many questions, many things left unsaid. Today
checked one thing: after eight hours of sleep in natural conditions of humidity and temperature alcohol sentimental the body is well rested and enabled to change position (standing). If one (1, myself) prefer to postpone the moment of boredom or to kill time before something important, and gets back to sleep, the next time I will try not to (get up). Because the body. My idea is that after eight hours the body starts to release some moods are as toxic as all that may come from outside the body. Because the muscles are faint, and one can feel almost levitating, the body far from where you are feeling. I do not say because I've levitated once, but because I guess it must be similar to insomnia in reverse.
This happened to me today, a year later.
I do not want to cheat. During this period between November I was tempted, things happened and I was mentally noting, assuming they had the weight or whatever it takes to be part of the annual chapter. I held back, I did not shout, but that he thought and predisposed me to remember. But I can not remember. I remember some things, yes, facts and situations, but I have no idea what criteria the imagined in this text.
I have to be honest, that's all I have.
now my mind and my emotional apparatus are taken, affected by the momentous game (as the journalists) Nuls, the classic of tomorrow. While I was asleep and woke up dreaming of inventions and variations of images of the match tomorrow. Some happy: Formica recovers a ball in three quarters, leaving two defenders sinaliento on the road, and enters the area defined under to the departure of goalkeeper; golazo. Other tragic: Schiavi fails at the first pitch of the game, Zelaya is slipping, Schiavi fouls from behind, criminal and eviction.
But that misses a day. And today I have a whole year.
did not expect this day to come so naturally. I do not feel prepared. What if I write a chapter a year and one day just touches me irritable, tired, reluctantly, to apathy narrative, of selflessness?
No problem.
Because this is not a chronicle, it need not be: I have nothing to go back in time from the last piece to this part. But I am surprised, yes, as long as everything happened so recently and spent so much in between. I am surprised that a further surprise. If we all do the same, always, before any investigation of the passage of time, would be decided at once to confirm that, yes, indeed, this is how time passes. This is what lasts a year, exactly, neither little nor too much. A year ago was "recently", but it was "a lot" since then. Point. The time is right. In fairness, more than justice.
This year I was sleeping, like today. With pleasure, enjoyment exotic, erotic, infinite medium. I always liked to sleep, but this time I discovered something I can live with greater intensity. With less guilt, I apologize if psychologism. Just trying to stick to the truth. To some.
A caveat: I mean when I say sleep well (perhaps especially) to the surrounding areas. In durmevela, a little step before waking, one after sleeping. One day I was more or less than twelve hours getting up and going to bed, to capture a very precise sense that all the time appeared but disappeared soon. It was raining like today. And in that journey, in this gathering would come and go too loose words, unexplained images.
In these scans, the same day, invented, or I found the Time Machine. Yesterday I was trying a story that includes this invention, but the truth is that I got nothing, so I present here, to all of you.
In the dialogue with the inventor (I do not know if it was me or the other), the inventor explained that the time machine finally invented, you can travel to any point in your life, if that time has already occurred . The future does not exist, he explains. Nor is it possible to choose the time: one "gets" on the machine and falls when you have chance where chance decides. With one important exception: it crosses a single situation, and must match one that is entered by a door and out the other. That is the journey that makes the machine once it develops in a space, entering through one door and out the other, the same way you did this movement. So the machine it is permitted to re-live one of those moments. There, in the dream, I was invited to take a trip in the machine. I do not remember actually having lived in that space-situation, but I was in the dream itself remembered. So the machine works.
I entered a kind of passage became a great old house. Climbed a ladder and entered a room with a giant library. In that room there were two semi naked girls lying on lounge chairs. The girls recognized me, of course, because that had happened. After a while of talking I explained to them that came from the future. I do not remember whether or not they believed me, but I did a lot of questions. At a time when the talk ended and I left the room, walked down a hallway balcony, down stairs and out the other door.
then went back to talk with the inventor. I asked (I was now clearly the person, not him) what he considered the most common questions and problems about of a time machine, what happens if I do something in the past that can change the future we are now?
"It is impossible. You're the same person who was in that situation, and if we're really there with the same motivations and concerns, fears, desires, etc. So why would not do something different from what you have done. In fact, the most subversive you could get to do is tell the rest of the people you come in the future you, but if you look closely, you will see that you did in the original moment. " Perfect. One last question: What shape is the machine?.
