Sparks of the newspaper of a quarantine narcode

From the beginning of the pandemic to the seventeenth of June 2020 I took a newspaper that reproduced the maelstrom, publication of critical culture that is made inSantander,Spain.They were forty -three deliveries, I choose a sample for this book.

Writing literature and poetry today reminds me of those half crazy pianists of the west cinema who continue to play in the living room while around their mirrors and bottles they break.Or perhaps we are the musicians of the Titanic, their possible heirs entertaining the shipwreck.

Ghost city or empty spaces

Is again aSunday.Although I do not get tired of living in an eternalSunday, he has more face to be.Almost without realizing.There is not much against this, which could lead to a state of conformism, in a get carried away by a currency that hopefully the Taoist was: "Do not do anything and everything is done".

The bad thing about this is that conformism is a practice in which free will, the singularity is deposed and replaced by a tied norms that, apparently, lavish some securities, what they do is also annular or at leastDiscontinue "disagreement", which is the own fiery.

The truth, to the status quo and its legislators this pandemic makes them more invulnerable, because the norm is accompanied by a danger of death, and this bends any outbreak of rebellion, acceptance of a new and hole not-do.

It is as if the division of labor was broken and now there was a division of this stop.

Although quarantine paralysis seems common to all and not divided into trades or quehaceres, there are nuances in the exercise of non-do.There are those who eat more, who see more movies or news, there are those who deny more of their fate but cannot, like everyone else, modify it.

The division is on behalf of those who do more routine exercises to better keep the human machine and those who from the drows assume that they are on a forced vacation, which is the same as any confinement not chosen.As vacations without any payment, the publicists of cynicism could announce a non-viajero plan, a flattened and sedentary plan.There will also be, of course, those who ask nothing and only obey, as long as they have an empty mind and the bumps to the top.

I am assaulted by the concern to fall into an activity, if this could be, in disguise conformism.I look in the emergency anarchist dictionary, a book we made in Tandem with Iván Darío Álvarez and that among other purposes intends to dusthides the world in which you live.It is a product of fear, ”says Albert Camus, precisely a warning writer who advanced to these times when writing a novel that is a Treaty of the plague.Camus, an anarchist convinced, forged among other books the rebel man and other philosophical theses that move away the most human man.

Meanwhile, I try to gather what has no event thisSunday.I see it difficult for football fans when they see the dates of the calendar with empty stadiums.The quarantine, who is a severe referee, showed all the teams, including the public and the aguathers, the line judges and the cheerleaders and kidnapped Hurricane's spokesperson of the stands.The referee himself seems to have swallowed the whistle, such as when there is a maximum penalty to point out.Churches, depopulated by parishioners and candles, listen to the steps of silence as a shadow procession.Film rooms project movies without image or sound on a dull screen, such as life.The neighborhoods and their parks are at all times full of anyone.In the mountain, the cable cables remain still and their two stations sleep, such as the mood of many, in a nap of the senses.

Le sugerimos: Primeros seleccionados de los “Diarios de pandemia” de El Espectador y la Unal

A ghost travels through the world and is not what we believed from a manifesto, nor the ghost of the capitalist bonanza either, it is the ghost of despotism.It is the time of bread and circus but without bread, only the circus is increased, because culture and with it the arts, which are increasingquestions, to question absolute truths in their desire to promote other new realities.

To all of these, the wind in my empty street plays an invisible tennis, like that of the couple in Blow Up or desire of a summer morning, the sixties of Michelangelo Antonioni - how I liked the bustling eyes ofSarah Miles‒, afilm that begins with a match of the so -called white sport played without rackets or ball.I see the wind that drags a newspaper struggled from one place to another, like carrying old news.I take it in the solitude of my street for pure curiosity and on the first page I see a photo of the Plaza de Bolívar totally empty.

It is a good photograph that illustrates the moment.There are not even pigeons, those sad and regular visitors to the square that we have turned into homeless birds, which achieves with and without intention all welfare, such as lunches and refreshments that carry the government and mayor's office to the excluded.

No work for survival are offered, they are only palliative, with which "the beneficiaries" are sentenced to eternal poverty.The same we have done with pigeons, among all the birds the most dependent on man.Sometimes I listen to Alcaravanes' craz that have come for a good time and long before quarantine, quite possibly from the eastern plains.I have seen them even on the avenue that leads to the airport, today also desert, without passengers and also under the domain of anyone.

I return to the photo of the statue ofSimón Bolívar that remains imperturbable looking at an army of shadows.The sword still has unbalanced as Jaime Bateman Cayón liked.

The square looks like the stage of a film in which beings from other worlds or a manifestation of ghosts without flags arrive.To the north of the square is the Palace of Justice, a vacuum monument again erected to anyone's memory, because it is neither a palace nor justice.On the south side is the Capitol, a neoclassical building where they legislate, is a saying, the congressmen.I think this is his best inhabited moment, without a single honorable congressman and without any lobbying of those who are looking for gifts.On the western side of the photo you can see part of the Liévano Palace where it works, it is also a saying, the Mayor's Office of the capital.I admire that this building has seen the most inept politicians and bureaucrats have news and continue so quiet.On the western side of the imposing square I see the metropolitan cathedral next to the chapel of the tabernacle.We must not forget that the country is consecrated to theSacred Heart.The two religious constructions are absent from parishioners and it is as if in Pandemia we only adore the gods of the void.

