At the end of the week we will focus on transport and that feels like civilization to me. I have adults and children from all over the place, and I’m unusually curious about them, even though I’ve convinced myself over the years that I’m not interested in either. Now we realize that we always wanted the same thing, just one thing: to play.
On good days we are the same. Saved and happy, desordenados. We’ll bite the brome, but let’s do the blood. On bad days we are nadies. What could we do?
Perros, children and our pendular creatures.
We are very dependent on the sun, but now we are holding on to it. That’s all.
Also joy. And the strange thing of going up to seek adventure at the turn of the esquina.
I am a woman in a gorra and gabardine who is dying pain in chocolate calentito del Alma Bakery y lee a Nora Ephron morning. I’m a detective, an infiltrator. Now I don’t make up and have pecan nests and clean eyes washed out of old swimming pools, now they recognize me as their equal: children and pears speak a language to me, and I know a language to make the world rude.
Confirmed: we know ourselves.
I have a goal Angelthat he will take it from me. We just found out at the kiosk in Bilbao outside the Café Comercial: suddenly it was the door of Cabify. Fear crept in and I thought a little bit about trying it.
“What about magazines?” I asked the young girl who was giving out the ridiculous shirts, scared and unfriendly enough. And he climbed onto the story kiosk, like a duende, to tell us La Vanguardia and El País: “No, I will always be able to sell the prensa… yes no, I deny it…”. Good, good. I know I’m a little disappointed, but overall I’m glad it’s holding up.
At the top of the Viena Capellanes, where the ladies with the permanent stands are more handsome than ever and insult their husbands with their friends, a lot of people can play classical music and very little scream left the bus procession on their doorstep.
All urban furniture changes its meaning when the street is ours.
Ángel wishes he could take the ball and look for his feet to get off the bench, give her a toquecito and give it to the kid.
I adore this male tension beyond measure: the feeling of always somehow hoping that I would get my moment; to remember a mysterious step in any part, in a workshop, in a bookstore, or in a restaurant, the step of an old or a new child from some distant square of the world, a step at full speed among the blue rays of time…
“Forgive me,” says the chavalito, who is not educated enough to know that it is very bad to treat us. Y Ángel says: “No, no…”, a gesture so grateful, so immense, that in the same way the ball has a parable that I saw and kept for ten years. He left on the brink of a coup.
I’m never younger than when this kid likes me, it’s just a symbol.
Decia Louise Gluck that we only look at the world once, in childhood, and that the rest is memory.
I think the smartest thing is to alternate between my little one and mine.
For example, if I have phlegm, my little girl wins the survival order and it makes me better, but not that much (because I make a merienda of bread with mantequilla and Cola Cao: a brand new choice that rejuvenates and medicates me and makes me drink a lot of water, which is necessary while I act out my little near folk death like girls).
In exchange for a career as an anti-avant-garde chef, I tolerate the straight man agenda: dinosaurs and plane crashes. I wonder, but eventually I get tired of it, and then I dream for ten hours at night that I want to be accompanied by an impossible and beautiful animal, such as Never ending history.
I will take care of my refreshment very quickly, as if it were a miracle of modern science, and I will go out into the street with a distinct luster, with the height that I see of you, with a new splendor that one will run away with and who will never die.
Carnicero tells me I’m rather monastic. I think so, but I won’t say it: it’s different to be cared for by others than to be cared for by yourself. It’s not better, but it’s different… I think love makes you feel like an aristocrat.
In the chamber it is simpler, clearer.
We go to the counters of Olavid and I leave Cheever.
I was thinking of doing it this way El nadador but with the gardens of Madrid: crossing the city past the Museum of Romanticism and the Cerralbo Museum and the Jardines de Sabatini and the Botanical Gardens… Courageous rescue of bushes and springs, something to hope for, something to look for…
I would love to write stories like this, stories about people having a good time and being in the sun and reminiscing about parties that are celebrated at rare swimming pools, but I always write about a woman who can’t stop calling the disconnected phone.
However, well thought out, Cheever also comes from that, right?
Abuelo tells me that to be the first to do it, he mustn’t eat too much coconut, and he’s right, so I go to La Mina de General Álvarez de Castro for red leg and pulp salad. You tell me. You suck dedos.
I have previously pointed out some things (this is) about how happy I am to mediate Quevedo’s glorietta. So that they don’t forget me. So that I don’t run away. For someone to have a phone, over there, over there.
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