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IV.

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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.

A Little Brown Mucus Discharge Before Period

letters Ripol II. Ripol

(For the explanation of the series click here ).

Letter I. The Pilgrim reread his life and tells her story.

in exile. Sunless morning of February 6.

My good friend Don Alvaro Ripol:

Two nights ago I had a strange dream, with great shock and then I opened my eyes was very hard to sleep again. Irrelevant to tell the dream, but tell you that in the long vigil that followed, you were-you-indiscreetly Silvia and present in my mind, therefore, conceived the idea right there you head a few words in a letter. Now when I sit down to write some lines, I wanted to tell you to start with since it was at that moment when I remembered something that I promised you the last time we talked. I hope that you will have enough literary sensibility to distinguish and appreciate the beauty of language written, beyond the coolness of the leaves.

By far, so good. This week I had a lot of work, meetings and more meetings, as I continue with my readings and try to acclimatize.

As many relatives, friends and acquaintances have sent me letters, this week I've taken on the task of responding. Just yesterday I finished sending the last reply. Why do not you had written, as I had promised.

I realize that the time of year when more writing is winter. As if to sharpen the intelligence and coolness favored intellectual work. Also, I've been very lonely in those days. In the wilderness of isolation, looking back, I have reread my story.

Yes, I am born with some palm trees near the Caribbean Sea, from oblivion. One afternoon, amid the suns and unbearable heat, I make my way by my mother's vagina nubile to defiantly open its eyes and close them again soon.

was born dying. 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.

lived locked and medical care are redoubled. It was then I learned to sniff books, without even knowing read. On the great atlas of my father, riding my miniature Volkswagen (the best Christmas present I ever had) toured the East and Europe, passing the Bosphorus on a jump, down to the Peloponnese and then cheating, bordering the Adriatic crossing Po, Lucerne was a twist on castles and dragging me towards the Pyrenees. Memorized the rivers of Spain and the towns they passed the Guadalquivir, the Tagus, Douro, Ebro, Sanlúcar, Andujar, Sevilla, Córdoba.

When I 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.

hated soups. 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 that 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.

spent all this at high speed. Very early, as always, I left early from the mother's lap, the warmth of home to go find you, you and Silvia, in the mountains, announcing one morning with an unbearable shame, the heavy afternoon rain. We

respectively sixteen, seventeen and eighteen years out of puberty in a hurry, we had the same problems and shared the same fears. Thus, half way to this life of mine, more or less turbulent, we started our studies at that university in the care of the clergy.

As my old atlas, forgotten, consumed in moisture and mold, I flew with Verne, with Garcia Marquez, Flaubert, with Unamuno. Dostoevsky taught me the heart and meanness of the free world Sartre, Nietzsche saw his folly and Kierkegaard its brevity. Plato taught me to love poetry and Aristotle to hate God. Aquinas discovered the old Latin and French of Molière Malebranche. Augustine made me recover the ardent faith of children and their inconsistencies Marx. I spent my best years: reading. Read without prudence, without prejudices.

I think for my personal situation, by having a mind so restless, and then be able to establish contacts since childhood with people and foreign ways, I always kept a little distance from the tastes and habits of the lumpen words. "Sometimes I feel more in this exile-as distinct and distant, something of a foreordained. Perhaps a new Joan of Arc called to 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. "

For people of my race I am full of outrageous sins. You see, when my ancestors, hungry for gold, settled near the sea, is believed convicted to die there forever. Pigs that gave light to 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. 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.

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, it hurts immensely

Africa ... Would you 've noticed that this February we met seven years to have met? Have you noticed that since then life has changed a lot? One day, without realizing it, we discover that we're old and still not get anywhere. A life that condemns us: a distressing and harrowing sense of being and feeling always, always on the road. We walked and walked and the horizon remains the same, untouched in front of our eyes as the first day. There is perhaps another way out, but loving the journey and enjoy the thrill of the road. Perhaps in the end, when we fall exhausted and lifeless from our trip, some larger hands will pick us up and we will rest forever.

I feel somewhat ashamed to speak this way. It is my personal style, which I use with those I can understand my heart.

I hope your things are going well and you feel better in your new job. A secular school is best for you.