The photo of the Plaza de Bolívar that bring me the wind and a newspaper focus on a space that has been the heart - with tachycardia - of the country.A space that has witnessed the greatest state funerals, a place where several heroes of Independence were shot, the history we live in, collective paralysis seems in their void.It is claimed that there are more than fifty thousand people and seeing it empty is to calculate fifty thousand absent, which could be fifty thousand missing.In it, if the ear is well stoned, perhaps you can hear the step I remain from the viceroys of yesteryear, but above all the spoke of the great political manifestations, of the fray with the police and the tumultuous concerts.How not to remember it, a few meters from the Capitol was killed Rafael Uribe Uribe, an azogado and free spirit that participated in the civil wars of a country where war always comes after postwar period.

I go back to my house with the newspaper in the hands.Then comes the usual rite, the scrupulous washing with soap.I swear, and I put myself as a witness, which is not a smelly paste of the "Pilate" Jabonyou are welcome.

Street in diminishing

The descriptive expression "have street" to talk about having accumulated world, exterior landscapes, encounters and disagreements, cathedrals and brothels, nights and roads, people of all fur and situations of the outside, will you stop making sense today for the subtraction of matter?

Vetada the street by mandate and declared interdicted for its lack of reason, since it is always deranged, will the experience of a Creole flanneur be worth something?My maternal grandmother antioqueized that gallicism and I incredible me in this way: "What you like most is to measure streets, it seems that the house is stuck".

Will the expression "have a street deleted from the tongue map by the subtraction of matter?

Having a street now, or at least in this collective parenthesis that we live, not having it, perhaps intuit or remember it, and walk along the stony path of nostalgia, an exercise of old?

From all of the above my unexpected astonishment is born, but will there be astonishment that is not unexpected?At three and fifteen in the morning I heard in front of my house the voices of a man and a woman who crossed the street, arguing.

The matter had some epiphany: listening to two voices in the shadow violating a curfew, something they also call quarantine, I knocked down the horse of the dream likeSaul.They argued, when not, for an episode of jealousy.

It might interest you: Diarios de pandemia, relatos acerca de las experiencias del encierro en Colombia

The two voices crossed fleeting, the two voices went to other streets and squares and a cold knife cold wrapped my silence.

Then came a strong wind.

I have proven that the wind is being chasing because it likes to look for desolate roads.

I imagine it ironizing our inmate status when it hits a fence that invites us to a trip through the Caribbean islands.

He removes and put

The expression "take off your hat" as a sample of admiration should have its contrast.I "take away my hat" before men and women who are miners of themselves, who enter into the deep mouth to get a hidden metal from the bottom of the mine, without the slightest intention that their value is tased in the stock market.On the other hand, before those who walk on tiptoe so as not to disturb anyone who can pave the way to their consecration or their fortune "I put on my hat" and the thorough vessel in my head, a coarse head whom he likes to hearThe mandate of disobedience.

"I take off my hat" in front of the one who manages to extract from the undercut at least one beauty chip, as who says something that accompanies us without asking for anything in return, how many hats would we have to take off in front of Fernando Pessoa's personality?Possibly an unbarkable hat with different styles, materials and measures.

I once bought a hat in the trail of Madrid because it was similar to the one that Lucía Rembrandt.I only used it once because I realized that maybe I could have his cap, but I think he never, or remotely, his bright and bustling head.I then turned to the theatricality of taking it before a mirror to show on a mahogany hanger.

"I put my hat" in front of the miners who dazzle with a piece of brilliant Marmaj.How much poetry that loves the brightness is not a gold of fools, a doubtful finding of miners amazed by a simple glow.

"I take off my hat" when a musician plays a sonata as the ship sinks, because it makes me think of the poet, that anomalous typing that sings to the edge of the abyss.I put it again when I hear someone sings the mercenary sibylline ballad.

"I take off my hat" before the writer who enriches the path of many while his is culebrero and more than anything stony."I put it" to those who are second but courtiers and first -fashioned poets.Tartufo bought his hats in a skipstick hatch for acéfalos, which remained as I think he remember at the head of the Palais Royal in Paris.I imagine that given its chameleonic condition, Tartufo bought a different chambergo for each function.

However, since the world is two -phase but not binary, there are those who make me put and remove the hat every so often and this disturbs and dislikes my head.Generally that removes and puts on successive the writers or thinkers who lead us to a high top of great value, but who end up renting their heads to buy a better or more colorful hat.AsSisyphus, these men lead us to a top, but at the slightest carelessness they drop us downstairs.And it is already quite tragicomic, something like a circus act, take off and put the hat every so often, while we look out an inexhaustible gallery of mirrors.

I confess that I admire the old and legendary colonel of many wars, his youth has been retired a long time ago.I admire it because he didn't like to wear a hat so as not to have to take it to anyone.

In front of the patient mirror of the bathroom, a crystal that has seen me aging with a wise patience and now remains indifferent in a corner of my quarantine deaf, accommodating my hat in this Hirsuta and foolish head.It is a harmless game that undoubtedly has some circus.

I will surely have my hat when I read what I am writing again, but it's too late to change my point of view.

In no greater

It rains with reluctant in this part of Bogotá.And I think with Borges that rain is something that happens in the past.I answer a call from my friend Juan Diego, someone who always has something stimulating and warm to tell me.I ask him about the tremor that Betania had as an epicenter.

Juan Diego tells me that someone from his quarantine called a station, or firefighters, I don't remember who, to ask if there was any disposition of the Mayor's Office that allowed the whole family to launch into the street in the middle of a trebler, orIf you could only do a member chosen by the kinship.

