Dear Ocean: do not find particularly immense this afternoon.
Until now, thinking of the immediacy of the text back to me become once a year, every November 22 (or adjacent days), until today I had not thought that the figure of sending a letter to the ocean wrapped in a bottle this could be read otherwise. Send a letter to the sea to talk to him. The sea does not answer, or yes, sometimes with another bottle, with a letter from another, sometimes with the same text but corrected himself. That's humor lacañano.
lacañano also write that the importance of this idea of \u200b\u200bsea charts is that "until now had never thought. " Conspired with my parents, one of those epic semi collective text desktops screamed and gone through the same familiarity and ways of being different lacañano imagine a restaurant that serves dishes like "tomato sauce pizza, but not without mozzarella. "
But if you live in a more or less deserted island (any island in the ocean desert the possibility of having the writer in, which is sucking and when finished includes traces of their language in the empty part of the bottle, the inside), then you live the company of the sea, swinging his fidelity, and it would be weird to write him a letter. The sea, though presumably dumb can be a recipient and not just a means to access any pair, that immediately after. The sea is the recipient or destinal, summer approaches and I begin to dream. What mood for a roast, eat it, too much wine, whiskey, a melon at the end and jump into the sea when the sun begins to return. Ah.
Well, conformity critical, we now have this text, we will live here a while.
This text is the letter in the bottle into the sea. But. This includes the fabric of my desires is the disproportion. Divine disproportion. Between cause and effect, an ocean. The manner of death to death. There is no proportion between life and that, before the silence and dumbness later. Then all the disparity in life that construct our second subtracted from the calculation, our gestures, and no death now. Although it is not already , or even . K Nestor
died, but that's not terrible, no longer a gesture. The terrible thing, if it is to think, is that K Nestor still dead. No one wants to think, no how or why. Then calculations involving the universe and make it shit with disproportion. An ocean.
should write about the past year.
All November 22, the third chapter:
It's like a birthday chosen artificially imposed. It also works as a rhythmic scar, fatal. Then the text.
phone rings.
was my sister Laura. I called to request a photo for this year's text. That's part of the rhythm. By the way is going to happen around here: he comes to find the book of Proust to bring our sister Ayi who lives in Germany and is in search of lost time.
(I'm irreparable: to find the word "our" My brain ran through options such as "my" and "your").
What I have of this year, in the body, is what I have in the past, the hangover from yesterday's party. Birthday Caro-my-girlfriend-my-friend Augustine, and, in his words invitation in the mail, Rodrigo-my-partner.
the days before the party was asking me about it (Rodrigo naming me "buddy"), wondering whether he had any comment to make.
did not come to any conclusion and not leave it to alcohol. The message that the bottles, the bottles filled, I would send them to posterity. Obviously the alcohol he said. Their responses were more than satisfactory. The most plausible (or I suspect): it was a literary problem, stylistic, not wanting to repeat the word "friend" in a single line. This is how literature confronts us with the words (In the sense that alienates us) and the style is (makes us) do battle to end by saying that words can not say completely.
How we laughed.
I remember well the party yesterday. Besides dancing, I talked to friends with almost every one made a vital project or work, some of the common life. Sharing the joy of being alive at the same time and with love. It's the way we carve many of the links, to inhabit the paradise disproportionate friendship future commissioning. Living the present happiness to imagine the future together. This year I spent basically this: imagine projects with others. I love to see happen, but I like to imagine. As the impossible roast at noon at the end of the trip to Rosario. Joint projects, the possible and the impossible, they vibrate with the same frequency at the site of the brain in forming the mind (mine). The workshop ended with Facu literary and musical, the restaurant closed doors with my sisters, the telenovela with Colo, the radio workshop with Ariel, my father's books, food service with Loren, the roasted wild at home Oliver, the house at the tiger with Romero and Augustine, and all that I forget now. And you never told my and future partners.
I had a question, interesting thought not to include the paragraph here above, adhering to the idea that the projects listed in the final eve fail, in the sense that they are true. But these were fulfilled in their natural failure, and if they participate in the factual reality will not have to do with superstitions of the tongue. Interesting superstition what is said does not happen. So the magic (the belief in what not) attributed the ability to say what is and what is not, and says that saying there and what there is comes in a second, speechless. Do not make me laugh. It could reverse the structure of superstition, and propose that what is said, for example I write this fails because there will be no past . When writing is what makes you past. Commissioning reliable verification failure, the failure start giving present existence to what happened. That!