"is shaped like a pill."
The other day my sister told me, quite rightly, that a place to come almost every time with this machine would be the collective, which is entered through a door and out the other. We think that this works for everyone except the old ladies, who come and go for it. But then, what an old woman might want to travel in time and return to a time when it is old. This problem is to avoid running down the front door, still being closer to the middle.
However, beyond the machine, one factor that led me to this well-sleeping organic. Last year, more or less at the height of the chapter, I had another invention to doze: the nonconforming critical. That would be (I decided when I awoke) my way of approaching life, some prompted by the lack of silver decision to make a trip to the world told me I was in need. Much less move.
What happened to Critical Conformismo was very special to walk soon after saying it amounted to allies, especially one: my friend Agustin. We gave him way, it returned true and functional. Very fast was removed from the depths of my dreams (dream) and was established as a dream among friends, a Latin American dream: a commitment to happiness only focused on the possible. Four
or five years before (?) I lived in a small apartment in a huge building in Almagro. At the edge of the giant patio (it was the same as the rest of the department) which was the garage roof of the tower and the cemetery makeshift bats in the area, Augustine and I got together to think and write. We called ourselves "collected immediately." At that time we wrote a short non-fiction texts we called the "occur-how" and we sent by mail chain, like a blog but before. An afternoon of those, as we ate a snack, we said a little joke, but very very seriously, we could write an advice book. A new form of self-help. Wanted to. Also in summer, but at the end of last year or the beginning of this, my friend told me that Romero would direct a new collection in the editorial Kier. And I was thinking "titles."
During the first half of the year we met to Augustine every Tuesday night (rate!) To eat, drink and write our book.
That was how the critic Conformismo earned himself advanced in the world of reality to become your own review, and we exceeded our membership. It is now part of a book which is bought and sold and sometimes read.
What else, the fascination with the passage of time. As if there was another thing. It is a kind of story itself: the story that only makes sense from the conclusion: how time flies, how crazy. But yes, I can not remove: I spy the last chapter of surprise and joy at the thought that "at that time not even thinking about the self-help book," for example.
The fascination with the passage of time and its segmentation into books.
I think not, for example, had seen the series House, which is something that I think have done ages ago. Now I am in doubt, I will seek a parameter. (This is the game that nobody can resist.)
perfect: in the event of "Closing Cycle" last year, after November 22, someone had a shirt of House and another person gave him talk so, and I remember feeling that I did not understand at all what they were talking. That night also passed
stuff like that stretch and take you to unusual places, like a little hotel right in front of the lagoon Chascomús.
How long does a night?
I must admit that I'm facing a strange modesty.
Last year, after publishing the chapter (you can see it in a comment), some acquaintances told me something about modesty, or lack of modesty, or excessive display. I gave place to think, but the truth is I had not played anything like that. Now I feel something. I'm not saying any names, I could not tell them. In fact, a person had a name on the previous page and not anymore.
How long a name? What undertakes a name?
But if this is literature, fiction ...
train from confessions made several digressions that there is one that actually appears in the free association and direct evocation, but I'm leaving me by others that are more sensible to me text: summer .
"All I remember is the summer?
Last summer I read "The novel light" of Levrero. Great experience. Terrible, too. Played a race against tremendous hinchapelotas Uruguayan daily: two in summer, hot as hell, both thinking of buying an air conditioner. In real time I won, but I think I won it by date. I know it's difficult for you not read that book to understand what I'm talking about. Hopefully serve as a stimulus.
But summer, what summer makes me weird.
Perhaps, if this novel written in June's annual think the same winter. I encourage you to suspect that I am much more stupid than what I feel to be.
In fact, I bought the air conditioning is cold, heat, and was even in the winter that one day he fell. Yes, I dropped the air conditioner. Responsible for installing it (my downstairs neighbor, the man who arranged things with the charisma), he said, very naturally, which had been the effect of vibration. We agree that if the air conditioners are falling by (his) vibration, we are talking about dozens of deaths per day for this cause. Would be more dangerous than the coconuts in the tropics. The truth is that if you lead me to write this thing, so news, the statistical, ie, which only can happen to me, this story of the air conditioning would be vital. But I'm not interested in the slightest. I'm not interested so much that I have missed (just me) and I can write. This is not a chronicle. It is rather a place or an artifact. Whatever.
do not know what I'm doing. Among the shame that I got, that will not let me write some things that come naturally with references to people who are not me, and now the kids of the apartment next door to play football in the hallway and my door is arc ...: I is complicating the matter.
