96.5 Temperature Body

the other side: Looks like I'm just

Friday, December 3
VI BLACK EYES

I'm very realistic, but I think the reality has cracks through which one can slip into another reality. Last night, tired of not sleeping, near and in the morning, I went for a walk. Walking at a rapid pace, to ward off cold, the park of San Julián de los Prados, which is next to my house when I was struck a light in the grass near one of the benches, as if someone had left a flashlight on the floor. It was a kind of trap door open by descending a ladder into a brightly lit interior. I did not think twice and began to descend. The spiral staircase and round spinning around itself. Seemed endless, as if stretching out as I descended. When it was decided to withdraw and start the arduous climb, before me appeared a garden. Not an underground garden: on our laurels and orange trees opened the bluest sky I've ever seen. In a bank very similar to the one above, where the ladder began, I found an open book and turned upside down, as if any readers have had to hurriedly leave it there. It was a volume in the Southern that I knew very well: arabigoandaluces Poems translated by Emilio Garcia Gomez. I sat down and started to reread those verses that, in many cases, I almost knew by heart: "When the day was dying away the night full of youth. " Then, do not know why, I remembered the end of a sonnet by Borges: "I also think that partner / I expected and maybe I expected."


He was good there. "Why do to be happy / you must not know?" Asked Pessoa. I've learned to be aware of the happiness in the present. I was happy in that garden so close to my house, in another world. I closed my eyes for a moment and, when opened, had my hand an elderly woman who had approached me without my noticing. He wore black skirts, white cap, like old stories, and his face I was vaguely familiar. "Would you please return my book?" He said. "It's my grandson, who is always reading. End insane, like Don Quixote. " "I have not finished crazy, grandma," I reply. He walked away with the book in their hands, smiling, and I followed in the midst of a strange silence could not be heard or the chirping of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the water in the marble source was in the middle of a roundabout. I do not know how I lost sight of. She and garden. I was in a dimly lit basement, in a corner, a wet staircase led up lost in the dark. I went for it, wearily, seemed that there was never finished. A memory came a note from Marilyn Monroe in his secret notebooks: "When all I want is to die." I lifted the hatch. He had begun to dawn. The skyline, with the tower of the cathedral at the top, was outlined in a milky sky. A dog started barking early riser. At the end of the string that held it was a soothing smile and very black eyes. Manuel Machado remembered: "Black eyes saw and from then the world / all black for me." "Too early to walk without a dog," he said. And I thought: "Too late for you to see for the first time." Leaving the dog at home and went to mine. I told him where he came from. He looked at me smiling, showing no surprise. "Nor do I know if you're for real or not," he said. Since then nothing in the world is black to me.


Saturday, December 4
BUT NEVER SAY

Among the phrases that I repeat always, are a few verses of Rafael Montesinos "I'm dying because I want / But I'll never tell." To me, however, I want matters little to me, I'm content with that, who I love, is left wanting.


Sunday, December 5
GOOD DISCIPLE

agree on the Sunday coffee and Fontan Cristian López-Vega. Martin, while handing me the last book of the editorial handling, broken glass, and I talk about its many multilingual projects, take the opportunity to disagree with everything I say. Cristian, however, listen to me as if I were the literature in person.
"Have you read your paper today," he says. I see you follow the same formula: first consider what someone tells you you're on the train or in the library of Avilés, then quotes a few paragraphs of the book you are reading and later leveraged to mess with a friend or the Gamoneda shift. Thus any written ten books a year! How the Renaissance anthology includes new poems? Although I fear not differ much from previous ones. Are not you tired and formulilla of dramatic monologue? ".
"Ten years ago, Martín López-Vega was like you, hopefully within ten years and it's you," I say then when we walk by Cristian Campillín. "I think that Lopez-Vega spoke in jest when he gets you," he says. "A little joke and something serious. When you return to the gathering always gives the impression that you want to be caliph instead of the caliph and, as it fails, we look a little over his shoulder. But I do not think bad of me to leave the case and is dedicated to rave on their own. Quite the contrary. Bad teacher who does not strive to get beyond his students. Of course I practice the double game: I do everything possible to get to where I am, but when they get there I try to stay one step further. Nor should we put it too easy. "


