As can be seen and checked the last post appeared on this blog for almost a year. In fact, when I saw the match came I knew I had to write the next post, is this the same on 22 November.
Nor could.
do not understand why people especially people who use this tool called blog to show some things, so ashamed at what can not. I guess it shows to others the unbeatable rate, the will, wit constant, the record itself. But do not know why suddenly I'm talking about others.
Here I am, with my problems and not the sum of my powers, to see how they develop.
a whole year. Makes counting, chronic obesity, temporary disappointment. Time passes. Some resist.
not occurred to me beforehand and as a project to subvert the ways in which we relate to time. " On the contrary, I was always ready to revitalize blog. I think the last post, dedicated to a commentary on the novel Igor, involved the internal proposal to use the blog to be saved (and showing, of course) reviews of the book. But was there. However, the right of your screen you can see a new link, since a few months ago, in the midst of silence, called, I think, some things about Igor. That also got tired halfway.
since last November so far spent many things I could have written here, including several that had the explicit intention of doing.
But no.
The truth is, right now, I am more established and outlined by my failed projects and my failures phantom that everything went well, what became interchangeable or formula object easy to say. I am proud of the cool things I never wrote, and the great ideas I invested in a night of drinking with friends and never came to my mind.
After that legendary November 22 in the summer I was with a group of friends in Neuquén writers, participating in a kind of festival and living within the municipal shelter bunks. One night, after the event and all, were in the middle having some beers, a long table in the village but these are a little deformed arm round aligning with umbrella tables that are clearly for otherwise. Lucas, who was in another part of the city moon, celebrating something, I guess the fact of being alive and together, called Cell Paz and told him to tell us they were evacuating the city because a volcano was erupting ( do you say that?) and had to flee. Paz said it aloud and we all laughed. Lucas then called again and talked to me. I realized that I was frightened and scared. I went back to explain himself to the band and speculation began joint. Still no one moved. Police trucks passed but no one approached us. On TV, the news talked about neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Gradually the skeptics were resigned and returned to the hostel, after convincing some taxi drivers that had been the toxic cloud, could not refuse a five or six. When we arrived at the hostel, Lucas was going from one place to another by closing the windows and covering the holes with, I remember now, though it may be that I mix with unrelated anecdotes, wet cloths. As did the Americans when Welles broadcast live the arrival of extraterrestrials.
Some who had been on the river that afternoon recalled seeing a light spot across the sky, but through it like this way. Since then had been afraid. There were many jokes, these group situations with risk closure looming on the outside, especially when the danger is wild type, are ideal for environments horror movies or tell jokes, according to the budget you have. The more frightened they went to sleep almost immediately (the next day until we head covered by blankets, and what makes me envy the people who fear him sleepy). The rest of us sat around a table with all that that implies. Our budget was for jokes, and a large amount of pot (it talked of confronting the toxic cloud to another toxic cloud, and that was not a joke but a real tactical), a jug of red wine, suddenly remember the name as a lighting called "Garron of Stone", and a bottle of whiskey that Urman kept for some time of danger (like that night and any night in the life of Urman).
That night was a party, and one of the rarest and fun who ever lived. A quiet holiday, closed. Many things happened around the table, I think no place changed overnight: there was crying, aggression, fighting couples, reconciliation.
top, to boot: we were all (or most) writers, and a text that could go in there amazing.
One of the most sad, but genuine and spontaneous, not to be too happy when he is happy, is to slide the future and imagine the chronicle of the present moment. Happens to me a lot, and I know it's stupid but it also makes me what I am. A stupid, with strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, and eager to write. Perhaps
peak intensity hilarious night of the smog was when we played a game proposed by Urman: tuti frutti the mental. Includes a set of standard questions: what would you say before you drown in the river Limay, what would nail him to Levin, what would you like put you in the ass, how to insult the supermarket stock boy, what word you would like to say in your wake, what would you say to a former partner, etc. Then chose a letter by the usual system of tuti frutti, and answered, following a round in which everyone was required to win.
now write supporting an elbow on the stack of paper on which is printed the first part of the script of a horror movie we're writing to Urman. It has nothing to do with the toxic cloud. Although, admittedly, a couple of players have the names of the couples who were that night at the party's closure. Then came the roast
year-end, the mystery of the leg of pork that no one ate but also remained, evenings on the Limay River, but this is not a chronicle. On my last night in Neuquen, we would to gather (Peace and I) with Jaramillo, but the liver does not allow it. Jaramillo is the driver Neuquen of those festivals, I was getting all that then set in motion. When I said, last year, that was the Seattle Neuquén Argentina. He now lives in Buenos Aires, and published a book of poems in Funesiana Editorial: Grunge.