So much trouble for this? A year down the drain!
would have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. I will eat, then I probably have a few beers in Old Belgrano. And when you return to finish this morning, but seriously. I promise the third of a bottle of wine left over yesterday.
Now it is day: I'm listening to an incredible album, The Roots of Chicha, another great monster of a gringo with Latin American music, in this case, psychedelic cumbias from Peru. But writing as well as asshole look like a rock journalist.
I have to admit I discovered this album because it was recommended in Inrockuptibles, one page after the little thing they put on Ceviche. Quite matching the thing. When I was a kid I read that magazine, not now, but this year was Ceviche, and what not ... and this year I felt something like that: any or all of a sudden I had and could say what he could think about what I write : and yes. Sure, if by that we are.
I mean, I get bad, sometimes, when they say that it is Paraguay's Eleven, instead of Peruvians Abasto, as bad as when an editor tells me that my novel will seem "less radical" and happens even suggested suggestions, but ... but it makes me feel good in general, something like I'm doing something, a little radical but very powerfully salable mine and still legible. So?
last summer also Romero told me to do a workshop together. Say something Workshop dreamed. And so were all the Wednesday of the year, first one group, then two. Pace a new rhythm. The extraordinarily humane feeling that a group of others has something to say once a week, week to watch, as they say.
Another time (now I can not stop to recreate and give importance to things, but notice how the prose flows more than before) great for annoying and yet so was the exchange of mails with my older sister, who now lives Back in Germany, about Ceviche: liked, but as always, some not. A little to spare my wits, it annoys my passion for inventing so they do not know what I know of the other: two sides of the same quest, good and bad, to define things in a fairly stupid, nothing equivalent to richness of what happened (it is dawn and I have many more intentions than capacity). After this exchange I got to write some stories do not quite understand, he could not defend in any court. As the story of Bolt, who emerged from a mixture of these discussions with my desire to sleep and to dream, and imagine how others would feel the same. Ethics abhorrent to find in any other the little personal pain. Or just the opposite. Now I say that because I'm mad at me. And I have to go faster so that I can not finish before the end of the year to remember everything that year memorable escapes.
This is a new feature of this text, remember in future things I do not want to forget. I can not write at all, but much less so I can forget. That.
The most stupid that I proposed this text is that when I slip up to write things that happened this year (chronic type) and I'm proud. And what grace can have a text which expresses only the author as proud of his life. None. Then I learn to shut up, and so little by little I'm learning to write. Slowly.
But he treated me well, as a little thing I miss even the main, as it is the principle or is of a prince, we speak of rhythm, and some time to use agenda: since August, leaving it in August cheaper. An agenda for the first time in my life.
It's like nothing is lost. I signed up in advance every day, give me orders and I am cured, I ordered and it worked, but somehow wrong, making a game where I can at least lose the game. The agenda, my god, I do cartoons that represent the kind of responsibility that haunts me: some legs to explain that I have to leave home, an asterisk means work, a tube of phone calls pending, an envelope for mail, and well. That I am, or I write every day I want to be: a good dog.
But, good dog, I know this does not have to have a cumulative sense. Quite the contrary. But I will not go to sleep today without resolving some of this sense: they are eight and point average in the morning.
I quote from the front of the text: "I'd have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. "
That's right. So passed. It was five o'clock in the morning peak, recently. Terrible anxiety I still do not know why, the specific way. But I know that all of a sudden were shackled in what I would not, I do not like me. And over the certainty that everything happened in exactly the same way. And I could not change, if only it was me. All the time together on a morning when I wanted my bed. And I, who was as always here, trying to solve everything in my house that is my time machine of mine, until a light moment I knew otherwise. I had to leave. I do not know where I did not know. But I was here and then I left.
This is not good as telling. It was five and a half and I ran away from home, as in the cartoons a baby leaves with a stick hanging bag.
I'm taking the reward came. How little shame.