Another call.This time a journalist without a subject tells me about everything, even a loud and fallacious people who already did not remember, a circle of what Aldo Pellegrini called "the international of mediocrity", "a panda", as they say inSpain, which, whichhad some Bogota gymnasts memberships.The truth, rather their attacks fortified me.I identify with some verses of the formidable Luxembourgs Anise Koltz:

With the stones

thrown against me

I have built

The walls of my house

So I ignored the nonsense and asked him if he had felt a tremor.I consider myself a seismograph in that matter and not properly because of a mental parkinson.But I think that in Bogotá the bamboleo did not feel.Thus I informed the journalist of a more current topic.

Yesterday was touched by Limbo, for a certain inertia and a great desire to procrastine, to leave for tomorrow what can be done today.

For that reason I don't have many things to tell me.Or some, but all under a tone of no greater.I did not miss "a dog horizon", as the great poet of Granada would say.I have not wanted to look out the street.I have not heard dishes noise in the neighborhood and if an event occurs in deaf..I have not heard or at night the passage of a ghost car.The cry of the seller of Chontaduros to whom I miss, both for the color of the fruits that it brings in the wheelbarrow and for its stony voice and for its stony voice has not sounded in my monk's silence.Even without seeing the owner, anyone with an ear not stunned by the series tympanicides that pass on the radio can guess that it is a spread of Caribbean.

It is good to sing in no greater the joy of belonging to the society of surviving poets, although sometimes we feel that we see the world as a eve.I do not hope to return to a life that we have slandered as normal, because the crime or plunder or impunity is not normal.Nor will what is coming, it's just that fox changes skin.What is clear is that the fox is not as cunning as it supposes, if we would not know.We would not have learned.

But be careful: there are already the usual pirañeros forging how they will govern.

This day it seems to me that it is ever.It seems to be just in the first boil and already runs like a greyhound towards the early morning.I have discovered that confination loves the word no.Do not go out.Do not think.Do not dream.Do not daked from the bathtub.

Today, for example, I realize the cult that we keep to the satanic doctor no.The herbal seller did not come like every Friday to offer their portions of turmeric or ginger, of those gothic roots that have some gargoyle.

The alharca of the neighbor singing neighbor who always has an infamous aria has not arrived either either.It is a kind of Luciano Tamorosi de Barriad.

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Something else under the sign of no?Well yes.I did not fear turning at twelve o'clock at night and dose the volume of my radio, a half -light sound so as not to wake up to ghosts.

Tunezo a wonderful program;Caribbean and are, a cycle without musical falls and without any propaganda that lasts until dawn.A barbarian sounds from the entrance, a Discolo Geniecillo born in Las Lajas.For the first time in the day, or at night, I say yes to the day.It is not necessary to say his name to know that I speak of a natural phenomenon.The one who ignores who it is gives me some sorrow or sadness.Has dinner a long banquet of emptiness, without salt and flavor.

Note:Someone can tell me that the confinement has gone mad or that it is about to do it and, the truth, little or nothing matters to me.I confess it without reco: I have danced alone, in the middle of the night darkness.

Signals

The world was all spasm.

Henri Michaux

Colombia still.Clouds of a cobalt blue clouds.From the PiedoMonte de los Cerros Oriental, the Nevado del Tolima can be seen in the distance.In these days of pandemic some wild animals, the tsoats with their young, those curious marsupials that in Mexico call tlacuache, the same as some crab foxes and mountain leases, a whole fauna displaced by urban excess has returned for its own and bySoon has sent some brave expeditionaries.

Animals are repoplaying the enterubes park, the wetlands and the road that arrives culebreando to Choachí.Once, a long time ago, in a Fog Fore.I told that wonderful vision to a friend who lived in the center of the city and the man looked at me, I still don't know if as a UFO or like a pure strain liar.They also tell me that you can see the Nevado del Ruiz.For a few days we overcome the pandemic of noise and in my block not only the mirlfriends are heard, which otherwise are ariscos and territorial birds.The Abutilón, which has been permanently a kind of hummingbird restaurant, is now undoubtedly much more visited.

My friends living in the La Macarena neighborhood or in the Towers of the Park are privileged with the view of Nevado del Tolima.I have conformed to see it in the cold and amodorrant window of a TV.Without being agorero or millenarian, all this led me to think if these will not be some signs that, perhaps, the only thing that can be left over in nature is man.Man and his superb.Man and his despotism.The man and his comfortable to raise his shoulders in front of a debacle that announces the abrupt final of a process.Of a pitiful and stark process.

I intend at this time in the afternoon to look at at least a little civilized dialogue and I find him in a book that long ago I wanted to reread, Walden, life in the forests, the work of an anarconaturalist named Henry David Thoreau, whose civil and disobedient ideasThey influenced Mahatma Gandhi and León Tolstoy.

I called my sister to her refuge in the Valle del Cauca, I talked about the subject and she reminded me, in that same direction, that I once wrote some verses about the time that remains trapped between the books and about how it will always be Heraclitusbathing on the same river and on the same page.

Note: When I remember that my friendStefanoStrazzabosco, philologist, musician and poet, made a song of the ants and wrote it in classic concrete, perhaps tired of the language of men and that his mother tongue is the beautiful Italian, IThey immediately want a desire not to speak in "human" and to better enter the learning of some animal languages.Those languages that we do not know and that we will possibly be discussed when we are no longer on earth, it would be good to learn to apologize to the plundered animals.