Then, in the same summer, yet after 22 November and before now, I spent a few weeks in Valeria del Mar. Some days sharing with my parents in a house too big, with a barbecue and a garden for those who require to the happiness of a somewhat arrogant, until they left and I was alone.
I was writing. Almost without stopping to realize sooner or later to get me to the sea, before or after (even during) to make a fire and throw some meat on the grill. I was beginning to write the detective he had to stop immediately, almost before they solve the crime, and I was a little nervous writing 'on demand', hurry, a genre novel. All new. Ethical and practical issues too intertwined. Until I did the idiot and I began to write other things, and so, as unwillingly, began writing the novel. Meanwhile I wrote a poem,
dogs coast, which must be one of the least pretentious I wrote in my life, maybe not in its outcome, but certainly by the way, fluid, passing the words to the notebook from my head, even without going there. A couple of days came to share the solitude my friend Romero. He was writing his police. We use the same computer, it at noon, I in the early evening. We ate a roast that would be disrespectful to try to describe. No one can describe the chinchulines crispy rings because the guts are not for that. Some writers say writing "with the guts." During those days, you had to write to the gut. One night we ended ridiculously drunk at the bar one night Valeria del Mar, El Balero. Situated on a Canyon, one block from the beach. That a guy with long hair, then working in one of the pizzerias in the area, told us that last year he had rented the Balero with his cousin, and had lived there between the bar imported liquor and old, the loneliness of interval and the cold wind whipping the sea glass windows. In Romero we look thinking it was something to do. That night Romero, that if you enjoy something and does not teach is sad or anxious, taught me to take Corona beers with a measure of Tequila. Several months later, yet before now, let me convince him, but he had to try, to enter Bolaño's books. In 2666, I had a couple of characters all the time taking his "highball." Research on the internet I understood that it referred to "Highball," a composite drink, basically, Ron and Ginger Ale, which is what I am taking right now and one of the discoveries that brought more joy to my life lonely.
If the microphone was prancing in order to enter the purgatory of Retiro, corrupt then the name becomes contradictory Retirement (after having been beautifully wise) I found myself thinking that all that had happened was something to do. To repeat, to structure and pace.
This is another sad things. When happiness (or at least the intensity of distress may be) is not within the present and imagining the dosage heading into the future. The rhythm, routine, always assumed, or presupposed, lighten the burden of having to read anything in reality. Imagine a guy listening to a song for the first time it is painfully beautiful and at the minute and forty, decide who will listen to that song every day at seven o'clock. During the remaining minute and forty deaf ears and try to get the project in their daily lives: then I will not be able to go to play football if my girl wants to go to the movies, if the kids invite me to ... End of subject.
projects fail because one does not end understand the material it is assembled. Matter, that momentary light, or series of ideas that end up embedded in a specific time anyone brought up or that joke that blew up and lasted a second longer on the reality of mind, matter has the grace to expand but as such as what it is. Thus fails then it is the project idea. The terror of that stuff, too critical or too critical, which leads one (takes me) to grasp and maneuver it to survive, to act in time, you have your rhythm, that is. Because it seems to be is how the beat write the biography in vivo. Epa
. We go to the theoretical side of tomatoes.
The truth is that matter is not to be repeated. Wants, at most, to be remembered and the memory is so. Maybe then the two corruptions of the present reality of writing and rhythm, are pure enemy.
is why read blogs often a scourge auto task is to see how sad, anxious effort and weary pose, in which dozens of people try to shore up his name and his name sticking a flag in the desert of pace .
Basta.
swear that this is not intended as a chronicle and a balance, but a couple of days after having stepped Retirement while serving three years of dating, I left. Only the miracle of the separation can be achieved, without failing to grammar or syntax, start a sentence in the plural and singular term. And date, there poisonous wound. Is that nothing can pass the great whole day. So these days are so difficult, and you have to take what is spilled over the edges and that night I took in the house of my Migo Augustine. The date tells us that one day, nothing happens, although it is possible that some things are done, finally passed. So we celebrate, dates. Happy day
date.
