How Does Anestic Affect Heart

On the other side: Nothing you say

Sunday, March 13
THAT CHILD

The other day, before arriving in Bordeaux, I stopped in Bayonne. It was the second time he did, and yet what a feeling of familiarity, to return home. With cities as I passed people, then admit to mine. Of course maybe that's wrong with the whole world, to know where or who you are at home does not take many speculations.
And I am comfortable walking on the edge of the graceful and majestic Nive L'Adour, attending their meeting from the terrace cafe of the theater, leaving the timid sun bask in the place Pasteur, behind the cathedral, after have gone through with thoughtful silence the cloister.


beating too, as I always do (the second time, but I immediately convert all pleasant routine) at the public library and there, opening a book either, I let the chance to offer me their generous gift, "Au parvient vent nous souvenir du tonnerre him / fleuve d'und lourd in rumeur sous sous l'arbre et l'oiseau. "
remember The wind pushes me to a slow murmuring river, gleaming under the summer sun, there I am, under the benevolent shade of a tree, listening to the birds singing ... I have three or four years. Women wash in the river. " Wanting to catch a dragonfly I fall into the water and they take me laugh. It's my first memory. Funny how that river bathe the pages of a book by Jean Tardieu I randomly open a cloudy morning in Bayonne, and that its verses are heard singing still absorbed in these birds from shore Ambroz.
In the library, opposite the cathedral, and has flourished small exotic garden in winter met, chaired by a large magnolia tree. Walk among flower beds vague brooding Lembranzas pleasant as if he had done all my life.


While as in the Rue du Port-Neuf, my favorite street in Bayonne, and browsing the newspaper Gara (in certain cases conflicting, I agree more with him than with my usual daily, El Pais : I've always been true friend of Plato) under some posters of bulls, I feel I am a lucky man. I live on a precipice, waiting for the fatal news, and yet I am no longer the child who is shocked to hear the birdsong, which falls into the water when you catch a dragonfly, the wide-eyed child who not a day that does not provide a source of wonder and adventure.



Tuesday, March 15 SCHOOL OF ART


to entertain hopes, on this last day endless, I guide my nephews, Edward and Julia, by Aviles, who know little. Camposagrado front of the palace, with its magnificent Baroque facade, there are colorful groups of students. More than once I got into him when he was in a hardware store, Los Castros, but ever since has become the School of Art. Do not let this moment pass. In the library, with wonderful views over the park and pier, is about a young girl: "There is no direction, if you want me to teach the building." And we teach it, and I enjoy going in and out of classrooms, workshops engraving, looking through windows I've seen from outside countless times.
As it turns out Adriana, that's the name my gentle companion, I was mistaken for an Italian designer. Was a bit disappointed to learn that I am of Avilés.
My nephews have followed me boring, but I leave happy, happy to be cherished for the first time unknown corner of the city I know best and, for that matter, never end to reveal all its secrets. While
turn to the morgue, I think I'm a lucky man, even in the worst days I can book a few moments for the carefree happiness. While ritual back to the past, someone-far and near: in the heart of my heart, "she smiles.


Wednesday, March 16
IN THE LABYRINTH

Abro Cervantes in the library, a book by Marina Gasparini, Venetian Maze and immediately got lost in the maze: "One summer night walking the streets who did not know where I lead. An unusual stretch of sotoporteghi left in me a sense of being through unfamiliar surroundings. The low height of the arcade made me bow my head in reverent ritual gesture that accompanies and precedes the entrance to a sanctuary. The dim light of lanterns isolated shadow covered the wet spots. "


