Sadlier Oxford Vocabulary Review Unit 4-6 Level E

I have returned!

Come take me again and feel loved
back and take me
when the memory of the body
awake and an old desire runs through the blood
when lips and skin remember
hands and feel they still play.
Come and take me again at night,
when lips and skin remember.
Cavafy.

ignition of engines, I decided to come back, I said, Paris en arrière.

were lit and began to ride the clouds ermine color, dead color. Back to where ever: Colombia, the mountains, the land of palm trees.

I closed my eyes and fall asleep on the background of Ocean Sea on the swift flying meteor indigo and white that I was carrying.

When I awoke, the sea blue than the sky, gave up their empire to the bays, coves and peninsulas known since her distant and primary school. Morrosquillo and Maracaibo, Baru and La Guajira: reviewing each accident was coasting, as I ran into the thick jungle of my ancestors.

and appeared in the distance a house and again and again, I could see with delight from the narrowness of the window. Houses were poor peasants, whose ruddy cheeks he remembers my grandfather, stubborn and willful as those chattering like two are not on the face of the world. What all stacks of construction will be the old Santa Fe and San Jerónimo what this side of the Cauca? Where the drinking and the playful little stream down the hill and the mansion of the corridors of the Gate of Almagra?, I wondered. And I mingled in the soul tearful memories, perfect anastomosis of my being with the wide landscape, where a river and yellow bravo, enraged, undívago towered by steep ravines between the green on a deep, sad evening.

Just a little more and appeared, for random witch, thousands of silvery plastic. Greenhouses were the flowers that surround the capital, which we had and was now left intact. Thus, burning the heart, blinded the clean brightness of reason and stunned eyes in a paroxysm of emotion, began the descent.

long she was already in Bogotá, the dirty, ugly, the thief, imprisoned again, dam of untold fears and watching the rain falling stingy not falling, no other desire than that of wet my suitcases, as if to say with evil: you're new here and you're mine.

That was, indeed. The city absorbed absorbed me as I was going to taxi, the avenues and byways, bridges and signals. Inside, the cold wind coming in through my nose and penetrated into the depths my lungs out, clear little water droplets tumble to dizzying pace over the glass of the body forward, backward, right and left. "flashing of fireflies impression they leave behind mechuzos dying, light rain in the night is waking up, is awakening from his dream to star riser" , stereo humming and humming and rain conspired against me. I arrived

!, I returned!, Said the strength of the pasts that simple, perfect out of my vocal apparatus with the excitement that filled me the soul, as if all is lost in a dark yesterday and there was no more than this to my bare feet once in my room, clung with equal force to the cold ground.

So I turned off the light, opened the window, looked up into the sky without stars and, slowly, went down to review the mountains, the lights in the distance, the gaps in my street, the roofs, the neighbor's elevated tank, which is when the water goes, that will not be for months, at the window of the girl in front of unknown name and buttocks drained, poor, poor thing, that of his brother, vicious, and addicted to porn: Abura, Abur, sleeping boy, and the intern wandering, hands in his jacket, dragging his feet on the asphalt drunken watery, just rained the dusk: bohemian go home the morning will be cold. It was, they were all plunged into the void and silence ensued, which looks like death itself, and myself, brought from the depths of the shadows by a thousand ghosts.

Here it was again, here I am. And I cried I am, remember me?, Do you remember?, Do you remember? But there was no response. Silence and more silence until I fell asleep.

Does Toys R Us Have Online Layaway

behind Pilgrim's Pilgrim.

Pictured: Pilgrim's clerks hands. "That's all I feel an embarrassment;
fire the soul, the look a river suddenly
hopefully suspicious point;
digress now, suddenly wisely. "
Camoens.

of a Pilgrim's Booklets are one year in the blogosphere. By accident, the June 3, 2008, were born in an Internet cafe in the number 4-25 perhaps the street from the factory in Cartagena de Indias, but grew up in San Miguel del Principe in Bogotá.

To celebrate, to sing to myself like Whitman, I decided to take some old entries and phrases irlas collection, editing. I am sure that my regular readers do not read, then, this space, modest and peaceful childhood, and had just visitors. Yara was who taught me the art and tricks and a good place now until I have in the ranking.

But before I begin, I must admit that this space has meant for me to find wonderful people along the way, friends coming from all directions: from the Andean mountains of Antioquia, of which I tried to retrieve , the thug Colombian capital of the southern pampas of the Río de la Plata yellow water in Argentina as a whole, the cosmopolitan Madrid, mystical land of Al-Andalus, the most diverse corners of the peninsula, the territoires de glace of Voltaire, which are Canada, BRAVIA Mexico's bravest eagles and even deserts of Peru of the Incas, the Paraguay Guarani crying in their sorrows, of southern Chile and Neruda sing metal, the Cuba Cuban and proud of nyctalops and rickety platforms where no longer reaches the train or spend more García Lorca, in the Dominican Republic lewd mulattos and smiling, and many other places ...

Everyone will say the first day, as in the first post: this is my blog - mon petit Recoin, La Dimora di alcuni dei pensieri mei - I write from a land of palm trees and high winds, laughter and disappointment.

Welcome anonymous sailor. Curious welcome everyone. Welcome readers unemployed. Welcome friends and enemies eager to learn, reading, words. Welcome to my kingdom. Let me run to you the veil of my being ...

Who is behind the Pilgrim Pilgrim?

For starters, I was born with some palm trees near the Caribbean Sea, from oblivion. One afternoon, amid the suns and unbearable heat, I made my way to the nubile vagina of my mother, challenging, open your eyes and make them ready to close, was dull. A month later I was evicted. But the life and ill will were stronger. Survived. I grew up. Here and there. Without many things but with many dreams and terrible longing to be free, to be a bird that flies, to be a butterfly or apple tree sighed Neruda and ghost that slips through the cracks, which re-entered through the window, which is strained by rosette and a slit which passes over the fourth of memory disguised as a souvenir.

lived locked and medical care are redoubled. It was then I learned to sniff out books, read them without even knowing.

One day, on the great atlas of my father, riding my miniature Volkswagen (The best Christmas present I ever had), I began to tour the East and Europe, passing the Bosphorus on a jump, down to the Peloponnese and then cheating, bordering the Adriatic Sea, crossed the Po, was a turn on castles and dragging Lucerne I headed toward the Pyrenees.

I think it was around this time that I memorized the rivers of Spain and the cities where he spent the Guadalquivir, the Tagus, Douro, Ebro, Sanlúcar, Andujar, Sevilla, Córdoba.

then got a boat for my birthday, I undertook the expedition, and Danube in, I lost in the mysterious Dacia. In the distance was Transylvania, hidden and creepy.

Cheating, as always, out of the mess: in the Black Forest and had my Wolskwagen brought down from heaven and sat on the boat up to the doors of the Rhine, he did disappear again. Rolling, rolling, finishing my fantasies in the Netherlands and went to dinner.

Such

Mafalda, I hated the soup. Creamed vegetables, onions, fresh meat, chicken, bananas, none pleased me.

When it rained out the window and count the drops. I think it was the rain who taught me what it is melancholy.

the evening, very early, said my prayers and fell asleep to the sound of the Fathers. "My guardian angel, my sweet company" ... and my restless eyes dimmed.

Should my early life seem, (It Might as well) to dream, says Poe. But I went through my childhood with great speed. Very early, as always, I left early from the mother's lap, the warmth of home. I attended a school in the care of the clergy of St. ...