I went. I walked around Boulogne Sur Mer, my hero seizes street dead, still night. When I arrived in Cordoba began to leave the sun and chose to follow in Ecuador. In a moment what was cut and faced by Laprida. I took the breath to my grandmother taught me: ten sucking steps, ten steps exhaling. So all the time. After Heras all got a little more cheto, but also people in between cute. I sent along a street that did not know, I think is called Drain, and Agresti, or Agrelo. I kept walking, away from what I what, and breathing a certain way: I went to a passage in dreams, those with ladder and internal neighborhood and everything.
I looked walking the Faculty of Law, high ladders and empty, the giant flower Ibarra, the Museum of Fine Arts. It was broad daylight and came to the streets more difficult to walk: Figueroa Alcorta and all that. I went through withdrawal. I guess I lost because I could not go ahead and I followed behind. Buenos Aires
is green and when no one but the day is an extraordinarily beautiful city. A trip. I wanted to steal what was not (he was only sleeping, even non-transferable), I called his cell phone and I was angry because I do not wear these: bizarre scene. "A cell you want?".
I walked a lot, I kept walking, breathing always that way.
I was not happy as before, but a little bit, and there was a challenge involved. The river.
hotels, the Sheraton, the time at which the city becomes real. When he awakens the monster.
In Puerto Madero literal entry are some tiles that say, receiving visitors, "President Carlos Saul Menem. Interior Minister Carlos Corach. Head of Government of the City of Buenos Aires Fernando De la Rua. Inauguration of Puerto Madero, 1998. " There is nobody at that time, and I suppose when people nobody sees anything. What I wanted was to see the river. "
might not leave my house because I want to walk and not reach the River.
I sat on a stool and lit a fag. Just passing gendarmes who smoked and spoke in Guarani.
I had to come back in a taxi for 20 pesos. I could hardly move. But it was like new. When I got to bed and greeted her to sleep, I did tell some of this, invent a dream difficult to manage. Some understand without explanation. In may go in one door and out the other.
That is grace.
Now it is nine. Missing eight hours for the match Nuls.
And now? I'm going out.
If I follow her.
checked one thing: after eight hours of sleep in natural conditions of humidity and temperature alcohol sentimental the body is well rested and enabled to change position (standing). If one (1, myself) prefer to postpone the moment of boredom or to kill time before something important, and gets back to sleep, the next time I will try not to (get up). Because the body. My idea is that after eight hours the body starts to release some moods are as toxic as all that may come from outside the body. Because the muscles are faint, and one can feel almost levitating, the body far from where you are feeling. I do not say because I've levitated once, but because I guess it must be similar to insomnia in reverse.
This happened to me today, a year later.
I do not want to cheat. During this period between November I was tempted, things happened and I was mentally noting, assuming they had the weight or whatever it takes to be part of the annual chapter. I held back, I did not shout, but that he thought and predisposed me to remember. But I can not remember. I remember some things, yes, facts and situations, but I have no idea what criteria the imagined in this text.
I have to be honest, that's all I have.
now my mind and my emotional apparatus are taken, affected by the momentous game (as the journalists) Nuls, the classic of tomorrow. While I was asleep and woke up dreaming of inventions and variations of images of the match tomorrow. Some happy: Formica recovers a ball in three quarters, leaving two defenders sinaliento on the road, and enters the area defined under to the departure of goalkeeper; golazo. Other tragic: Schiavi fails at the first pitch of the game, Zelaya is slipping, Schiavi fouls from behind, criminal and eviction.
But that misses a day. And today I have a whole year.
did not expect this day to come so naturally. I do not feel prepared. What if I write a chapter a year and one day just touches me irritable, tired, reluctantly, to apathy narrative, of selflessness?
No problem.
Because this is not a chronicle, it need not be: I have nothing to go back in time from the last piece to this part. But I am surprised, yes, as long as everything happened so recently and spent so much in between. I am surprised that a further surprise. If we all do the same, always, before any investigation of the passage of time, would be decided at once to confirm that, yes, indeed, this is how time passes. This is what lasts a year, exactly, neither little nor too much. A year ago was "recently", but it was "a lot" since then. Point. The time is right. In fairness, more than justice.