raise my eyes to the page and continue walking down another maze. It was a winter night, chilly and dreary. Not a soul in the streets, except I was not going anywhere, that I refused to return to narrow hotel room, dimly lit. Not even the moon with me, as usual. The sky was overcast, may soon start to rain. I walked quickly, to ward off cold and fear, through narrow alleys, bordered dark channels, crossing bridges, I go into patios end, again and again on my feet and could not recognize either one of the campuses, palaces, churches. As if all that was familiar in that city, had been removed, diluted in the fog. Suddenly, I hear the murmur of a party, a music away. Amid such desolation those distant sounds were the very picture of happiness. He listened intently, trying to go in his direction. And after losing them and listen with greater intensity several times, I with a high wall that hides a tiny garden, as often in Venice. Push the door, but despite the music and the conversations seemed to be heard there, the garden is empty: four stunted trees, pots of dried plants, a stone bench. I dare not enter the palazzo , a dilapidated mansion and humid, although at the top are three Gothic lighted windows: there, no doubt, the party takes place. The lights go out, everything is silent, while I'm still in the garden, frozen to death, without deciding to do nothing. Only hear the sound of water lapping the edges of a nearby canal.
close the book, I open my eyes, I leave the maze of paper and another maze memory, that of my sixty years, which suddenly left me alone.
Have I been left alone? Since those dark days when the clouds suddenly opened and the sun appears, so is my mood. Step of despair to the enthusiasm with the same alacrity that the diver ascends to breathe fresh air.
Upon leaving the street, road salts, the sun shines and I have the certainty that I am not alone, that someone holds my hand like as a kid, and I do not ever let go.


Thursday, March 17
THAT HAD GOOD
Trapiello
Andrés, who had not wanted to go to know anything about me since I gave a few tugs on the wrist for the new edition of weapons and letters -worthy and chaotic and capricious fundamental inquiry into the literature of the civil war, has agreed to me in these sad days and sends me a hug and two lines of the last book of Eloy Sánchez Rosillo, "Haber had a good as I had / is having a gift that is never exhausted. "
The good that I still had it forever.


Friday, March 18
YOUR LAW, NOT YOUR ACCIDENT

"The strongest man is he who is more alone," wrote Ibsen. These days I have observed that if I am not exactly the strongest man, nor am I the one who is more alone.
also the truth is invented, said Machado. And I've gradually developed a rare family in which the grandchildren (in the portfolio took a portrait of Ernesto astronaut dressed published on the cover of this newspaper the day Carnival) appeared in the times before the children.
Today is the birthday of one of them. We present a treasure: nothing less than a thousand years of English poetry from the anonymous medieval songs to Carlos Marzal. "And why are not you?" He asks. "Do not worry, I'll be and to stay for good, not like most of those final anthology," I say smiling, seemingly in jest.
may start playing the game of poker is any life, not give me the best cards, but I'm sure I have always endeavored to extract the most out possible.
I have committed the worst sin a man can make: not have been happy, as Borges lamented in a sonnet. I have managed to find bits of happiness, even in these days when I felt infinitely unhappy. Sometimes, just a few verses to bring comfort, as I have said many times that of Guillen: "rammed it, just inevitable. The gray wall / will impose their law, not accident. "


Saturday, March 19 NO TEARS


tell you nothing. It is not necessary. We transparent visible watermark as well, in everything I do, you're better than I am, how much better are your five children.
I know you would not like me mourn. So I do not. On this day in bright blue for the first time will not go to see Avilés, like every Saturday for nearly thirty years, I hear you repeat the words of Christina Rossetti: "But I want to forget and smile / than not that I remember and be sad. "
I'm not sad. You are with me.

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the other side: The city

Monday, March 7
PARALLEL LIVES

How many lives have lived apart from my life? How many are my real life? I like to pretend, dream, be different. I like to fool with the truth. Transparent and non-bending show, and yet, be full of traps, secret passages of wild corners to lurk
muddy quicksand ... I do not know who I am, I do not know how I am and why I never get bored of myself.



Tuesday, March 8
EYES CLOSED

Prior to first in Bordeaux and had been there many times in Bordeaux. One of the fascinations of my youth were the novels of Francois Mauriac, dry and shady these serials that they almost always have it your scenario. I remember a phrase of his, which I have applied more than once to Aviles: "Bordeaux is the port that makes us dream of the sea, but from the unseen or never hear the sea. "
Now ride, not along the shore of the estuary, but by the Garonne, width and sleepy, which stretches lazy on this spring morning. On the eighteenth-century facade of the city stands the tower of St. Michel after the Pont de Pierre.
under the car and I think I could go through the city in which I've never been, but with which I have dreamed many times, with eyes closed. This is the street Montesquieu, there in the background, occupying almost the entire round of the Great Men Square, the market shines glass and steel posts placed around books, such as the San Antonio market in Barcelona. At the beginning of the street, in a small square, showing its circular façade, superimposed with the double colonnade, one of the most beautiful theaters in the world. The building, in 1800, was the first theater in 1905 are projected in the movies. Road to the left and I meet a broad avenue that crosses the tram: the Cours de l'Intendance, at the start, the home of Goya: from its windows I could see the Rue Vital Carles, with the towers of the Cathedral San Andrés in the background.