My friend and spiritual closeness accompany you. My thought is often you.

I await your response. Tell Silvia to write me, I do not hold grudges, I could not. I miss her so much. Be sure to take care. We need now more than ever.

With best wishes,

El Peregrino.

Background Music Taekwondo

letters I.

First Delivery: Reason name.

To begin, I thank the readers who have closely followed the "Bogotá Tours below." Pilgrim, thank you for the space given to me. The last three installments are as yours and mine.
Moreover, I have not had time (or money!) To continue to enter those corners lost in the Colombian capital. Marianne
has not recurred. It was escorted by the wind, in complicity with the night, intoxicated with words ... and gins. Two weeks ago I do not know anything about it.
So while it appears, we will publish a series entitled "Letters of Ripol" honoring his name to the book by Fernando Gonzalez in which collects the written correspondence that Otraparte philosopher at the end of his life, had with his friend, the Benedictine monk Andrés María Ripoll. In October 2003 I discovered this beautiful text ever since I was impressed.
The master's house was not far from the Abbey of Santa Maria, home of the priest (still there and the school farm, with its monastery, halfway between Medellín and Envigado). Thus, the two friends looked at least once a week, holding long conversations at each meeting. Fernando Gonzalez was writing, however, the church, long and deep letters placed under the sign of the ambiguity and misunderstanding the book's title (which should just call it as this, "Letters to Ripol).
When the religious habits and part hanging abroad, Gonzalez leaves this world, making "Ripol letters" in his latest book, later published as a posthumous work.
By happy coincidence, the Pilgrim, during his exile abroad, had with his friend Don Alvaro Quintero Ripol (only the name has been changed, not the last) a constant postal communication.
By implication of the Don Alvaro, now publish these letters will show us thinking Our friend administrator of this blog, his love, ghosts and dreams. In tribute to Fernando Gonzalez and because of the apparent coincidence, we call this series "The Letters of Ripol." Here we will learn
Don Alvaro, his licentious life and existential ties that bind the pilgrim. Silvia also know, the old and eternal love of it and protected it, who is the other major recurring character in the series. The events referred to are real and occurred in Colombia at the time the reader want.
Don Alvaro is still alive and fights together against death haunts him through cancer, despite his youth. Silvia lives in Spain, in a people whose name I remember, in the middle plains of Castile, where he went to study anthropology with her little Damian. Has a desire to return to America, but has found a vet Madrid has been in love with her, much to the chagrin of our hapless and Pilgrim. The three did together studies at a university in the country, which joined almost teenagers. The series we will be revealing the details of this beautiful friendship.

Blonde To Brown Hair Img

Tours below the Bogotá III.

third installment: of how he met Marianne.

A week of work in college, in the midst of the monotony that is returning to work, caused a strange longing to savor some cheap drink that did not require greater sacrifices of my pocket needy, which in those days walking particularly low notes and coins.
not rain this time. Just a little wind numbed ears. As unwilling, crossed for the third time the door del Fiore, this time without the Pilgrim. Now with a beer in hand I went looking for somewhere nice and scenic place to sit. That was when she appeared.
Standing, slender, slightly leaning on an empty chair with back iron. A martini in hand, some more in the head and blue fire in his eyes glassy. It sounded soft music.
watched her without speaking during few minutes, like walking with my eyes every stroke of his face. She was swiftly dispatching the Martini, turning them dark with her mouth, but gentle mockery, red blood and without lipstick.
seemed to accompany a squint-eyed man who spoke to him repeatedly, slapping, raised his arms and he seemed wrapped in his speech. Then it disappeared. Time
then suddenly we are face to face and without saying a word, danced without speaking, without touching, without looking.
- What is your name? He asked in a low tone, some time later.
I said and sank back into his silence.
We stopped moving. I, meanwhile, sought a topic of conversation.
speak, then things work, age and the stars. Suddenly I felt the rhythm in his voice of the people of the mountains, the purity of the language of the colonizers and a tic that made him repeat a single word whose grammatical category was constantly fluctuate between the conjunction and the interjection: the very famous because of paisas.
Born under the house of Pisces, the last days of January to announce the imminent beginning of their thirties. I was fascinated by the funny faces he did emerge from his lips and the grace of his gestures. I felt like kissing her. I refrained.
After a short pause added:
-Gemini and Pisces are most compatible zodiac. "And I thought: what matter the stars and their magnetic forces? Why pay attention to the stars who were so far away, beyond the roofs and above the overcast sky?
Gradually I was talking about his troubles, his lost love, broken, have come down. After the fights he had to fight up to this point in his life, had come to renounce the faith in love and prefer the comfort of the covert conquests. Was clear that the human and it concluded that, as Borges said, "being immortal is trivial."
At the rate the tops of Geneva (the boy had said that there was no Martini), the voice of Marianne began to lose clarity and ease. When warned that more could not take his bag and, without a word, convenenciera and rude, it was not that aware of it.
I searched several times. I have not find it. I know it will be on Friday-today-in Fiore, but I'm not going to see it. You have my number. Call me if you need me. For

