. That is, Barry White falls to a Chilean program, in the midst of full civil rights violation, but he's an entertainer, and is made exactly for this: to entertain. The message above is attached as vague, almost incomprehensible what does it mean to work together? "Working as a unit with whom? What Who is speaking? "The people? Does the military? These speeches are so politically vague coordinates are completely invisible. That's the first thing you think is:
a) Barry White has no fucking idea where he is, what is and what is happening in Chile (though everyone in America know what to Chile )
b) Barry White wants to show solidarity with the Chilean people, but is so afraid of what lies behind the coortinado the event, choosing to communicate through a system of symbols shared by none of those present
c) Barry White is in vivo, and the entire speech is quite a joke cynical.
I see again the video and immediately start listening I've got so much to Give . Barry's debut album is glorious. After being a composer and director of the Love Unlimited Orchestra huge, Barry (who still had not hit with bombs Never, Never Gonna Give You Up or Can not get enough of your love -now that I think, how long titles often choose black), produces a perfect record, so perfect that it could be considered conceptual. It is in that hears me realize how prejudiced we are certain musicians that we access through their Greatest Hits. In the compilation that I had bought my fifteen years (I spent hours listening to my mother in those beautiful fraternities spontaneous every once in a while parents are achieved when one is young) appeared some issues that are scattered throughout the discography, but are cut, simplified. That is, remove introductions, shorten bridges, erased some tracks in the voice of Barry to the issue is more rounded. Comparing the two versions one comes the same outrage felt by Italian chefs when someone cut your spaghetti ( assessino, assesino !!!), realize how much is lost in that setting at all costs for the radio format. Hypersexualized music of Barry White is like foreplay all good sex: it should be. The recitations of all, have a value that is renewed in the middle and end of the song. Pornographic language is like a scene without cumshot in suburban tango is that chan chan that orders and gives the final stitch, the point of a sentence that makes sense of a sentence. And then when I hear Barry crying "Oh Darling, can not you see That I / I got so much to Give tou you my dear / It's gonna take a Lifetime / It's gonna take years" , and I realize : everything he says in the Chilean show makes sense. In Barry White, as the promises of Bowie, love is not figurative. Is a substance something so palpable and real that could be discovered in physics, such as a liquid libido seeking Wilhelm Reich in his patients. It is completely absurd digressions begin to ask about what the political position of White, precisely because he is not a member of love, love dry, including humans, in any way possible. One can blame them, but as you know, you do not believe in what he sees, but sees what he believes, and in the occipital lobe black, the chrome and spatiality are not divided into black and white, left or right but more or less love. It may seem naive, even dangerously childish, but what White says no is a vagueness, a given world is presented as a possibility.
A world that at times neurotic beings as I get to see behind a banner, but standing on two chairs placed one above the other, about to break its neck against the bidet.
3) Dancing with myself , epilogue written a May night
is four in the morning and Bluzz is that burns. It is precisely the moment the disc jokey gay, almost as often decree the funniest moments of any party. minutes ago sounded Boys Do not Cry, and for a moment, feeling the title echoed by all people, well above the desperate voice of Robert Smith, I felt that moment, that brief tribulation, such as momentary distancing one believes to be in the right place at the right time. Not long after people danced with Hand in glove (the Smiths) and I wondered if it was not, or much like the bowling chimerically planning and redesigning with friends from high school. And now Erasure sounds a theme that I never liked it, but it choreo like a crazy old-uppers in Ibiza.
This is new, eh.
For a guy so little commitment with everything that links to drive (play football never did from a position too exquisite and I was not good guitarist, not a great artist, and now I look and as I write this I realize that the only thing that has been exercised in two weeks are the four fingers I use to write this I write-), dance was always half of something, not an end in itself. During a long campaign shopkeeper of my adolescence for a moment I got to dance cumbia in a relatively acceptable. Then came my girlfriend of four years, and to consummate itself had no means over me to stop.