This year I was sleeping, like today. With pleasure, enjoyment exotic, erotic, infinite medium. I always liked to sleep, but this time I discovered something I can live with greater intensity. With less guilt, I apologize if psychologism. Just trying to stick to the truth. To some.
A caveat: I mean when I say sleep well (perhaps especially) to the surrounding areas. In durmevela, a little step before waking, one after sleeping. One day I was more or less than twelve hours getting up and going to bed, to capture a very precise sense that all the time appeared but disappeared soon. It was raining like today. And in that journey, in this gathering would come and go too loose words, unexplained images.
In these scans, the same day, invented, or I found the Time Machine. Yesterday I was trying a story that includes this invention, but the truth is that I got nothing, so I present here, to all of you.
In the dialogue with the inventor (I do not know if it was me or the other), the inventor explained that the time machine finally invented, you can travel to any point in your life, if that time has already occurred . The future does not exist, he explains. Nor is it possible to choose the time: one "gets" on the machine and falls when you have chance where chance decides. With one important exception: it crosses a single situation, and must match one that is entered by a door and out the other. That is the journey that makes the machine once it develops in a space, entering through one door and out the other, the same way you did this movement. So the machine it is permitted to re-live one of those moments. There, in the dream, I was invited to take a trip in the machine. I do not remember actually having lived in that space-situation, but I was in the dream itself remembered. So the machine works.
I entered a kind of passage became a great old house. Climbed a ladder and entered a room with a giant library. In that room there were two semi naked girls lying on lounge chairs. The girls recognized me, of course, because that had happened. After a while of talking I explained to them that came from the future. I do not remember whether or not they believed me, but I did a lot of questions. At a time when the talk ended and I left the room, walked down a hallway balcony, down stairs and out the other door.
then went back to talk with the inventor. I asked (I was now clearly the person, not him) what he considered the most common questions and problems about of a time machine, what happens if I do something in the past that can change the future we are now?
"It is impossible. You're the same person who was in that situation, and if we're really there with the same motivations and concerns, fears, desires, etc. So why would not do something different from what you have done. In fact, the most subversive you could get to do is tell the rest of the people you come in the future you, but if you look closely, you will see that you did in the original moment. " Perfect. One last question: What shape is the machine?.
"is shaped like a pill."
The other day my sister told me, quite rightly, that a place to come almost every time with this machine would be the collective, which is entered through a door and out the other. We think that this works for everyone except the old ladies, who come and go for it. But then, what an old woman might want to travel in time and return to a time when it is old. This problem is to avoid running down the front door, still being closer to the middle.
However, beyond the machine, one factor that led me to this well-sleeping organic. Last year, more or less at the height of the chapter, I had another invention to doze: the nonconforming critical. That would be (I decided when I awoke) my way of approaching life, some prompted by the lack of silver decision to make a trip to the world told me I was in need. Much less move.
What happened to Critical Conformismo was very special to walk soon after saying it amounted to allies, especially one: my friend Agustin. We gave him way, it returned true and functional. Very fast was removed from the depths of my dreams (dream) and was established as a dream among friends, a Latin American dream: a commitment to happiness only focused on the possible. Four
or five years before (?) I lived in a small apartment in a huge building in Almagro. At the edge of the giant patio (it was the same as the rest of the department) which was the garage roof of the tower and the cemetery makeshift bats in the area, Augustine and I got together to think and write. We called ourselves "collected immediately." At that time we wrote a short non-fiction texts we called the "occur-how" and we sent by mail chain, like a blog but before. An afternoon of those, as we ate a snack, we said a little joke, but very very seriously, we could write an advice book. A new form of self-help. Wanted to. Also in summer, but at the end of last year or the beginning of this, my friend told me that Romero would direct a new collection in the editorial Kier. And I was thinking "titles."
During the first half of the year we met to Augustine every Tuesday night (rate!) To eat, drink and write our book.
That was how the critic Conformismo earned himself advanced in the world of reality to become your own review, and we exceeded our membership. It is now part of a book which is bought and sold and sometimes read.
What else, the fascination with the passage of time. As if there was another thing. It is a kind of story itself: the story that only makes sense from the conclusion: how time flies, how crazy. But yes, I can not remove: I spy the last chapter of surprise and joy at the thought that "at that time not even thinking about the self-help book," for example.
