The tragedy of the epidermis 
Thus, in letters, I am a dinosaur when it comes to surfing the waves of technology. If we do, just with the computer I managed to cover the a, b, c of these issues, more reluctantly than for any other reason. I still have the old Olivetti at the bottom of the window, with rusty keys and occasional attacks of nostalgia almost makes me rescue it from misuse and cobwebs.
These days a friend arrived with his stories. After four beers gave us time to talk about where, which García Márquez, were happy and undocumented. Rafael remembered, Laura, Maria Luisa, that skinny breasts and hips incendiary skyscrapers. I remembered the college days, this time hugging the day to day, Carpe Diem Horace, just when the horizon is the exact size of seventeen. Then he spoke of Facebook. He invited me to Facebook. The type sewed well, he did at the right time and right place. One, who prefers to listen to the radio with the radio, watching TV with your TV, and use as an agenda these notebooks sold in regular stores reason why it ends with his back to cell as offering these services all in one, say, yo I am a Stegosaurier king in the digital age, I eventually gave in to the memory, easy as pie to the fact revive the decades gone by, and I said yes. The next morning
enjoyed the Face on my computer. I learned to use emotion, put photos, cousins, colleagues from the university, one that other guy, all over again confirm our friendship through the miracle of the chips. My wife could not believe what was in front. Then the pink
became more opaque. Rafael did not show up in any way Laura stepped in my searches. Maria Luisa, the skinny old, looked at the screen with thirty-two kilos more, four children and a husband, and I to these heights wrecked in the ocean of uncertainty and sadness. Is that all the past was better.
One morning I received the greeting of that degenerate that I lost a girlfriend, and another that ended up being a common crook. From Facebook, so earnestly present in the everyday life of today, the truth is I would rather stay well away, because a dinosaur is a dinosaur, and the rest is bullshit. It was a tragedy. I thought in such beautiful people, in so many acquaintances whose faces had almost forgotten by the grace of time and its turns. I do that with my heart in your hand every day waiting for me to cope with an atmosphere disappeared, gone for decades, full of freshness on all four sides, I found the horror got on my computer. Of course. People who would not stand the sight of women who left me for another, doomed I sawed some place, lovely mermaids now transformed into its opposite, every time out like rabbits, do not know where the hell, inviting me, calling me, rejoicing because after so long, oh, Roger, thanks to this wonder to finally come back to you. I were mad.
Fortunately I am a dinosaur, that's more than proven. I prefer the old radio with my cellphone of the year of the pear. And Facebook. Oh, and without the blessed Facebook.
Grazing 
I have a shirt that gets it done. All wars end up tanning on one, and my blue shirt supports bad, soles tropical rain with no apparent end, covering me like that.
A shirt can be a companion while you kick aging roads and dragons face on the streets. So there shirts shirts, outrageous and shameless, or stubbornly heroic, like mine, as the blue at this point is a second skin, a grenade-proof armor and shells of every variety.
I bought at a discount of October, far, and there was blue as the Atlantic waiting on the shelf in that store. True, my old shirt makes the last turn, I discover in this, I am reminded that we are litter carried by the winds, but also that there is persistence, commitment, the forge of what is going to be. Anyone
puts and already out on the street, walking with his girlfriend, then throws the dirty laundry basket, as he has carried around a dress. And sometimes you reach that, but this dress ends up being the everyday life, drowning and leaving the lungs and shattered soul. Most opt \u200b\u200bfor getting into a straitjacket.
Any shirt that has a defined horizon respects, be a shirt from start to finish and show with you side by side. Mine, faded as it is bathed in a thousand sweating, winks at me every time he goes with me and live the adventure of liarme to blows with the circumstances. Knows of fighting, spears, how to bite the dust without a second thought many more times than I wish. So goes with decency and I know that at last, when the unbuttoned because I lost or won and then I go to the showers, I just squints and looks mean nothing, mate, this tiny balls the day that over.
shirts are no longer like this. I can see them on the road, in cafes and corridors, as drab procession of cotton, linen, patchwork covering bodies are only an ornament. My shirt, fortunately, is different: it knows its place in this life, and is anything but a beautiful piece, fresh or flashy. It's all, anything but that.
Antonio and the pretty girls 
When I met him and asked his name, he replied, smiling: Antonio José Rojas, "Anthony Joseph Red", to serve. Car care against the Jazz Café in Puerto Ordaz, always saved, he says, the best humor for friends. When he saw me sitting at the cup and the book I usually browse while watching life go by, Antonio opened a break from his work and approaches. Usually asks you invite for a drink. I do it with pleasure.
Over the years it has become my friend. Not have had all of you for life, certain sons of bitches and he managed to make fairly short horizon. It was almost an alcoholic, went head to the black hole may be the night in a city that if you're not careful you crushed, and lived and nearly died in his law of the fittest, every man for himself, that of kicking eggs before crushing it first.
I have met few like Antonio, especially when speaking of courage, integrity, authenticity and capacity to fall to blows with the world, lead to lose, finish in the past, and then see the light, stay afloat, raising almost. The other day I said, just sit in front of me and started flipping through the book he had, and after accepting the coffee black, loaded, full of adrenaline and emotions, say, the other day I snapped in the face to me proud that someone like him consider me a friend.
Antonio José Rojas, ie "Anthony Joseph Network, to serve," he smiled. Then he spoke of their memories, their longings, their people far away, this little town where more miserable soul per square inch than anywhere else in the world. Cheerful, happy, he admits that this coffee and riding on racing cars raleas all, the most beautiful women ever will return the greeting. "Not half of one," he says sarcastically.