A week of breaking with Mary, went to a party with some friends I usually find myself in a more intermittent than the three we want. It was still made a nervous wreck and I had decided to limit myself to stay there, take something pretty quiet, avoiding any break cap to let me cry like hell. But the twins are a light and make me feel extremely comfortable from the moment you floor the lighthouse (the jack in question where he was celebrating his birthday). Here I see people dancing, I see how things changed. As a soldier returning from the war surprised and indignant about all the things that changed in the country they had to leave, I was completely overwhelmed with the importance that has acquired reggaeton. The point is that in terms of means and ends, reggaeton is a golden tool for those who know and be prepared to dance as it should, but crap for someone who is not willing to take the risk of franeleo and some jerky movements that often characterized by the rhythm of cumbia. That is, if the reggaeton was carried to its logical conclusion, would never dream paradise for anyone who believes the ball in terms of the possibility of franeleo you can have with a woman. But Uruguay has a logistical problem and applicability. Almost nobody is willing to take the risk and what you end up getting is a much more distant dance that you allowed the good old cumbia (especially in its version of the Black River north, making it 2-1 with your leg between mine shrimp). So it was a very difficult environment for someone like the writer.
But it was quite unexpectedly, in a way that took me by the neck, one day I saw reflected in the window Bluzz, just dancing with myself Dancing only . I danced with narrowed eyes, watching me every so often myself, hitting jumps, singing as loud Oh-oh-oh-oh !, Hands held high. It was possibly the first time the dance was a fact worth itself as wanting to Barry White as the dream of David Bowie, and jerk in Billy Idol. Dancing with myself
is the closest dimension that I have of the festive. It is a perfect subject, is a song that just as certain themes of Leonard Cohen could only have been written by a veteran, could only have made someone close to eighteen. Today, everything from Billy Idol often seems retro, but nonetheless, that issue no. Still in Bluzz
I do step and a glass of Jameson in hand to ask the Tuco put Rebel Yell, another famous Tracks Billy Idol. Tuco, with those lenses in front of the wig mod (or as may be called that) nods and tells me to be happy, which puts it in minutes. I do not know if I'm happy if I like a brother to this guy I never talked in my life or if I'm just fart. Or all at once. As soon as I return to the dance floor that once I spoke evil of that kind, with that bad characteristic to judge musicians by their music (now I remember, and in this blog di Astroboy few sticks.) But can this accusation is also the fart. Or both. And now it sounds. As much as I know I put the Tuco, and he did it because I asked her, when I hear the intro to Rebel Yell body , it feels like a sign, something that comes from a past or a more here, as here that I can not see (like Goethe's death, as Kundera says in Immortality). And I start to dance. Jump, move my feet, I feel that dance well, especially because I dance as badly as the rest of the people around me. And I dance with my eyes closed, chanting the "more more more!" raising his fist at the sky. And while all this happens, I think if you are doing it for pleasure, the pleasure in itself represents to me to be dancing this or that slight distance, the faint irony of masked within the sensitivity that is not one, as when issues ago when I was dancing A Little Respect . Zizek in an article on Hitchcock says
"Consider what is probably today the most notorious case of nostalgic charm in the cinema: the black American of the 1940 Which is exactly what's so fascinating? It is clear that we can not identify with him, the most dramatic scenes of Casablanca, Murder, My Sweet, treacherous and deadly, now cause laughter among the spectators. But, however, far from representing a threat to his power of fascination, this kind of distance is the very condition of that effect. That is what fascinates us is precisely a certain look, the look of the "other" hypothetical viewer, mythic, of the 1940, supposedly was still able to immediately identify the universe of black cinema (...) We love the eye of the beholder "naive" myth, which was "still able to take it seriously. " In other words, the viewer who "believe in it" for us instead of us. That razoón, our relationship with the black cinema is always divided, torn between fascination and ironic distance: ironic distance on his diegetic reality, fascination with the look ".
