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Genealogy a fucking II.

A Alberto, who lives out there on the streets and never read it, to fulfill a promise.

Not many years after all that, I went the people, by the little road paved and not see the Mariscal Robledo.

In the high top of the hill before crossing the curve of the road which is no more the deep abyss of the valley, I looked down and saw Cauca Last meander the hills of the whole country with its warm yellow , wild, toward the sea, breaking mountains.

then heartbroken, said from inside the broken soul goodbye warm wind, warm nights, goodbye peaceful life of Santa Fe and I went to Medellin drizzle and wet, I went to school, then university . And I buried my childhood.

Passing the time, where everything starts, where all returns and where it all ends and it concluded at the time of dreams and the will to live, I came to Bogotá, the neighborhood of San Bernardo, camajanes lair. I lived there, and he in the next room, the two in the tenancy of the rickety doors and green tile patio in the shade near the two mountains that had at that time churches paths where people walk up on Sunday , to be closer to the sky.

noises that become familiar with only a wall separates you not finished, finished for us to talk one day and share other a couple of bottles in the little bar that smelled of hops, boxwood, to piss, and where they were playing billiards.

It was what is called, forgive me, a whore. So young, the natural beauty, but it seemed so fretful as pain, innocence of a bird in the wind, without a nest, sparrow lost in the concrete jungle without a tree to rest, with gray eyes it off, but verdigris by color.

all started in the neighborhood of the same houses where he spent his childhood. It was under the clear sky of January 1 Wicked, which showed clearly the afternoon sun, cirrus lost after wandering far and indiscreet cotton as soft trade winds were fluttering leaves of walnut trees nearby and the front of the shop dirty amid the vulgarity of everyday life in the suburbs, between the cries of hawkers and the roughness of the artisans. It was discovered and love.

Now that Caesar is gone and time goes by and he does not return, remember the little bar that said, while the voice is blurred and the timbre of her voice makes me a glimpse of the profound nostalgia that makes you think in its first dust ...

crying, sobbing, broken words, and begins to speak:

"I'm ashamed to tell you this, but it happened, doctor (do not know why I said so. Because I'm no doctor. Perhaps because on here doctor tells any sonofabitch. Verbigracia, Doctor Uribe, Doctor Arias, Doctor Santos, Doctor Ordóñez). Everything happened for their misfortune.

-Say a good time.

"I played doctor, made me feel dirty, I said give me candy and I cheated. Damn dog! I pulled down his pants, he took away my insides, my fingers fumbled with his bowels, and you know what was the worst thing? That in the end did not give me anything, the very rogue.

while Cesar was the assistant shop across the street, absorbed in watching the sidewalk, in the silly games of twelve years, asked him to help lift the old damaged rim of an old tugboat. And since nothing in this life is without pay ...

- How much will you give me if I do? I said firm, doctor. Three large candy in his pocket, he responded with an adjective delicious-the-malice I put it without me noticing.

How to refuse to pay that! Cavities did not care that could producírsele so taste the sweet taste of three candies that melted in the mouth.

All I asked of yore was that the child will help you roll the tire to the back of the shop, slowly, slowly until it was all in the dark hole. And the poor, blind, three candy, agreed.

"Oh boy, do you have in your pants, he asked without delay.

And he, striving spot to discover who stole the sinlessness busily washing his clothes by hand by his mother, I do not know, do not see it with innocence, said. And let me clean you, kindly offered the other.

-Sin imagine their evil intention let me sweeten their generosity and deference (last epithet is mine).

shook the fabric with boldness, and according to him, did not come out dirty. God again corrupts the original version of literary aftertaste-a task to do so with care, brushing the rear to achieve its mission. I take off my pants, I asked.

- Why Why? It is not necessary, affecting roughly snapped.

