Querido Juan:

Voy a escribirte ahora. Lo había dilatado porque aún no me sentía listo. Tenía una mezcla de sentimientos que se anulaban. Tenía rabia man, tenía mucha rabia y pena. Tantas veces lo conversamos, tantas veces te dije que si yo había podido superarlo estaba seguro que tú lo harías. Tú reas el fuerte y yo el “maricón sensible”, el “intelectual”. Siempre había sido así y de alguna manera había aceptado ese rol. Éramos complementarios. Admiraba en ti lo que jamás podría llegar a ser, lo que no quería ser, y tu… bueno, estoy seguro de que también sabias que yo era tu versión en negativo. Ambos sabíamos que a pesar de nuestras grandes diferencias, por debajo de nuestras venas la sangre de la cual nos jactábamos nos hacía uno para siempre. Cada uno en lo suyo, cada uno en su área, éramos Miranda. Los hermanos Miranda. Los últimos de la estirpe maldita.

Cuando supe lo que habías hecho estaba en el mall, el mismo puto lugar donde estaba cuando supe de la muerte de mi viejo… ¿lo elegiste así? ¿O fue una de esas lamentables coincidencias? Supongo que lo elegiste. Siempre hiciste las cosas a tu manera y a todos no nos quedaba otra alternativa que secundarte o quererte así. Y era tan fácil quererte cabro culiao. Demasiado fácil. Tan sólo un par de veces resultó complicado amarte, y eso bastó para que te desplomaras. ¿Qué habría pasado contigo si hubiésemos cambiado nuestras vidas por un rato?

Me pregunto qué te hizo tan especial para todos. Por qué una multitud de personas me contó la misma versión de la historia. Que tú fuiste un amigo muy especial, cercano, pero al mismo tiempo distante. Que tus silencios te dieron esa aura de alguien que se cerraba, pero que era una puerta abierta para todos. Para todo. ¿Te acuerdas del Soza? ¡Estuvo acá Gueón! hubieras visto cómo te recordaba entre lágrimas. Lágrimas sinceras del que fue tocado con tu existencia. Si alguien pudiera contarte sobre la gente que vino a despedirse de ti, de las cosas que dijeron… quisiera la mitad de tu funeral, sólo la mitad para sentir que alguien me amó en este puto mundo.

Hace algunas noches atrás, una de esas noches de alcohol y lágrimas que dejaste, Osvaldo y yo estábamos conversando en su auto. Reconocimos que eras de todos y eras de nadie… que no le perteneciste a nadie en especial, pero que todos te sentimos nuestro al mismo tiempo. ¿Cómo resolver esa contradicción? Creo que siempre fuiste una contradicción, ¿No? De la forma al fondo, del fondo a la forma, del vacío al todo, del todo al vacío.

Mi cabeza se ha llenado de brumas, de oscuridad. No logro pensar en nada más que el presente y el pasado, ese pasado que compartimos algunas veces. De la vez que me dijiste en el auto, en uno de nuestros últimos momentos “Ahora que te vas a ir ¿quién me va a encender los cigarrillos cuando tenga que viajar de nuevo?” Cada vez que enciendo uno es para ti también. Siempre va a ser así.

No dejo de pensar en ti. ¿Se supone que debo sacar una lección de todo esto? ¿Pretendías dejarme una lección? Aún no la entiendo y no sé si algún día lo voy a entender. Lo siento, pero siempre he sido lento leyendo a los demás. Ese ha sido my gran problema. No leo bien los subtextos.

Nosotros aún estamos un poco mareados y confundidos. La Vane está mejor. Estoy cuidándola como de seguro querías que lo hiciera. Mi vieja está aprendiendo a vivir contigo transformado en recuerdo. Tus amigos, ellos tratan de seguir con sus vidas pero es grande el vacío que les dejaste.

Cuídate Juan. Espero que ahora estés bien, de verdad lo espero. Saludos a mi viejo.

