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Camila and I

five years ago, when he turned two, I wanted to express the wonder of your company. I took paper and pencil and tried not to betray his feelings, ie not ignore the fact some of scratching the heart to draw it into words.
is seven now and my desire to go through a similar path: look in the mirror and find it, look back and realize what has been my life with her, from her because of her. The first glimpse is a paradox. The magnificent moment (That's life, a moment, a fleeting) that started giving me lessons, when provided, for such is the logic we were taught, was made because the case was reversed. That moment stretched like rubber, comes to today expands fabulous.
I am more tolerant, not because it is kinder but more complex for a reason, because I can see it, I taught myself in her, and her in me, and understand what so many times I heard what sounded to the ear as empty words in the mouths of liars, that is likely recognize in others, no, not rhetoric or demagoguery, and they can also perceive you. And seven years old, wants a cake, a piñata, wants to be, Dad tells me point blank I want to be with you. It's weird, but boy was almost convinced that children were a stage of life coming or not, cross or not. It's strange but more than that, have them blow equivalent to understand a new mechanism, a new language, a new dress, a maze of realities that grabs you by the neck until you got there, mate, until the horizon danced your certainties. Then you learn or you sink, fly like the child in the background may not be left, or you just. Tomas lessons gives you that beardless or shipwrecked, and do not want to know what you're missing. For quite
gave me the give and take involving the game of questions and answers. Working at a university, I intend to impregnate my seminars, for example, the typical cozy aroma of curiosity. Ask, answer, ask again. Ask and ask, that is. Never, ever, ever swept the floor as now, no one could swear without fear, you know the questions acribillarte fair in endless doubt, with the harsh response that debunks what you had suggested as an explanation made a second. A child of that age takes you by the horns, you wallow in pleasure, is the perfect philosopher. I've tried to learn too, to think like her, I wanted to throw me headfirst into the world of children, more genuine, full of enigmas, transparency, the best fictional world, literary, imaginative, which qualifies ultimate purpose of my job.
I have the impression that as we grow, for nothing, the conventions end up killing the promise that is every child. It is what we are fighting heavily, almost knowing that such a fight with his teeth have little guarantee of success, I think that certain things can be moved around, much of what I mean, yes, stay in my small. It is my North, my escape now, give a slap to every day with the intent to prevent it, embraced adulthood that comes slowly, come out completely with it.
Meanwhile, I will not be the same. Because if I failed in my intention, she, who is seven years, beat a long time. Somehow leads me by the hand, fits my eye to your eyes, I can focus a little in his own way, discover a second skin under things. He has won, has been a teacher of his father. Could desfreír an egg.

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Schumann and vallenato

A love like few others, one of our geographies walked away but not the music that flatters you kidding here. One who came to the edge of madness by Clara, Clara Wieck of your dreams. One that drew to the last vein of this quarry we call life: Schumann, Robert Schumann embraced the hurricane that encloses a vallenato, bolero, a sauce or a guaracha.
not met, never got to come face to face, to be conducted in completely different times. The composer never suspected that a century later, another tormented in the art of living would follow him without knowing that one day he left us his name forever: Daniel Santos, all song and smoking it. How can imagine, however. How I can see them engaged in a unique conversation in a cañandonga like few others, in a moment worthy of both: Schumann and Santos, Santos and Schumann, sitting in a bar, Dawn, women and cheering, horns, charrascas, violins, accordions, brass by putting a jukebox, listening to boleros, boleros inventing, tasting boleros and health, beer after beer.

While sitting on the couch and I read at lunchtime, I heard his piano concerto. There are concentrated, crushing, like a pain in the nose, love, hope, passion, surrender at all costs, beyond any determinism, the joy of those who seek to live daily lives most spectacular . There's your sweet Clara Wieck, yes, who took as the flower cluster music that came out of her womb. Noto in the melody an intensity matched only by those who hear this side of the ocean, vallenato, of course, of course bolero, ranchera, of course ... and I guess that is the madness of love (love, after all, is to some extent crazy, right?) and the fiery flaming bridge that makes it possible to communicate them. In this sense I think that Schumann and best doers (those musicians who leave the skin on the trumpet, a drum making you dance to the soul) have loved parecidamente ultimately, have expressed their art under structures, or shades (which I know of technical buzzwords, or what the hell I'm interested) more or less connected.
say music is one, and not without reason this sentence. Far more so when a magician of the scores is incapable of agreeing to perfection with a whole litter also magical, but the Caribbean. I think of Schumann at the piano giving the pump in "Farewell compay gato" or accompanying a great time to Ponceña Sonora in the "second thought", I think of Schumann sweated up the spirit with a download key in the "Jala Jala" Schumann think of dawn, indignant, smelling of Venezuelan rum and Cohiba after a whole night with "Moonlight In Vermont" with Ray Barreto, Johnny Pacheco, Perez Prado, Binomio Gold, with Pastor Smith ... Yes, Schumann and weapon of his infinite talent to beat some drums. Schumann tropical midday sun on a street in San Felix, fajándose very hard with any blessed vallenato.