Monday, December 6 DEVOTIONS


Among the books in an editorial yesterday I went López-Vega is one of Clara Janes advertising, as a major complaint, including letters from Antonio Gamoneda. She indicated these poems are "the most irrational I've written." And the illustrious poet takes away his lucid theoretical vein: "Without full stop, urgently, I ask that you do not ever use the word 'irrational', awkwardly wedged in his day, Bousoño, I think. The antinomy 'rational-irrational' is strictly zoological. Another thing is the 'madness' that can be human and even divine. "
so lucky Gamoneda the good that only irrational behavior has been detected in the animal kingdom, not between politicians or between lovers, even between drivers in a traffic jam or a discussion of traffic. The
Hidden Variables poems "says Clara Janes" are the type of text "I do to calm myself when I can not write and tell me: is for me, so whatever happens. Then, as now, there is someone who asks you a book. " Fortunately, that someone was not Martín López-Vega, but Jeannette L. Clariond (owner of the publishing house that he does not run at all, unfortunately), who once said, "I want to make you a special book, as he did with Juan Carlos Mestre Gamoneda." And here's that special book, "From the beloved friend and froze at night and the whiteness was not to appear" (end quote and the poem.)
Clara Janes To me I like best is the least cottony. The Paths of Romania , for example, recounts a trip mixing verse prose, in the manner of Basho and Trails Oku. The trouble is that this trip was funded by Ceausescu and not get lost in the sheer lyricism says in the introductory note that he used the reports "objective and scientific" that Romanian institutions gave him. Even recounts an encounter with the great leader, wonderful in its simplicity, and expressed his amazement at the Romanian Humanist "and the ease with which one lives in the country and is well suited to the peculiar idiosyncrasies of the people."
But there is nothing to reproach to the poet, neither is the only one who admired Ceausescu nor the only one cops to Gamoneda. Since I read your Romania Trails I have been in memory Zaharia Stancu verses: "In me a star wound on with sadness / and the sorrel neighs from the dark night."



Tuesday, December 7 DATING


What reason is my friend López-Vega. Story always the same, always repeat the same dates. When things go wrong, some poems of Vincent Gaos: "Life is hard / and there is no consolation. / Take the handkerchief / literature. " And when I repent of being alone, Ibsen, "The strongest man is the one most alone." O Gaston Baquer: "It seems I'm alone, but I carry a world of ghosts."



Wednesday, December 8
STATION IN

Before seeing for the first time he had often dreamed of you. I always happens. Nothing ever happens in my life, nothing worth living, who has not lived first in dreams.
Getting off the train at that station which had never been, I was filled with a strange peace, even though I've never liked unknown places and that I never do anything for the first time, if I can help.
No one had come to meet me, despite what I had been announced. The few travelers who came down there, which had not been one to wait, disappeared quickly (one of them looked at me again). I went to the bar, ask for the phone to call a taxi. But it was closed. As there was nobody to ask, I walked down a street of low houses looked like the decor of some old movie. Doors and windows were closed, no one stepped on the sidewalks. No need to ask, I found the hotel I had reserved room. To be the only hotel, or only a certain category. It was near the station and its facade was chipped caryatids and other signs of fanciful architecture of the early twentieth century. I said my name at the reception. Indeed, had booked room and hall of Doric columns and ornate lamps were some gentlemen waiting for me. I went over to say hello, surprised to find them there and not at the station. But there had been some misunderstanding. They thought it would come by car. Years ago the trains did not stop in that town that had seen better times. The station was closed. "Well I was not the only one who got out." Smiled. "Things poet "must have thought.
morning I read my poems, I sparse crowd applauded politely, and after a boring dinner, I went to sleep. "I should not have accepted the invitation," he said. I soon fell asleep. When I awoke, I realized I was not alone. I do not know how I guessed that he would never be alone, very lonely he was.

What Is My Spc Number On My Spc Bmo Mastercard?

J. Wine Tasting Miquel Jané

On my birthday we went to dinner at a restaurant told me about co-workers, was very good but a bit expensive, well that's another story. That day my friends gave me as a gift, taking advantage of them would also make a visit to the cellar J. Miquel Jané for two people. Whenever there birthday gift you never know what to choose, is a dilemma, this was successful, at least for me, although my wife does not love the wine was fine with going out and spending a day outside, she points to a bombing if necessary.

We came for a house because we were just going in a car, 7 seats, as always had to wait just a little bit. We got bugger off to the Alt Penedes, stepping out in Vilafrafranca to Pacs, Viloví to Font Rubí. We arrived half an hour before and we asked who coordinated the visit if we had time to go to breakfast, there was no problem the people were nearby.

went back and to lose no time we got into the first bar and restaurant we saw, Cal Pau Xichen. I always get up and breakfast as soon as they welcomed us with churros to pick us up, but despite all the snacks and wine for the table roller, a good breakfast, take advantage of that as we were leaving the tasting later decided to ask the same table as we taste and seemed to look good to eat, we had to climb was getting late.

Once in the winery after separation by group presentation and showed us the vineyards, the guide put it all on your part but the cold and especially the air us to be a little absent explanation, but even so the minimum notions could assimilate.