What a beautiful name that of the Place des Grands-Hommes. Was created, demolishing monasteries and trickery, in the years of the Revolution. It is a circular plaza and the streets leading to it in homage to the great men who made it possible: Rousseau, Voltaire, Condillac, Montesquieu, Diderot, and also, how could it be otherwise, Montaigne, the master of the mountain, as he called Quevedo, who was, much to his dismay, the mayor of the city, and did not want no world but a tower full of books and be master rather than himself. But at the center of the plaza there is no memorial to these great men, but a supermarket, the same one where I do my shopping every Saturday.
no doubt that this city would be at home. Among other things, because here, a few steps, I have Mollat \u200b\u200blibrary, one of those endless mazes in which I would not mind getting lost forever. I like to see about some books bookseller recommendations handwritten.
Mollat \u200b\u200bThe library is between the Rue de Grassi and Dijeaux Rue de la Port, in the corner waiting for a friend that lives in a nearby hotel. And suddenly, the indifference of pedestrians and bicyclists, a prodigious spectacle occurs. The sun peeks through the triumphal arch of the door. See his enormous eye to the bottom of the street. Almost hear the music of a baroque apotheosis. The sun king appears to me in all its glory. Makes me bow my head and close your eyes as a sign of submissive admiration. An everyday miracle, to everyone, but for which I am the only witness.


Wednesday, March 8
BE ANOTHER

I've always liked the double life, hiding secrets in the basement, which the right hand not knowing what the left. In every city I visit I imagine a different life, real life, I would have liked to live. I play sports, I travel everywhere by bike, I was married for over thirty years, my children are walking and loose in the world, I am faithful to my wife and successive lovers, I have some debt ... In this life I guess not change my life for anyone.
I now change for anyone, I like to play it. At this stylish sixties, doctor or banker or senior executive of a multinational, which has sat on the Castan Bar terrace, near the Place de la Bourse, riverfront. Impatient and anxious waiting for someone. Look at the clock when not yet five minutes ago has arrived. Suddenly gets up and runs to meet a very young woman, that I find particularly attractive. I do not hear what they say, a few words. She walks away slowly, he sits back down, watch the clock ...
I change for whom I always end up seeming change. In the end, many lives that I always make up living life just waiting for those who do not get even arrives. The Castan
bar with its stained glass canopy and decoration grutestos, Paul Verlaine want to read or dream the "Invitation to the trip" by Baudelaire, who just left this spring for the trip of a lifetime: the June 9, 1841 embarked on the packet des Mers du Sud bound for Calcutta. His journey during eighty-three days, but Baudelaire reached its destination, the Bourbon Island, defeated by melancholy and nostalgia of Paris, refused to continue. The bar
Castan, as in many other places, I would be who I am, I do not know who I am.


Thursday, March 10 WEB


I like cities I visit for the first time, they are not tainted by my life. But the earthquake of unknown, unpublished places where everything is possible, short-lived. Then, like a spider meticulous weave my web.
I come to the square where the tower stands sharp and black Sant Michel, with a crypt full of mummies and legends, and gathering around the rickety stalls Campillín, scene of my Sunday walk. Several tapas bars around here tell me that he met the English emigration.


I sit on the steps of the Grand Theatre to watch the stylish bustle of the square and remember the steps of the cathedral in Perugia, facing the Corso Vannucci, those endless summer afternoons a never ended. Two teenagers look happy and smile very close to me and I do not know if I look with envy or pity. In my head are the inscription on a "vanitas" Baroque, "What you are left, so I'll be."
La Rue Ste-Catherine is so long, over one kilometer, which leads me to another pedestrian shopping street, Rua de Santa Catarina in Porto. Here as there, I buy books at the FNAC, the browsing at a cafe, I let myself be lulled by an animation that has gone on since the Roman times when the street was the hub which crossed from north to south the city. Quinconces
The Esplanade, with its stalls of fried food and its huge Ferris wheel, brings taste of childhood. Climb, of course, the wheel. Never miss a chance to see a city from above. I can almost shake hands with the winged freedom that is perched on a column at the monument to the Girondins. I like the variegation of this huge fountain without water, with its prancing horses, their solemn allegories, their naked goddesses and the strange couple in the midst of all this mythological mess, looks strangely eyes. One of them, the older, nineteenth-century shows a mustache, the other somewhat younger, is beardless, both of them naked, the more places his hand tenderly on the shoulder younger. I wonder what the sculptor wanted to represent this sample of male companionship? I observed from above, indifferent to the city that unfolds around him and petted by the crescent of the Garonne.