My good friend is one of the smartest individuals I've come to know. Mixture of neurons and balls, has started a lot of jagged cuts to life. "If I say pretty," says point blank, "says real pretty." The looks, still with his eyes, and when sometimes the beauty abused because some lady stole all the beauty for himself, let brew a sigh, a sort of exhalation between regret, nostalgia and desire.
I like their friendship because it unites us, among other things, the desire to build what we want with guts, with nails, although he always found them much more difficult. Using addition and subtraction, of all their fights the result was victory. So expect the response, the day will arrive soon and be sure that oath, that the beautiful girl who looks so long you look, pause for a moment, he returned the greeting and give you the heart. "We want to celebrate," he says in very low voice, "as usual at this table and with a whiskey, my friend, this time with a glass of whiskey."
Grammar and coconut 
Some of my students come to class with the idea that the grammar does not fit nothing. Feel in the depths of their souls to deal with it is wasted time. In addition, they confess that it is difficult, boring, and that at a stroke if they had the power to do without them shake the pulse disappear any scheme of studies, indeed, the erased from the face of the Earth. The grammatical Coco loose and making mischief. As far as I'm concerned, I usually throw them the story that if it was not his fault I would see from black to express moods to orders, complaints or frasecilla pure and simple love. That that grammar is unimportant and walk out there managing to complicate the existence of any sounds at least quite rushed. The problem, I think, is that it takes time to discern connections between it and life itself. Suppose, like most, that grammar is divorced from what surrounds us is like accepting without rhyme or reason that human activities remain rigid, immobile, with no interaction, driven into watertight compartments. Of course. As much as I do not imagine the effort to newspapers, books, a recipe or a chatter in a corner while the presence alive and well in this sovereign "dryness" which, for want of a better name, were called grammar. What is the tool, hammer or saw, which we have to conceive intellectually the world?, what else could fall back if no language to say and tell?. No wonder Octavio Paz wisely published a book entitled "The Monkey Grammarian." In other words, we have a lot of primates, but in the end no one takes what bailao, which means that if our furry cousins \u200b\u200bis, therefore, just a series of clicks language, perfectly structured and unique, we remain well in check . You see which way the shots. Let me clarify: most to be linked with the world or not, grammar is almost the same world, accepting less complicated matter once we realize that without it we are, that "without it", as boleros, it would not be beyond our poor concretions, in our humble biped sheared condition. In short, we may well want to give to the language, we may hold, watch as a conversation of the most flavorful, most human. Yes, this grammar seems the object of a bolero, the songs of rapture that cure or sink forever. Ends fortune saved the bridge between possible universes, some obscure, underground and filled with cobwebs, some bright Apollonian, redeemed. The boundaries between her and that they have named "real life", again, less pretty loaded when mist behind him, a rather dense chiaroscuro worthy of a great painting Rembrandt. While many make the attempt to disappear, while a cluster seeks ways to send hope to hell if possible, personally I have it for safekeeping. Nothing but just in case.
She 
When I got off the plane I thought the time had stopped. Hardly felt the hours between Caracas and Amsterdam, which was a further joy: Apart from the plain and simple fact that implied already in my destiny, my energies exceeded expectations. As he descended the stairs and began to imagine, or rather, I started plotting my plan perfect, rationale that had led me to the land of tulips.
The weather was the best, with a touch cold all my life I've longed for since these hot flashes, typical spring afternoon. I kept the jacket a few days earlier he had bought in a store Upata, and added a scarf motif Yogi Bear Raúl's cousin gave me when he learned of my trip. I took a taxi. As I understand I did: I wanted to go to the home of Eric, the Ukrainian friends not seen since college days, who lived in this country thanks to a grant for doctoral studies and then at a formal daring that led him to choose for a professorship at the university dividends and threw very interesting to stay forever in the land of your dreams.
After installation, take a shower and eating as God intended, I took another taxi. The Red Light District, a small space that had long had caught my attention was now at hand. The driver left me in the heart of the site tailored for an adrenaline rush. That neighborhood meant nothing less than the ability to hear, see, breathe and feel the erotic in the street, in the light of day, Tuesday, Friday or Sunday, the transaction of pheromones, the fluid network of sex in the swing states bodies, members and lust. I paid, I got, then thought he had come to my island of happiness. It was forbidden territory. I was face to face with my dream.
In such situations, is a delight to wander. The pleasure of doing nothing, just looking, is to have it all. I went to a bar that caught my attention because of its facade chiaroscuro in which a great woman on her back, legs spread, served as the front door. I ordered whiskey and watched. Swarmed around me pairs of lovers, fairies in bulk, elegant whores, half-dressed girls.
continued the ride. A woman with long hair, especially beige and leering almost haunted me. Was a queen in the street, a kind of goddess incarnate someone ordinary. Through his clothing loomed large breasts, waist is outlined, you attacked her hips. It was passed by, but had left a mark, I felt his presence as a pain in the nose. "These are women who are worth it," I muttered. I continued my way by chance.
supplies products include aphrodisiac, sex shops of every variety and for both sexes nude bars attracted me the windows decorated with girls offering their charms. Women who, posing as God brought the world, wrote the price in a pink carton. None of tricks, no traps, no vile deception: here I am, you are there you, and in the middle figure of the approach, orgasm promised.
A brunette shines. I walked, talked, was Barquisimeto. I turned into the world to see what has always been said, that have no competition here, that in terms of femininity and charms like no other here. I checked ten thousand miles of this place. María Alejandra Zambrano, as they called that girl was the perfect equation.
Thus, in letters, I am a dinosaur when it comes to surfing the waves of technology. If we do, just with the computer I managed to cover the a, b, c of these issues, more reluctantly than for any other reason. I still have the old Olivetti at the bottom of the window, with rusty keys and occasional attacks of nostalgia almost makes me rescue it from misuse and cobwebs. 