Without almost questions with a desire to take refuge on a roof and be more warm went into the cellar, and told us we could see the development of various wines. It is a small winery but the visit was lengthened by a few curious questions already entered heat, but with the next part of the insurance program that we left over some clothes tasted.

made us enter a room where everything was half prepared for the tasting, there was a U-shaped tables with their drinks all accompanied by an appetizer. The winemaker gave us to try four different wines, white, pink and red crianza and reserve. I Galicia than wine I have not found any white that I call attention, like the pink but this I liked a lot, the reds were well on the whole reserve, are not the best I've tried, but explanations given to us of how open, serve and taste it over the pecking appetizer was good experience and we forgot the cold that we just now, we happy, never better.

Finally bought some wine and a chat with the guide, who happened to know the owner of a bodega in the neighborhood, a very knowledgeable and nice guy, we asked if he was okay the site we had chosen to eat, it seemed strange we found there site and we advise you to ask for lunch, we parted and we could not miss the group photo made.

When we Xichen Cal Pau, was packed, if I remember bad it was almost three, but our table had it ready. Most suggested we ask what the guide Xató salad first and second duck with the llosa others asked other salad, squid, beans and snails, the truth is that everyone ate very well, we finally offered a plate with carquiñolis and little balls of chocolate with dried fruit in a jug accompanied by little with muscatel and finally some shots, all on account of the house.



You might be wondering what all this because it?, Was not cheap, about 30 € per person, that if we left very full, the price depends on what ask and you want to spend, you already know.

If not in this to be another but my advice is, go out and do new things if the crisis allows us, because these are the memories that we take.

Women Retirement Clip Art

Across: The house by the roadside

Saturday, November 27 An admirable


I am the most vain of the world. Well, we must not boast. Let's say simply that I am vain, like everyone else. Earn my sympathy is very easy: just praise what I write. "A fan"-signed and-read my contributions on Sundays and Thursdays and the first hour, without missing a day, send me your comments, I always seemed wise and intelligent. But the letters began to change in tone: "Yesterday I saw you, you did not see me, you seemed very sad," "The time you spent in the Colonial was I by your side: you read a book by Alice Munro, then a lady happened to you the newspaper before you go you got a black notebook and wrote some notes, "I feel happy when I'm by your side, invisible as a ghost."


I said that if this was a joke was not funny. For a few weeks back was devoted to praising what I wrote. I calmed down, a fan can be forgiven everything. She answered, to thank him for his words. Now I know I should have interrupted that contact. But I lose my vanity, I said. This morning, sitting in the cafeteria of the Atrium as every Saturday since I do not know how long, the waitress brought me a book he had left for me. It was a novel by Edith Wharton. He had two paragraphs underlined. The first read: "The mornings were over for her. Were linked to too many lost pleasures: the homecoming party where there was dance till you drop, those increases down the slope through the dark gray increasingly clear the garden, when assaulted the fragrance of the bushes and tangled in the thorns insidious, until you reach the top, the village perched on the rock, and then the door, in the shadow of the tree with honey scent, that unexpected kiss (it really is unexpected, because long ago it was agreed to be just friends) and the attempt to escape the arm insistently and new pressure on their lips of others young enough to preserve freshness after a night of drinking and play and live. "
In the paper noted the page was written: "To your collection of sunrises. " The second paragraph read: "He remembered his week-this week only six years ago when they were together in a lost place in Normandy where there was no railroad in fifteen miles, and had to get in the car to the farm Farmer hidden by the apple blossoms, and he and she came every morning to spend the whole day out, he spent time drawing on the banks, under the willow trees and beside the moss-covered rural churches, and every day for seven days she looked at the dawn of life on the farm at the foot of their windows, while poured cold water on her face and combed and touched up his face before he wakes up, because after thirty-dawn light is merciless. He remembered everything, and how safe he felt in that moment that she was destined to live on a farm and raise chickens, the same security that was him that was meant to be a great painter. Yes, I could still imagine that kind of life retained its light in every fiber of the body. " In the handwritten note read: "We have not yet lived our week of glory. But it's close. "


I have a nasty habit of giving a last look at e-mail before going to sleep. There was an email from the anonymous fan: "I have booked the hotel. Not in Normandy, but here in Asturias, a place lost in forests and mountains. Do not tell you the dates. I want to be a surprise. One night close your eyes and open them there, in paradise. The suitcase and I completed my return. I'll take you blindfolded, like that young man in crossing the great hall of Grand Central, without any fear, without fear of tripping over one, guided only by a friendly hand. So long, my love. "
Does the suitcase and you have prepared? A jump went to the closet where I keep the bags and one of them was indeed ready for the trip, his clothes neatly folded, much better when I do. That was crazy at my house!