Activity in the Public Garden, with no one on the first morning, a palace gate of iron and gold heraldic. Everything is as you just created, and finish drawing the deft hand of eighteenth-century botanist. There seems real, but a colored film in which I go into a scented silence. On the north side, on a terrace adorned with Ionic columns, I find "the smooth good looks and tired / of that young man embracing a chimera, with the sculpture of Pierre Granet and filled with confusion Mauriac's adolescence and to which he dedicated one of his youthful poems.


then by Les Chartons Road, the old quarter of the wines, which has lost its commercial animation and port, but no mystery. Walk along the Quai de Bacalan, the spring of cod, now occupied by a succession of restaurants and shopping. I am facing the river, shining cloudy, close eyes for a moment and I'm in Puerto Madero, facing the River Plate in Buenos Aires a few lonely days, waiting also something that never came, but came.



Friday, March 11

LE CAFÉ FRANÇAIS
"You're full of mysteries and secrets," he once said. "If we are transparent, what interest would we have?" I answered. Sitting in Le Café Français in Cathedral Square, looking towards the Rohan Palace, the city of Bordeaux, and he remembered that day in June 1940 that met here last time the government before surrendering unconditionally to Germany. In this same cafe, a English exile, Chaves Nogales, awaited events. He was surrounded by people who drank and talked and applauded when it was learned that the war was over. And they kept clapping when, shortly thereafter, imprisoned the Jews in the great synagogue before taking them to slaughter.


This city is bright, like me, full of shadows, turbidity and betrayal. The next day, June 17, a soldier named Charles de Gaulle, who disagree with the shameful armistice shipped to England. Sailing Garonne, an exiled Republican, Chaves Nogales see also "quietly become the land of France in a thin blue line that vanished as they were fading illusions that we have put in that land."


Saturday, March 12


OFTEN Often I think I've wasted my life forever wander the same streets, drinking coffee at the same sites every day practicing identical routines. In my head comes Cavafy's poem: "You will not find another land or another sea. / There is no way for you boat. / In all the universe destroyed because you have destroyed / in this narrow corner of the earth. "

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Saturday, February 26 WITH LEZAMA


"His imagination lavish trips organized." Anton visited Arrufat that Lezama Lima, every Tuesday, at five o'clock in the afternoon. "I got seated in his chair, a kind of armchair that could accommodate his huge body. By that time had gained a lot, walked with difficulty and just got up from that chair of large earrings and large arms. Getting to Paseo del Prado, a few steps from home, cost him great effort. With just close your eyes, "she said one day I can be in the cathedral of Zamora to hear Sunday mass with Christopher Columbus on the eve of his trip to America, see Catherine the Great walking along the frozen banks of the Volga or attend at the North Pole to the birth of a Eskimo who then eat the placenta. No need to leave my house to be in the place I want when I want. "
What counts Anton Arrufat in Hispanic Notebooks already heard him tell it in front of the house of Lezama, Trocadero street, close to the nineteenth century and shabby chic Paseo del Prado. We came to look through the window next to the double portal manuelino vaguely, and pointed to where he sat Lezama. "On the wall was a large sepia photograph of his late father, a handsome man, dressed in military uniform."
Through Arrufat words, this lonely Sunday afternoon I get some of the magic of Lezama, that asthmatic whale to which the Revolution left stranded in a shadowy corner of Havana vociferous. I open a book and I listen to her voice that I have not heard before: "In the literary feast, the American comes to fulfill the function that performs the greatest test. After bringing the baking trays, fruit smiling and auroral ribs crustacean, is the knob rearward. The Westerner, trained in the drop distilling, refining added the essence of coffee, which brings the delight of some Turkish overtures to Mozart. "
I've spent my life looking for the right person. This afternoon, no one dream in Havana Lezama conversation in a room full of smoke and ghosts.