I find it imperative to promote the Foundation of Academies of Turtle, which is the slow and no trouble of the turtles, of Gatalan that is the tongue of the always mysterious feline and that very surely speak in the low neighborhoods of Barcelona with Jordi, my friendpoet.Or give the teaching of the pulgaro, a nervous language that spoke and jumps.I do not like it at all, yes, the pronunciation of the vernacular mouse, its speakers always seem to be roying mysteries in humid corners, in sewers, in political parties and in other dark alleys.Any zoomorphic language would be good for my health.My prediction is almost sure: we are possibly going to end up respecting them, leaving them in healthy peace and asking for forgiveness in all the languages and for having.

Glasses

I have begun to have distrust of my glasses.They conspire against me, they have the power to self -rib.I already knew that it was not a good idea to buy them in a blind street in the Chapinero neighborhood.

I find them at the most unusual and absurd sites of the house.In a mud pot that they gave me in which I sowed a plant that has the curious name of "dance flower" or "Santa Teresa pen".I bought it at a botanical garden nursery.It has an unparalleled white brightness and it smells like I think the moon smells, the enthrograms increasingly, don't you know what aroma is the moon ourselves?Well, I don't, but I suspect that it smells like a dance flower.It seems to me that this exotic plant could also be called "amazement flower": it only opens at midnight in July, it lasts a few hours and turns off.

Sorry for digression about this night flower and bohemia, sorry because what I would like to talk about in this note is about my glasses.

He said that the blessed glasses, recently prescribed, hide me.Tired of looking for them off the fridge and that is what an epiphany happens: there they are, with their fogged crystals next to the paprika that seems more red and perhaps more blushed by my clumsiness.Or suddenly, for my almost humiliating pasmo, they appear in a pocket when putting a sack that I do not use at least six or seven months.All this led me to think that my blessed glasses suffer from a bipolar disorder like that of a guy I met a record of years, a border man who saw Mahatma Gandhi for a pacifist eyeBarbarian of the famous legend because there are those who claim that it was nothing less than the inventor of the war.

I decided on the constant loss of my glasses to investigate why the hell were hid, mirrors or quevedos.The latter, called in this way in honor of Don Francisco de Quevedo who used them, are very unique.They have no legs, only lift inns in the nose and keep a certain air of nobility.Through them the trigger for the history of the life of the Bus.

What remarkable I found in my inquiries for the fate of my glasses?As I would do the hound of Raymond Chandler, an expert in black novel born in the turbulent Chicago and stubborn in looking for hidden truths, I found myself, I repeat, with several other questions.

Why did the glasses disappear in an oversight every time I was about to read one of those hydroponic poets, without deep roots, which fatigue the impolite paper without truce?Or why I missed them, very shortly after seeing a reporter in a newspaper speaking at the same time the global crisis because of a plague and the value of the transfer of a remarkable crack of Barcelona?

Many times, when I already believe them losses at all and I am about to abandon the search, zas, my glasses appear.Maybe they have fled my eyes after having been half leafing through a hairdressing magazine or the soft and virgin cover of a self -help book.Maybe my glasses have become more critical than my fatigued eyes and I fear the worst, much more alive than my brain.

I think I conclude that my evasive glasses suffer from something like a very Colombian bipolar disorder.They have tired of seeing a country that continually passes from depression, with or without pandemic, to joy, with or without carnival.

My glasses are very sweet, I get up to the most unexpected places, usually when they perceive the arrival of the night.

The inspiring jail

Jean Canattani affirms that jail can play the role of muse or inspiring, and that it is undoubtedly a conducive place for introspection.The same could be said of homemade confinement, which can also be a "good" place for writing.Canattani's appreciation leads me to imagine a wasteful writer, someone who loses the gift of writing, the lack of stimuli or the lack of an inspiring place is starkly saying himself: «I will commit a crime, I will leave inThe place many obvious footprints that lead to my house and if there were doubts I will even provide evidence that demonstrates my crime irrecusably.The truth, I dream of being able to end my truncated, my postponed, my interrupted novel ».

Hailstorm

There is no essay shorter than an aphorism.

Gabriel Zaid

There is no one more revealed than one's own night.Even in the resounding silence of these days she suddenly fissures the supplicating cry of a child, and no longer precise if the poor night was more unveiled than me.I decide, to return to the dream, not to count ovejas because I am already up to the mattage of our meekness lanar.Nor count wolves, because these mammals tend to the howl night and increase the sleeplessness and on the other hand I have no vocation of lycanthrope.

I turn on the table lamp.

I open for a funmbulo, a beautiful book that migrates from Aforism to the poem and sometimes brushes the short story.Talk about the skills of balancer that man must have in the world, how to tighten the rope to shepherd abysses, as did an old square balance in the Zarathustra de Nietzsche.

Genet's book catches me until my head begins to tilted and not properly for reluctance or boredom because if this of jumping imaginary fences for sleep does not work, the demand for what Kafka called "his majesty the body" does do so ".In this case, a body weighed hours of turning around itself, like an aquarium whale to which one day they released in the sea but continued circling around its old captivity.

I wanted to make a book of aphorisms again.And to the disassembly, without order or concert, I write some scolios to the pandemic.A book of aphorisms, and I am self -saving, it is like a pharmacy: graveas of pain, milligrams of misery, placebos of love, Ironia droppers.You must say in a visible place: "Stay out of the reach of children".

