Before dusk, 29/09/1910
over a year ago, I woke up with a hangover than most, my brain felt like a buoy floating in a bag full of water (well, more filled with lemon grappa). Every pore of my skin exuded the smell of all that had taken and eaten in the Santa Catalina, and my plans for the day he came and arrows through the cracks of my blinds did not vary beyond a distance from my bed which was placed the bucket-sighted. This day would have Erasable been a simple fact or a mere means to portray me in a way bukowskianamente flattering, but it was just this afternoon that three of my friends convinced me to accompany them to the center, and the way to get into the competitive funds of MEC, against which had little interest in participating, mainly because it only had a copy of my novel and I lacked the photocopies, the digital version and liver function due to undertake registration procedures that were due that day. For reasons of fate, ended up yielding to the arguments of my friends (who were not very strong, but seemed better than being in a perpetual Viking ship the day) and armed with a computer printout, a bag of cookies and Gatorade to hydrate (as that is the drink of athletes is just a story, when you see someone taking a Gatorade, are 90% sure that this person had a horrible morning hangover) tried their luck in one of those many contests he had never received any news.
A few months later, watching a Tom Waits concert with Santiago Casales when I received the news that my novel was one of the winners of the funds.
Before Twilight (not to be confused with the delusional "From dusk to dawn, with the beautiful "Before Sunset", or that recent queer teens vampires and werewolves) is the product of two years of work and quite distant (the started writing three years ago, in a forced vacation in Mexico and finished two years later, after to subject the work to a series of amputations and transformations that would drool to Cronenberg), but above all that afternoon that I dared to challenge my own body to a scorching long walk through downtown and Old Town.
will be presenting on Wednesday, 29 before dusk, at about 19:00 pm, in Café The Daily (Soriano and Citadel). As the jazz cable that runs through the novel (and also knew it, at some point to this blog ), seemed like a good idea who will entertain the presence of Gustavo Villalba, excellent saxophonist who is playing with a pianist some beautiful themes (as I saw that also plays the soprano saxophone, I was trying to convince him to touch My Favourite Things, Coltrane). The presentation will also be responsible for Leandro Delgado, who not only co-creator (with jntkdvr) of one of the best blogs Uruguayans, but that is a writer of one of my desert island novels, Goodbye Diomedes.
is going to sell copies of my novel right there (as well as the materials of the other winners of the Funds, including my friends and Horacio Ramirez Sanchiz Cavallo), clarifying that can also buy it at many bookstores that is circulating (I think so I've seen in the Punta Carretas Shopping, so it should not be hard to find).
Who ever you liked this blog (yes, that I have something moth-eaten), perhaps you may want to read the book, or sip some wine with me. All are invited.
leave back down the text of the novel for those interested:
"Dead, the barb still bouncing in place, the music faded and my Mingus-somes begin to be engulfed by other cells, cells of silence, in his prime. Carbon chains formed by music disintegrate, collapse on themselves, and their body form other carbon chains, silent chains, the chains of air exhaust sound, the chains of high heels neighbor on the eighth floor. " Who hear is not a scientist, or at least we do not know, but a jazz musician at the peak of his career (but since you can not see the sky, but a huge cliff). Before sunset is the testament of a man trapped between two voices: his own voice with which you try to machete their way through the traps that she herself planted, and his saxophone, a deafening scream invariably become a shout, which began to sound independent of the will of the performer . It is these voices the two blades of a meat grinder to try Dawn Dexter through, to reach the other side. But before them stands a boxed Paris, a blue room, a mysterious Icelandic musician, the sleepwalking press, Kath, a skinned rabbit, mourning, a Chevrolet Impala crashed and jazz, bare wire cable on the wet ground of this work.