As my old atlas, forgotten, consumed in moisture and mold yo volaba con Verne, con García Márquez, con Flaubert, con Unamuno. Dostoievski me enseñó la mezquindad del corazón y Camus la gratuidad del mundo; con Nietzsche vi su locura y con Kierkegaard su brevedad. Platón me enseñó a amar la poesía y Aristóteles a odiar a Dios. Con el Aquinate descubrí el latín de los antiguos y con Malebranche el francés de Molière. Agustín me hizo recuperar la fe ardiente de la niñez y Marx sus inconsistencias. Así pasé mis mejores años: leyendo. Leía sin prudencia, sin prevenciones. A decir verdad, nunca he arado la tierra ni buscado nidos (es de Sartre. Cito de memoria), nunca hice un herbario ni tiré piedras a los pájaros. Pero, los Books were my birds and my nest, my herbarium, and my area, the library was the world locked in a rack. Platonic nature of knowledge was its purpose, it seemed that the idea was more real than the thing. C'est dans les livres that j'ai rencontre l'univers .

Then time passed, I finished my journey on the old Santa Fe, smog cold mountain wind. I loved the sordid career tenth of the capital's lineage from the hands of English girl, was banished to a city and people whose faces are in a hurry. And I was captivated by the heart in the high trees of its mountains, its prostitutes and their fags. So, sometimes I miss the old Candelaria where a story is always the English elegance and Chapinero Teusaquillo noisy night owl. I think in the far Fontibón with their puddles, in the Suba of narrow streets, inner-city and ruddy cheeks Infantino. Review the affluent north, south forgotten, their faces sad, almost hopeless. City of all, no man's land, crying her loneliness, her splendid sunny mornings, their afternoons in the rain blurs the old windows, the tingling of his ironmonger ...

I think that my personal situation, to have a mind so restless, and then be able to establish contacts from I was a kid with people and foreign ways, I always kept a little distance, I say humbly tastes, words and habits of the underclass. "Sometimes I feel more in this exile-as distinct and distant, something of a foreordained. Perhaps a new Joan of Arc, called for a great mission. I also hear voices. As the poet says, "voices that say, here come your troubles. Broken voices: your days are past now. They are ghosts, crowds of drunken ghosts. "

My mind is restless, wanting to know: a burning on, sometimes I feel thirsty all the verses, eager to know everything.

When ignorant and amorphous mass exalt nationalism prefers showing the undeniable benefits of our land and our people, I prefer to cultivate a healthy self-criticism. I'm actually one unpatriotic. Perhaps it is that if we want to improve, as I said David Sanchez Juliao, we must be ruthless with ourselves, recognize that we have ended up being mediocre and we are very far away and far below the great examples of nobility, sacrifice and courage of many those who have preceded us in this history misspelled, country in ruins.

sweet and I hate complacency and narcissistic masturbator patriotism. Nationalism, as Camilo José Cela, I cured traveling.

I laugh at the literary obscenity, enjoy it, and yet I believe in respect, compassion and solidarity. I'm kind of Marx and Nietzsche together. In a mystic Eckhart, in a Céline aesthetic, in tastes, an unorthodox relapse. As humble as Moses, as egotistical as De Gaulle. So shit and so none of the above and all of them.

For people of my race I am full of outrageous sins. When my ancestors, hungry for gold, settled near the sea, believed condemned to die there forever. I think pigs that gave light to the lewd conqueror, who learned to live lost in the marshes, was born poor and shabby offspring of my father. Later generations lost in spectral time my mother was born without caste or lineage of its predecessors, all Spaniards. So time passed and the hours were tripping over the days and ages until I came along, the son of this spurious history. Of mine, I feel at times like this the most seasoned in the glory and the honor of men, which has brought me quite a few setbacks that deserve to be remembered but not counted as having a pain is it comforting, as well said Eça de Queiroz (references, the stay should you. Seek in some corner viscous my occiput, if memory, perhaps, are staying there).

In a world that tends to uniformity, something in me insists on making a difference. It hurts my men, my brothers. It hurts the world and its misery. It hurts, for example, it hurts immensely Africa ...

Life has changed me, eager and quick. One day, without realizing it, discover that I'm really old and still not get anywhere. That's what this life sentence imposed on me: a distressing and harrowing sense of being and feeling always on the road. Road and path and the horizon remains the same, untouched in front of my eyes as the first day. There is perhaps another way out, but loving the journey and enjoy the frenzy of the route. Perhaps in the end, when he falls exhausted and lifeless for my trip, larger hands and I will pick me rest forever. Meanwhile, Live bet as Pascal.

life gradually been showing me, talking about their troubles, their love lost, broken, have come down. After the fights I have had to fight so far, I have ended up giving up the faith in love and most prefer the comfort of the covert conquests. At this stage of the game, I clearly see it concluded that the human and, as Borges said, "is immortal trivial. "

However I have no other way to keep dreaming and aspiring to bigger to keep feeling that I'm alive, because, dreams make me wake up, stop and move the inertia of its own accord. "Boredom is something like dust. We come and go without seeing it, breathing it, eating, drinking. However, just stop for a few moments to get it covers the face, body, hands, "he wrote in his diary on cured de campagne. That's why I, as well as Bernanos concluded: "We must move [I move!] Without ceasing."

Thanks, thanks, grazie, merci, thank you.

Broken Capillaries In The Lips

Genealogy of a bitch. Carmen Burgos

"So do not raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,

against child girl's name written on his pillow,

or against boy who dresses as a bride and n the darkness of the wardrobe,

or against casinos solitary drinking water in disgust prostitution

or against men green eyed who love men and burn their lips silence. "

F. García Lorca.

Álvaro
"Oh, how life has changed! Now we're half drunk and under the effect of beer, I is releasing the tongue, I'll tell you a story:

do things, Don Alvaro, which I have ever heard since we received from the college and I left the rough and mannish Antioquia my mountains to which I have never returned ...

Poor as I am, in the big city I've had to do everything. Goodbye

warm wind, warm nights, goodbye peaceful life of Santa Fe, Medellin drizzle and goodbye of wet, Silvia and herbs.

Note that some time has, for example, worked as a student counselor in the counseling department of a secondary school in any area of the Bogotá, and chronic thug that lazy (and concentrated on small works go Echo far from his world) never read you, puny.

should lead to final year students of a brainstorming workshop on "wonderful gift" of sexuality. I became aware of the needs and developing an outline that I think should have revised up the Archbishop, perhaps because a high content of such "dangerousness" should pass through the lens of a thousand sensors (Rightly lamented Fernando González Ochoa, our little old Envigado Otraparte of the Harvey, in his Journey on Foot "poor country, a country of poverty, [...] without direction and without conscience yet! Poor country in which they are joint owners the curate, the bachelor and the Devil! ". This last thought, but fortunately Don Alvaro thoughts as Zola read or count the drops of sweat falling from his brow as Dostoevsky's Raskolnikov.)

Finally, after all adjustments (cutting it, add this, do not say this, this is not necessary, this content is not relevant for adolescents, etc.), I do my workshop, that, long, it was a wonderful day for reflection and personal growth for myself and for the kids.

And I better not tell him, Don Alvaro, better write, and then come and read, tolle et lege, as he told the devil that of Hippo (Hippo was not Tagaste but that was not Tagaste but the woman who fired in Milan, but Milan was not of bitches that they say I am not aware, was a saint):

was Thursday or Friday of October in the afternoon and students in the ease of a teenager, opened its intimacy and celebrated jubilantly what they thought was an unusual outburst of sincerity. There was laughter, hugs and cheesy tears. Let there

Don Alvaro. Best I keep counting out loud:

-Lorenzo, the crazy one in the group (he even told her friends Lola and sang, "... she is walking alone in Barcelona looking mess." That I am thinking, but do not tell the of yore), the star dancer in the dance group of the school, the pearcing over the left eyebrow, pale skin and brown hair with a pair of lace locks, provided stiff under the effect of the gel, told all what we already knew: that he was gay. Like when Uribe, the doctor achondroplastic wand today dawned with a "fork in the soul" (thank goodness not in the ass), we say, finally, he wants to be reelected. People think that one is Birdbrain, right?

However, the safety of the Lola and the naturalness of the speech caused something few expected: Pipe, a lad of seventeen, athletic, beard and a dozen pimples on the face, also wanted to tell her secret compared to the astonishment of his colleagues and, especially, girls.