In fact, today I was sad not having proposed anything to Ariel. I wanted to propose something for the future, but only yesterday did not know why. There was no time to imagine, a shame. Tomorrow I intend to call her and propose something.
Great party, I agree and have fun alone.
Until now, thinking of the immediacy of the text back to me become once a year, every November 22 (or adjacent days), until today I had not thought that the figure of sending a letter to the ocean wrapped in a bottle this could be read otherwise. Send a letter to the sea to talk to him. The sea does not answer, or yes, sometimes with another bottle, with a letter from another, sometimes with the same text but corrected himself. That's humor lacañano.
lacañano also write that the importance of this idea of \u200b\u200bsea charts is that "until now had never thought. " Conspired with my parents, one of those epic semi collective text desktops screamed and gone through the same familiarity and ways of being different lacañano imagine a restaurant that serves dishes like "tomato sauce pizza, but not without mozzarella. "
But if you live in a more or less deserted island (any island in the ocean desert the possibility of having the writer in, which is sucking and when finished includes traces of their language in the empty part of the bottle, the inside), then you live the company of the sea, swinging his fidelity, and it would be weird to write him a letter. The sea, though presumably dumb can be a recipient and not just a means to access any pair, that immediately after. The sea is the recipient or destinal, summer approaches and I begin to dream. What mood for a roast, eat it, too much wine, whiskey, a melon at the end and jump into the sea when the sun begins to return. Ah.
Well, conformity critical, we now have this text, we will live here a while.
This text is the letter in the bottle into the sea. But. This includes the fabric of my desires is the disproportion. Divine disproportion. Between cause and effect, an ocean. The manner of death to death. There is no proportion between life and that, before the silence and dumbness later. Then all the disparity in life that construct our second subtracted from the calculation, our gestures, and no death now. Although it is not already , or even . K Nestor
died, but that's not terrible, no longer a gesture. The terrible thing, if it is to think, is that K Nestor still dead. No one wants to think, no how or why. Then calculations involving the universe and make it shit with disproportion. An ocean.
should write about the past year.
All November 22, the third chapter:
It's like a birthday chosen artificially imposed. It also works as a rhythmic scar, fatal. Then the text.
phone rings.
was my sister Laura. I called to request a photo for this year's text. That's part of the rhythm. By the way is going to happen around here: he comes to find the book of Proust to bring our sister Ayi who lives in Germany and is in search of lost time.
(I'm irreparable: to find the word "our" My brain ran through options such as "my" and "your").
What I have of this year, in the body, is what I have in the past, the hangover from yesterday's party. Birthday Caro-my-girlfriend-my-friend Augustine, and, in his words invitation in the mail, Rodrigo-my-partner.
the days before the party was asking me about it (Rodrigo naming me "buddy"), wondering whether he had any comment to make.
did not come to any conclusion and not leave it to alcohol. The message that the bottles, the bottles filled, I would send them to posterity. Obviously the alcohol he said. Their responses were more than satisfactory. The most plausible (or I suspect): it was a literary problem, stylistic, not wanting to repeat the word "friend" in a single line. This is how literature confronts us with the words (In the sense that alienates us) and the style is (makes us) do battle to end by saying that words can not say completely.
How we laughed.
I remember well the party yesterday. Besides dancing, I talked to friends with almost every one made a vital project or work, some of the common life. Sharing the joy of being alive at the same time and with love. It's the way we carve many of the links, to inhabit the paradise disproportionate friendship future commissioning. Living the present happiness to imagine the future together. This year I spent basically this: imagine projects with others. I love to see happen, but I like to imagine. As the impossible roast at noon at the end of the trip to Rosario. Joint projects, the possible and the impossible, they vibrate with the same frequency at the site of the brain in forming the mind (mine). The workshop ended with Facu literary and musical, the restaurant closed doors with my sisters, the telenovela with Colo, the radio workshop with Ariel, my father's books, food service with Loren, the roasted wild at home Oliver, the house at the tiger with Romero and Augustine, and all that I forget now. And you never told my and future partners.