Maybe, I tell myself, all these dishes are to flee, not the virus that runs through the world as a ghost without manifesto, but of the issue that for obvious reasons obse.And that suddenly it will achieve social implosion with trim rarely seen.It would be enough to see in many houses of houses and buildings of this desolate capital, that many families have raised red rag of hungry".

Without want.Something like the poem of the old Epifanio Mejía occurs when he pointed out that the firefly, our cocuyo, is "fleeing from light, the light carrying".

I remember my days of literary novitiate.I wrote daily with little and dodge fortune but when I thought I had achieved something during the night, something that I considered plausible, when I woke up and read it I wanted to sponsor my back as the only witness of my genius.But in truth there were more days when I looked at me in the mirror with grudge and having had a sack of tomatoes the glass would have been as reddened as my shame.

All these fragments lead me to write this hailstorm:

* The problem of adolescence is that I didn't know what to do.The one now, I don't know how to stop doing it.

* An esthete: I would have liked to be more dead than of denudo when contemplating the finishes of such a beautiful coffin.

* Be like the sea, who lives swallowing himself and vomits part of his entrails on the beach.

* Miracle exists but we can't see it.

* I like words of Arab origin, like excitement.Del Vasco, like Aquelarre, but I keep the word Canoa that was the first to slide from aboriginal languages toSpanish.The taína voice was used by Christopher Columbus on October twenty -six in his diary.I don't remember the time.Since then the word Canoa sails in the rivers of this language that we speak.

* Writing stop, I go to the bathroom and I don't know why the hell I think the mirror makes me a bad face.

* A theft to Gilbert Lely: "The man who has just reached the age of leaving himself will take any occasion to stay alone with him".

* Do not worry, the future only lasts a week.

* Fierce paradox, who have more free time are prisoners.

* He asked the genius to become a poet.Did not clarify whether good or bad.Be from a Creole and resentful aladino who fell ascoid by the genius to the lamp.Thus some second but courtiers of first.

* If you are classified, you are a butterfly stuck into a pin.Here are the benefits of failure.If you fail as a musician, they will not be able to classify you as a solfeo teacher, even less like virtuoso.I do not imagine in my case with a legend in a plaque that said: famous pianist of Vienna, because I do not play piano, how good for you, nor was I born in Vienna, how good for me.

* Epitaph of a politician: he was a well of resentment, he had his hatred in jail.

* The butterfly forgets her worm yesterday.

Pass

I receive a message from an old friend who lives in Germany.Plenary of his usual optimism tells me that those who intend a new social order but suffer from aporophobia, go words to talk about the rejection of the poor, "they will not happen".Which will come a global revolt without a history that will put the authoritarianisms in check.While I hear my friend I feel in the background a lady of cats.Brown, of course.That catpardism of playing everything to change anything, does not happen from the doors of the banks.After its rotating doors it fades.I dare to tell him that it is true in part what he tells me, that after the announced global collapse, reality will not remain the same but very surely worse.Not by mortifying it, which in turn would mortify myself, I tell him that the catpardist virus remains for years between years, but that he is always.I remind you that here, in two high powers, the charlatans erase their promises and say that the changes announced cannot be made because there are previous laws that for pure carelessness had forgotten.Even so, they continue to go to a resale of dreams in the gallery.It seems that a premise of Cioran followed the letter, which they will undoubtedly have read: "I make a decision, the annulment and go to bed".

My friend repeats me that this time they really will "not happen".

I shut up but I remember where that remembered expression comes from.It is said, although some are assigned to Pétain, an ungrately remembered French military who did not take much to be a collaboration from Vichy's regime with Nazi Germany, which was actually Dolores Ibárruri, the passionate, the formidable communist fighter who coined the"They will not pass", during the defense of Madrid against the Francoist army.

She, the passionate, was undoubtedly an admirable figure, worthy of being in the legend for her clarity and courage and for the defense of the insumission of women.However, I think he was wrong, not because of his or for lack of value of the Republicans, but rather because of the damn story that he almost never likes the happy endings.

It was not because in thick terms, as if they had been written to coal, she was wrong in the slogan of "they will not pass", but in truth the "facades" did not pass, they stayed like forty years vexing and prostrating theSpanish people withHis patrioticism, his vile club, his Catholicism of the worst, and with the enthronement of the most degeneral.

ManySpaniards, stunned by propaganda, did not realize the horror they lived or that they had a bass on their backs and governing them with a tyrannosaurus.

So every time I hear the motto of "They will not happen", it does not stop producing a deep and worrying fear.Perhaps, and without sounding up, it should be said: "They will pass", to see if one day they finish leaving, to get out once and for all the liberticides who continue to turn the world everywhere into a sewer.As they continue doing in Colombia today, a land governed by the most notable kleptocrats.

If this was said by a history teacher, it would surely rain.Let us also come between that tomatina, to also come paprikas and pumpkins to prevent any shortage.

The forties

Today we turn thirty days in quarantine, although this word coined by medicine means exactly four times ten and here we do not know how much it lasts.

Forty had a deep biblical meaning in a time of pests and pests with floods of toads and water converted into blood.As the toads have always rained here, as popularly it is called the horde of blows or betrayers, we are already unfortunately accustomed to the phenomenon.From the water spell converted into the blood it is better not to ask the Magdalena River, the mother river than a beautiful film by Julio Luzardo called the river of the tombs.Because that noble and vex river has seen a heart of dead pass.