What liberals have made us boys! Right, Don Alvaro? You should feel at home in these times. And open parentheses for the reader to understand because it is usually silly and forgetful: Don Alvaro is a Summa Cum Laude fag Medellin, in my Letters of Ripol series was dying (not AIDS, not Malpensa), I think. Well, at least he is still alive for me and Martincito, the son of Silvia will not say who it is because I do not want to remove this murky swamp of my memory.

But back where we were: the beer table, where I'm drunk and I are loosing the language and Don Alvaro, drunk, blink slowly, slowly and sleeping.

But this is literature, play with time and better return back:

Time passed (in the past, because I'm playing with him, as I said) and ended giving up the job (oh man, how does that to what? to the school counselor! Concentrate! And no, I forgot the tilde, is that in Antioquia voseamos and make a antepenultimate one paroxytone because we feel the Castilian as we feel as SAR).

not returned in the afternoon of training and personal growth (the retreats became a weekend at the home of nuns).

not tell the reasons for my resignation, although, as I have mentioned four paragraphs above, the discerning reader (now I call and after telling silly because this is my story and make it what I please ) may colleagues easily. The boys graduated and when I left, I lost all contact with them.

time she passed and one night I met Pipe (last month, for that matter).

was so changed, Álvaro. If you see: it does not have mud on his face and his cheeks look adorned with a heavy beard, shave carefully following whimsical. Her hair was not going badly neglected and had to be some twenty or twenty years. Just as you don Álvaro (is laughing. It seems that just woke up). Terraced

Pasteur was one of the sites most popular gay cruising and traditional Colombian capital.

- Good evening monsieur!, cried in terrible 'fran-glish', with enthusiasm, Pipe, and to prove to his Chicano I was learning another language.

I turned and without giving him coldly replied: good.

- I Pipe, doctor! Do not you remember me? (Do not know why the hell I say now 'doctor'. It will be to insult me, because in Colombia doctor tells any sonofabitch, eg, Dr. Wand).

- Boy!, Said, but how changed you are. What are you doing?

"I hope someone answered.

I soon understand, Don Alvaro, that 'someone' had become a common word on his lips. 'Someone' appointed the most diverse types of people. 'Someone' could be Luis, Matthew, Philip, Jorge, Fernando, Eduardo, Esteban, Jairo or Ricardo. Pipe accompanied them, gave them a moment of pleasure, gave himself a moment of pleasure and returned late to the floor he had rented in Santa Isabel, where he lived alone. He liked what he did, he took precautions and enjoyed it very much. He had learned a thousand ways to love and was lucky to think that while the work involved for many great efforts and toil, for it was something so pleasant and spring.

Among his 'one', Eduardo was his favorite. I saw that day, just before saying goodbye to Pipe, when he was not to well but the coffee grounds, then invited him to take one. He was young and somewhat handsome, even seems to Harvey, Don Alvaro. He

clothing executive, about age 31, married and had a baby two years (this Pipe told me yesterday when I saw him and decided to write his story then at the little bar of Jet Quevedo, a place to marijuana and drifters, I'm telling you to Don Alvaro).

could be seen once a week. Eduardo seemed to want. I was looking for, we did gifts and treated him with a tenderness that touched and let the drama of his heart and his life divided facade. But Pipe was (in past tense because everything that has to do with the heart must be combined at this time) unable to love. Eduardo was not interested but the strength of his torso, glaucous tone of his eyes, reddish hair, the hieratic style of his gestures, the fine accent with which he spoke and the faint smell of his breath nicotine .

From the night I met him in passing through Terrace Pasteur, Pipe was slowly put their lives here or there, I've recreated in my mind a thousand ways, seeks to have this done, an explanation .

As I understand it, Don Alvaro, it all started in the same neighborhood houses where he spent his childhood. But better give me a paper, I will write again. Do not interrupt me more:

Under the clear sky of January 1 Wicked, which showed clearly the capital's afternoon sun, cirrus lost after wandering far and cotton intrusive, gentle trade winds while the leaves were fluttering near walnut trees in the dirty workshop amid the vulgarity of everyday life in the slums, among the cries of hawkers and the roughness of the artisans, Pipe discovered love, yes, in the most unorthodox and cuddly as possible.

Now that Caesar is gone and time goes by and he does not return, Pipe remember is blurred while the voice and the timbre of her voice suggests to me the profound nostalgia that makes you think of your first powder ...

continue.

Looking For Name In Tea

or why the breasts.

On the street of Flores, of San Antonio, by Carmen, the Trade, with the wind, the rhythm of the wind, in the wind, not wind, was Carmen Burgos moving the buttocks, skirt, long hair, wavy and black.

Yesterday I was told that he had died and since then a porous melancholy has set me on the left side of the soul to play with my demons and party with my memories.

"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle qui nul ne peut apprivoiser" was heard in the distance. It was Carmen, Verdi's, which by happy chance sounded as the voice on the handset than the other Carmen said, mine had gone to braid ermine clouds in the sky of the archangels.

Then, as he dropped my body on the chair, overwhelmed with shock, I went with the mind to look for the dead ...

Street is not wide enough for you, the sun hits the pavement you face lights , palms, trembling in the breeze, bend your way and you chimneys with a bunch of Turkish crackers.

You

disheveled, Carmencita come back to primping your hair braided by a tortoiseshell comb between the shaggy strands, if you drop the flower that you wear on your ear, you crouch down in a stately gesture, Carmencita, to pick, if one crosses your path known, preparing to greet you with a sincere gesture and a funny grin on your face, if my grandfather passes, you look into his eyes, Carmencita, flirtatious smile, and you're shaking the range that your late husband brought you the Fuerteventura port before returning to America.

Carmencita is noon and I'm back to being a kid, and I turned to run down the hallway clear and cool your home and came back to wear shorts and camisole straps with blue and came back to look like that time, the first, your nakedness intense.

Pum! Rang the door that opened my naive and indiscreet curiosity.

There was

eponymous Carmen Burgos Colombine most worthy of the Andalusian-stripped of all his clothes to birder ass, in the splendor of the voluptuousness of the flesh, with wet thighs and a cologne bottle in the hands .

"Oh boy, tené care! Do not you see I'm wearing? Go to your yard to play, "he said, he asked, his voice calm and ordered.

I think pregnant

hearing naturally and brash ...

Carmen Burgos did not bother to cover his shamelessness: flabby tits pink nipples, thighs pale sun never bathed, hairy sex, love song to the forest that borders the swamp in his hometown of San Jerónimo, the hollow round your belly button in the middle of a generous belly and neck blast of fresh water falling from her black hair and limpid streams that form in a clear liquid thread, under the swift tumble gravity boost toward his navel.

The kid I was and am no more, he stood petrified at the oak door dark arabesques had opened, revealing. Now, large and perverted, I'm a ghost again entered through the window, which slips through a crack in the wall rose and dressed flies the fourth recall.

What do you see? A small body of nine years before the immensity of a fifty-seven corpazo: what remains, in the form of mental spectrum, of a fat hormone stripped to the springs of a boy and a consequent fury unleashed voyeuristic.

bang, bang! Opened the doors, towels and ran fly women.

Because of a fat naked eye spied a steadily since the ladies bathroom, the ladies' locker room, the clubhouse of the street dancers Artigas. That eye was also a body soon learned to undress in front of a mirror, the siesta, in the spirit drunk with memories to start their first childish liturgical worship of the god Priapus. And at night, when the light was extinguished, a fire lit pudendal frighten. Then rubbed with innocence upright peak of the mountain of the goddess Venus hollow fabric to blow up the fiery volcano of passion. So, while a greenish lava river to the north was thrown to his abdomen and rushed south to the thighs, a viscous moisture soaked pajamas and tiny droplets of salty sweat shone on his forehead. Dime

Carmencita, why I wanted so much? Why in your garden you let me invent castles untouchable? Why do you preferred your goddaughter, the noble Maria del Pilar? But most of all tell me what you served your tits, you never gave birth?

