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And or not I was the first in your life, take it from someone who could not handle it. We were lovers for several years, she was one of those that do not require anything of which you never obtrusive. He was always ready to receive my caresses and live with me now. I did not intend to change, and never produced expectations. I accepted as I am and always was with me in tears and joys.

was my friend understood my feeling and I waited in silence. With a light touch I knew if I was sad, or had reached cheerful, never complained about anything and be satisfied with such a little thing: just a few strokes ....... just the touch of my fingers.

never managed to get the better of her, but gave no pains and sorrows, and never felt so alive as in those times when you were with another of his loves. Him if he knew how to love her, laughed and sang together. Cried with me always, and now I can sing joy, is no longer at my side.

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REQUIEM FOR A LOVER OF LIFE AND OTHER PHILOSOPHY DIGRECIONES

And or seek my own formula for life, convinced that this formula is different for everyone, and not universal as the mold that aims to sell postmodernity. The group expects (and in some cases required) to fit me so transient that sense the "right thing" with the single argument of "because it has to be" lex dura lex which is to undergo if he want to integrated into the fold. Irritates me that people stand to impose their clichés and conventions, based on his personal concept of yin yang, and Zarathustra said: "I've traveled around the world and have not found words more powerful than good and evil." How submission can be imposed on men with this pair of vipers!

Surely those who often burn incense to all the relics of the shrine of the established, condemn me to die at the stake for my terrible daring to be "different" and the exoticism of trying to describe so insolently the "invisible emanations of my soul ". And, while I look more different, more horror because they realize what they're identical. It's that and nothing else, what has made me a loner some romantics who pejoratively called "playboy of memories, fantasies and dreams", and others with less poetry and charm, called "misfit."

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FOR A DREAM WAS INEVITABLE LOVE HIM

Suffering Syndrome "todolopuedo" had, at an early age and loneliness, my first trip to USA. Nine o'clock in the morning when Carmen, hotel waitress, came to my room to clean the site. Shyly confessed my countrywoman, she told me that he had "papers", which was licensed in administration but who worked day hotel and dinner in a factory. Carmen's life in the gay Miami could be described in three words: sad, lonely and narrow. His face pale, gaunt and bony, revealed the pain that caused the distance and absence. In a gesture of solidarity I asked him every time I came to do the cleaning, take what he wanted from the mini-fridge that was in my room. She whole-heartedly thanked my offer, but never take anything. All I could do for her was to bring upon my return, any commission to their parents, who come to bring a beautiful friendship.

Several times I visited my compatriot in Florida, taking him from his family letters, to a box with your favorite fried chicken. Carmen made great efforts to learn the language, after years of living with the fear of being deported was welcomed an amnesty that allowed him legal residency, he studied while working, married to another wrestler like her, became a citizen, came to be manager of several hotels, and one day he returned to Guatemala to be with her in those old men who never forsook. Carmen did what seemed impossible, he made his biggest dream.

Since this keyboard I want to express my respect and admiration for Carmen and all those who, to paraphrase Coelho- "made the difficult Decision to leave for a dream, all they had obtained "

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A rowboat and Lake Amatitlán (on the outskirts of Guatemala City) witnessed our first appointment. (Great photo taken on the banks of the lake, by Villa Sams)

Q eu lovely, intelligent and I thought it detestable. We knew pretty woman, and behaved as such, her figure, totally irresistible, literally left me breathless, his face smooth and hair color of wheat, irritated me for being so beautiful, but they were those eyes, with his insolent eyes, which frightened me, something told me that if he did not care would be hopelessly trapped in them.

I confess: a closer look made me angry, but looked forward to when I use "the worst flea in order not to deny that pleasure to my eyes. Without noticing me paying careful attention to their movements, expressions and details: I noticed his shoes, accessories used in their garments, and especially in what was contained in them, I never understood why my fine and applied art Machiavellian conquest (indifference), if you still like it so much, would not anything with it. I did not like, that's the truth, and I write well, without any penalty.

One night in December and New Year I decided to try to survive, to find land after my wreck, allowing me to be happy again ...... and thought about her. I dared to approach: I called, we sometimes share our stories, hit it, I had a wonderful ...... I loved it because it was and not as I had imagined. The night we got engaged, rather than romantic we were honest about what we felt. His own, filled me with hope, I was beside him alive again, and kissing her, my heart came three words: "will inevitably love it."

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Noe Padilla's house, seen from the door of my rented house in Estanzuela, Zacapa (in between my beloved old Mercedes ("Grandpa").