Today's pandemic reaches us very far, because what is most globalized in the world are the miseries.From afar we get this convent confinement without religion.

I wonder why, if it is pess, not bringing prevention to higher peaks.For example, in the face of epidemic diseases that rest without alarms in our society, to decree new quarantines.For example, it would not be bad to decree a drastic period to defend ourselves from the imbecility virus even if we stayed without president, the politician virus and the greed virus, the warm of the warm and the virus of the respectful poets of power,of the virus of some journalists who premiere a tapping for being the closest thing they find to a gag.Or a bozal.

What a powerful number is forty.Nineveh was given an ultimatum of forty days to straighten and show signs of repentance because of his sinful vocation.The fast of Christ in the desert lasted, a sand watch in between, exactly forty days, which is what this sudden quarantine should last.

I only trust that after this enclosure, street and friends, we will not be crucified, although the bank and corrupt in the exercise of power can be preparing a last dinner.

And delight with the fateful number.Apart from that I am a forty model, the numbering does not stop surprising me.Forty were the thieves who followed Ali Babá and that here have multiplied around a genius that rents his lamp for the highest bidder and that is always the greatest imposter.More than forty rascals can be counted in the directives of a bank and in its factual powers.Forty thieves, poor.

On the other hand, Christ was tempted by the nefaro, the sacred books say so, and over to show his power to turn stones into breads.A respectableSalamanca Professor ofSingular Guijarro last name, if there are rocks why not pebbles, states that the forty number appears at least one hundred times in the Bible.That for something the flood lasted forty nights with their respective solar days.It was a legendary downpour that makes me think about what is about to unleash right now in Bogotá, a city that has earned the bad reputation of rainy, to the point that it is very easy to guess the weather without being a meteorologist.If the tutelary mountain is cloudy, it is because it is raining.If it is not, it is because it will rain, as in any costumbrista novel.A sarcastic critic of our narrative used to say during the crudest winters: "It rains, as in the worst Colombian literature".And it is true, every time a novelist does not have much to say, as if he was a seasoned Taumatico makes rain in the middle of the whiteness of a page.If even Isabel saw rain in a Macondo window.

And more of the forties.Moses had to pray for forty days before embarking on his way to the promised land.Elías, a levitating prophet, paid forty days of fasting during a fierce bulimia of emptiness.

I consult the subject of my teacher Catecúmeno, Father Fortunato Casares, aSpanish anchored in the savanna of Bogotá and who has a peculiar style that pleases me, a certain dialectical sneer, of red cure.In terms of Christian exegesis it is a priest that knows everything.I overwhelm with forty verbal lashes of his cabalistic wisdom, before the called for third and last time falls.

Note: I think of carnival and Lent combat, the hallucinated and amazing painting of the flamenco Brueghel el Viejo, and I suspect that comes to mind in this confrontation that we live.

I look sideways at combat.In a corner of the ring, with more than eighty kilos, Joe Lentenma, a heavyweight of the Cassius Marcelus Clay Junior line.In the other corner, a fighter of weight weight, kid carnival, of the lineage of a malnourished minor from province.

I suspect that the fight is unequal above all, and as always, because of the improvised entrepreneurs.

Nobody visits

Today, that by the square and the streets no one walks and none like Pedro for his house, I feel in a way among family.No one touches my door.No one comes to sell me life insurance or guaranteeing paradise.Not even the Mormons.No one tries to sell me a stolen red rose in the cemetery.No one brings me a letter and when it brings it it has a wrong address.

Flags

Recently I read that Toni Daleman talked about the hunger flags, of those red rags in the windows with which many families indicate the desolation at their tables.It is a tragic image that inaugurates a symbology of a theatrical piece, something that of course exceeds it.After all, the theater, although much more than a show, can be taken as a fictional thing.Today, the theater of events, the marches of May 1, one day that was instituted as a tribute to the anarchist trade unionists executed in Chicago, will be like the theaters, unfortunately empty.

The image described by Daleman has made me think of that ampulous symbol that understands the armies, which puts them rigid like Lot's wife, someone who, by looking at their most recent past, forgot about the now.

A virus has traveled without passport, without visas or languages, flags or customs, making the collapse of the so -called progress global.

Ah, the flags.Of those designed and colorful rags, those who decide with Pasmo have always used to inaugurate a conflict.Fly a flag, add a hymn and it is already.They can already send behind it, obedient and at the same time proud, some hypnotized squads towards death.This flag cult is the largest symbol of the vacuum, of a vain props.

Jean Genet says that these national banners have become "a theatrical resource that castrates and kills".However, I have seen people who say frequenting and worship "your" flag.They allow everything, except that it is mocked from it.

After his fabric go the hymns.All hollow, all false.Just as in the black market of poetry, sorrows are sold to the strange.

In case we cannot abolish them, at least we try to think of another kind of flags.For example, in an ash flag for suburbs.Or in instituting smoke flags for industrial chimneys, which would at least save us spending enormous fabrics and embroidery.

I think with pain and astonishment on the colorless flag of the stateless.That flag for a while sheltered Rainer María Rilke, who before the fall of the Austrohungal Empire in 1919, was become a stateless.But sometimes it is an apátrida in the same country: "It is exile the country that does not host," said Bertolt Brecht.Who knows if Brecht was referring to inxilio, to that degree of disposal of those who seem to have bought an intramide ticket because they feel a lack of belonging to their country.And then prefer to live an ostracism between walls.