Yes, tell me, wind, tell me, silence, tell me why are boobs? Why this obsession of mine with them? It must be that, somewhere, I keep a kind of nostalgia and native mammal, a child feel that sucks the juices from her nubile mother wren world.

I see a large bra, Carmencita, and feeling wanted to touch it, I remember. Speaking of boobs, Carmencita, Hayles with pink nipples, black or decidedly gloomy. Hayles long, round, oval, large or small. Hayles complacent and spontaneous, and dengue fever and fussy. Hayles Hayles tasteless and salty. I say this because of all varieties has been testing me, to play, the Creator.

But before I forget, Carmencita, I'll ask something else and I hope you remember. Because what I am, I have not forgotten my grandfather's visits to your house in which he offered communion wine Syria and me biscuits ...

Carmencita Now that the old Froilan and you are dead, without blushing answer me: do you want?

No, do not laugh Aycardi widow Carmen Burgos, Carmencita of the soul, my memories, I'm serious. Anyway, I must confess that, devoured by impatience, I do not remember having met a week pending the consummation of love.

So tell me, babe, how did you manage to put up with the win? I am sure you never bestowed the least license it was as if you want to delete, without knowing it, the reputation of the namesake of yours, English and very liberal and she had as frivolous lover Gómez de la Serna, the salt shakers greguerías read before you die, when he was away and had no time to remember. Tell me what I default my generation, I can not in my immediate rush, keep me chaste, like you, like my grandfather, the old faithful and monogamous in my childhood. It was

Carmen Burgos widow very young, before I was born. No children, no spouse, there stood the old house she inherited from her husband and a plot by the river that ran a fool named Roger with severe defects in speech and hearing and, to my knowledge, family fourth degree of consanguinity of her husband. There I was going to play or swim in a well during hot days.

The last time I saw her was at fourteen, going to school at Villa Deborah. Going to fix an issue in some goddaughter to one of the charge of normal at this time. Then I went away and covered his memory as forgetfulness, worry, scorn of the time, the inertia of life.

Today I remember you, I dream of you, Carmencita, I write this for eternal memory of the first woman I saw (when seeing is not just the trivial appearance of someone in the field of perception but, as Sartre would say, permanent leakage of things to a term that captures a certain distance from me and I escaped while deployed around him his own distance), the first woman I saw naked, you.

The photo shows the promotional poster of the recommended work 'Fat' by Neil La Bute, currently based at the Teatro Nacional (Calle 95 # 47-15 Barrio La Castellana, Bogotá DC Colombia). Directed by and starring Morgan Mario Hernandez and Fabian Mendoza Constanza. Http://www.teatronacional.com.co/

Meralgia Paresthetica Yoga Treatment

of possible prizes and other demons. Faith Pilgrim

-Buenos

Male Genital Medical Examination

Oh, how sweet, how serene

the Nazarene walked by the empty field
less full of vegetables that thorny
Calvary

The procession moved
with deep quiet suffering,
How sad the sun set!
How people crying!
How grieved Jesus ...! And he


inhumane executioner that was
sweet Jesus with whip in hand, face fierce
what had!
what heart as villain!

scene softened a tiger!
was going to drop the lamb, and this black monster
fierce
would
across the face with a whip of steel ... But a mischievous

villager, a precocious child

-hearted and healthy
and soul as big and as pure as heaven
Castilian, generous little boy


that looking at her, silent,
felt the tragic scene,
that left him a heart full of deep resentment
painful

sublimed suddenly broke
people,
took a round pebble, looked at him the executioner's

face with eyes very deep hatred,

he stood before the sculpture,
teeth clenched,
aseguróse feet,
wisely measured height, arm stretched
through, the bullet whizzed

terrible, sounded
indefinable hit, and the infamous executioner

fell horrible bouncing the board
stubborn.

the faithful
rowdy by the terrible event, surrounded the child
angry, asking
admired:
- Why, why did you do that? ...

And he answered, aggressive,
voice of those who come
of a righteous soul to the living:
- "Why yes, because you're stuck
without any reason!".

Today, that men go,
seeing Jesus suffer, I am interrogating
:
Are we men of today
those children yesterday?

The Pedrada (fragment). José María Gabriel y Galán. Oh

popayancito Popayán. While I hear the distant singing of the seminarians from the nearby church, traveling my mind and my heart to you.

Macarena Hand in hand, my friend from another time, I again have lozenges in your streets paved, back up to the balcony and again I hear the noise of the crowd in celebration. Friday

pain. Rattle sounds and the four cardinal points of the cathedral above the mob. There, far away, is the Dolorosa, little one, gallant. Accompanies San Juan, cheeks lush and beardless face fag. Below, sweaty Costalero worth their sins while swaying the Quidam, the Cristo de San Agustín and the priests who sing long elegies.

That day I left my doubts and hesitations and turned to be Catholic. It was more a Protestant Pilgrim! No sir! Catholic and atheist as God commands and pupil of the Jesuits to make matters worse.

Catholicism for me, more than a religion is an aesthetic sense. Already said by me García Lorca: 'offices have attended different religions. And I came out cheering the wondrous, beautiful, unparalleled English Catholicism. To say nothing of the Protestant religion. I have no head (in my head Latino) how people can be Protestants. Is suppressed all that is human and comforting and beautiful, in a word " (letter to his family, written from New York on July 14, 1929). In fact, I have found on American soil the first evangelical sense.

Instead, I like the eyes, mournful eyes, Dew, Pilar, Guadalupe, Chiquinquira, de Covadonga, Lujan, Montserrat. I like the pipe organ sound, which is interpreted a gentle tune of Mozart. The Stabat Mater, the Pange Lingua, the Dies Irae, how to love my ears!

Play Handel's Messiah Passover with its thousand hosannas and see the baroque altarpieces of the Bogotá iglesinas old that it does think of God.

Gozo

greatly with the songs of Teresa of Avila, Juan de la Cruz, Luis de León, I place the Renaissance Castilian accents Basques of the Exercises Spiritual by Loyola and I relish the human figure's sensual and passionate Alexander VI.

So what national pride I felt that time in the balcony on the street, in the Popayán of my memories, seeing this show, all lined up and mediocrity, pious and prayerful. Understand this

readers, damages and aware: This is the most Catholic country in the world, multiplied rosaries, bandages removed by the bushel and even exported.

Ah, Colombia, Columbian, columbite. Crazy, fucking, killing, Tartuffe, prayer leader. For that actually work. There you go, as Dolorosa: tame, loose tumbling left and right, straining for a bit, Stepping out, down the hill toward the abyss. As the San Juan youth of my reminiscences go, queer, dressed in green mountain of your three mountain ranges. Down the hill, sleeping in the dream of your religion soporific, behind your old colonial remnants, in the hands of a political class that constantly sucks the breast lactiferous huge profits it provides the most shameless product sinecures.

You're hopeless, stupid. Therefore, in this Holy Week, I condemn from the cross of existence in which I'm stuck. Father not forgive her she knows what she does, but is stubborn, the very stubborn. I tell you today will be with me in hell. It is finished. Here is my fucking mother.

Ite missa est. Amen.

Photo 1 of Diego Hoyos www.flickr.com : a child lights the candles of the passage of the angel of the Resurrection in Popayan, Colombia. In photo 2, the same site, a religious group welcomes the passage of the Lord of the donkey on Palm Sunday.

Water Systems For Cabins

Memories of Antioquia and thank you very much.

"What was then Pilgrim?, Xavi said in the crisp accent that remained intact Antioquia despite his two-month stay in Mexico.

had struck the phone and minutes before, I was lost in the cables of the computer, watching to see what was what, disconnecting, I was left without Internet access. Sure, three days earlier, had already called the company to ask for reconnection, but as this is Colombia, here everything is delayed because many people.

Finally, Monday morning came the long awaited service. "You andás

as lost. Are you in love or what?, Xavi continued.