first delivery click here . To see second installment
click here .

In Which Finger Can Wear Amethyst

message to the youth of Colombia. Bogotá Tours

Luis Ospina, in his documentary 'The perpetual anxiety' plays the "Message to young Colombians' which, in the tone Fernando Vallejo acid which he usually does, this author gave several years ago during a meeting of writers in the national park in Bogotá. Like it or not, Vallejo is one of the most enlightened Hispanic minds of our century. His prose, overwhelming and Baroque, makes us laugh, mourn or redden with rage, but, never leaves us indifferent. Reid
So weep or blush with rage with this entry.



Here the full text.

A COLOMBIA BOYS "(By Fernando Vallejo)

kids of Colombia:

you who have had the misfortune to be born, and the wildest country in the world, do not follow the current, not getting carried away by their folly. For while the madness helps ease the burden of life, you can also add to the misery.

Heaven and happiness does not exist. These are stories of their parents to justify the crime of having brought into this world. What exists is the reality, the harsh reality: the slaughterhouse to which we came to die, when it is to kill and eat animals the way to our prójimo.Porque our neighbors also are animals, not just the man as he thought Christ. Anyone who has a nervous to feel and suffer is our neighbor, dogs, horses, cows, rats. My brothers dogs, horses my brothers, my sisters cows, my sisters rats, which are also part of Colombia. O is for you. That is me.

therefore not play. Do not do to others what they did to you, not to pay the same coin, evil with evil, to impose life is the ultimate crime. Left alone to do not exist, or are asking to come in peace from nothing. Total, that is we have to reassemble all. Why then so much the rodeo?

which overtook the country in luck, we share the lot, is a bankrupt country, in disarray. Some poor little remains of what once was. Thousands of abducted, killed thousands and thousands, millions of unemployed, millions of exiles, displaced millions, the country in ruins, ruined industry, justice in ruins, the future closed: that is what you touched them. The pity. They were worse than me.

And like me, one day I just had to go and that is why today I am speaking (live, so it seems), probably also have to be you, but we are not going to get anywhere because anything we need or we want.

A Colombian passport at an international airport terror case: "Who is? What come? What will? "Coke? Are you coming to stay? "No. We did not come into this world to stay. We came to pass as the wind and die. Sometimes the wind to go wreaking havoc and has a name: it is called Pablo Escobar, Miguel Rodriguez Orejuela is called, is called Carlos Castaño, is called Tirofijo, Gaviria called is called Samper, Pastrana called. Learn while you are going to put names to infamy.

When I was born I came here with a war between conservatives and liberals who swept the country and killed thousands. Today the war continues even changed actors: is everyone against everyone and no one knows who it was who killed who. Nor knows, nor care, or think it out, why for? What, if any murderer going to punish the country of impunity? If our president went on pilgrimage to Plains to embrace our first offender? as saying by the iniquity of that embrace: "Kill, theft, extortion, destruction, hijacking, but yes, do it fully to stay with what remains of Colombia!"