I had a question, interesting thought not to include the paragraph here above, adhering to the idea that the projects listed in the final eve fail, in the sense that they are true. But these were fulfilled in their natural failure, and if they participate in the factual reality will not have to do with superstitions of the tongue. Interesting superstition what is said does not happen. So the magic (the belief in what not) attributed the ability to say what is and what is not, and says that saying there and what there is comes in a second, speechless. Do not make me laugh. It could reverse the structure of superstition, and propose that what is said, for example I write this fails because there will be no past . When writing is what makes you past. Commissioning reliable verification failure, the failure start giving present existence to what happened. That!
In fact, today I was sad not having proposed anything to Ariel. I wanted to propose something for the future, but only yesterday did not know why. There was no time to imagine, a shame. Tomorrow I intend to call her and propose something.
Great party, I agree and have fun alone.
How hot does. A while ago, in bed, I wondered about the role of climate in the memories. Apparently, when the story of memory is built, gently remove the climate that prevailed in practice, unless the weather is the main protagonist of the story of memory. "How cold it was that night in Purmamarca, Caro." And with dreams and the weather, what happens? Did anyone think that? We geniuses, are not vague.
So, friends, the projection of a common future is like the time of courtship that goes on forever, the specific strain of the previous. As the anxious wait and afantasmada for meat is roasted on the grill, waiting anxiously and infant bodies tend to braid in Garches. Anxiety is bad press, but it is: the pleasure, desire, pleasure to be desired, and so on. Why is this anxiety in the waiting, which defines the style of things. The identity of anxiety heals, and how the wait is forever engraved in the style of the thing that finally reaches the table or served in bed.
The projection of future common is the courtship of friends. The realization of one of these projects is to be the sublime moment, orgasm (so-called end).
The support at the time of this project, the room together with the friend of this project because in reality, is equivalent to time be dropped from the side, close to the desired body and sweating, breathing in the semi dark and fair, fair, just begin to fall the first drops of rain on the tin roof of the neighbors. That's life.
It happened this afternoon, more early. Right, right: one drop, two drops of rain. I felt like a spoiled child of the universe and chance. Like when everything is tied into a story, and that feeling so well away from the trouble I electrified the bocho. That euphoria that there is an apparent truth this time is good, or at least own. And one descended from side to side of the ocean several times a second. Take the entire ocean blue background, and inside the bottle that the ocean was a desire written record, take a drink again, and read it to find the perfect Castilian Ríodelaplata reads the biography of the second has not finished.
That happens to me when I can write. It is logical that I go all day.
This text should end here, but I will go because I just thought of something fascinatingly stupid, namely "not everything I write in this text is true (¿?)".
One of my worst faults, I would tell D's if there is in the shape of a human resources manager, and paradise was the company that I wanted a career, "my worst fault is that I learn about myself."
Not everything in this text is the truth, for the simple reason that it is a text, trying to name characters names that are linked to people that nobody, not every one of their own, completely understood, in truth. Moreover, the character public and shameless chapters of this novel in a year, the same text can affect the "real" capitalized because it refers to the Kingdom of the facts, with his court and palaces. So there you go measuring the dialectical oscillation (there would be missing a more accurate word) of this novel and my life. For not too bad either. Does not interest me that neither is perfect, my life and this novel, but I want to get along. It's everything I want. Then the surf literary
between Truth and plausible, in this case is marked by specific interests, and the pact with their readers, and the style of this derives not from a heady decision literary but quite the opposite: a necessity as tangible indefensible.
August morning, in bed in a hostel Purmamarca Caro, about twenty degrees below zero, I'm taking a liquor Ark, I say I cure all, that makes me right, I removed the cold and I put things better, and say "how cute is going to be on 22 November." That's what I mean. Living without a sincere effort to reappear in a text that you want to write.
When you travel you dream, and when you travel dreams (literally, you dream that you travel). Before and after you type. Never during.
trip we returned with bags full of potatoes of all colors, corn, peanuts ... Back in Buenos Aires I cooked for my sister's birthday a translation Vero desperate peanut soup between hallucinogenic amazing and ate away. My parents bought some plates rather large, I suppose to entertain my culinary enthusiasm. For those dishes cooked in another way, in another sense. I think that night I told myself that if I gave my love for cooking a wider place in my life, was not up to my own desires. Thus was born the desire of the restaurant closed. What a way to be desired. How I like to imagine the place and the kitchen. No progress in its realization, but just in case I tell all the world, to see if anyone has the other side of the thing. The next to mate as a line of big bang.