- How so, I asked intrigued.

- Can not you see I have sent a text without editing, Birdbrain? That file was reached that eh, Ave Maria! Know

European readers and non-Colombian Ave Maria is the most famous and paisa interjection used to denote surprise, but also anger, admiration, horror, confusion, or to instill courage. Also know that country is not only the shorter form of the word peasant, but the adjective of the inhabitants of the departments of Antioquia, Caldas, Risaralda and Quindio.

What why? Because that is said in Colombia, which certainly is a country of idiots. The

countries live in the mountains. Lost lived for centuries, eating beans with sausages, singing ballads, using plywood and giving birth a burjaca priests and politicians. As were so

Basque country that respects his family name or Zulu, or Atehortúa or Aristizábal, or Aranzazu, or Upegui, and Giraldo, or London, or Echeverri, or Uribe (crossed because this race was born perverse ancondroplásico who serves as president here in the Land of Palms and must be, right now, venus yanta to eat, partying into the country, seven blocks from where I write this.) Know also

the stranger that paisa Vose, like Argentina or Uruguay. That I remember, in Antioquia only told of it to God and his mother (God's) and boy are the carriers rezandero these! Because every town of Antioch has a good church ... and good putiadero with cheap whores, beautiful and colorful. Go

Sonson, for example, which is where I do not remember but in any case very close to where Christ lost his poncho (so do not think vd. Going to go, unless Thomas, with s for spelling scruple , Don Blog Pérez, I read and lives in Medellín. clarify: not in Extremadura, but on the edge of a hundred mountains north of that people), there-in Sonson, where the ladies think Seville in the fog and cold and they throw you a powder that you have given evidence that before you marry, you can vd. verify what I said in the previous paragraph.

Well, all these countries, linguistically speaking, as I said are voseantes seseantes and yeístas plus. Oh, and when you speak quietly listened only to pronounce a s singing and cooing, apicoalveolar, such as that of northern Spain and as no say in any other part of the vast America, except here in the land of Thomas Carrasquilla, Porfirio Barba Jacob, Epifanio Mejía and, of course, my dear Hector Abad Faciolince and Fernando Vallejo. And if you do not know, I recommend that you read.

In Medellin a day, just to enjoy this phonetic murmur which I speak, as she took a ride on the metro, got off at Park Station Berrio, which is opposite the church of Candelaria, and although vd. not believe it, I line up for confession. I knelt.

... Acúsome father I have sinned. And what can I invent a few things to Monsignor sluts old man who was listening to lecture me at length and, as he spoke softly, whisper me your eses countries, apicoalveolares me so much love.

This in my posting by Rebecca whispered from a librarian who was in elementary school where I studied. It was a monumental fat that smelled of cigarette and as he was born in Antioch, in Carolina del Principe is a small town that is near another village called Angostura, which in turn is the one called Santa Rosa de Osos, which is between mountains (as all of Colombia), this consonant happy whispered as he spoke in his ear and his arms locked me fat, while the index would point the site was the task he had left Don Miguel, Professor of English Language, the All we ever sent to consult these summaries of grammar an author whose name I forget, as well as I face is forgetting the poor Rebbe, he died last year before I could go to his funeral because, as I am Pilgrim, was away.

And all these, why I stood talking about the country, its priests, whores and their Rebbe? Ah, it must be by Xavi is an eminent man of this lineage and to redeem myself why and then tell that to summarize, I will say briefly: I was a victim of computer these days in the most vile.

First, I discovered that Raskolnikov, my cat, pulled a cable out of nowhere and left me without the Internet, then confusing the ass with the seasons, I clicked on "Do not save" when I should have done on 'yes' and I lost all my third material Canberra Chronicle. The deceased was entitled "A Elagabulus to Carmenza" and complained of the long conversation held on a Saturday night in the town of San Roque (Antioquia, shit, Colombia), an impotent, in love with an impossible love and a nymphomaniac with about to commit suicide, convinced of the absurdity of living existence. The good Lord allowed him to miss this gem, being freed from a safe excommunication for disrespect to the Almighty and the national flag. Released from here's the challenge for this brief description, any person in the blogosphere of their own brains rewrite what the damn Word obliterated.

By the way, I apologize to all the blogs, friends, best-read and comment regularly for not having done these days. All I have written anything lately, many, thank you very much.

And to see that not forget the memory mention at random: Carmen from Spain (and not Merimee), Carmen (from Spain too. This is not like that so Andalusian), Luly, Aida, Africa, Dreamer, Quime and Marylou (as the ladies go first), Germanic, John, the Infallible, Gus and Kowalsky (because Argentina and Argentines like to go first), Alijodos, Joselop, Alatriste, Pedro, Diego and Choping (because they live in Spain and occasionally cross the Atlantic to visit me no more), Ray Bueno, Eduardo Galván and Colombian Gabriel Umaña Suárez, Tomaz (this time with z, overcome the scruples), Yara, DAN-T, Eros Wounded Gurzaf, Jkrincon and Xavi papelesburdos.blogspot.com blog, my editor and who would control everything I write before they publish for review and correction.
I am certain that I forget some, perhaps because I have seen less. In others, I know that I read without commenting. In all, I am very grateful to make this area important.

And before the end of pouting excited, I leave you with my most cordial greetings and I promise I'll be going through their, your (to honor my English friends) spaces.

"All I ask of the future, whatever, I just read" Sartre.

Pictured (from www.antioquiadigital.com ): A view from the main square of Santa Fe de Antioquia, a town between two mountain ranges, west of Medellin.

Cheat Pokemon Fire Red On Gpsphone

of what this space has to be. Dear

Taken from the book Ghosts Among Colombian writer Fernando Vallejo. Text quoted in the documentary "The supreme distress."

Ritetemp 6036 Installation

Africa or the day I was black. Canberra Chronicles

Canberra II Chronicles.

To read the first article (Bad ass fucked and Loco, a suburb chat) click here .

drum sounds That is not strange, that's their vocation, their calling. Instead, you hear a cheap synthesizer and replace the legendary wooden box lined with leather and veal, yes that sounds like a scarecrow. As it was an eyesore on the day I danced my first " Champeta . "

this noun is the term given to a dance Afro extraction of relatively recent history and rhythms of West Indian-like reggaeton , which receives the same name as the black laborers gave the machete used in the past for the most varied functions. Champeta is culturally close to the rhythms of Palenque de San Basilio, a village of runaway slaves in the lowlands of the Colombian Caribbean. In a word, is the beat champeta African evolved in its most torrid expression.

champeta resembles the rhythm and percussion that accompanied the unfortunate crew of the English galleons Africa come from distant when, with uncertain destiny, were chained to each other, due to more onerous slavery.

The champeta is like the modern version of a slave song devoid of moral and full of passion sweating, nectar bodies function, melancholy of a distant country that is trying to get through the temporary enjoyment. However, it is also a cry against forgetting underground where it has remained a people and a race contested by white-mestizo majority ruling this poor little country of shit and owns the means of production and planning.

I do not totally black, Tito Puentes felt like one day, the party called me (I believe, I like to think that my grandfather brought a gene Betancourt dark of the Canary Islands where banished to this, the land of palm trees. Moreover, even without black ancestors, I take comfort in knowing that the human species comes from Africa.)

was during a vacation in a neighborhood fair in the fiery Cartagena de Indias, where the Castilian clear of the capital gives way to a typical Caribbean accent and where a distant cousin was my guide, then also a pimp .

Saturday night, summer weather, the hottest-and paints dominguera that made me look abroad. Not yet reached adulthood, but had enjoyed certain pleasures.

With sharp mischief I was taken to the site of the dance: a clearing in the area called San Fernando.

What they said so, I 'threw' a few pieces of champeta. It does not matter (or remember) the trivial in their lyrics, what mattered was the timing of the movements and philosophy of life that I conveyed. It was like remembering the nearby rolling waves, like a ritual dance Iemanjá that escalated into a quasi-copula of bodies rub together and ignite passions.