A Noe Padilla had seen him several times, leaving in the morning to go to your regular job as a teacher, or evening, when he returned, and sometimes in the early hours at night, when he sat in his room, in the light of all we got to buy the rich hail prepares his wife, Ruby, who also works as a teacher. The man sits there, with that quiet air that projects, read a book or chopping the keys of a typewriter old. Tall, skinny, phlegmatic, friendly face and very nice treatment, Noe, at first glance, it seemed an interesting person. Exchange greeted us "good morning, good afternoon, how are you?" Then one night the terrible heat of the peaceful Estanzuela diabetes made me forget and cross the cobblestone street to buy one of those delicious hailstorms and seize the opportunity to thank the couple of books, days before, when my wife came to Estanzuela to visit me in my exile labor, Ruby and presented him with Noe. One book was titled "The mysterious painter and Other Stories" and the name of another book not remember exactly, but consisted of a historical review of the nationally famous "Association of writers and storytellers of Estanzuela" Both posted by Noe handwriting.

I say that with much curiosity, I read "The mysterious painter and other tales", which, as its name implies, is a collection of short stories whose primary concern is the people, fields, villages, towns and The custom of small communities in the interior Guatemala. I found the stories of Noah deliciously saturated with a taste of countryside, river, mountain, people of my land with their sufferings, their joys and happiness we have, all of us, living fused with breathtaking views of the wonderful country. The stories that make up this book by Noe (one of many) have been widely honored in various literary events taking place in Guatemala. The stories (half reality, half fiction) have a unique character, and are, as it should be good literature, "great things written in simple words, its content is enormous moral and thoughtful, and feelings are aroused lines step the most beautiful emotions.

Within minutes I will be climbing into my car to address tired Estanzuela, where I will be one or two days. When you can get (in three hours or so), after leaving the suitcase on the couch, I'll cross the cobblestone street again to take a shower the Dona prepares Ruby, and to greet my neighbor, writer, and strongly ask do me the honor of autographing the copy he gave me "The mysterious artist and other stories."

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MY NEIGHBOR THE WRITER OF DEATH

E n an old movie, a Mexican shaman says these words to the protagonist: "To live is to dream, to die is to wake up." But who sleeps and who lives? Who dreams and who is dead? Who floats on the appealing fantasy and who walks in the harsh reality?
How many have wished at some point, that death ends the nightmare of life with open eyes, and have longed for, some, in a simple, watchful waiting, others went after her in an act, as the glass you look at it, full of courage, cowardice, or unpardonable sin?

live, dream, death, awakening. Is there any difference or are all different sides of the same reality?

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DREAMS MIGHT RETURN TO RAIN TOMORROW

D and again it rained in the valley, and the gray skies bring cold with tears in my soul that melancholy beauty misunderstood. The sound of his old songs on the roofs, and the magic of dance and the smell of his love for the land, led my thoughts to ends that never wanted to be and always was.

This time the rain did not pluck the soul, nor I has won with overwhelming sadness in their sound as I have come to find a happy song and on " droplets tend to crash into my heart to slide in the form of sorrows ", I found a strange joy that nourishes my being filled with profound peace.
The rain has stopped. The sun has dried the streets and cast its rays full of hope, through a transparent sky shows, now all the colors shine again ......... maybe rain tomorrow.

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MORE FREE WITH THE WIND

A cold had not felt before, through my soul so suddenly that I had no opportunity to discern their origin, I think it came from the second pack of cigarettes "square" had purchased that day, that cold was launched on me, just as he tried to turn the last "square" that I had left, and hit me hard when I found out, bewildered, that despite having recharged days before, my lighter was totally empty.

She did not attend the appointment, and I sat atop the small mound that stood at the neglected park of Miraflores we called the school field. " Although he was never prop, she was always, and his absence upset me as much as my sudden shortages. Bizarre

images flashed through my mind as the sun daubed mocking twilight sky, and all the music I listened this afternoon, stuck in my mind, like it was in stone, the Paul McCartney song, "Band on the run". Even I can not hear that song without feeling a deep sadness, because that was the first time I glimpsed the bottom without touching it. Suddenly he understood the reasons for his absence and never let me call my girlfriend, my eyes were opened by the vision of the deep abyss where I was gorge, abyss into which she walked away from me, trying desperately do not crawl.