Many artists, philosophers and writers have felt that they run out of country and there are few who feel foreigners everywhere.Tired of seeing landscapes with banners and shrews, Rilke left without a passport to Zurich, a city that was a redoubt of Bolsheviks.

The flag of cobwebs of historians is languid who, from looking at the past to disdain the present.It produces pleasure to think that the flag of stars and bars in a country in the hands of a moron is entering eclipse.

To contradict the flags in my phobia, I cannot stop thinking with affection in the black flag that Louise Michel devised in memory of his dead.That the first anarchist flag has been agitated by a woman is something memorable and that it has been for a being of an extraordinary temper would not seduce me so much that I have not raised it - in a broomstick in a broomstick.Something that I would like to see as a tribute to the witch, to the "sorceress in history", as Michelet said.

Usually today, May 1, a tide of flags is agitated.Without being an emblem that loves and respects, I think I will miss your presence, so we will not see them in the marches as something routine, as part of a passing rite mediated by custom.

Speaking of another type of flags, I must confess that years ago I was moved a small lace flag on some windows of a house in Manaos.A young poet was walking through the city to meet the today Nonagenario Thiago de Mello, when we saw a house that had to have better times.In their windows, some half -mast lace shoes pointed out, the guide explained to us, that the house was grieving, that with those underwear the death of a prostibule girl was announced.

Two stays

The news circulates inSanta Marta that the old ones must ask their parents permission to get out of the open and exercise their muscles.This has put my Caribes congeners to think about several options to receive the authorization of their parents and thus be able to go out into the streets.These are some of the options they have found to save the mayor Leguleyo's mess:

1.Make an ouija to invoke your parents.

2.Falsify a written permit in ink from beyond, hopefully in Latin.

3.Intrigued the Court of BlessedSouls a certificate with Purgatory Matasellos.

4.Complain to the Jurasic Art ghost association.

5.Complain to the Matusalem Institute, based in the Vatican.

6.Send everything to shit and ask for the retirement of God, who is the oldest of all.

Poetry in pandemic times

No one accepts tips but anyone will accept money: therefore, money is worth more than the advice.

JonathanSwift

There are still those imbued with what can not be able to record the tables of the law for poetry and other arts.But it is good to remember that Moses never saw the promised land.And that the most attractive and the most free of a decalogue lies in not complying with it.What is it worth, I tell my young friend, write ten lyrical commandments if each of those who trace hides me when writing and someone, something like a strabic muse, makes fun of me, takes me out a tonguepasty and tells me that it awaits me on the third shore of time.A decalogue of principles operates as a gangster does that usually say in front of moral precepts, something like "the principles" leave them for the end.Because it is generally immutable laws that are precisely the opposite of poetry, that one day is an old taciturn and sow, other days is a naked and horseman woman, and others very others a mocking goblon or a moira that awaits us to theend of the path that we are barely drawing.That is why he is exultant and almost worthy of applause that the evangelist himself is responsible for breaking the tables of his creed, especially with that commandment that instructs that you should not work onSundays.Because in Pandemia every inevitable days are an extensive and very whippingSunday.It also occurs with the creeds that begin to love more to the adherents of a religion than to the creator of an isism, so they call it leader, capo, pope or prophet.Or historian, who meets the laudable and strenuous work of predicting the past.On the other hand, the same thing is to exclude the neighbor that does not fully comply with the precepts stated, which on the other hand no one would like to fulfill, not even the evangelist himself of the new poetic faith.Then, many times the indoctrinated ones are sneaketed by applause, crypt, statue or glory that for the ancients was nothing other than "the sun of the dead".To the blind followers of a decalogue, the manna, a miraculous bread basket to feed and cross the desert, its dunes and winds, is beginning to ration, but in truth what is most needed to cross it is the seminal power of the waters.No one will doubt that manna, being a miraculous food that changes flavored to the taste of the diner, is the closest thing to poetry.The exegetes say that the manna had the flavor that each traveler wanted, what could be a metaphor for the search for every ambitious creator.How the same the same poetic food can change according to the palate or according to the need for who consumes it?Very surely, if he who ingests it has a child's soul, the fruit can know meaded wafers, like so many poets in love trances.Some of those sentimental poets, sometimes, like the vate of a fable by Robert Walser when he realizes his lack of lyrical breath, what is going to be done, they decide to stop being poets "to become honest men".Others dream of Maná's intake to cut a poor meal in a simple delicacy.Thus, Georg Trakl celebrated a small day of wine with nuts.That mana, that sacred food rained in the desert, possibly a surreal poet would sue it made with sleep yeast.But I repeat a single and authentic "precept": it is not good to put the mark before taking the first step.Maybe, I tell my interlocutor, the only advice that can be given to a young poet, and there are some very generous and wise as those provided by Max Jacob or Rainer Maria Rilke, it is to choose conscientiously the desert in which you wantpreach anything original?True, so little original that I must escape a sentence of Max Jacob himself, a man who was injured before the knife, a generous poet who was also a painter, musician and novelist, a friend of the calligramatic Guillaume Apollinaire and the Movedizo Pablo Picasso.Max Jacob rigorously sought a kind of "harmonious madness" in the poem, hence it is even more terrible and much more moving his death in a concentration camp in France occupied by the Nazis.

