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.