At sixteen, at the height of hormones and half fun, my sex is tuned without difficulty to the mulatto figure and voluptuous Mary Elizabeth, who had offered willingly as my partner at the gentle suggestion of my cousin Armando. There

wanted to have the black gene, and for a moment, I got it. The will of Mary Isabel beat me.

seconded by darkness, standing, settled the matter. Pants down, with his shirt on, a little unbuttoned, buried my phallus in the flesh, trembling with emotion, damp heat and fluids.

percussion could be heard in the distance, encompassed the movement of the hips, front-back, blood boiling, forward-backward, the paroxysm of feeling, forward-backward and so on until I hit bottom (or heaven?). A dairy rain fell, not fertility, on dusky skin, plush and compliant.

But two seconds after the summit, before the sudden drop of the plateau of pleasure that always comes after love, I was surprised by Armando, who watched the Pilatuña laughing.

The scare was for me like a punch in consciousness. I felt so guilty after having danced the threshold of the sex that made me lose evaporating innocence and beauty of virginity priests who taught me from my school. My superego

made me blush, he began to remind me that it is unwise to do things a Creole own servitude, much less delivered to Vitanda passions. I felt guilty, full of scruples of a novel.

I felt a kind of need to confess and did not know with whom. Armando laughed and made fun of my way to do it, my orgasmic grimace (the neutral "it" attached to the verb do is not Puritanism but that the reader thinks it wants, what he wants ... and give you win) . My cousin

frightened by the possible consequences of my action, I painted the wedding and told me that local women were not as light as the capitals and that if yielded to the overtures of strangers was to catch them. I listened devotedly without replicating any of its tenets.

However, my moral conflict was going in another direction. The pace was still ringing in the distance. Tired

I done wrong, he thought I made unclean thing, who will absolve me of this mistake that eats my soul and makes me feel one of the neighborhood, not so much for giving me a randy female yoke, as for the fascination that caused me the member of the ghetto feel subservient champeta exalts as a dance of authentic art ...

What remedy would be for me?, musing. Do we go where Beethoven and tell him as the prodigal, "Father I have sinned against heaven and against you"? Or should I kneel before Handel and implore mercy? ...

Maybe sing the praises of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana are penitent or marching to the beat of Ravel's bolero would be the most effective way to save my aesthetic taste and ease my pain?

But what the hell!, I concluded. If I had black genes and that night he had discovered (or invented) ... what the hell!

was sure the temptation again, as always comes back. The events tend to recur. Therefore, because the temptation is avoided and at this point I can not grant these licenses, I do not plan an immediate return to the Caribbean, much less one of its modest neighborhoods where some of my genes to betray and reveal the world in those extramural where I felt bound, searing passion slave, not free, as any unfortunate victim of the old treat that both hurt and embarrass me.

Today, what I regret is having given way, albeit in brief thought to the Iberian conquistador who lives in me and pursued me. Today I salute the lands south of the Sahara, playing the red earth, smiling to see the whitest teeth and shout, dear Africa! Today I do not allow any whip that subjugates wild Kafir, latino, ladino, moving hips, sweat pleasure, fucking in the dark moon and dance champeta.

Your comments are important. Do not forget to say hello ...

In the photo: a detail of the Holy Trinity Square in the neighborhood Gethsemane. Cartagena de Indias, Colombia. taken from www.flickr.com

Good Names For Villas

I. Crazy ass fucked and Evil: A Conversation in the slums. Ripol

begin by thanking those who followed Ripol's Letters. For those bored with them, a thousand apologies. Maybe one day come back.

Now, try to respond to a challenge launched by a blogger friend, Xavier, who follows me carefully and anonymously. As I tried to walk in the Bogotá previous entries below, I urged Xavi (the confidence is because I know him) to make these routes from below: perhaps more crude, less puritanical (it seemed like the above).

Here's my response: Chronicles thugs. I do not know if it's a series (perhaps a series of one entry?). We'll see where it takes me by the mind and heart in these days of sadness and loneliness (things go wrong).

For starters, let's say I have started to sift through the recesses of memory. I stopped at one of its corners and places and relived moments of my childhood.

I've noticed that sometimes there are things that require time to be understood.
One of these was a famous fight between two women I saw in the marketplace for eight years.

was a sunny Saturday stingy. My mother did, as usual, the coffee's too early to my father went to work and, while I washed, prepared their bags for shopping. There was still the era of 'shopping' and the family market was in a very spontaneous, almost folk.

As always, before reaching the plaza, we passed the grandparents' house, which was very close.

As the two old prayed the rosary still morning, we had to wait out the last of the mysteries and my grandmother became aware of bags and taffeta ribbons, a product of the rubble of an old curtain, to tie the bags and start driving twenty minutes.

slowly go out on four. But soon, on arrival, we realized that, at the beach bar the entry of the square, a crowd listened attentively to the dispute aired two vendors. The atmosphere, the hubbub of the fair, I loved it.

arrived at the scene, my grandfather took my hand, hers was squelched, always remember, a thousand and one spots, and, while women were entertained in the middle onions, broccoli and parsley, we stayed to monitor the emotional trouble.

Word was, word coming and jargon without coding, even in my head, I was overwhelmed with expressions that only I could play great and perverted.

- Mal fucked!, Shouting Jacinta, broaching it with derisive laughter, three seconds before this funny rhyme: "Before you told me one-eyed, and was behind the door."

- What's wrong, crazy ass? Concha replied, also known as "The mouth and 'duck'.

There were, therefore, in view of everyone, "Mal fuck" and "crazy ass", Jacinta and María del Carmen Concepción, fighting over trifles in the midst of the most offensive contumely.

never knew the real reason for the war. He knew my grandfather, then by virtue of the exercise of gossip as Latino, but took the secret to the grave, the damned.

significant compensation

What could I, then, to give such statements? Rang in my ears and maybe I tore a mischievous grin. Nothing more.

Once extended the proportions of my body, my mind expanded its size, the evil genius took my psyche and I was never innocent. My grandparents died, he stopped the morning rosary, the rosary was lost, went out of faith, they closed the market square, demolished the snack bar, posing an avenue for the place and went with his racket women.

Now I can quote with confidence Concha Jacinta and laugh with the language so brilliantly created for that stupid war.

I think only after Freud could understand those fishwives. According to psychoanalysis, from the intricacies of memory and the subconscious forever remain vivid memories of things unmet or unresolved unknowns, ie lacerations only memory that was not clear in the past as the old saying about the dead coming back because they left a case without solve them do not rest without light facts that wander in the darkroom of memory. Mal

1. 
   Fucked: not just an adjective and an adverb, the term denotes a provision of behavior. This sentence expresses the effects on behavior from a bad sex. It is the existential feeling of dissatisfaction that arises when a dunk was abusive, fast, or ungracious. 'Bad fucked' is the moral status of someone whose vagina and ass are not well used as a means of pleasure. Mal
   fucked emphasizes the fact that intercourse is not enough to grow in dignity and self-esteem through sex. This expression defines the primacy of technology over the size, but not devalues that as a woman's belly is filled with a feast to the eye and can be completed sexual eye to see a Polish sausage stuck to the groin of a male. Poor fuck is a reminder of the sadness, unhappiness and bitterness that govern the lives of many women whose men are the culean wrong.


