Thursday, September 30 SMILE
"Do not you recognize me? You really do not know me? ". No, did not recognize him, and I was beginning to tire of his insistence. Nothing annoys me more than those people who seems to want to bring out your bad memory and all that shows is his bad manners. The gate was open and had called directly to the front door. He carried a backpack on his back and leaned on a cane would be more or less my age. Kept insisting that I should recognize you and about to give the door in his face, but then noticed the book that topped one of the piles were about the door (books newcomers were awaiting their fate) and said: "Do you still still interested Jung? Are you still writing down your dreams? ". And those words led me to a summer of the seventies and a hostel in Florence and one of those stories that one has told so many times that it can not distinguish dream and reality. At that time I spent many weekends in Florence. Very often in a student hostel fairly cheap, very central, however, and chipping sumptuous, palatial ceilings and walls that remains of ancient frescoes. The rooms were very spacious collective, one of which seemed to be the former ballroom. The men were staying in an apartment and the women in another. Damian had arrived with his girlfriend, did not know the city, I made them an enthusiastic summary of what they could not miss. The first day, the day we met, were the picture of a happy couple, I watched with envy. The next night, when we agree to bedtime, I asked him how it had happened. He answered grimly, it seemed another. I turned aside and spoke to him no more, a little annoying. I soon fell asleep, he could not sleep, he was spinning. Suddenly he jumped. "Where you going?" He said. "A jump in the river, Lucia I have left. " It did not seem to speak in jest, so I dressed and went after him. We walked along the Arno, crossing several bridges. It was a beautiful summer night. The full moon reflected in the water and seemed to join us wherever we went. I talked and talked, trying to distract. Damian said nothing. "We never fought, we never discussed, but the one I dreamed that I left." Then I got to talk to the world of dreams and explain that she had, in his subconscious had realized that something was wrong. We talked about Jung, who read a lot these days, and distinguished between personal dreams, like yours, and big dreams, which are related to the collective unconscious and are the source of myths. I was then somewhat pedantic and had the habit, so characteristic of teachers, to put myself to give lessons in the most inopportune times (mania that has accelerated over the years). We were walking and talking, talking all night-I. It began to dawn and the city no one seemed more alluring than ever. "You know something? "He suddenly said Damian. I have no desire to jump into the river, now what I want is to throw you to you to stop me to watch that once. " And before I let go of his frightened face Suddenly a laugh. Breakfast in the cafeteria of the station (the hostel was very close to Santa Maria Novella). When we went to collect our things, Lucy was gone. Had left a note at reception to Damian, who broke it without reading it. "Last Water" he said. "And do not worry about me, they will not be many nights they sleep alone." For now, the next night he slept with me in Perugia, was a free bed in his rented house with other students, in Via Garibaldi. I showed him the city, walked the Corso Vannucci, we spend time sitting on the steps of the Duomo, listen to jazz in the Piazza IV Novembre sitting on the floor with his back to the Palazzo dei Priori, and then, after exchanging phone numbers and addresses, he kept going and I my classes in Italian literature. "As soon return to Spain, I'll see you," he said. "I owe my life," he said smiling. "Still you still interested in Jung?" He says now. Everything has changed. What they have in common a young man of twenty years with an old man of sixty? Nothing, nothing at all. But the smile remains the same. 
Friday, October 1
PRAISE OF INTELLIGENCE
Rodrigo Olay, which has the inexhaustible curiosity I had twenty years tells me that in a magazine that I have provided, Paradise, directed by Juan Carlos in April, there is an article by Carlos Pardo in alluding to a discussion we had some time in the University Menéndez Pelayo. It is rare that I pass this reference: the name itself always tends to shine on any page. I remember endless tedium that encounter a few critics and a dozen young poets in Santander. It was then when all you had to do with anthologies of new people, trends, scenarios, lost interest.
