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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.