2. 
   crazy ass: ass word usually refers to the hole now fleshy that sealed the digestive tract through which fecal matter is expelled, now the entire set of the two buttocks or sometimes by extension, even preaches female reproductive systems. Surrounded by soft body hair at puberty and in adulthood rough. This is for me the meaning of significant noise 'ass. " Moreover, the folly is a mental state of irrationality that affects attitudes and away from the normal fee. In other words, a crazy ass is an ass irrational, extroverted, and hungry looking forward to a phallus that quiets itching dermis that piece of rough and hairy. Also, a crazy ass is an ass who has experienced good culeadas (or otherwise) and which for that reason, has developed a complex of anxiety expressed either as addiction or co-dependent relationship with the cock. Like fucking bad, the crazy ass profess one belief: the dissatisfaction. Seventeen years

insist, seventeen years later I came to discover that what was said Shell Jacinta and to each other at full market place was this: You're unhappy and you should be ashamed of it. Together they proclaimed

and disguised in a robe of taunt and fight. Both Jacinta and Concha are reminded each other that the bitterness and unhappiness they cause friction, were merely the result of dissatisfaction both lived. Insurance I am that this dissatisfaction was not just sexual. I am sure that there was also frustrated dreams of grandiosity, need for recognition, desire to be different and frustration can not be. Seventeen years later, I understand the point of being able to scream, "Eureka! "I think

Jacinta and Concha, to tell each other crazy ass fucked and Mal were saying in solidarity," sister, friend, weeping and lamenting our fate! Let us remember these dirges vulgar, rude, the sad reality of our pathetic lives have condemned us to be servants, market women, the poor, sent, crazy ass, and fucking bad. "

If you liked the text, and leave your comments, visit the blog Xavi:
http://papelesburdos.blogspot.com/

Pictured: a child, it could have been me in the marketplace Paloquemao in Bogotá, Colombia. taken from www.flickr.com

Welcome Letterwedding

letters V. Letters of Ripol

Explanation of the series: click here .
First delivery: click here .
Second edition: click here .
third installment: click here.

In exile, on September 29 a year I'd rather not remember. Don Alvaro Caro

:

Today I was finally able to read your message. In the mountains did not have access to the Internet.

The last days I used to know the mystic Al-Andalus. You know very well the attraction I feel for the South.

heartfelt thanks for your answer and the good spirit that you took my words.

I received a letter from Silvia with a photo of your little page. I found a cute boy. So I think he has the eyes of his mother.

I have not liked the tone of your letter, be whipped, talks about his little value, its few merits and mediocrity. How I wish for a moment to celebrate, thanks to what life has given him and feel proud of their accomplishments. I hope that only a crisis of postpartum depression.

I held myself and I sing, and every atom of my body belongs to those who love you, Walt Whitman wrote. This time rehearse singing to it, sing its praise, in name of love.

confess that I missed in those days. I wonder when I will see her again. I do not know if she will do the same, but, I miss her so much. It must be that I still ...

... Yes, as Joan of Ibarbourou sang-that our American-Juana, blood and bone, with the eye that looks and encouragement ... and with this love that I drink the feeling, from the little laugh until cry from the wound witch until your kiss ...

Because if I loved her, if you still love her. What I loved, what I love? Certainly not a cowardly and timid girl. Not one that felt old and incapable of everything. No! I loved a young girl frank smile, my company was looking for because he admired the wisdom and intelligence dazzled him that together we wanted.

was a girl who was eager to science and truth. I forget his watchful eye, his eyes fixed on my lips waiting to be coveted words came out promptly. I'm not afraid to say it was our best companion at the time those books.

I liked the feel dependent, eager to learn things, always well kept in dress, often elegantly dressed, careful with her hair, which lad playing learning-not-to become lord.

Then came the fights. Yours, mine with her own with her, ours, those of the two, three. Began to fight, get mad, you get mad you, it came and went ... always returned, as if he needed to drink from my secret source.

Then it was like a protected species for me, took care of you and your herbs that decided never to try, support, kept him back if necessary. How often selflessly, the preferred deferring myself and my business to make room for hers, as she willingly and humbly accept the services offered and lavished in heart.

Half of our youth shared the exit vi my bathroom - remember? I've told you a long time ha-wrapped in a towel. Then for the first time, I wanted to consciously, deliberately and freely, but not much more fear and guilt. My flesh became shaky in front of her.

In the midst of my confusion, I opted for the truth, which would allow me to continue looking straight ahead. I told him everything. But to my surprise, that did not cause more wonder. Since then, she herself wanted to go further. And I loved

. For the first time and as anyone so far, I loved.

However, as dreams do not last but seconds, the problems were soon better not remember. Everything collapsed. Today I know that between the two, something more than friendship has no future. This was, we, decided. The deeply respect that, but sometimes it does not seem.

may still want. I want it!, Indeed. How to deny the obvious. Well

Freud said that love is humiliated. Because, believe me I feel in this limbo is humiliating and makes me suffer a lot. I wonder if the next night, if you deserve a kiss from his lips, only one of these piles has given those who refused or tried, which did not suffer, or wept for his love Incidentally, progesterone and puberty. Love that had no centimeter of poetry, tenderness, madness and tragedy that is mine.

no longer expect anything from it ... and yet, I hope. Please do not take it as impertinence, my dear Don Alvaro, these secrets that you do, or feel guilty, or not tell her this letter. Ultimately, if anyone deserves the condemnation me, for having given up and given the way I did. Again: do not feel guilty, but not stop me express my sweet complaint. I promise not to laugh at my corny words this time. More reminiscent of times when you were in love, remember the nonsense you said, the tricks you used, the dangers that went through an "I love you" or for a time of closeness or intimacy tender, and because of this, pardon my language, I know, makes you uncomfortable and sometimes annoying.

The culprit is this nameless feeling, I do not know how to keep quiet, I wake up in the morning, that puts her in my thoughts so often, that will never be matched, which makes me defy death, men of my tribe, before whom "blasphemous" God now trembles. Love is a hell to which marched with firm step and that not even want to know how to escape.

Well, I must confess that I've seen people more attractive, better proportioned, perhaps more beautiful than Silvia yet the sight of nude members prefer not to any other. The passion that it takes away the feel better than anyone.

But I mostly believe in the profound goodness of his heart. In this generosity that would spare no effort for me when necessary. For I know that if tomorrow I fall down, if sick, if left alone, his strong arm, a woman and a mother of empty guts seduce me, go and get me. With it no shame, no need for me less ugly secrets or less negligible. So that I never feel for her, my footprint is unlikely to remove it from its path. Tomorrow will go away, marry (this is less likely. Hate routines and the seriousness of life), have other children, but when I heard my name, my very expensive, something will move in, there where very few have come in his life where very few will come later.

How long do we stay? I do not know. What I have of course is and how it hurts-so fragile that it will end and the thin line of things that unite us, end up breaking. At the end will be a nice or a bad memory. In a few years, if we turn to see, maybe history will repeat another night, the next day, our sin will again be our secret. For oaths and saying what to do specifically that provided resolutions fail because, you know, life takes care of us swallow the wine to the dregs we swore never suck and not without reason, the ancients said that coal has been grilled over a low fire is lit. You can attest to what I say.

Meanwhile, as I have and I have and I have you, fight together. She is capable of many things.

hear from my mouth has a long time (in that famous university exposure, embarrassed on behalf of cannabis), this axiom of Protagoras: Man is the measure of all things, which are (this love and tragedy ) and they are not (the future she has ahead).

(Here The Pilgrimage ends. What follows is written with a different color ink on a sheet torn from a notebook, which suggests it was written days later.)

had not been able to finish my letter. Time is running out in this exile I have so much fear! Leave and to stay, others and myself.

I feel like a thousand years Europe, populated by heresies and immense confusion, misery and loss crowded in tremendous uncertainty facing the future. Like the millenarian hope the zero hour where everything will start again in a kind of morbid expectation and exalted. Struggle not to lose hope, then, for the first time, I wished death me ...

And what could say to yourself? You are young, my friend, and that the world is kneeling before you. Take it between your hands, grab a good time the reins. Become master of yourself, that it makes, perhaps Socrates said, does more than he who conquers a city. Ea

then! A fight! I scream from the bleachers with all my strength while running in the stadium, I myself will pluck the laurel branches of tightening your head. Those who love you will applaud. There will also be Silvia and his squire.

Take care, well baby. Tell her strange.

will send some money. I do not like begging him the coward of her lover, who gave him a son and went galloping.