On my insistence we frequented by several months without being formally "nothing", but I must admit it was very painful to see how his youth was consumed while I just started my teens, tried to care for as much as it allowed me enough time spent together. The great love she felt for her I was able to cope with what it was, because, despite everything, even in its worst moments, Sonia used to be a girl as sweet as beautiful.

I swore that the "acid" made her feel "more free than the wind, but tears that begged me to follow his example never prevented me from believing. Nor the tears I saw in his face the day I said goodbye in the middle of that "touch" of the rock band Crazy Horse, "allowed me to take as true the words he used to break my heart and life away from me forever.

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MI FIFTH WAY RED GRANDFATHER

Q hat peculiar character was the man of angular face, dark circles, little silver hair, tall, erect and graceful. Retired infantry colonel, looking noble and refined manners, Mystical reserved wise and cautious. It was not hard to imagine as a young man, wearing the warrior and the beautiful sword which remained in a closet waiting in vain for the weather back on track ....... or in uniform "Singapore", wearing patent leather and carrying the Colt 45 of the regulatory team.

How different, don Marcos Orellana Veliz, April Don Julio Valdez, in love with a woman who left home one day, left alone, but not homeless, a wife and four children (including my father ), who "Daddy" nursed, educated and loved as if they were their own.

with yearnings expecting a visit from that old man who came home every week and spent his old hand gently on my head and saved a few bucks left in my pocket and planted a story in my imagination.

I can not remember the tone of his voice, nor the words he used in his delightful talk, just remember your picture and love that always received from him. I also remember the hours spent in the waiting room of the Military Hospital, without understanding the silly restriction that, my only eight years, I stopped to kiss goodbye to "Daddy", that great gentleman and honorable man who always I take my fifth grandfather.

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Q hat so unbearable temptation was to leave the highway and venture out for that red little way still remember: meandering far as the eye could see, flanked by green grass and mature trees, trucks faded, old trucks, tractors and antique farm plows. So irresistible was, the intense desire to feel in my mouth the taste of those yellow peaches that were as big as my fist, and who showed stacked neatly, ruddy and cheerful in his basket, surrounded by daisies and syrup bottles with ribbons of yield, gracing tables hiding his modesty dressing tables and wildflowers.

also remember those dark hands and clapping backs very white, adorned with wrinkles and distant strokes, which beautified with his old tenderness brown bag for a few dollars and a kiss cheek, filled with love for me, smiles and free those delicious ripe fruit with great delight that I bit, feeling in my mouth the unforgettable taste of the beautiful Alabama.

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NARRATIVE OF A REMOTE

Philadelphia Coffee State (Villa Philadelphia), my favorite place for coffee.

A l around a cup of delicious coffee in Antigua, gently rotate my most unusual thoughts run without time, without cadence, accidental, capricious, lacking own space, but eternal.

and unsurpassed fresh aroma, my coffee gets the honors of that leisurely romance, so much repetition, has become a solemn liturgy. Its altar, always thick and white tile, dripping a drop dark while I drink, reverent, the incomparable delight of the first approach. Soil take it very slowly, letting it cool slowly, as the woman he loved, that at every stage of your life is sublime grace given me a different love, coffee changes flavor and texture as the minutes tick gifts as well, an infinite palette of nuances with every sip I take.

Today I drink with these forested mountains that are protected from the cold reeling with the white coat gives them the cloud that has fallen from the sky. But, although beautiful, it matters little. Is the "affair" that counts: the great moment of passion alive in my mouth, my inner self my pen and my thoughts.

For protozoa with great fondness. I hope one day take a cup of coffee in Philadelphia Coffee State.

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AFFAIRE

D and again I'm facing the window overlooking the cobblestone street where my house of forgotten people, listening to these pieces of my life that, at the sound, take me back in time to distant times and eternal. From the east, a gentle breeze brought me your scent, refreshing tonight you're not with me. The lantern of corner has seen my heart fly, and not here stuck in my chest, because he has rebelled against this feeling and has become home to meet you.

People who were outside, sitting in the cool, talking about things and remembering the past, has been protected while I went out, because it started raining and cold drops fall to get his eyes to heaven and arms extended to the wind. My shirt is soaked with your embrace, and every drop in my face is a kiss that comes from your soul and touches me in the middle of this soft murmuring that little by little, it becomes harder to turn into regret. One regret that will not silence until you get it again at my side.

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A bro eyes and uncertain after waking me up and walk in the dark recesses of a new spasm morning to find ice that has get me out of semi-consciousness. And I realize: it is 4:15 am and this immediacy is my life, not the dream that, until a moment ago, I wrapped so deceptively.