                                                Gonzalo.

Balada de otoño

(Joan Manuel Serrat)

Llueve,
detrás de los cristales, llueve y llueve
sobre los chopos medio deshojados,
sobre los pardos tejados,
sobre los campos, llueve.
Pintaron de gris el cielo
y el suelo
se fue abrigando con hojas,
se fue vistiendo de otoño.
La tarde que se adormece
parece
un niño que el viento mece
con su balada en otoño.
Una balada en otoño,
un canto triste de melancolía,
que nace al morir el día.
Una balada en otoño,
a veces como un murmullo,
y a veces como un lamento
y a veces viento.
Llueve,
detrás de los cristales, llueve y llueve
sobre los chopos medio deshojados,
sobre los pardos tejados
sobre los campos, llueve.
Te podría contar
que esta quemándose mi último leño en el hogar,
que soy muy pobre hoy,
que por una sonrisa doy
todo lo que soy,
porque estoy solo
y tengo miedo.
Si tú fueras capaz
de ver los ojos tristes de una lámpara y hablar
con esa porcelana que descubrí ayer
y que por un momento se ha vuelto mujer.
Entonces, olvidando
mi mañana y tu pasado
volverías a mi lado.
Se va la tarde y me deja
la queja
que mañana será vieja
de una balada en otoño.
Llueve,
detrás de los cristales, llueve y llueve
sobre los chopos medio deshojados...

     Usually biographies start with some facts about people. Official truth like when and where somebody was born and raised. But this time I will let me forget those useful information you can find on Wikipedia or another source. You can watch a lot of articles or web pages and, with different words, tell you the simple facts: Luca Prodan; born in Italy (1953) and died in Argentina, Buenos Aires (1987)

     Maybe was truth or not that he had a fight with the future prince of Wales during his school time in Scotland.  Who cares?

     During some year a stinky Italian/Scottish junkie landed in Argentina looking for another life and opportunity. Now the history belong to us. The story that really care.

     Sumo was one of the most important and interesting band of the southamerican rock scene during the 80's. Their music, lyrics and performances were hard to swallow for many people. Too chaotic, mixed, pervert, aggressive, insane, decadent. We were so young and naive. We are so young and naive.

     Punk, reggae, pop, funky, progressive sounds and all the notes and will that all those guys putted on their music made them immortals. "Luca not dead" it's one of those typical graffities you can see in any corner in Buenos Aires. Seems it's true. Now more than ever Luca is not dead. For people like me his way to see things and

     I will drink a bottle of Ginebra Buenos Aires soon, laughing if I see any "rubia tarada" or any "cheto". I will walk on the "Abasto" and I will hate all those "viejos vinagres" but for now it's better not to talk about "algunas cosas"

Si tuviera que marchar hoy,
diría:
que la cima estuvo al alcance de los dedos,
que me perdí envuelto a punto de cruzar la meta,
que entre tinieblas mis sombras, viejas sombras,
se cruzaron indolentes y frías sobre piedra

Si tuviera que escribir la roca hoy,
sentiría:
que con violencia grité mil veces tu nombre contra el viento,
mas el eco devolvió vacía la respuesta.
Que busqué tiempo y respuestas entre muertos
Que giré, tanteando en el aire, la danza perfecta.

Dadme unos segundos para vaciar la copa roja.
Siempre es pronto para despedidas tempraneras.
Quiero esparcir mi tinta en pozos de noche.
Detener, dilatar con excusas la larga espera negra.

Quise ser torcido y abyecto en el camino,
cubrir mis huesos de extensa seda negra,
socavar la tumba de los versos femeninos,
convertirme en severa figura de piedra.

Pero estoy aquí,
dilapidando el esfuerzo en excusas pasajeras
ganando un poco de perdón,
perdiendo el recurso frente a las parcas severas.

Más no me iré mañana.
La costumbre sujeta firme los pies a la tierra.
la mano se resiste a escribir,
con letra roja, la última parte de esta guerra. 

