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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 Nobody looks up the car and only pretending to take care of outdated guards from his vantage point, I see to address that river of red lights, white and yellow car occupied by people lost in thought.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.