The fascination with the passage of time and its segmentation into books.
I think not, for example, had seen the series House, which is something that I think have done ages ago. Now I am in doubt, I will seek a parameter. (This is the game that nobody can resist.)
perfect: in the event of "Closing Cycle" last year, after November 22, someone had a shirt of House and another person gave him talk so, and I remember feeling that I did not understand at all what they were talking. That night also passed
stuff like that stretch and take you to unusual places, like a little hotel right in front of the lagoon Chascomús.
How long does a night?
I must admit that I'm facing a strange modesty.
Last year, after publishing the chapter (you can see it in a comment), some acquaintances told me something about modesty, or lack of modesty, or excessive display. I gave place to think, but the truth is I had not played anything like that. Now I feel something. I'm not saying any names, I could not tell them. In fact, a person had a name on the previous page and not anymore.
How long a name? What undertakes a name?
But if this is literature, fiction ...
train from confessions made several digressions that there is one that actually appears in the free association and direct evocation, but I'm leaving me by others that are more sensible to me text: summer .
"All I remember is the summer?
Last summer I read "The novel light" of Levrero. Great experience. Terrible, too. Played a race against tremendous hinchapelotas Uruguayan daily: two in summer, hot as hell, both thinking of buying an air conditioner. In real time I won, but I think I won it by date. I know it's difficult for you not read that book to understand what I'm talking about. Hopefully serve as a stimulus.
But summer, what summer makes me weird.
Perhaps, if this novel written in June's annual think the same winter. I encourage you to suspect that I am much more stupid than what I feel to be.
In fact, I bought the air conditioning is cold, heat, and was even in the winter that one day he fell. Yes, I dropped the air conditioner. Responsible for installing it (my downstairs neighbor, the man who arranged things with the charisma), he said, very naturally, which had been the effect of vibration. We agree that if the air conditioners are falling by (his) vibration, we are talking about dozens of deaths per day for this cause. Would be more dangerous than the coconuts in the tropics. The truth is that if you lead me to write this thing, so news, the statistical, ie, which only can happen to me, this story of the air conditioning would be vital. But I'm not interested in the slightest. I'm not interested so much that I have missed (just me) and I can write. This is not a chronicle. It is rather a place or an artifact. Whatever.
do not know what I'm doing. Among the shame that I got, that will not let me write some things that come naturally with references to people who are not me, and now the kids of the apartment next door to play football in the hallway and my door is arc ...: I is complicating the matter.
So much trouble for this? A year down the drain!
would have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. I will eat, then I probably have a few beers in Old Belgrano. And when you return to finish this morning, but seriously. I promise the third of a bottle of wine left over yesterday.
Now it is day: I'm listening to an incredible album, The Roots of Chicha, another great monster of a gringo with Latin American music, in this case, psychedelic cumbias from Peru. But writing as well as asshole look like a rock journalist.
I have to admit I discovered this album because it was recommended in Inrockuptibles, one page after the little thing they put on Ceviche. Quite matching the thing. When I was a kid I read that magazine, not now, but this year was Ceviche, and what not ... and this year I felt something like that: any or all of a sudden I had and could say what he could think about what I write : and yes. Sure, if by that we are.
I mean, I get bad, sometimes, when they say that it is Paraguay's Eleven, instead of Peruvians Abasto, as bad as when an editor tells me that my novel will seem "less radical" and happens even suggested suggestions, but ... but it makes me feel good in general, something like I'm doing something, a little radical but very powerfully salable mine and still legible. So?
last summer also Romero told me to do a workshop together. Say something Workshop dreamed. And so were all the Wednesday of the year, first one group, then two. Pace a new rhythm. The extraordinarily humane feeling that a group of others has something to say once a week, week to watch, as they say.
Another time (now I can not stop to recreate and give importance to things, but notice how the prose flows more than before) great for annoying and yet so was the exchange of mails with my older sister, who now lives Back in Germany, about Ceviche: liked, but as always, some not. A little to spare my wits, it annoys my passion for inventing so they do not know what I know of the other: two sides of the same quest, good and bad, to define things in a fairly stupid, nothing equivalent to richness of what happened (it is dawn and I have many more intentions than capacity). After this exchange I got to write some stories do not quite understand, he could not defend in any court. As the story of Bolt, who emerged from a mixture of these discussions with my desire to sleep and to dream, and imagine how others would feel the same. Ethics abhorrent to find in any other the little personal pain. Or just the opposite. Now I say that because I'm mad at me. And I have to go faster so that I can not finish before the end of the year to remember everything that year memorable escapes.