Fabrics and landscapes

I have seen hundreds of landscapes with flags designed by the believers of the dubious religion of the banners.I have seen a melancholic landscape of torn fabrics about to become flags in a crazy ship.I was not in the Berlin of the black spiders painted on the dark banners but the flag of fear still shudders and I feel cornered in a neighborhood of the Jewish.In those days, death danced a waltz or sang a anthem in the stadiums and after foaming beer jug.Some years ago I visited an extramurous landscape where a man surrounded by posters and flags smiled without pause and demanded his choice for the high position of executioner.And well, I no longer remember if it was at the exit in New York or at the gates of Bronx, but the ladies of theSalvation Army deployed their misery flags.These women seemed like strange prayers while spilling a fog or lava soup with large buckets.The flags of charity and uprooting floated in the air under a sky of rags.In the banks, great temples of the usury, floated an assembly of flags and the bankers invited the liturgy of the golden calf.In my country a blind man on the way to the gorge called us permanent war and the courtship that followed him by singing towards the abyss.

All this review of wrinkled flags takes me [u3] to draw this poem that is just an agitated paper in quarantine:

Instructions

to make

a flag

Than the fabric

It is stirred

to the slightest stimulus

of the wind.

Like the hummingbird,

what is a slight

Air tremor.

Then try

have

a rhythm,

A cadence

of dancer

In antles

and windows.

It is necessary

balance

that resists

The pellets

of hail.

Fulfilled

this steps

they can

to March

after her

and convert

Your fabric

In Mortaja.

Notes from a ghost

So they want to make us ghosts.

***

That they want to give us the skin by jail.At times like those who live they come out words that we would not want to use.For example, the word aporophobia, which means a mixture of hatred and fear of the poor.Or the word gerontophobia, which denotes aversion to the old.And to continue impressing the possible readers of these confined notes, the word logocracy that means a pseudorreality founded, precisely, in words of little common use that, not being understood by the other, gives us power.If we say alterophobia ‒odio to the other - we hide a possible dehumanization.And if we say xenophobia, we varnish with that word the primitive and tarado fear to what we do not know.As unfortunately it happens with certain academics.In that mirage of language, with euphemisms and other trapisondas they would like to give us a hare, a seclusion such as those that have been practiced with ethnic, cultural, political or religious groups.And they announce it in some cases as protection of caged.

***

MaybeSalgar's hero dreams of being declared a vital vital by decree, and having his own "giovinezza", a song like that of a tarado that led Italy to a war and that in his letter will praise the youth, "springof beauty », as the old skinned skin did not believe his glorious destiny.

***

That they tell me when this call has been concerned about grandparents, called like this when in many cases they have not been parents and therefore only by divine design could have had Niectos.You have to see the ranks of old waiting for sun and water to claim a medicine, a placebo, a more useless drug than the love of the Pope to humanity.Regarding this statement about the highest church hierarch.And yes, he is right, but as "reality is not verbal," they don't alter anything.They are useless in an iconic but empty sphere such as that of the VaticanState, an immovable apparatus, a bitm of the same size of its beautiful and frozen statues.

***

They want to return statues to "the biggest".Of salt, like the reckless woman who was stiff looking at the past.They want to retire from life.

***

If at least these barbarians of a clamorous and late baby boom knew who Noam Chomsky is, a man of ninety -two years, of anarchist ideas and always in intellectual boiling, and in contrast they stopped hearing the one who some nicknames president of this countryAnd first of all it is a listed mental, wouldn't it be at least a small doubt about the traps that the malicious God crosses among men?But what is going, new ideas do not enter into an old brain, used to say an old poet specializing in alarm timbres.Because with the exception of about three politicians, ours are old elderly when they are nothing more than anticipated mummies.

***

I remember a policy gang during an election day.I saw them once in my hometown taking out their guests and leading them to vote, as in a poor parody of dead souls, the beautiful and very Colombian novel by Nikolái Gogol.

***

I hear to speak to the Minister of Health, a tipjo that seems to have graduated with anesthesia, Fernando Ruiz Gómez.Obedient to a tarado in full exercise, Iván Duque, he will never realize that the most dignified word that should be babbling would be the word "resignation".No, they ask that older or "grandparents" do not come out, which is a larval crime since if something needs an old body in dysfunction with a young brain, it is precisely a constant mobility.

***

We want to become passive beings because we have a lot of accumulated youth.

***

The best thing about youth is that this over time is removed.

***

We want to become ghosts for the communist danger that we tour the world.According to the Dictionary of the Academy of Language, the ghosts are defined with this twist ‒Salud, Oldeven Henry James‒, are dead people who, according to some spiritualists appear to the living.Well "living" are these smoke vendors that decree standing rules because they don't know what else to do with themselves, with their bodies singular and truly uninhabited."In his souls, they frighten," said an old Discolo who was shot as in view of a danger when he found these calcareous beings, these "hollow men," as T called them.S.Eliot.

***

A fragment of "Song of War of Things", a poem by Joaquín Steps, without a doubt the greatest poet of Nicaragua after the irruption of Rubén Darío, he goes as an elbow: «When you reach old, you will respect the stone,/ If you reach old,/ if then there was any stone./ Your children will love old copper,/ faithful iron./ You will receive the ancient metals within your families,/ you will treat the noble lead with the decency that corresponds to their sweet character;/ you will reconcile with the zinc giving it a soft name;/ with the bronze considering it as brother of gold,/Because gold did not go to war for you,/ gold stayed, for you, playing the role of a spoiled child,/ velvet dress, wrapped, protected by the resentful steel.../ When you arrive at old, you will respect the gold,/ if you reach old, if there was some gold left ».

***

So they want to make us ghosts.