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These days, full of adrenaline and vertigo, time is worth more than anything. People rush to him and enslaves its name to the point, mind you size choice, to sell his soul to the devil if it offered more years. However, there are fools who bother to avoid it as many times as opportunities are to do so. The truth is that the time we get into the soul like a worm in the apple, and sometimes rots and sometimes regenerates. The first is when we intend to live beyond their scope, their guts, their inescapable tentacles, the latter appears in the happy instances of what for want of a better qualify as a second chance: people losing and losing, Life gave him a new chance.

Looking back sometimes shown rotten and full of cobwebs, sometimes unrecognizable, saturated with the chiaroscuro only visible in the paintings of Rembrandt. There Abreva-time experience, drive motor, sediment, wisdom-glare indispensable for the existence copper physiognomy. And that also reigns in history, absolute mother of all present. Looking forward, then what you dream for instance, that at some point we could imagine (utopias, including those that exist and those that exist), fit in the fragile petals of her terrible countdown. Time, relentless, as the poet says in his song, no doubt, his arms covered with the safety of this and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. No wonder the Romans that Saturn, king of Latium, was endowed with the magical knowledge of what was and what could be.
This species almost extinct, such People who enjoy a calm that seems beyond the grave, those living with millimeter calculation of things to do, say with justice that is there is no choice: while it is necessary to give it time. And more or less like they threw me in the face that hot afternoon after an attack of value: "Give me time, give me time," said the girl just to hear what the light emanating from the rancid stench of the declarations of love. And that patch it asked for, that there was no way I gave because I was young, he was a beardless and blablabla, gave reason (it is true that time is money) to the hackneyed phrase that has since fully understood.
"there in the background is death, "wrote Julio Cortázar, if I remember correctly, referring to a watch. Perhaps this is why the day defoliate sand grain by grain, one after another until the last, which buries us forever. Is clear: the man who measured that invention called time has always had the last word, and it also has had the final hour, which is accompanied by a chime. As we tend full length, from east to west or vice versa, giving the impression of the longest straight line that every life might suspect, and certainly contrasts with that adopted astonishing circularity in certain villages where the return, the return, eternal return is a law, dam, also of the inevitability that without forgiveness overwhelms us in the present.
There is a time for everything. "Everything has its time," reads the biblical phrase. What truth so powerful, clear example of that transit is vital juxtaposed series of events, make love or do lunch, do we make peace or war ... Yo, I'm a downright stubborn, try finding Cronos in a variety of different occasions with the simple intention to continue poking, knowing, feeling. Here is nothing better than when overhead, the lunch, when a beautiful girl, very beautiful, speaks of him in the TV news.
A traveling companion to be seen hugging my wrist. A partner for as long as it fits in the palm of the hand (say their lines they hide their secrets). If we leave, ultimately, we will be dead forever.

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I like the cafes because they often see life pass. I have some that have penetrated completely: there I witnessed a thousand stories, I have confessed and and also confident, and let me tell you that in the absence of a large table to work, that you only find in your study of life, those of coffees are the best place to take over your books, the wad of notes, write papers little by little as you arranging the ideas and saying look, this is my mouth.

now write in coffee Dindurra. To my left steaming cup, glass of water, and in the mouth a Comans, decent copy when you have the cigars by hand. Julio, one of the waiters, young, something big, diligent. Back and forth between the tables and if you happen to give encouragement, it takes the issue seriously and talks as if he had years to know you. He lives alone, has a daughter that is still small with his mother away, because you know, when I took her left with her. To say I can see the sadness in his mask, the grin of nostalgia that seeps from within.

It's almost Christmas. I wonder what made these days, where it will go on Christmas Eve, and answers that will be in the room rent, swarming, imagining how the tiny receives, develops and then plays with the doll you are considering purchasing. A package, brother, if you see her fucking. One like no, no swanky gifts, no, I will send you the doll, buddy, wrist.

I said and noticed a stream of joy streaming down the sides. That enough, you just assume your kid is going to be happy. Has suffered, has bitten the dust, you know what is to be alone or sad, more dates when the majority gives to lessen hypocrisy or minus hysteria to artificially inflates daily hugs, kisses, because the occasion demands and give you give.

knowing I have time. To take a seat and deploy my war material comes with the usual: coffee and water. So I remain silent waiting open mouth. I know you want to babble, talk a bit about its history, present and future, the past that brought him to this city. Talks between coming and going, between orders of pizza and soft drinks, all raleas characters among higher beings or sons of bitches can not imagine what might be going on the waiter brings them yogurt and cookie front. Talks between ropes, at times, polite, cautious, dignified, as many would like patiquines you have to bump every day without exception.

Almost enough for your gift, I loose range. A little more, two or three days with tips and such, and the shipment will arrive just for New Year's Eve. How is this girl going to laugh, he says. For a moment he would say, here it is, bastard, something to the wrist because I want to share in those smiles, but I did, ie I did not dare. I promised him a gift, an ornament for the hair or something. And it was.