Dame candies which I workaround then I with my mother. "Well look

doctor, I dropped everything, told me how she could be so reckless with her, my parents, who had spent many hours whitening the pants, which he did not want any trouble, that he wanted her to was to claim, and therefore should be clean. And I messed up. Once

with nothing on, I caress the buttocks, I had prostate exam thus could not see what all for what? Not at all, doctor. Because there was no candy in your pocket and all that made him a distraction, not to pay me, the bastard. What a fraud as low doctor, wounded my dignity, let me dirty, I did not request a review, without consultation and without an invoice, and do all for what? To not pay me mine. Once finished the auscultation of my privates parties, sent me out and told me he had forgotten at home the promised candy, come back tomorrow, which would bring them safely. I came back tomorrow, after tomorrow and three days later, but always acted the same way to cajole and released without which accounted for helping me to get the wheel to the bottom, background, the workshop. This happened on Wednesday, came on Thursday, arrived last Friday and Saturday. That was his last day of work. Since the holidays ended and he returned to the Polytechnic was imminent.

Monday passed and then on Tuesday, each day I returned disappointed and downcast in my sidewalk, doctor, wanting to give me the pledge, but this idiot made fun of me. Still yearning to come back and keep his word and give me three fingers of candy that I offered. Doctor yet, I hope in my dreams, three cookies: one ring, another finger and a thumb.

* In the picture from Flickr.com, a place that may well have been the tenancy.
** To see the first part of this post: click here .

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To Love coward ...

Who the main entrance, looks as good, or stalls, or arregladita. Ruby Slippers, and mediecitas and satin and hat guantecitos apparent cordovan bag in his right hand, a fan in the left and measured pace, restrained and cautious. Anyone near him, that this woman is dangerous. My friend Javier, rest in peace, everything is going in this life, took the husband.

was as follows, I told the poor, very distraught. Well, not me, that children do not count and this from biblical times. But he told Fulvia, the Menda this, a perpetual memory of the thing.

One summer day like any other, came to my house, the Fulvia, played strong the door, shook his nose with a tissue and lounging in the chair that was my elder uncle, named Saint Toribio bad, who died in the times of the Greek Kalends, or the quarterback in time Robledo, when there was no paved road came to the square, still rang bells, doves flying over the eaves of houses and the shat freshly painted walls of the church of Jesus of Nazareth and Carmen Burgos is not yet walking with his bunch of cookies Turkish by the Calle del Carmen, but I talked latter and not repeat here. Well, right there in the same chair that he was telling them to come, who lived at the time I've been counting, staring at the tiled patio, a paradise of a thousand lichens, Javiera told who I appointed and My grandmother, his punishment and I, boy, dressed in blue, green camisole straps indigo opal and listening, dozing by the warm dampness of the three:

that it was of giggles that come and go, grab the tummy tea , a tickler for a little joke here and two-way there; to come visit you, friend, your home, and went to the fair I do not, what is that smell of sesame seeds that has me dizzy, do not leave me in pain without me try and see what tomatoes coolest bore the tomato in my garden. However, neglecting the Javiera on a Thursday, the big boob fell on their networks.

De Santa Fe, where decent people, this bad Pecora, rather, that one, who spoke before, or rather, after I spoke of the Javiera, took him to Aguadas is people whores, the whores. He put his house and gave him a good halter horse and supposedly for good chair strolled in the cool evenings, when the mountain does not seem hojarasquín. But it came out too loose quidam: no input weeded of the house, not the time of pavement, or get up early, which was rare, and answered the prayers at wakes, which were frequent, that the mob killed many. Until the very matrera bored.

When people returned it, returned it again, soon, to beg forgiveness. Javiera acquitted his man and showered him another frivolous fame. So christened Santa Fe, unforgiving, never forgave: "The Quitamachos."

Now I see happen. There goes one, down the street. And boy am and noon. The nalgatorio wag observed, and as used skirts, I turned to the evil thoughts, I have face planted a thousand volcanoes that sweep no princes. Fulvia says, my grandmother (last time I say it): Let's go harass the body. The face, will be ... And I laugh and I'm going to keep giving to the office every adolescent's favorite.

going without a hat, head to wind, no gray, the streets deserted as January morning, but still tough meat and eases movement. Quitamachos, then tell him with hatred in my silence, from the depths of darkness noon, hidden behind the grille and sill with elegant frieze of the old house. Quitamachos, her chest hurt cry, in unison with society that censors my madness, the madness, spontaneity of love.

Quitamachos, Quitamachos and I face in disgust at her in my fantasies, where I always win and go up.