This is a new feature of this text, remember in future things I do not want to forget. I can not write at all, but much less so I can forget. That.
The most stupid that I proposed this text is that when I slip up to write things that happened this year (chronic type) and I'm proud. And what grace can have a text which expresses only the author as proud of his life. None. Then I learn to shut up, and so little by little I'm learning to write. Slowly.
But he treated me well, as a little thing I miss even the main, as it is the principle or is of a prince, we speak of rhythm, and some time to use agenda: since August, leaving it in August cheaper. An agenda for the first time in my life.
It's like nothing is lost. I signed up in advance every day, give me orders and I am cured, I ordered and it worked, but somehow wrong, making a game where I can at least lose the game. The agenda, my god, I do cartoons that represent the kind of responsibility that haunts me: some legs to explain that I have to leave home, an asterisk means work, a tube of phone calls pending, an envelope for mail, and well. That I am, or I write every day I want to be: a good dog.
But, good dog, I know this does not have to have a cumulative sense. Quite the contrary. But I will not go to sleep today without resolving some of this sense: they are eight and point average in the morning.
I quote from the front of the text: "I'd have to invent something. I mean, somehow.
I know I'm going to leave. "
That's right. So passed. It was five o'clock in the morning peak, recently. Terrible anxiety I still do not know why, the specific way. But I know that all of a sudden were shackled in what I would not, I do not like me. And over the certainty that everything happened in exactly the same way. And I could not change, if only it was me. All the time together on a morning when I wanted my bed. And I, who was as always here, trying to solve everything in my house that is my time machine of mine, until a light moment I knew otherwise. I had to leave. I do not know where I did not know. But I was here and then I left.
This is not good as telling. It was five and a half and I ran away from home, as in the cartoons a baby leaves with a stick hanging bag.
I'm taking the reward came. How little shame.
I went. I walked around Boulogne Sur Mer, my hero seizes street dead, still night. When I arrived in Cordoba began to leave the sun and chose to follow in Ecuador. In a moment what was cut and faced by Laprida. I took the breath to my grandmother taught me: ten sucking steps, ten steps exhaling. So all the time. After Heras all got a little more cheto, but also people in between cute. I sent along a street that did not know, I think is called Drain, and Agresti, or Agrelo. I kept walking, away from what I what, and breathing a certain way: I went to a passage in dreams, those with ladder and internal neighborhood and everything.
I looked walking the Faculty of Law, high ladders and empty, the giant flower Ibarra, the Museum of Fine Arts. It was broad daylight and came to the streets more difficult to walk: Figueroa Alcorta and all that. I went through withdrawal. I guess I lost because I could not go ahead and I followed behind. Buenos Aires
is green and when no one but the day is an extraordinarily beautiful city. A trip. I wanted to steal what was not (he was only sleeping, even non-transferable), I called his cell phone and I was angry because I do not wear these: bizarre scene. "A cell you want?".
I walked a lot, I kept walking, breathing always that way.
I was not happy as before, but a little bit, and there was a challenge involved. The river.
hotels, the Sheraton, the time at which the city becomes real. When he awakens the monster.
In Puerto Madero literal entry are some tiles that say, receiving visitors, "President Carlos Saul Menem. Interior Minister Carlos Corach. Head of Government of the City of Buenos Aires Fernando De la Rua. Inauguration of Puerto Madero, 1998. " There is nobody at that time, and I suppose when people nobody sees anything. What I wanted was to see the river. "
might not leave my house because I want to walk and not reach the River.
I sat on a stool and lit a fag. Just passing gendarmes who smoked and spoke in Guarani.
I had to come back in a taxi for 20 pesos. I could hardly move. But it was like new. When I got to bed and greeted her to sleep, I did tell some of this, invent a dream difficult to manage. Some understand without explanation. In may go in one door and out the other.
That is grace.
Now it is nine. Missing eight hours for the match Nuls.
And now? I'm going out.
If I follow her.
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