Sunday, November 28

ADVICE
As we walk among the stalls of old books of the Fontan will tell the story of yesterday to my friend Catherine. "If you is not tell me a story, because Martin is that you never know if I believe you, I'd advise you to go to the police."
Although psycho fan Misery, Stephen King's novel is one of my worst nightmares, I do not go to the police. I will just change the lock.


Monday, November 29
AN ISSUE
Browse a friend
critical edition of If they say they fell , Juan Marse's novel, just published Chair. In the first volume appears the whole novel, the second-hundred pages-is devoted entirely to "critical apparatus", ie the careful annotation of the differences between the 1976 edition, the 1989 and the 2010, which been revised and corrected by the author, to tell, for example, that if in 1976 wrote "I" then put "it" and later returned to put "him."
"think I'm ignorant," says my friend, but to me it seems as though the end of every book published a list of errata that have been found in every review and any corrections made by the author. "
"Do not tell anyone, but I think the same. A critical edition does not take into account all the variants to offer to readers, but to choose between them which answers to the last will of the author. When this is ignored, as in the works of medieval manuscripts are preserved in contradictory, it is necessary to compare these alternatives and reason why they choose one of them for editing. Where the author lives, the final text is the last issue that he has given good. Doing what is done here, apart from wasting time and paper and, most likely, public money-is to take the hair and confuse the rigor of science with a boring way to waste time. "


Tuesday, November 30 A DREAM


"The history of dreams has never been written." So begins The world under the eyelids , James Siruela, while a well-documented research work and a fascinating anthology of stories, dreams that become life and life that melts in your dreams.
On April 11, 1865, President Lincoln and his wife had invited a group of friends to take tea with pastries at ten o'clock at night in the Red Room of the White House. Lincoln started the story of a recent dream giving bluntly: "It is strange how many mentions in the Bible about dreams ...." He recalled the sixteen chapters in the Old Testament mention the subject. "Do you believe in dreams?" Asked his wife. "The other night I had one that has me obsessed. After the dream, the first time I opened the Bible did for Chapter 28 of Genesis, which relates the wonderful dream Jacob. Again open for other places and always found a dream or a vision. " "You frighten me," said his wife. "I'm afraid I was wrong to mention this issue," said the president, but was forced to tell his dream.
One night he was listening to Gounod's Faust and major news expected, Lincoln went to bed late. Suddenly the silence was broken by sobs. He got up, put on his robe and went downstairs. While walking through the floorboard heard the click of his steps against the old wooden planks and bottom wails, which seemed ever closer. All the rooms were lighted. After touring several empty rooms arrived and saw the East Room a coffin placed on the ground. Two soldiers were guarding. The corpse's face was covered with a white handkerchief. Asked who had died. One of the soldiers said: "The president, he was murdered."
Less than a month after that dream, after three days of referring to him in the Red Room of the White House on April 14, 1865 President attends the premiere of Our American Cousin at Ford's Theatre's Washington . Shortly before the curtain falls, one of the spectators, an actor named John Wilkes Booth, he rose from his seat and secretly goes to the presidential box. When he arrived, no one guarding the entrance. Apparently the guard had absent for a moment. He hid in the dark anteroom close access to the box. He wore a hunting knife and a small pocket pistol. He knew the work, so I waited a few minutes to a scene that would raise big laughs. President accompanied by his wife Mary and a young officer with his girlfriend. No one noticed the figure that appeared behind them, pulled the gun up to a foot of the president's head and, when they started the laughter, shot. The noise of the blast could scarcely be heard. A small cloud of blue smoke came out of the box and the President's head slumped forward. The officer pounced on the murderer. Booth struck him with the knife, then grabbed the curtain rose on the railing and jumped on stage. One of his spurs hooked up with the flag, which made him stumble, fall to the ground and breaking his left leg. However quickly joined and shouted to the public, all fascinated watching him, not understanding what had happened, as if it were a representation within the representation: Sic semper tyrannis! This always happens to tyrants! The words spoken over the body of Julius Caesar. Before anyone was able to react, out the back door, where he waited a horse, and disappeared into the darkness night.



Thursday, December 2 A HOUSE


accompany some friends who do not know, during his visit to the Museum of Fine Arts. As always, I stand mesmerized by a picture of Miguel Galano: a lonely abandoned house, where I was delayed in some other life happy and I keep coming back in dreams. Nieva
dark when I return to my home alone. At the top is a verse from me Cernuda: "The truth of his dreams was for the truth of life." And then a question of Álvaro de Campos: "When I wake from being awake?".
If I wake up, hopefully in that house childhood when the shutters had not yet closed and it was inhabited only by ghosts.