When I left school, then to the right and left of the village, home of Fulvia, cool corridors and large windows. In the above not see her again. One hour was added to another, day to day, week to week, month to month, year to year and aged.

why now I'm years and I'm bad and I understand you do not come, Quitamachos, and you take away you to myself? My class prejudices, fears of my education rude, yelling screaming and never drowns out the crying now. Because yes, Quitamachos, I could not wait for you.

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Quitamachos I lose my life.

life back to me to be a return doublet girl and use the summer that I wove my grandmother turned to me solitude a tearful longing, the dream is homesick for my days and waking ghost constant persecution by the cloud forests of the echoes. Must be because I am old and I live in the memory. Maybe that's why I did not react and legs as before. Everything hurts. The waste of energy, laughter, grace, is something from another time. My sex is increasingly up, gray and wrinkled. Canas out in my pubic white and increasingly heavily populated the mountain where once so often worshiped the goddess Venus. My eyes are burning, I fall asleep watching TV. I shot fart more often, although less toxic, odorless. And I have belly, my boobs fall.

is increasingly fewer people in the business. We no longer live my curves, but of income. I have become angry and in the neighborhood and are renowned the my bitter grudge against the postal service and electricity, from the aqueduct, the company telephone and newspapers.

that each time as I enjoy less and more quickly, pass the throes of climax, and the meat is not crowded and my juices, they are not disgusting secretions, I was practically extinct. The only thing that comes is the old Froila, I wanted Froilan occasionally find comfort in my faded anatomy.

What a disgrace! I, which unanimously called "the prettiest" girl of the long hair, the very cute neighborhood, the graceful little boy in the alley of the Souls. Yo, I stood on young bodies up and down Jacob's ladder leading to the sky a thousand stars. I, who was the most lost and never bitch all the same, the treacherous who slept after battle of love with dentists and engineers, carpenters and masons, domestic and foreign, with the police a dozen times, once with a priest Monsignor and other no more and no less than Her Excellency the Minister of Finance don national ticket I got inside vagina, to get them wet and put them to roast him, as I said on the night table where they remained until, in effect , stiffens and he laughed and then hugged me curled up, saying: "I'm your samophlange" and I forgave him Pilatuña.

Of that, nothing remains. The force became a faithful public, other queers and those who continued to visit, the students were killed one by one from the violence of drug traffickers in the country broke. The priest Archpriest Mgr did and now pontificates in a very large church, thick columns of marble. It is no longer for. The minister and others, left the adventures and became monogamous, the situation is not for hassles.

Today, just in case I wind up her skirt Levantine and these old hands are crossed that I took her down, and so you can sit to pee on the toilet, and to put on my pajamas and vaporous chiffon over pink with which I sleep, when I can and want and no conscience haunts me and I do not stun the memories and not raging in my throat gastric juice, or pressure me up or my head hurts, and I come reflux, or sharpens me dyspepsia. Nothing more.

live without children, or mother. Because I never had those, this because I took to the streets early and never again looked to the very bloody. And what if they say he died.

Amores, there were some. To all offices. The baby was sickly and distracting me.

's not very big my heritage. I will end up being an old lady for bourgeois of those that hold clinics to care for the nuns to give them to eat and clean water in case they shit their pants.

Old age is a wait. Nothing to be done. As there is no grace, we waste time and kill the hours, now facing the street from the second floor where I live, now with the hearing loss in nimbostratos beyond which the angels sit to play the harp in the sky who never go.

So while I hope one day of my death declare again and again and again: Do not leave heirs. My property, which will eat the rust fretful, after the draw in my face strange rictus grimace final.

I'm alone for anyone to see me when you pass and if you see me, they turn their face, to spend long, not gossip. I die alone, in solitude I was born.

I wanted to be bad, sinful, perverse, wayward. I am. I struggled to get it and I succeeded. Now that leaves me as an unrepentant, bitter, gnawed for years and the mistakes of so many decades.

All my properties are consumed gradually, that nobody uses them. It is my last wish for this city forever remember shit here, where I write this, he lived a full bitch, of which are devoted to their craft by vocation and because quite simply scratch their ass, that is also possible in human geography.