Maybe I'm answering a disturbing question that I installed all the breaks this year and their respective returns. Is there any sensible / legitimate to translate that feeling strange and wonderful travel in everyday urban life? Are there ways to not miss it when you return to the daily rhythm, the world of certainties and explanations? Are those thoughts into perfect phrases trip as they appear in dreams and can never be recalled accurately? Is the feeling, the feeling "something", which borders the vast poetic truth that shakes everything you can think of one itself, that exegesis fragment barracks at the corner of I that can not be accessed. What about that? Is there a way ...? What?
That is the answer. I guess there's that bad officiating strenuously translator. Let that elusive become anything else. There is no way of grasping that lesson as if it were college, you have to let it explode and shrapnel sponsor their diversity.
How do you translate ...? The beauty and death rhyming a gospel on the way from Humahuaca to Iruya. How do you say? It is not said is sung. Sing that song. Every day, between buildings and mirrors, sing that song as if we understood, as if they knew lost. Inhabit a tear with disproportion, with gallantry. Names "Pachamama" to a smoke-filled cubicle in the center of the city. Write a text. Is it sufficient? No, not enough ... what? Forward
. Let us recount the thick of dreams and interpretémoslos with a doctor. But we catch the golden fish and leave it in a bottle buried in the mountain that is dying of thirst but does not die. But not the ocean, because the goldfish is a river fish. That's a joke. I was hungry.
I have a chicken breast cut into cubes and marinated in a mixture of yogurt, garlic, coriander and others. When my sister comes I will mix with rice. Is marinating because I prepared to eat a couple of days but finally went to fuck me. My dispersion inconsistency made my style, know-how. Chicken marinated two days. Style is the particular form through the difficulties, right?
My sister had already eaten, and gone with the books. So perhaps extend your marinated chicken, maybe even rot. That is the problem of real people: even when you do not go there names out there. Yesterday
So, friends, the projection of a common future is like the time of courtship that goes on forever, the specific strain of the previous. As the anxious wait and afantasmada for meat is roasted on the grill, waiting anxiously and infant bodies tend to braid in Garches. Anxiety is bad press, but it is: the pleasure, desire, pleasure to be desired, and so on. Why is this anxiety in the waiting, which defines the style of things. The identity of anxiety heals, and how the wait is forever engraved in the style of the thing that finally reaches the table or served in bed.
The projection of future common is the courtship of friends. The realization of one of these projects is to be the sublime moment, orgasm (so-called end).
The support at the time of this project, the room together with the friend of this project because in reality, is equivalent to time be dropped from the side, close to the desired body and sweating, breathing in the semi dark and fair, fair, just begin to fall the first drops of rain on the tin roof of the neighbors. That's life.
It happened this afternoon, more early. Right, right: one drop, two drops of rain. I felt like a spoiled child of the universe and chance. Like when everything is tied into a story, and that feeling so well away from the trouble I electrified the bocho. That euphoria that there is an apparent truth this time is good, or at least own. And one descended from side to side of the ocean several times a second. Take the entire ocean blue background, and inside the bottle that the ocean was a desire written record, take a drink again, and read it to find the perfect Castilian Ríodelaplata reads the biography of the second has not finished.
That happens to me when I can write. It is logical that I go all day.
This text should end here, but I will go because I just thought of something fascinatingly stupid, namely "not everything I write in this text is true (¿?)".
One of my worst faults, I would tell D's if there is in the shape of a human resources manager, and paradise was the company that I wanted a career, "my worst fault is that I learn about myself."
Not everything in this text is the truth, for the simple reason that it is a text, trying to name characters names that are linked to people that nobody, not every one of their own, completely understood, in truth. Moreover, the character public and shameless chapters of this novel in a year, the same text can affect the "real" capitalized because it refers to the Kingdom of the facts, with his court and palaces. So there you go measuring the dialectical oscillation (there would be missing a more accurate word) of this novel and my life. For not too bad either. Does not interest me that neither is perfect, my life and this novel, but I want to get along. It's everything I want. Then the surf literary
between Truth and plausible, in this case is marked by specific interests, and the pact with their readers, and the style of this derives not from a heady decision literary but quite the opposite: a necessity as tangible indefensible.
