For Roberto Sánchez Huerta looked
Alvaro Obregon Avenue and I said, I will keep intact the memory of this moment because everything now there will never be beaten. Carlitos Tabasco came by walking, turned in Cordoba to reach his home in Zacatecas. But he stopped at the corner of Alvaro Obregon. He saw houses, cars, people, businesses, that for a moment that is acquired without repetition as possible. Remember me, returning from winter break, my sixth grade teacher asked me a book, The Pleasure Principle, to read aloud, for the first days of 1989. He said she had known the author and we had to read that book. I remember before that there was another city, which sadly never met, which was destroyed in 1985 and was in rubble. And it was clear that the major, speaking of the city, referred to as alien and different from what I could not even envision. I also remember being in love with this teacher, Carmen Leon, "twenty-six years, twenty?, and has since preferred to hide the love and all that, perhaps hatred that I always felt my father, so palpable since then, contributed strongly to fear. And I felt the warmth of that teacher to be the best of games, the cleverest, it could not be otherwise, because then believed that only thus could be wished, since then the anguish of not knowing, worth only that. But read that book, I have for you to enjoy, the sails, yes, I also remember looking at her through each story. I imagined her in the mysterious life of a primary school teacher who ran through the city on trucks every morning from place I had never seen, then or now: Martín Carrera. Fishing in the memory, I am also sure not telling anyone anything, to hide every thought you betray me. I'm sure something else keeps the thought, something deep in those days children circular. I try to keep fishing, but something is hidden in the background with no intention of leaving. Everything comes back to clear the last day, I'm sure you know what school they will register, is, that last day of school. And I'm hiding for anyone to know, because after this day, she'll be gone, those days were far no telephones in every house, you could buy cassettes to record the LPs, and I could walk from my grandmother's house to mine by a road nearly empty on Wednesday, the day my dad left me on the dinner table seven dollars to buy Spider-Man, who in those days had already seen the death of his girlfriend Gwen Stacey, maybe even had been raised, then a professor at the University had saved a sample of his blood during an experiment and was cloned, which is why the man had been walking spider a girl exactly like Gwen, who had died as I said many episodes ago because of the Green Goblin. And I, who had been inspired by that and Blade Runner, which was in Beta form, to write a story and impress. Men snakes and space bases, all in 2019. She said: Do you really write? Maybe you're a writer. But then I just wanted to mourn for Violeta Parra, who had died many years before, but I did not know, I learned at age eleven and was impressed to give thanks for life before killing himself with a gun. So one day I asked about my future, I wrote a letter explaining that maybe I was a guitar into uncharted and Violeta Parra. The last day of school, yes I remember it well, we formed last to leave the primary. All the surround, I wept disconsolately. But she always knew my secret, approached me and said: You do not know what is happening to you. But someone already wrote. Will over the years. Do not worry. You have to read The battles in the desert. Yes, she did not know I read it and I'm reading right now. That at one time served to unravel a riddle that was unknown to himself. I chose to write, he could not be otherwise. Right now, Charlie raises his elegy to a vanished world: The silver lamps gave very little light. Twilight Town, then Rome mysterious colony. Atom huge world, ready for many years before my birth to my representation. I did not remember, I may never aware of these lines. Or maybe I was hidden in that image. But I wrote something like, long ago, referring to a dead poet: "That life, his, was the size of your room, people who visited him frequently, the streets they liked to walk. Nearby was an avenue that led him everywhere, as long as those parts were included in his life. Everything else: pictures from magazines, the projection horizon, the streets they ask hikers lost ... nothing else existed. It was a nice scenery placed to cover the vast emptiness around him. When tear with their hands to heaven? On the street people passing, walking his way, drawing a confusing path to get to houses, stations, more roads. "I was referring to a poet who died in New York at age 25 in 1918, Pedro Requena. I knew him because he used to walk Donceles with little money, and found his anthology of poets who died in the war (1914-1918), who published his family because he died of influenza, without seeing it published the same year completed war. And Chris told me he liked me that text. Ah, but I have not talked about Christian. I have not said anything, I've been in circles about myself and I said nothing of his life, that really is all I care. Christian Gaudi. You know, I saw the first day of school, when he arrived at the Faculty of Arts? And I, Assistant Research class, I arrived later that morning. When you open the door, sat in front of me and we met for a few seconds. We talked, we did not observe. It took several days until Emiliano Mora, a colleague, came to talk with me. Christian came to him. He looked at me suspiciously. The following week, we went out for coffee. Christian was more relaxed and we could talk a little. It was clear that I was testing. I guess