Sunday, February 27
GOD And I

"What you will not believe in God," he says Cristian "you're always talking about him?".
"Of course I believe in God" I answer, I do not think there is. "


Monday, February 28
begin worrying

long telephone conversation with an old friend of Seville, which every day is more noticeable the facade that perhaps always was. Not yet identified the true reality, which is behind the lies of politicians, which has La Gaceta de los Negocios , but little is missing. I, as always, I am not to challenge their beliefs, but to put some rigor in reasoning. Futile effort, of course. After an hour of talk, we parted amiably, I convinced him that I am dogmatic and that, once again, I'm the only one showing reasonable and the only one who does not confuse fact with opinion.
hang up the phone and start worrying. To see if I will be like the motorist who heard on the radio of a vehicle traveling in the opposite direction, looking out the window and exclaimed in amazement: "You? Everybody, everybody! ".



Tuesday, March 1
TIMES AND PLACES

Half my life is spent with eyes closed, another dimension of life. I simply close your eyes for a moment, as Lezama, the immobile traveler Trocadero Street, to feel around me the hustle and bustle of this coffee novelero Street Hazard, corner of Alcalá. Arrived here in late 1891, a young Guatemalan accompanied by Alice, his French girlfriend. It occurred to her loving kiss, as usual in Paris, and both were about to be lynched. Fornos In coffee, the locals of the time, did not consent such immorality, except slightly in the first floor reserved. Fornos
Now the former is one of the many Starbucks that have invaded Madrid, to me brings back memories of New York and coffee that Barnes & Noble that overlooks the trees and the fragrant and colorful market in Union Square.


times and places are superimposed, as in a poem by Juan Ramón Jiménez, in this corner of Madrid where the missed time with a friend who knows that silence together is sometimes the best way to talk.
Life is certainly something that happens in the past, like rain in Borges sonnet. But in the past that just will not ever happen and that reaches out to this present out of time, the anticipation of eternity.


Wednesday, March 2
ABOUT THE POST

ascend by a soulless Cuesta de Moyano. In the book stalls apathetic, nothing that catches my attention. I remember the days when melancholy these rides were a party. Suddenly, one of the booksellers boring recognize me. "In poetry I have little," he says. "Now I'm more interested in other things" I answer. I've wasted too much time reading poets who were not even bad, just mediocre, or even poets, young one. "


I buy a book by Jorge Wagensberg that speaks of science and literature and gives me a novel of Adelaide The Saints, Poets coffee. "No is a great novel, or even a novel, but it is curious. " Then, when I have moved away, comes running to give me another book, Verses skirts, history and anthology of a gathering of women founded back in 1951.
Both titles are worth little, talk about poets who no longer mean anything, if it ever meant anything, of wasted time in an unrequited love for literature. The greyness of the chilly afternoon in Madrid and this site fills my soul. I glimpse my future literary ash and nothing in the troubled lot of books to anyone interested.
But discouragement soon disappears. On the one hand (although I know that these things should not be say in public) I'm pretty sure that's not going to be and, secondly, if I'm wrong, I will not ever know.
"always so vain!" Says my favorite partner. Vain, yes, but the genre less annoying: as praise I prefer are those of posterity, never go around begging tributes, awards, never be bitter, like almost all the poets of my age.



Thursday, March 3
ONCE UPON A TIME

What a great start to a story: "People did not seem possible for a girl of fourteen leave your home in winter to avenge death his father, but then it seemed so strange, although I admit I was one of those things that occur daily. I had just turned fourteen years when a coward who used the name of Tom Chaney shot my father in Fort Smith, Arkansas, taking his life, the horse and one hundred fifty dollars in cash, apart from two California gold pieces that had been in the belt. "
The novel by Charles Portis, True Grit , us recount the Cohen brothers and the cinema's new sizzling hypnotic that fascinated me so much during adolescence.
do not know what the secret of a good story, but I recognize it immediately. Be that as it may seem to talk about something else always talks about me, ghosts and terrors that take away my dreams and lives that I would have liked to live. And you really live as I hear the magic "once upon a time."


