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.