Train Wording Birthday Invitation

In aphorism key toad

Theory and practice of recycling: a poem cójase failed in 2002, and a melody failed in 2000, and fúndanse on a new track recorded exclusively inward-looking methods in 2011. The result is a curious revival operation nostalgia, heightened by the timing and distance.

The catalog of my obsession is not only finite. It's tiny.

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THE FROG OF RUBENS (2002)

the blonde you were the clouds that are still running
before my phone its our your their faces. What the heck.
Julio Cortázar, Blow-


you remember eating on the terrace
(in the winter of Antwerp)
a restaurant called L'opera buffa
(Arm Duivelstraat 6 -2000
Antwerpen tel. 03/226 64 13 Fax. 03/232 79 13
... not that I remember, it gave me - remember? -
a lighter yellow with advertising note that
of course, even on)
near a theater in one of its honorary rosettes
reads, under a sad-faced bust, Lopez de Vega
(word, until he took a photo), and not too
far from the birthplace of Rubens
beside which, as implausible as it seems,
hear a frog croaking
I do not know if in Flemish, French, Belgian or simply know-
and we slept together that night, look how things
huge beds in a Columbus hotel
had an indoor pool, although we do not dare
underwear down
(who would have thought of flying to Belgium
with bikini in the bag, in winter),
and I know that week found that
Bruges has nothing to do with warts, brooms and magic spells but rather
bridges - Bruggen, if I recall correctly, and I know
that we heard the toad
incredible as it may seem, walking
Rotterdam
the next morning (this time in Dutch, of course)
and I know we laugh at issue-because His grace is, yes-
go and I know that near the center of the city someone was filming in camcorder
-I saw, far out-
and I know you and I were in
box and I know that then, someday, someone called, for example, Van der Broeck Stew

give the play on tape, and you and I
(Blow-up unforeseen) thus appear
as if by magic
-like evil witch's spell-
playing hopscotch in the streets of a city
interview just under the November sun.

Sé que fue así, y sé que, entonces,
eso basta.

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Rubens Central Park Ducks

A finales del curso pasado, y en parte porque releí con mis alumnos de 4º la novela de Salinger, escribí y grabé una canción que tenía dos títulos posibles ("Los patos de Central Park" y "Holden Kafka") y un subtítulo, "Canción de ducha", alusivo a las circunstancias -literales- en que la imaginé.



Hoy, al fin, he retocado un verso que nunca me gustó, y además (gracias a mis nuevos juguetes) he grabado una pista completa de batería, estrenando así one of my biggest egocentric delusions, provisionally known as "autarky" (I have already made their way into the attic), and that is to record songs in principle Marienbad outside and that's just me, or even the computer ( went so far as the percussion), play. To my knowledge, this ring (several times) an electric guitar, an acoustic and English, a bass, a full battery, a cajón, a shaker ... and three minutes of uninterrupted shower, yes.

I do not, I confess, if they do (play) well or just regular. The fact is that, as we said yesterday , I had a great time. And tomorrow it is Saturday ...

Urination Increases During Period

Despite its usual pejorative, I always liked the word dilettante. On the other hand, ignored until a minute that comes from the Italian dilettante, namely, that "delights" so the other day that if I worried about the absence of an abstract noun which derive (obviously does not exist " diletancia "and the" amateurism "is in retrospect) and, therefore, the absence of an essence which proceeded in both quality of the adjective in question, today I'm more relaxed, rounded to DRAE dilettante mean, simply, the amateur (in some art or field of knowledge) for pure and simple delight.

is a matter of nuances, but what nuances: the fan is forgiven, or should be forgiven all those blunders, shortcomings or deficiencies that never tolerate in his main antagonist: the professional. Rounds the obvious if we remember that professional , to continue with the semes, who exercises a profession or occupation paid (even with the demanding Apostille "with outstanding capacity and application") and not using a synonym bastard (and On the contrary, I have always hated), by mere hobby (hobby or entertainment practiced in leisure time ").

On the other hand, the central idea of \u200b\u200bpleasure (second and final hue) exempts the dilettante of any higher-order commitment to the field of their interest or hobby. The free, so to speak, Morrocotudo abstractions such as beauty, metaphysics, justice, social critique, the fate ... Purpose that in any case are often harass his other great antagonist, the Artist tremendous, but our dear amateur may well sneak a smile of indifference or even more hours in high disdain.

And of course, remain much calmer.

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Dilettante (last)

Amazingly, until this afternoon I had entered a bar, cafeteria, winch or tavern since 2010. Today, however, I did it in three. And there he was, waiting, the last blow of the season: the happy anti-snuff law.

I do not care to argue, even reason. Others have done well, or will do better or worse, these days. Which would be better as well: o I am much mistaken, or prohibition swallow us with the same apathy with which we are swallowing so much lately. I save list.

No, I do not want to reason. Because, basically, is a matter of mood. O discouragement to be precise. A kind of painful nostalgia, a longing suddenly all that will never happen again around a coffee table or a bar. All that. And I will not settle for having lived, with long delight, from the far nineties until last week. I refuse to understand (to think) that I can not do this again, no one with whom I once shared the incomparable pleasure of rushing glasses and ashtrays flooding (my parents, Paolo, Chus, Rebe ...) may be repeated. Plus: I can not re-share those moments with myself sometimes critical, sometimes miraculous, sometimes simply empty other purpose or another that was not putting the semicolon to life that thing that, in case anyone has forgotten, none of us decided to voluntarily implement, and sometimes cries out in parentheses. All that I feel (not think, feel), especially (with a period of infantile rage, all right, but that is me) it's not fair, but very depressing.

To top: I hate smoking outdoors, with few exceptions. I hate even in summer. I hate the smoke swirling together long runs without me, I hate that cigarettes are consumed by the stupid emergency brought wind and rain. And if the accounts out for me, I only have three or four places to take refuge from future storms.

Indeed. Today, no bars smelled of snuff, yes. One smelled of oil, one of sweat, all (without exception) to boredom.

Oh, and the record, in case anyone is wondering. I have my wishes, yes. But the desire to quit.