Friday, March 4
TRUTH

"who confuse sincerity with spontaneity," says Montero-Garcia was sentenced to say about himself and the world from a very naive position. The good people on the street talks a lot, thinks, says almost always the first thing they come up and parroted what others have put into the environment as common sense as the dominant view. Believe they are sincere and are flocks of parrots. The truth is an end point, which may never arrive at all, but we can be getting closer. The truth is an exercise in discovery of our relations with the world and our own privacy. "
I should not say, but I am increasingly less interested in the simple view of people, Cereijo friend. I'm not thinking as far from Antonio Machado: "Do you really? No. The truth. / And come with me to seek. / Yours, keep her. "


Saturday, March 5
PLEASURE AND WORK

Wagensberg In the book, I bought the other day on the slope of Moyano, find a compliment of the conversation: "The most creative moments and places in the history of humanity have occurred just when the conditions have been better to talk."
I think a good talker, but my friends do not think so. And probably right: I lack the patience for nonsense outside, uninformed opinions. Talking is something more to say the first thing that one comes to mind.
My ideal partner is younger than me, know less, but smarter. Although I presume that smart (and I strive to be), not difficult for me to find someone more than me: mental agility (such as physical agility) is youth thing. After a certain age, you have to do daily exercise to avoid tummy and that neurons do not rust. I do not mind having belly, but I try everything I can to always have as my primary tool of pleasure and work.

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Saturday, February 19
NOT DISCUSS

"Every day you are more unbearable," a friend tells me. "Soon there will be no you're impossible." The truth is that I've always liked to discuss, I'm a born polemicist, but increasingly find fewer people with whom I like to discuss. What a waste of time. It's like playing chess someone who does not respect the rules or cheat without being continually made aware of that does.
"You think you're smarter than anybody," he is my friend Elena. "Think you're the only one reported before talking about a topic, the only one who respects the rules of logic, the only one not widespread abuse ..."
accept the reprimand because every time I like less discuss, especially if there is an audience before which to try to show off. But the truth, I must admit that I think are smarter than many people, I try to tell me before talking about any issue, respect the rules of logic, no widespread abuse. And every time I find it harder to say "that is nonsense "when I hear that nonsense.
"God gave us the thought as evidence. / Blessed are those who do not know that it takes, "writes Unamuno and I must make an effort not to apply them to my friend while I hear about this and that nonsense.
I like to discuss how others like to play soccer or tennis. As they put all their effort to win, I put all my efforts to be right. But if I have not, nothing happens. I give a hand to my opponent and I'm glad I learned something new or having delivered an error.


But do not argue about anything, of course. Not occur to me to engage in polemics whether it is better to vote for this party or that other person. Now what if I would defend before any game is what should join if you are vocationally corrupt, someone with the lucrative trend bordering on legality and often out of it. To me, if these, or I happen to affiliate with the Socialist Party. There, at the first hurdle, they turn away from you and leave you at the feet of horses, and the good Riopedre, that the Government of Asturias exconsejero that old age has become the unwitting star of a novel by Franz Kafka. First you stop, you will be humiliated, he imprisons and then, without any hurry, looking for a particular crime is to accuse him. What a difference from the Popular Party. Yes there is human rights defenders of the corrupt, alleged or not. There will be pampered and loves them, they are piropea jelly, throw the dogs against judges and prosecutors, they are put under the protection of Federico Trillo, who in court knows it all and would be able saved from the gallows to Jack the Ripper.
I'm not saying that there is more corruption in one party than another. I'm just saying that if I were a politician and not be able to resist certain temptations seek to affiliate with the party that best I'd try, to which I was going to leave my position until he had strong conviction and he would ensure them that no never arrived.


Sunday, February 20
not think

Talk Francisco Lain, the man who served as acting president during the hours of occupation of the Congress of Deputies: "I gave Adolfo Suárez a confidential report prepared by the services police information. Before he had gone to the Interior Minister Juan Jose Roson, but when I read it said it was too hard and why I released it Adolfo directory. In the report, two pages, indicating that King did not attempt to criticize harshly to President Smith in conversation with people and very different environments. It added that the monarch expressed openly disagreed with decisions made by Smith and raised the desirability of a possible relief of the president. "
If that is true, and we have no reason to doubt, it is clear that in the coup that took us thirty years ago there was guessing, as in the murder according to the tenth Villamediana attributed to Góngora, "an impulse sovereign." And the king, may be as folksy and friendly as you like, but it seems clear (with reports by police) that his behavior, contrary to what flatterers say, has not always been "impeccably constitutional." But I the king that a basic sense of prudence than he seemed lacking back in 1980 and 1981 - I think not. I merely record for when circumstances change, that I was not (nor in the case of the limitation of rights to part of the Basque population with tricks that do not bother to appear legal) who communed with chauvinistic millstones.