How boring, how predictable, that factors unrelated to any exercise of intelligence most poetic review. I'm going against my interest to confess, I know: I've made them weekly for more than twenty years. I looked in the mirror of Luis García Jambrina of Túa Blesa, even Prieto de Paula, and retired scared. How glad I am no longer on that team play. And the field of youth poetry anthologies leave it entirely to Luis Antonio de Villena, in that once I came to compete. That is he who ruled the young fashion every season. Rodrigo
also happens to me a conference of Guillermo Carnero, "The underground poet or my three criptomanifiestos" I did not know. I've never felt special sympathy by Ram (poetic guerrillas in recent years has tended to keep me in front), but I've always admired his intelligence. Now speaks of his early critics of pre-Romantic poetry, Espronceda, the group song-and how they were more or less veiled manifests his understanding of poetry.
My way of understanding poetry and criticism of poetry is very clear: if there are a manifestation of intelligence, not interest me. Poetry must go beyond good prose, not to stay longer here. In poetry, as in any human activity, the main organ is the brain. And what little use most of the writers of poems or reviews that I know.
Saturday, October 2
A LIGHT VERSE
Instinctively, when a poet dies, the first thing we do is open one of his books: "O death sovereign lady of my rhymes, / today I come here to ask a favor, first / which I believe I have asked and the last one you requested. / Give me some time to say my life, / the life of my people and the love of my friend. / Then you can come get me, I promise / do not make them wait, and hope to have / thought a clear line, for you, that day. " What verse clear
Miguel Angel Velasco would have thought this day the sovereign death came suddenly to look? I can not imagine any verse, I would find nothing. I just feel terror before the bullets whistling around, perhaps already in the air is for me. No verse
clear to the last drop. Only a black terror. Everything else is literature.
Sunday, October 3
not despair I think I have a nose for detecting intelligence. I was just a conversation, read a few pages, listen to an interview to see if someone is more or less intelligent than me. And always, at first bothers me a bit, why deny it, but soon can only wonder.
I love the intelligence of others and I am therefore pleased to find it in the most unlikely places. I am (but I never told anyone: I do not like to get into trouble) of those who doubt that in certain areas, like the Supreme Court or the Constitution, has intelligent life. It is possible that there is not, I'm no expert on the subject, but I'm sure of is that in the Constitutional soon will. Francisco Pérez de los Cobos, the consensus candidate proposed by the two major parties, I read the aphorisms of memory and also Parva "practical stories" that brings in not is right: I have rarely found together as much capacity as much good-humored satire and intelligence. The politicians of either party to agree on someone like that, helps us not despair.
Tuesday, October 5 A RING
could not sleep last night. To scare away the big birds circling black around my head, I decided to get up and go for a spin. I do often. I like the deserted streets, the cold night air. Road at a good pace and when I come home tired, with luck, sleep with me. By raising the costs of Victor Chavarri surprised me the silhouette of a seated woman in a doorway. I checked, surprised, wearing evening dress, bare shoulders, a glittering jewel. She was blonde, a delicate beauty. I wondered as I retraced my steps to ask if he could help. I figured it would have lost the house key, perhaps his companion had gone for a locksmith. "Sorry to bother you. "I can help you?". He raised his eyes towards me and were gently beautiful green eyes I've ever seen. He said nothing, but stared at me for a while. Then he whispered: "You really do not remember me?". He got slowly to his feet, pushed the door (which, contrary I thought, was open) and disappeared behind it. I tried to follow her, but now the door had been closed and did not know what to call ringer. When I retire I saw that, on the step in which the woman had been sitting, something shone. I picked it up, was a ring. The stone seemed like a sapphire. I remembered the beginning of one of the plays of Azorín, the auto sacramental Angelita. A stranger gives the protagonist a sapphire ring with a "unique, extraordinary, wonderful." To get around to the right advances time, to the left, back. I put the ring on his finger, but I decided to do the experiment.
this morning Victor went back to the portal Chavarri and talked to the doorman. Do not know the woman. "If a woman and had gone through this door while I was ahead, I would not have forgotten." "Then entered my life and I did not even noticed her, surely was distracted with a book, I thought. I left my phone in case someone told her she had lost a ring.
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