I leave here in a week. I have no fixed destination yet. I think I'll go to the Maghreb (I have some contacts in Casablanca). So for now my letters do not wait.

Fraternally,

El Peregrino.

List Of Pokemon Moves In Pokemondeluge

IV.

Free Birthday Stuff In Orange County

letters Ripol III.

series: click here .
First delivery: click here .

Charter II. Spring diatribe.

in exile. On 2 April. My very expensive

Don Alvaro:

This is one of those long afternoons of tedium weak-willed they do not feel like doing anything except write, but to good weather and the garden is in bloom.

Nothing extraordinary has happened and in your life or mine since the last time. Easter I have spent at home. On Easter Day, I passed a church and went into it. No prayed, if ever I stopped to look at the stained glass and polychrome.

Your response to my last letter made me laugh. Preserved the grace and freshness as ever. But mostly you're still that wonderful gourmet met, but sometimes I guess in you a great sadness.

Your text made me remember what I wrote Pio Baroja: "When the rich lexicon is enforced, learned, is worth little, gives an impression of artifice, and now, when natural, spontaneous is another thing. " I like this simple and delicious fluidity with which you write, I like your words concatenated, orderly and correct.

I, as you said it, a passion for English, they speak my parents and grandparents and they spoke many of my ancestors whose generations are lost in time. As stated in Vallejo, I think in English, dream in English, speak English, English blasphemous and I will die in English, in the final impenitence conceived in English words. Borges said it well: "language is our common homeland."

a kid, I liked to sit and listen to old stories to tell. Many of them were simple peasants, almost illiterate, and almost all are now dead. But I still rattle in his ears the music of their accents and that sweet time with the words coming out more uniquely, many of them now due to disuse. It was then natural to call Jacinta, Concepción, Toribio or Froilan and the stupid habit of baptizing with foreign names, the most bizarre of the time, had not been popular. I wonder if this will be but a facet of cultural decay we are experiencing or other cultural bovarysme expression of Latin American this will always be what we are not, denying the poor relations. Are we done anything about suicide, ie, destroying ourselves and what's more we like Flaubert Bovary? Or is it rather an unconscious protest of thousands of people condemned to misery by an unjust society and little or no equity?

When all exalt nationalism prefer showing the undeniable benefits of our land and our people, I prefer to cultivate a healthy self-criticism. Perhaps it is that if we want to improve, as I said David Sanchez Juliao, we must be ruthless with ourselves, recognize that we have ended up being mediocre and we are very far away and far below of the great examples of nobility, sacrifice and courage of many who have preceded us. I hate complacency

sweet and masturbatory and narcissistic patriotism. I laugh at the literary obscenity, enjoy it, and yet I believe in respect, compassion and solidarity. I'm kind of Marx and Nietzsche together. In a mystic Eckhart, in aesthetically pleasing Céline, in tastes, an unorthodox relapse. As humble as Moses, as egotistical as De Gaulle. So shit and so none of the above and all of them.

April 8.

I left unfinished letter last week. I received a call and I got distracted. I would like to share you

some things that have happened to me in recent days in which to earn some money in this strange land, I have dedicated myself to the work of copy-editor and reader of English.

I was blessed with an excellent teacher of Castilian in the early years of high school and almost born with a natural taste for reading. Also, I think the correction never shied away when it is fair and justified. At least that might show up as an example. My mind is restless, wanting to know.

-and allow me to begin the lengthy quotation from Vallejo again, I put no reference at all because I feel mine, 'I want to know the ancient Chinese, the Ming dynasty, which overthrew the Manchus. I want to know the Icelandic language in which anonymous poets wrote the "Edda." The land routes of prehistoric hunter Sea route of Odysseus. The cycle of glucose, the orbitals of the atom, the operation of the magnetron. Don Juan's lovers and lovers of Verlaine. And not only the past haunts me: I'm obsessed with the future, I'm obsessed with the conditional.

"... I know the thousand feats Camoens sang, and the bland lies invented by chroniclers. Uroaltaicas languages I speak and read in the Japanese original of Shikibu Monogatari Ghenji without the slightest nuances escape me. I want to penetrate the profound meaning of 'Lost Guide "of Maimonides, which case I find myself to get lost once in the labyrinths of the Talmud. I am interested in old English grammar Nebrija, and the current Catalan Pompey Fabra. The legends of the Abencerrages explorations of Livingstone, the wars of Catalonia ... I want to keep in mind the equation of Kepler, the Tolkappiyam, the rude song of the dawn of minnesinger and sweet love song of the troubadours .... But this To begin with, is what I'll never know. "

So much bother me the people who, to paraphrase Thomas Merton, "only knows cars and film (I would add: and soccer) of what's in the fridge, what the newspapers say (sometimes not even that) and what neighbors are going to divorce.

Stupid, unthinking bourgeois life! Damn stubborn and hobby of mine wanting to know everything, everything!

Returning to Merton (I quote from memory), "the great temptation of modern man is not solitude, but immersion in the mass of men, in that ocean report irresponsible. The man then, and know you are alone or living in community. What is loaded is diffuse and anonymous anxiety, fear unspeakable appetites petty and intolerable and all hostilities that fill the ubiquitous society. "

These harsh words are valid for all, for you and me.

Sartre said that the great paradox is the duty to be critical of the bourgeoisie and the time to live in and live as bourgeois. Because today, they are bourgeois, even many of those who inhabit the slums of our great American suburbs. One can live in a suburb and act upon the lifestyle of the rich and according to its system of exploitation of another.

What criticize and hate, is often the germ within us ... Pardon

last phrase, this time directed against yourself, Ripol: I feel so often that talk is put chess pieces on deaf ears. "Margaritas before Porcos', as the Gospel.

Half of this reflection I stop to think what will write? Believe me, I wonder more by fear than by distrust or condescending. Do not serve this to sink deeper into mental tangles that often get lost? To increase the hysteria and delusions that often attack me? Should I shut up, go out?

saying this is not likely to go to produce in you a furious confusion, a strong reaction or feeling of being railed, maligned, underappreciated, misunderstood me, proud and arrogant?

I'm afraid to show her this letter to Silvia. I know this phrase and will not, but perhaps she who is between your stuff and read it. The last time did not accept my criticisms, which, you know, were completely fair. I want her to know that I insist on seeing beyond. See maybe the girl who still lives in his heart, very poor, very hidden, using the language of García Lorca, and is afraid of being hurt, being taken away, to grow.

How to call this feeling of solidarity that binds me to her? It is perhaps a kind of magnetic attraction, to qualify in some way. Stealing back the words of one, a mixture of mutual fascination and seduction aesthetics, but which, in essence, is like a love story, unfortunate for the impossibility of accomplished and, simultaneously, sweeping by the same cause.

But not only foreign to Silvia, sometimes I grab the homesickness of the soil. Europe certainly has its magic, but, you know well the deep ties that bind me to the South. Like the great Fatherland (Matria!) Mine, America. Just a matter of walking around the streets of their cities to realize the diversity of faces, races and backgrounds.

do I like, for example, the old Santa Fe de Bogota, the smog cold, the mountain wind. The sordid tenth race, their ancestry, their hands of English girl, their faces, people going fast, the high trees of its mountains, its prostitutes, their fags. Sometimes I miss the old Candelaria where a story is always the English elegance and Chapinero Teusaquillo noisy night owl. I think in the far Fontibón with their puddles, in the Suba of narrow streets, inner-city and ruddy cheeks Infantino. Review the affluent north, south forgotten, their faces sad, almost hopeless. City

all, no man's land, crying her loneliness, her splendid sunny mornings, their afternoons in the rain blurs the old windows, the tingling of his ironmonger ... Only

dead Monserrate, who watches me with his eyes and arms stiff extinct, you know what it costs me to be away.

Send me a photo of Silvia. I see her in her pregnancy. I hope to see you soon, more to see her than to see you.

With my most cordial greetings,

El Peregrino.