I can skip steps. Just me mind saying that my department, and Zacatecas Tonala, Colonia Roma, near the destroyed house of Carlitos, became the meeting place of Christian and many other friends then for most of the period of their career at the university. I do not remember who thought we did a literary workshop in which we read our stories, though I could write stories. Christian was one in which a young woman's dress looked in the mirror while her mother watched television downstairs. Often, in the midst of all these daily gatherings, Christian and I went down to the streets to walk. Yes, then we had the results of my walks in Rome: Here William Bourroughs killed his wife shot in the head, Here lived the Nazis who were in Mexico, the same as the spoken José Emilio Pacheco to die away, here in this neighborhood died Joseph D. The poet cold that sank in the bohemian, traveling with only a suitcase and led to Spain marijuana hidden in a chair because it was a commission for Ramón del Valle Inclán, although they have smoked it all the way, on this street Enrique Fernandez Ledesma died he wrote about stocks ghost of the nineteenth century, right around where his great friend, Ramon Lopez Velarde, Fernandez Ledesma was changed to this house but gave no time was installed, was ill and barely able to put a bed to lie down and dying in it, yes, of course, this was the Estridentistas coffee. And this building was about to fall once the Communist Party. But that does not matter, all those comments were side, said to be forgotten, by the mere awareness of being surrounded by a place that gave form to our lives. We count our lives with all sorts of lies on their side and full of omissions on my part. But even so, something united us since. But the words take me back and forth, I headed to security and divert me stumble, do not let me get to my destination. He said that after one of those literary workshops in which exposed us to everything, my text did not like anything, just that in trying to give some shape to the life of the poet who died long ago. A few days ago I received an email from Christian giving me encouragement, "It is a stub. It's poetry. Pavel, you know how I love this text. I think what someone writes desperate, squeezing his eyes with lids to keep fooling around with life, with reality. I do not know, your words here seem to flow into a slow spiral and slight fog, which only hints at thoughts of a man who surprised the world what a strange way, the reflections of someone time seems to affect most. A hug. "But yes, my wording was not more than a sketch on the verge of dissolving, which I thought I could know what he thought the poet who never knew:" There would have to measure your life if you had asked I could not tell if it was big or not, or what its magnitude depended. What seas, roads that had led to the site, outside his window? Knew how many steps was to his room to the kitchen of your desktop to the gateway, but did not know if the steps were a valid measure to measure a life. Recognized the exact nuance of a voice and could hear themselves accurately, the skin texture could be recreated with all its force, even if that meant more effort. But neither would have known if the ability to evoke multiplied the corridors of his life, as if they were reproduced by distorting mirrors. "It is true that sometimes Chris and I fought. A friend has a period to recover. Friends have an idea of \u200b\u200bhow long be reconciled before, if you pass that limit is almost impossible to meet again. And on one occasion, he came looking for me: We can not fight, You and I are going to be together forever so it is ridiculous that we do not talk. That day we hugged and talked and talked about everything that had late between the two. The cancer was diagnosed was a vigorous tree that was born in his testicles and was branching out throughout your body so that if they got their education could see small black spots on his brain. It was a monster that ate the inside indefatigable, which did not notify some courtesy. It was the little worm of death gnawing inside without doing anything to her beautiful smile, the bright color of their skin, or the look that had so much life. Before that, the last time you could call it "healthy", came to fetch me to walk across Rome and to the Parque Insurgentes Mexico, Tamaulipas, to get to the library Rosario Castellanos and buy books, oh and before stopping for the first time in Roxy's ice cream, chocolate ice cream me and he do not know, but would not accept a taste of mine because it was milk. Then we went back to walk back. A few days later I knew I had emergency boarding, small bags of water that had come out weeks before were nothing more than the larva of death at last ready to fly freely. Since none of our friends told me anything, I found out ten days later and then I told him to hospital, I went to see then. Must be evidence of life, some, not all may be the future eating itself. We wrote very little, much less than we should. "How was your meeting? I was alone and unable to talk to you. No way, I understand you're a man with many projects and jobs, but with little time for simple graduates with a head full of shit, and me. Either way I'm writing this with the reason to get your attention or something, to discuss everything here we can not talk there. I am in the insomnia so promptly answer your message, I propose a kind of messenger. If you still reading this then I have the confidence to continue my little letters and tell them my last misfortune, I read a book where the character is driven by the situations, is a mere puppet of fate, as we all are, but what particular character is that