Monday, February 21
THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER

Am I in love with myself? I'm afraid so, and for all, but however much I try I can not stay faithful to that one true love.



Tuesday, February 22
AROUND THE WORLD

In my usual treasure cave, Valdés library, I encounter a Portfolio of Photografs prepared, according to the cover, "under the supervision of prominent lecturer and traveler John L. Stoddard. " It is printed in Chicago, does not indicate on what date, but everything seems to indicate that it was around 1900: Cuba is not English, is not a car through the streets and along the Brooklyn Bridge still does not appear in Manhattan Built in 1903. Even the photograph had not been so popular and volume, as stressed by the prologue, was a treasure.


As I take a coffee give a fascinating trip around the world a century ago. I stop particular routine I'm that, in places I know: the Piazza dell 'Acqua Verde, in Genoa, where, after the statue of Columbus, still do not see a hotel that I know well; Naples seen from San Martino, with Vesuvius smoke making your particular question mark, Marina Grande, where the sea Capri let you get your feet wet, the boulevards of Paris, "the city of this" we are told, as Rome (see the Capitol with statues and are not) is the city of the past ... Photos of jungles and mountains, waterfalls and gorges interest me less. I prefer the work of man that God's work. Put another way, I more interested in what God is doing through the man who makes directly, "where there is no corrupted everything artifice of nature."


A coffee, a book, a time just for me and the whole world at my fingertips and my dreams. I'm a lucky man.



s Wednesday, February 23
THIRTY YEARS AFTER

As everyone, including me asked me where I was an afternoon like today thirty years ago. Read my answer, in the same newspaper edition Avilesina I read then, while taking a coffee after going through the library "Banks Candamo" and leave it with a new book: "I just leave the library Bances Candamo and was browsing the books in a cafeteria ..." I fall
soon realized that at six and a half from February 23, 2011 I'm doing, and almost in the same place, exactly what he was doing at that time on February 23, 1981. I suspect that my reputation as the routine I have is well earned.


Thursday, February 24 A SONG


"Ma noi siamo come l'erba dei prati / che present on il vento Passaro know ..." Where did that song I heard this afternoon sad again and again to my memory? And suddenly I remember, I remember it well. We had spent the day together, an endless summer day, bright and a cool breeze eased the heat. At eleven p.m. started a train at eleven-forty other. Iban in opposite directions. We had arrived in time to the station. We sat in the cafeteria and suddenly, after the euphoric days, full of churches and palaces, and that corner in the garden di Boboli, away from all eyes fell on us all tired and all the melancholy of the world. Knew too well from the beginning that he would not have had before then and none intended to regret. The two had another life in another place and we were happy with it and the grace of this adventure (which happen by chance, stumble upon two or three places with phone in hand: "It seems we took the same route we could go together ") was precisely in its alacrity without compromise.


" I wish this day never ends, I said, knowing it was better not to say, it was better not say anything. "I would have liked that did not end precisely because it never ends.'ve known my best side, I have others, "he answered." It's better that way, I know, but that does not mean that now I feel the most miserable person in the world after having been the most fortunate. " "I get the impression that this film and I have seen more than once," he answered trying to take a joke my sadness, it was yours too. "Sometimes life is like bad movies topical and sentimental" I tried to joke. And then someone had a transistor on a nearby table (it was still the time when people used transistors) rang that song, I've never heard again, which I only remember two lines: "Ma come siamo noi l ' erba dei prati / che present on ...». know Passaro il vento


Friday, February 25 STILL


Yes, we are like the grass of the meadows which feels about himself pass wind ... The wind that you took you to Paris and then New York, and me to Rome then to Oviedo. The wind that blows me away still and increasingly move myself without even the site.
I almost lose my train, which was first started. I know too well not have been happier had he been less cautious and would have lost. I know too well. But now, on this sad morning, I again remembered a song about the grass of the meadows and see you smiling saying goodbye on the platform. Smiling, without a tear, but something tells me that if you train had been the first to leave you would have lost. And another would have been my life. I do not know if better or worse, I know differently. And today there's nobody who does not envy just be me.