Sunday, February 13
DREAM COMES AS
"I found myself in front of me yourself at a crossroads." I like those verses of Angel Gonzalez, who I repeat myself often. I find myself facing myself this evening, before sleep, as every night.
Have you learned anything in all these years?, I think.
I learned to complain less and thank more.
would you choose another path if they were to meet in the ancient crossroads with the experience you have now?
Maybe, but I suspect that any other way I would at the same site.
Do you consider yourself a failure?
No, except that all men are.
A winner then?
not, and certainly not from the point of view. In college I will enjoy the rare honor of retiring, when you have no choice, not before being the last of the ladder. I'm not complaining, what I am is very close to what I wanted to be. Do you miss
success as a writer?, "that when you publish a book, albeit a mess, all the cultural supplements you spend the first page and was amazed admiration?
The truth is that I would not mind anything. But for me, success is like chocolate: I like it, but I can move pretty well without him.
What about love? Would you like to have had more success in love?
A boat soon I would say yes, but if I think about it, I know, I know ... I'm afraid that in that aspect, I have never ceased to be fourteen. I have not been able to mature. I like the impossible love. As an impossible love begins to be possible also the problems begin. And start to stop interested. I've never been able to commit. At this point in life I do not think you learn to do it. I have to resign.
not usually make it clear, when you talk about your love, whether it is male or female. "This ambiguity is deliberate?
course. But I seem to be any ambiguity.
Do you believe in God?
No. What's that?
disappear forever, do not you panic?
do not believe in God, but I believe in fate Nothing like the end. And I think a more comforting.
Do you spend your life telling your life? Are there things you have not ever told?
The more I care. I am a writer bashful. It seems that I get the naked truth on stage, but always wears a flesh-colored mesh.
How would you like to be remembered?
Already want to write my epitaph? Well, here goes: "He did what he could." I did: I could. Not anymore. But no less.
Monday, February 14 SYROS
By lifting the eyes of the book surprised me on TV, blinking in the corner, the smiley face friend and Maria Duran. He was my guide in Syros, the capital of the Cyclades, and now I'm invited back to tour the island. I recall the warning of Ana Vega: Monday, Mary participates in "Asturian in the world." I came
Siros in a tiny, rickety plane with one company for a florid bearded priest and a man with a hat that was missing only the whip to look like Indiana Jones. The airport was just a hut in the middle of windy and desolate hills. What I come here to do, I wondered. It was not the image that I had become a Greek island. But getting off the car, facing the Bay of Hermúpolis, I knew I had come home.
places with me as it is with people: love is always love at first sight. Eyes look at me randomly in streets and I know who I want to spend the rest of my life. Idle bustle of the avenue, between blue sea and the nineteenth of the lackluster packaging buildings, makes me feel at ease, it seems that invites me to sit on any of the terrace and listen to a story. Nearby
a great victory boosts bronze laurel wreath and in the background, you can see the stately portico of a palace. If I leave something, I see the two hills that crown a city that abounds in neoclassical palaces, elaborate ironwork balconies, secret gardens, magnificent churches and cafes in which idle slowly and steadily see over time.
Syros has a long history: it was Phoenician, Greek and Roman, Venetian and Turkish. But the story is much shorter Hermúpolis. The population of the island piled up on a hill, Ano Syros, under the church of San Jorge, to protect against pirates. Since 1820, refugees began arriving in Asia Minor, Greece occupied the struggling Italian unification. It was enterprising people, and the port in the best position of the eastern Mediterranean. Soon filled with activity and buildings around the bay. The old residents of Syros, Catholics, wanted nothing to do with those affluent newcomers, mostly Orthodox. They returned the contempt creating a new city, which gave name in an assembly in the church of the Metamorphosis. They wanted to dedicate it to Hermes, the god of commerce, and therefore called it Hermúpolis. Until the end of the century was the most prosperous city in Greece, one of the most cosmopolitan of the Mediterranean. Those good bourgeois, rich with maritime traffic, the City Council commissioned the best architect, built an opera house modeled after that of Milan, they met, in the English, in clubs where you can read the newspapers of the world, listening to music , do business, discuss policy, to them should also be the first public school that was in Greece and the first female high school. That
prosperity lasted little more than half a century. But Hermúpolis not a ghost town, but is full of ghosts and nowhere best to summon them to the cemetery of Agios Georgios, with its angelic sphinxes, their bearded heroes, their butterflies and pink marble. The city's history is written in some epitaphs that speak to people from Venice and Izmir, London and New York, very different and distant places to make large Syrians and stay forever in this place.
But the sector of the cemetery that moves me most is full of graves equal and anonymous: the Great War soldiers, traveling in ships sunk by German submarines, whose name God only knows.
I open my eyes. Now Mary is in the Miaoulis square opposite the statue of the hero and bandstand with delicate carvings that pay homage to Orpheus and the Muses, greets a student, goes to a bakery to teach traditional sweets of the island. I know that if I pass on the left front of the Apollo Theater, I will come to a small green square on which stands the church of St. Nicholas, with its beautiful blue dome that characterizes the profile of the city, come after a palace street overlooking the sea. This is the Vaporia district, preferred by most successful traders, from their windows they could see the boats arrive.
Tuesday, February 15
LOVE SPEECH
Love is a chimera, a being verbal only exists in words.
The love you feel if you do not say.
First we fall in love and then decide from whom.
The lover is never bored.
Without love, life is crazy argument.
The love that never seeks its own destruction is not really in love.
If heaven and earth, I smile, I love, but still do not know who.
The love that we have attached, the love we have unleashed.
love is sit and wait who never comes because I was with you before you were born.
Wednesday, February 16
HAVE NO MORE LIFE
memory is curious. I was just a few days in Syros, but could draw a detailed map of Hermúpolis, pointing to the friend to go there my favorite: Kymata the stony beach, hidden behind the buildings of the old customs (I found it polished by the sea , a small piece of marble in which still distinguish the folds of the dress of some statue) Kimisseos Church with its icon, painted by El Greco, the Archaeological Museum and the cats who hope to go next door for visitors , a steep place in the maze of Ano Syros, overflowing bougainvillea and the shimmering blue of the bay looking out for any corner ...
I just a look, a few words, one night, for a person to be part of my life forever, I just a look, a walk one or two nights happy for a forever part of the story of my life.
My life? I have no more life than my dreams. The best thing that ever happened to me I do not ever happened.
Thursday, February 17
MORE LIKE WHAT
What I like about being in love is being in love, knowing that walk around the world wrapped in a dazzling invisible armor, so indestructible as the helmet of Mambrino.
be in love I like to be with you, love, simple excuse for a god I have from his hand.
Friday, February 18
IN THE GARDEN
In the garden of your home, how I remember it, podabas a linden tree trimmer with a long pole resting on, the buds fell on a sheet spread on the ground. I stared, motionless on the sidewalk, do not know if you or a tree or sea behind the two, just a sea of \u200b\u200bocean color in the maps that made me dream as a child.
No sleepless night that perfume the scent of that lime.
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