it accepts all the events without putting his own will on things. Observes the thoughts coming and endorses, so I think they've been running my things, I have complied with things like bring me the fortuitous, unable to shape my future, because everything is fast and I'm sleeping and only abiding the present. In short this is nothing more alive. A couple of years ago that seemed extraordinary, I wanted to just enjoy the most carnal. Today I can not anymore, I'm considering my future and I am unable to make it as I will. "But this I wrote in December 2006 long before the disease. We wrote at night, as the October 12, 2006, half of insomnia: "I resent the dark, too bright light, I guess like silhouettes. The future is total darkness, black is my view that prevents flow into the air. The past is all white, something that lived and purified, it was forgotten but used, presence is absence after, so is white. The future in their darkness intrigues us, we are always waiting for something to lean out or out of there, but we always have uncertainty appears monstrous and unthinkable. We are caught carrying a large stone, we have no direction because the road is always long and almost infinite, death saves us. We are the children of Sisyphus, have the same punishment. Unfortunately this will not rock shit, or maybe it would have to wait to die, to see what happens. They say this only lasts 3 seconds, our lives are always three seconds, the other is well separated from us because we are not past nor future, only we three seconds. "When I began chemotherapy that made him vomit and mourn and sleep between fevers I wrote: "I want to thank the way you've been with me these days, your closeness to me is very important, especially now that I feel like a mad gallop on his chimera. Thank you. "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and dark thought: Christian is at home, if you can answer me now with him one day and will not, but now it's here, As I had the impression that he was among the living a vain. Until the day when he scored on his cell phone and told me I'm in the hospital, I broke a vertebrae tumor, and I went to see him with Emily, found in their car, Christian was sitting in an armchair on a lifeline who was not hurt, his legs swollen by thrombosis, no eyebrows or eyelashes, but even with the last smiles. We still have jokes, we saw magazines. And at a time in which we were alone I said: I suffered a lot, if no remedy just want to tell me that the end is not painful. Towards the end of the visit, when we said goodbye, cried out that the next time we see it at a party and get drunk I want you the next time we meet. But still very long before, had come to my house, came in a taxi. We no longer walk, but ran all night and part of the morning talking with me. We no longer walk, as before, ie, complete unconsciousness, sometimes stopping in front of a façade, usually for no consideration but to talk about something else, with such happiness. Now read his words as letters that I receive from the past: "There you are in cafes, talking, laughing, with Pavel, who then forget you. As I write here, thanks to the damn insomnia. Onetti was reading, the shipyard, which has left me a bit pointless, his whole story is very confusing, your images are beautiful but as blurred. I do not understand very well what is going on there. I read one of his interviews and I thought it was a very sensible man. But in his novels inevitably prints that opens the confusion of reality. I like to think of it in the world of the writer is confusing the main feature. It is very rare. I can not write a single line. I write only things unlikely to come to my head. All this, reread it, it seems inconsistent. Buttocks hurt me to sit here for so long and it hurts not being able to conceive even a pretty damn line. No way, life is not easy. Probably judge me, but this afternoon was on the street. I looked all sorts of cars, people, lives, tried to guess something about other people. The only thing that looked like a common denominator for all was sadness. I was very unhappy, and impulsively began to hate me, do not want to live as usual, had to do something, but did not know why. Then I took a taxi, I asked him to take me to San Angelo, and spent on chocolates and a drink in a bar. I thought a second and I was sad sudden resolving conflicts with material things, to the enjoyment. I feel guilty to enjoy, do not know, maybe because I only do it as an escape from myself. Do not want to bore you with all my verbiage. I hope you understand what I write because I like to write. "No, I never get bored, either before or now, how I would tell you that, what a pity that the cards can not go from present to past, the past where you were for always, forever young, forever happy, by yourself, going to be 25 years, I have done a great party, but what turned out without you was just a catastrophe. If you came into my life now so little known them, but I would not want you to feel uncomfortable, change everything for you, to welcome you, if I could say something to come to you, one thing, I'd find one of these streets close and be able to tell you realize, all this waiting, these houses, trees of Alvaro Obregon, only to our representation, one opportunity not to mistake our role. Colonia Roma mysterious today. And you, in that hospital alone at night, this April that was so rainy. And I hate your agony, old hating life, hating these feelings put on this blank sheet as fish carcasses to rot on the beach alone as quickly as possible. And waiting for the call on Saturday at six in the morning with the horrible news.
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