August morning, in bed in a hostel Purmamarca Caro, about twenty degrees below zero, I'm taking a liquor Ark, I say I cure all, that makes me right, I removed the cold and I put things better, and say "how cute is going to be on 22 November." That's what I mean. Living without a sincere effort to reappear in a text that you want to write.
When you travel you dream, and when you travel dreams (literally, you dream that you travel). Before and after you type. Never during.
trip we returned with bags full of potatoes of all colors, corn, peanuts ... Back in Buenos Aires I cooked for my sister's birthday a translation Vero desperate peanut soup between hallucinogenic amazing and ate away. My parents bought some plates rather large, I suppose to entertain my culinary enthusiasm. For those dishes cooked in another way, in another sense. I think that night I told myself that if I gave my love for cooking a wider place in my life, was not up to my own desires. Thus was born the desire of the restaurant closed. What a way to be desired. How I like to imagine the place and the kitchen. No progress in its realization, but just in case I tell all the world, to see if anyone has the other side of the thing. The next to mate as a line of big bang.
Maybe I'm answering a disturbing question that I installed all the breaks this year and their respective returns. Is there any sensible / legitimate to translate that feeling strange and wonderful travel in everyday urban life? Are there ways to not miss it when you return to the daily rhythm, the world of certainties and explanations? Are those thoughts into perfect phrases trip as they appear in dreams and can never be recalled accurately? Is the feeling, the feeling "something", which borders the vast poetic truth that shakes everything you can think of one itself, that exegesis fragment barracks at the corner of I that can not be accessed. What about that? Is there a way ...? What?
That is the answer. I guess there's that bad officiating strenuously translator. Let that elusive become anything else. There is no way of grasping that lesson as if it were college, you have to let it explode and shrapnel sponsor their diversity.
How do you translate ...? The beauty and death rhyming a gospel on the way from Humahuaca to Iruya. How do you say? It is not said is sung. Sing that song. Every day, between buildings and mirrors, sing that song as if we understood, as if they knew lost. Inhabit a tear with disproportion, with gallantry. Names "Pachamama" to a smoke-filled cubicle in the center of the city. Write a text. Is it sufficient? No, not enough ... what? Forward
. Let us recount the thick of dreams and interpretémoslos with a doctor. But we catch the golden fish and leave it in a bottle buried in the mountain that is dying of thirst but does not die. But not the ocean, because the goldfish is a river fish. That's a joke. I was hungry.
I have a chicken breast cut into cubes and marinated in a mixture of yogurt, garlic, coriander and others. When my sister comes I will mix with rice. Is marinating because I prepared to eat a couple of days but finally went to fuck me. My dispersion inconsistency made my style, know-how. Chicken marinated two days. Style is the particular form through the difficulties, right?
My sister had already eaten, and gone with the books. So perhaps extend your marinated chicken, maybe even rot. That is the problem of real people: even when you do not go there names out there. Yesterday
chatting with Dani, evoked a very intense moment of my life. I was four. This is exactly why I saw it on Wikipedia. I went with my family somewhere to see Halley's Comet pass. 1986, like this year worldwide. Halley's comet passes every 74 years, and that evening I was dressed as Spiderman. The complete outfit. I remember the mask I was hot (in the social sense), and only when I put some (which, now that I think, must be inhabitants of planets above) began to shout that came from, has been has been the comet. AH !!!!!! ¡¡¡¡¡
"Cosmic Kite, what planet are you ...." 1986. That is why Victor Hugo Morales came up with this metaphor on maradona's goal against the English. Maradona write in lower case on purpose eye, but do not know what the purpose. So we're going out again world champions within about fifty years. I'll ask to be buried in the costume of Spider-Man, to be underground but at the level of events.