Augustine's house, then was arming itself as a place, and almost put to l capitalized. The two are working "from home" or "freelance" and thanks to the portable nature of the notebook every so often I go there and share a few working days, always underpinned by lectures and Watch out! to be widening as hunger after a chopped, or the thirst after a beer. Recently implemented a micro roasted working on her balcony to make the job of writing in a serene way and be synchronized to accompany the fire.
The notebook, now I read it, is a critical element of adventure in this post, but only now is the name for the first time. My only other thing of value is an accordion lower forty-eight, which comes to be, as the story of the instrument, as the notebook of a piano.
If a genie offered me two wishes, I would be portable in space and time manageable. Can it? Can you try?
Now, when I left the project also incubated to go write some things about this blog. Nothing.
That's right: the term 'separation' is a bit ambitious. In order to separate the skin from the flesh of a bell, after burning out all the fire is at hand, enclose in a plastic bag (vacuum, oxygen) and let time pass. Then, supposedly, skin is separated only '. But no one is separated.
From what I'm writing.
I mean, accurate and simultaneous separation implies the prior existence of two homogeneous units, solid. And there's nothing solid about this. About the only thing that moves me and fills me or what I vacuum and where I move, is liquid. The problem is that love ritmiza the couple, the couple takes the fantasy of reciprocity and equal distance, one ends up believing it and then separates thinks will be the same way, with the same "mechanical arms" by use a horrible expression. But no. Impossible.
Sometimes we met, since then, once even saw us twice.
Then I wrote one of those slogans with which to whip me wake up or stay awake: what matters is to live up to their own desires.
Just a few weeks ago, one of the mythical endless nights at the Club Cultural Pachamama (which are legendary in this, as only the language of nightmares permitting) I met with my friend Simon and some others who did not finish to remember, making the connection between the figure of 'genius', that is including the lamp, and the idea of \u200b\u200b'desires'. Only one genius is able to enter the other in the size of your wishes.
That would come to be written.
How wonderful and how long is the night of Pacha. Long not only to forward, because for every minute of ethyl and leisure blabla forward consolidate two minutes of the past, in which the mythological and blabla becomes a voice, or hundreds of voices speaking to hundreds of crowds crossed, and talking about something that is always the same, but increasingly, as a secret. Perhaps because the Pachamama is a play area that are lonely and everyone thinks what you can about it, maybe for my nights there will be reduced to: a cultural show support band gives way to a joyful conversation coral to be becoming polishing and cleaning up the talk with Simon, and stayed there, making it hold the sun coming and the time spent. Is that this place (I'm tempted also capitalized) is special, because it is open to outsiders and to insiders tight, that is: once you are, nothing outside can reach you. Internet is the opposite. The Pacha is a house in the city that is closed to hyperlinks. Here one can feel truly separate, that pipe dream. You can relax knowing that nobody needs, which is not part of the fabric of the anxieties of no one but showed up there with his mug, his superpowers and weaknesses. That is a separation
consummated.
If we accept death as a separation accomplished, the passage of time is filled with a mysterious joy.
For now, it is now November 24th and I have done heat. My downstairs neighbor, the man who fixes things with CarSim and also buy-sell and fix air conditioners, I said something very relevant to what is being written: "People are stupid. I say, comprámelo in winter and you'll leave half of silver, including installation. But no way, they hope to shit hot, as if they knew that after the cold summer will return. "
when the first heat, I keep notes in the pockets of warm clothes and forget instantly.
There is something that moves me in that logic solitaire games. These laws of oneself to oneself, not can break because if they break the game is over. That must be it ethics. So I like to think of writing, mine in particular and the universe of writers in general as a map of solitaire games that cross, touch, meet. Writing is a solitary game, a personal adventure, which takes nothing away from the existence of literature in the real world, or steals a bit of militant presence: on the contrary, the membership expands when everyone really listens to what dictates his story and so composed his ethics, from a consummate separation (also inevitable) and only then can be found, if the chance and allow the revolution, with the others.
Then I put together a brothel, because I can only lead to something that seems to contradict the above.
That is, once a year. To oblivion in the middle, a newspaper oblivion. Increasingly chewing each interval. This is a solitaire game, a joke ending. And that's what moves me, when a joke (or story, says Landricina) becomes a big thing, rare and unwieldy, that shit in the drawer where they put it, invent your own logic, its own rhythm and plowing out to infinity.
So then, this may be the first chapter of a novel, probably short, I'll be writing each time you close the last decade of November.
As I can not say I'll be the next, each chapter should foreshadow the entire structure of the novel, and contain, in turn, a possible final.