And here we go, through the streets of this country, bottling, and between dogs and abandoned children, the body sacándoles potholes, to bullets and government taxes and the FARC. But where are we going? Where is that try to get there are a lot and we do not support nor room for us. We have become a nuisance to others, to which we we're drinking water, breathing the air, polluted rivers, streets bottlers. The air is going to end, water will run out, the streets no longer reach and those rivers of Colombia fantastic when I was born alive, alive with fish, and also killed. Today Colombia's rivers are sewers that flow into the sea, a sewage drain.

not play that nobody gave them that right. Who could give? God? "God is so good and takes care of children and stray dogs that fill the streets Colombia? What to take! God does not work. With that on the seventh day he sat down to rest ... Children and stray dogs that fill the streets of Colombia, yes it takes is the Pope.

I have lived a desperate, and it seems to me that you are going to play live as well. And one day I had to go, without meaning to, and it makes me you guys are going to go play well. The fate of the Colombia of today is to go. Of course, unless they kill us. For those who do not dream to go to reach that have left because wherever they go Colombia will follow. Will follow as I have followed me, day after day, night after night, where I went, with his madness. Sometime this lived here ephemeral and unrepeatable elsewhere will accompany the death.

Fernando Vallejo. Bogota, Saturday, August 26, 2000

Repetitive Religious Teaching

below II. Bogotá Tours

Second installment: The Fiore.

Leaving the alley snakes, growing at a swift to reach seventh career as soon as possible. I try to speed things up and perhaps beat the cold. Meeting the Pilgrim, leaving the public library. We propose to go to Fiore.
The first time I went there it was he who took me. That afternoon, when I called, was accompanied by a girl from the Pacific, coarse features, ebony skin and manners rather male, but very beautiful as a whole. Then the place was only a prelude, which it obviously could have a battle of love that came later (it told me yesterday), on a dirty piltra, although extensive, those who wallow in the fucking of cities.
Now he came back to the site he was OK. The men and few women (not a decent place for ladies) who were there were concentrated in their dances, full of sensuality that reminded me that despite the 6 or 7 degrees of temperature, close to the north , was the Caribbean of the Maroons that seems so far away from here.
Of course, there were those who preferred delivered to the charming and cheerful gossip from the tables that crowded around the walls.
Over the hours, the place still coming together people of varied conditions, as brothers by a common aesthetic feeling. Ages, backgrounds and different colors were fully represented, almost in equal proportions, while the most diverse rhythms alternated according to the will of a demiurge chosen manipulating them at will.
In the night he was noisy inside these walls I could see familiar faces silver that looked unhealthy. Which caused me most pain was a friend of times trying to bring back home to what looked like her husband was drunk as beer and spirits. As still wore the uniform, the painted face and sad eyes.
El Peregrino, who served as my bodyguard, he left early. He left me to get lost in the thick concrete sleeping on my right and reached the horizon: this city to 11.
So soon I was alone, without ostiarii that repelled by me to the unworthy and without contertulio to fill with her voice loud and hollow silence of the music. I left the place and found myself back on the street outside a cafe ladies quieter lives than they had been in there.
raining. In light of a solitary lamppost, I could see the rhythm of my breathing, as measured by diffuse and ethereal mist expelling my face from the depths of my nose and from beyond the throat. I felt cold.
soon returned to shelter from the wind chill. So was the friend who came from another time, one not seen in half five years plus two months. He had gone away, as Arturo Cova fleeing the past, to the plains of the East. Was in the capital for several days.
drank a few beers together. I listened without concern about their conquests, how well he was at work, what had become respectable by those parts of its complacent girlfriend and the rough manners of the locals of those other parts where it was gone. Amidst the boredom, penetrated my turbinates of a strong smell of hops and fermented mixture of boxwood, conceived the idea of writing this series, which now reaches its second installment (click here to see the first) and The Pilgrim has allowed me to post on his blog. Assaulted by the thought
(write, write), I felt annoyed and began to wrap up the conversation to go. I took my coat and, without major rituals of courtesy, I pretended to leave. The new chief of Llano me to the park.
On the way I was thinking of sitting to write as soon as I arrived, but when traversing the threshold of the old house where I live, an overwhelming feeling of fatigue urged my break. I replenish the forces required a long night of sleep, idle until the bells of a nearby church early riser, while calling for prayer to his monks arrancáronme while the arms of Morpheus divine.
Thus ended my first desire to write this series.