At that time it was football reporter. I locked myself in my room, and related parties Nuls while imagined. Two days of forty-five minutes. I could lie and say that my model reporter, my first idol, was Victor Hugo Morales, but. My model was a radio reporter who came Rosario, barely and juggling radio antenna, in Buenos Aires. I learned the distance and interference. This year
I was in Rosario, at the end of a chain of events. Augustine asked me to write some essay about soccer. Writing on demand is bad press, I guess because those who despise are not writers and are a cretin. It's great to be asked to write. What more could you ask of me? I wrote an essay on drunk players and another on Nuls . Two of my passions irrational (so) sentimental larger. We assemble and publish a book of essays about football along with several others, and went to submit it to Rosario. That night, chatting with John, one of the compilers of the book, which hours earlier had forbidden me to read the text on Nuls presentation (honoring the nickname of "rogue" on them to appoint their cluBcito), I told him this passion of mine from childhood, and it turns out he did the same thing. We could not believe. Supporters of the enemy teams in different cities, shared the solo game and its rituals. Someday we have reported a classic Rosario at the same time, although with opposite results. I could not hold the strong intention of not wanting that he had fathered a few hours ago.
Obviously during that weekend played in Buenos Aires Nuls. Our love is brewing in the distance, difficult and intricate random jokes. The funny thing is that for the first time in years, did not see the game on television or heard him on radio. I was just interpreting the results, passionately while pretending to do otherwise, by the street cries.
won.
What I remember those days now, walking around town, with Dani, Anna and Loren, kicking a ball. In silence. Making plays, talking with their feet. Across the street to kick a cross from the side of the street. The walkers came in front of strangers joining in the game. Zen in the art of street football. Zen sudaca, Argentina, Rosario. Four near-adults sharing a solitary game respectfully, with a real ball, replacing the usual imaginary ball.
We won.
And I remember the river right now. The river, which had appeared as a joke in this text, again. Never underestimate the River. The river turns and looks at the River. All there.
When I had to send a photo of my face, for a magazine, I ordered one that I'm in Rosario, watching the river flow. Something inexplicable, something that I can not be, I think it's there. Much more than a mirror.
Oliver wrote something about a great novel I read recently, something like the suffering of each person is revealed in the way of looking at the landscape, and only those who are family members can watch the river with the same expression. I moved, and made me recall looks riverfront. These silences are suddenly to look at (or) river, magical silence and absurd as those assembled in the "recitals painting" Lula.
remembered the looks of that time in Rosario, planning a barbecue would never happen, and looks again, in the Delta del Tigre. We were with Augustine on a dock, waiting for anything. It was a complicated time for him and very uncertain to me. At one point he looked at his eyes looking the River. It was like a thrilling dread, the inevitable discovery graceful. This outlook does not look anything like what I could imagine my eyes, or any other look that would ever seen. That was it, inevitably another, and just so close. Closer in distance. A friend. There goes the comet
again. What a crazy pace. Yesterday
Dani said "Sure, you knew it was a very special occasion and you dressed in your best suit."
I was four, was Spiderman, and it seemed fair to include me in the cosmic rhythm, start a joke with no expiration date.
intervened in the secret history, chaos, and ever so small, like when I dressed Romina Yan and put a stone on top of another between the immensity of a mountain in the Quebrada de Humahuca. Intervened, and understood my side Caro something, disguised herself and understood me, forever, as a quiet marriage that is love itself is celebrated with himself, a disproportion, total, perfect proportions
No sex!, scream my parents, dressed Lacan in Ezeiza airport when one of the two turns of Venezuela and the other looks for a new car, and only then (so long!) I start to exist in a story,
total lost disproportionate to the enormity of History of a Mountain, the rhythms of the universe in chaos, and come to be in the smallest, a mask of stone and another stone
that puts you over,
two together, we are stones to Always this time,
view of anyone, without seeing even
ourselves that we are two
stones.
cosmic kite
I know which planet are you.
No sex!, scream my parents, dressed Lacan in Ezeiza airport when one of the two turns of Venezuela and the other looks for a new car, and only then (so long!) I start to exist in a story,
total lost disproportionate to the enormity of History of a Mountain, the rhythms of the universe in chaos, and come to be in the smallest, a mask of stone and another stone
that puts you over,
two together, we are stones to Always this time,
view of anyone, without seeing even
ourselves that we are two
stones.
cosmic kite
I know which planet are you.
If we live, we see next year.
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