Groping soap and towel, groping razor, comb and toothbrush. Groping shape appearance, dressed in the clothes I have made ready, and fumbled to tie my shoes. Groping in the dark drain me. This is how I prefer it, that's how I like: a dark, without waking her, without a sound and almost without a trace.

Step through the portal and go to the solitude of the streets like a ghost. Nobody looks up the car and only pretending to take care of outdated guards from his vantage point, I see to address that river of red lights, white and yellow car occupied by people lost in thought. Stop a furtive glances are interrupted cutting window, without a gesture, without a greeting, as if they existed. Nobody wants to emerge from the shadows, or imagine the other's story. Nobody wants to dawn, we all keep dreaming, and many would follow sleeping.

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AWAKENING OF EACH DAY WITH MY ASH

The great Mario Monteforte Toledo

In this double-height living primary visual theme is a wooden staircase that twists capriciously, rising up small mezzanine, almost without interrupting the beautiful sunset view which starts at the exact spot where huge glasses put an end to a beautiful dark wood planked, is the columned which, divided into small transparent spaces, allows for the remains of a growing but limited number of people who have nothing in common but death their bodies, and there among them, in a preferred only be deposited in an urn shaped like a huge book, the ashes of the great writer Mario Monteforte Toledo.

Standing in front of the window within which appreciates the award, "Miguel Angel Asturias" (the highest literary honor that my country attaches to the children of the letters), and three copies of two books published by the famous letters, which have been placed in a gorgeous and those who have left as silent witnesses of such beauty written, Don Mario glasses used in life, I find it incredible that, if I decide to make the stipend, my mortal remains could rub some day, at least in physical space with a person whom I admire so much, but seeing that small altar in his honor was created, I wonder what purpose I would like my ashes to go with, those who see, form the best idea of \u200b\u200bme ?....... "Prizes and awards? "Photographs of moments of glory? "Texts published, written by me (if any)? "Pictures of my projects built?

I have thought and have come to the quick conclusion that if they put a book next to my ashes, that is my old Bible, which is the book that most times I read and I found wisdom and comfort in my darkest moments. And if you want to put other things, to stop with my ballot a few photographs. They are, all of the people I love: my wife, my parents, my children, my grandparents ........ and, please, for any reason miss a single one of my dear friends ................ Another thing with my ashes, I will not.

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PARIAN DEAR LALA

She was a woman so tough and determined that he was still very young dragged her five small children to escape a fate that did not wish for them. I visited when I needed an escape, because she stood next to the hours and time is not passed. It was glamorous, elegant or sophisticated, in fact it was a rough-mannered woman, nothing refined, his dark skin, a tan contrasted with those honey-colored eyes and gypsy expression. Her figure looks thick and heavy, perfectly matched with his loud voice and rough words, if I had not witnessed the portrait yellowish held precariously on the dresser, nobody would have imagined that once was a woman so beautiful.

When I got to see it without fail invited me to his table, chairs mixed and fed me but inevitably with fried eggs, meat or something burned, reheated bread, bad coffee, and maybe a shot of brandy, wine cheap, or rum. I did not care who lived in a slum, or their small apartment in a single environment so bewildering show that disorder. Nor do I care about the dust piled on the sewing machine, forgotten in a corner, had past histories of patches, clothing outside and sleepless nights, or the deck of cards with which, according to me, the lady duped extra pennies earned their neighbors, preaching the good and bad fortune, so one night I found her alone reading the cards, lovingly tried to fake; minutes later in a magical moment, my past, present and future converged on the table without having taken, yet, its ultimate place in space and time: next my "I" of cardboard, a picture of a good woman cried, that of a poor woman laughed, and a beautiful golden woman, wearing on his head the crown of victory. I saw my life reflected among swords, coins, cups and vast, and offered my apologies to that great lady. But respect, that night I started to feel afraid of those old cards.

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My grandmother inherited all his property to my mother and brothers, the rest of his family did not leave anything, except me, because, being the only bidder, got her sweet words, loving glances, cuddling, affection, time and unparalleled English deck. She was the favorite of my four grandparents, and me, the choice of his eleven grandchildren.

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L a party to celebrate the double birthday is scheduled for May 16, 1974, 3:00 pm, ideal time for all we could hang out for a while and return home before having problems. The chosen site, the home of Eddy H. Carabanchel was in the neighborhood, whose streets had become the scene of the dark side of my early adolescence.