I'm thinking that most people who are dancing is dancing just in front of the hypothetical listener these issues, ie, the listener was able to take the show seriously, Billy Idol. You see the video, you see the hair, studded wristbands, makeup burning of the keyboardist, guitarist particularly hyperactive and can not help thinking that for someone, a fan, a teenager who hid the sun from the window with a poster of that platinum clad in leather, a child who was rehearsing that labial face to Presley, someone like me, now, feeling being in the right place at the right time, at some point in his life that was full of meaning something . And the discovery of the night fucking is precisely Rebel Yell is something full of meaning for me. On the way Idol sings, in the form of shake your fist at the sky, in the way the guitarist opens her legs in full leap, there is a truth that stands on its own. And I wonder if I'm just me, or if I'm just a drunk in Plato's cave, believing it is true, real truth and not the play of light and shadow, what I see and hear. And I think this and I ask for another Jameson, and people dance and sweat, and I thinking about Zizek as two mines are set to hit next to me, thinking of Zizek as people come to the baths of six, thinking of Zizek and realizing that I'll post about all this then reveals once again amazed at the pain in his arm twisted to admit that I like the round, I like Bluzz, of which I almost absolutely necessary to terminate at these sites, when months ago, on this blog the walking cursing, and then I realize it's okay not to resist a file, and everything you do, everything we do we are dancing here is correct, we're right by the simple fact of being young, we're going to win, win I can not say if a war, a party or a waiver, and now approach mine and before this she says I know who I am, and says without the antepenultimate KANOPA false that fits everyone, and the chick from scratch she begins to recite the first three pages of Well fascinate me away from that, there comes a sudden sense of fear that makes me out of there, looking for Ezekiel to tell you something that probably both try to remember in the Messenger the next day without giving in cloves, knowing that the animals Citadel Canelones and eat all the crumbs with which one marks his way back, and think of a story and a final precious probably remember me as it arrives at my house, and I think all this I have to write it down, that this bigotry to collect all want to make me a slut black box and not a person, but then I'm making a mental scandisk and I get to remind people around, a kind Babylonian photo album, best album of the Tussie Panini figurines, Jelen, Eze, Marques, Victor, Felipe Reyes, Chichi, tengui, tengui, falti, and my chrome lost out there, like a figurine added, with cascola in Instead of self-adhesive, I imagine opening it in ten years, and I realize to be feeling a nostalgia for a present that is not even over, silently reproaching me for that, begging not to become one of those people who find any excuse to talk about how great they were when they went to Juntacadáveres and were still young, lost Onettis like trying to walk to their respective Cecilias by Eduardo Acevedo and the Rambla, and try to sort all that and remember Martin Battles finding a few blocks cerceanada The round head of a tortoise, and I remember a Frankenstein-raver-schizo-gay-kitsch-lumpen-telling colorinche six in the morning in a strange house, your favorite goddess Cali, and I remember one night to Darius, in full carnival holiday, witnessing the virtual absence of people and the gloom that had been Citadel following the theft of a power lines, and that feeling of being celebrating a birthday on the ruins of an apocalypse which were no more than fifty people, and I remember a hot night interrupted by a sudden gale, with the whole world planks for getting in, all crowding round as Senegalese refugees in the engine room of a ship Serbian, looking wet, angry, drunk and / or happy how the rain fell, looking out the stupidity of people escaping from something your body is made up by 90 percent, empty beer bottles filled with distilled water, as in sounding a theme of Bonnie Prince Billy, whose name I always forget, and then know the night is over and I go to my home leave of Ezekiel and Mariana, who can not find because I'm drunk, or who can not find because they are drunk, or that we are not because we are drunk, and then I give up and embark on the road, staggered by Canelones, recalling that the walker for whistling in the dark no longer alone, and now feeling Brilliant Disguise Bruce Springsteen blaring in my head and in the plexus, as if that song to me was singing to me as if The Boss, with his guitar in hand, materialize in his own person, as "Tell me what I see / when I look in your eyes / That is you baby / or just a brilliant disguise " a Greek chorus that was summarizing part of my life and giving me encouragement from beyond, in the same drama that was crafted from me, the realization that I just went through the door of your building, thinking about standards, stages, self-demanding, in terror of finding something too soon you're not wanted, that I will stop writing this post for the phone call.