The invitations were very selectively to the majority of attendees remember them briefly, but seven students of the "José Antonio Larrazabal" attended (including myself), I remember it perfectly: Salvador M. I had clear purpose pharmaceutical chemical, known as active ingredients and compositions of all the kit he always carried with I, Ligia V. a good friend of mine, very attractive woman who was able to sell up even just to have enough capital to their urgent needs, Edgar G. an apparent hypochondriac, without suffering from any disease that he said need half a dozen pills a day to not decompose, Luis Felipe L, a boy of just 12 years (but so miles as if I had 20), typical of the type of activity for being in possession of great entrepreneurial skills, while his young age managed an impressive portfolio of clients. Of course, there was also the host H Eddy (my best friend at the time), who by his foray into Eastern religions practiced vegetarianism and showed strong preference for the intake of mushrooms, consumption (by incineration) of certain herbs and Ravy music by Shankar. Also present were, of course, the celebrated, Sonia F. (My puppy love) and me.

The music chosen for the event could not be more appropriate: Grand Funk Railroad, Lead Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, The Guess who, The Who and some of the very learned classical Woodstock. The atmosphere, though quite heavy, was cheerful and carefree, the kind where everyone feels very comfortable, and nobody wants to break the quorum.

At eleven in the evening, three hours after the expiry of my pass, I came home on a motorcycle "Norton" which I borrowed from my good friend Eddy. The paternal reprimand was tremendous, but does not diminish at all the excitement of attending this event and with that group have conducted an unfortunate as: Edgar G. (The hypochondriac), died two weeks later by an overdose of heroin, Ligia V, (the trader) devoted himself to sell the body, because the sale of his books, uniforms, and getting the loans that some thefts which he did not give to support the vice, and as far as I know, I never could get out of addiction or trade, Luis Felipe L. (The child and brilliant businessman), was murdered at age 14 outside his home, the "pushers" of Kaminal Juyú (my neighborhood), they were not willing to share their territory, Eddy H. (My friend "vegetarian"), died on drugs, kabbalistically a year later by crashing his motorcycle into a wall in the neighborhood of Miraflores, Salvador M. is currently a fugitive from justice, he is wanted for having betrayed his vocation as a pharmacist to take on the identity of a English priest, and defrauding a number of unwary. Sonia F. (My puppy love) I did not hear anything, however, for the life he led, I do not still alive.

In support of my colleagues who attended this celebration, all persons listed in "Taps" (addicted) for other young people, and "outcasts" by their elders, I must say that being worthy, all of them, their bad reputations despite being true icons that represent the worst years of my life, I remember with particular affection. They were all valuable and good that young people between hallucinations, loud and heavy music, suffered terribly for having been trapped in a degrading and cursed the world that only a few survived.

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SUMMARY OF OLD MAN

M i grandfather lived on a small ranch, at the bottom of it, the corn silo where he kept, touched the belly of the roof to pair, a small platform that covered the floor, served wine to a thousand and one things: shovels, sacks, sprayers, plastic containers, buckets and a machete, in the Central to the right, opposite the silo, rested his bed on four tracts of timber that raised more than normal, she fell on a net that gave a gloomy aspect to the space around him, under the bed lay a chest where the old man kept his clothes and valuables, and next, following the imaginary line from the center, facing the stage, broke out a small table of dark wood, very old, who was assisted by just two chairs, so battered as herself, on that table, inevitable, a tin of powdered milk, a jar of instant coffee and an identical, full of sugar, and a pair of old wells. At the entrance, on a board which stood up to the waist, was anchored a small mill and around it, scattered everywhere, cluttering the surface, some whole corn kernels and many who had escaped from broken nose crate that Don Braulio Peláez, feeding his chickens. On one side was the wood stove, unsophisticated: a few bricks joined with lime mortar, a metal plate, a constituent part of a defunct tractor and a small grill on which remained enslaved, blackened and disfigured, poor jarilla pewter. From the middle of the ceiling a hanging gourd tapesco and cheerful, the side opposite the pita hammock, tables appeared a shelf where remained a shotgun and an antique radio, connected to the sky by a thread of copper, received signals from all over the world. The rest were books with spines of many colors, who were trapped inside the thoughts and the creation of hundreds of authors, and waiting on a table, next to the hammock, her favorite book (Rimas of Gustavo Adolfo Becq), his glasses Reading and snuff.

I have not found a better way to summarize my grandfather to describe the space-consuming, and list the things that had ............. because they were also his life.