It is the fall?

The lack of skin?

The shorter days?

The empty bed?

The colder nights?

The sounds of the gypsy curse?

The altar of the broken promises?

I don't know

Usually I don't find/look answers

But the instinct is hungry

and needs to use another fur

I have the knife ready for the hunting

till the point of passing in a blur

The trip of the romantic bohemian it's ready

The rudder of the will it's rock-steady

in the hold all the bottles of wine

on the eyes the sky as a sign.

There's no way without North

No North without a way.

Muchacha ojos de papel
a dónde vas?
quédate hasta el alba.

Muchacha pequeños pies
no corras más
quédate hasta el alba.

Sueña un sueño despacito
entre mis manos
hasta que por la ventana
suba el sol.

Muchacha piel de rayón
no corras más
tu tiempo es hoy.

Y no hables más
muchacha
corazón de tiza
cuando todo duerma
te robaré un color.

Muchacha voz de gorrión
a dónde vas?
quédate hasta el día.

Muchacha pechos de miel
no corras más
quédate hasta el día.

Duerme un poco y yo entre
tanto construiré
un castillo con tu vientre
hasta que el sol
muchacha te haga reír
hasta llorar...hasta llorar

Y no hables más
muchacha
corazón de tiza
cuando todo duerma
te robaré un color.

The best prove about God's existence comes when you are walking on the street with the feeling that you are the king of the world, a kind of post modern Tony Manero and then you watch the reflection of your own image on any window. Then you start to walk watching the floor.

Saturday night, almost 4:30 AM. I was in my friend's car after a barbecue and some beers. I was tired and sleepy and I just wanted to see my bed and forget about the rest of the world. But the world didn't want it.

We were close to a very lonely part, close to our homes. A dark corner close to an old railway. The kind of gray, deserted, poor, dangerous part that any city have. When I have to walk in places like that I do that in the fastest way possible, but in a car is different. That kind of heavy armor gives you the feeling that anything else is outside and the only communication with the exterior comes on the shape of red and green lights. No cold, no danger, no loneliness.

I saw a kid walking at that time. He was no older than 12 years old. The red light asked us to make a break. Them the kid reached my window and he made the typical gesture for ask a cigarette. I saw his face. Clearly he was on drugs.

He wasn't the person who ask for a cigarette like we ask for the salt on the table. He was asking for calm because the dose was part of his past in some point of the night, like his childhood. I saw him and I remembered my own life experience. At his age my life was still so naive. Pass the school year with the best good grades and receive a nice present of Christmas was my only worry. My free times were full of good memories running behind a football ball. That kid just wanted a cigarette. His home was far a way. We didn't have anything and when the light said green we went away from that corner. We stayed on silence during the rest of the night.

I wish to be the favorite one for all the muses.

I wish to be a foreigner in all the places in the world. All the time strange, exotic, a nice ornament to have.

I wish to be upright, absent, amoral.

I wish to be a good reason to wait for.

A planet, a continent, a country, a flag. An Anthem who can give hope, peace, warmth.

I wish to be a magician who can create and control the world and the people just using some spells.

I wish to be as deep, dark, vast, meaningful and mysterious as the sea.

I wish to be your bed, your shelter, your watchman.

A shield, a castle, a spear.

The wealthiest man on the earth. The greatest leader. The most saint. The worst sinner.

I wish to be a good excuse.

     My brother is driving his car trough a landscape plenty of a poor variety of colors. Some yellows, light browns, ocher, and above us, a sky-blue dome follows the little metallic creatures walking like ants on the gray catwalk. The caravan of one camel was crossing the desert.

     His hands knows well how to drive, is like an automatic memory working all the time, totally autonomous from his will. His eyes are tired, but is used to that work since some years ago. He knows every story in that road and from time to time he tells me about some death in that place, "can you se that signal? he was a truck driver and was very sleepy when his truck goes away from the road. He had  a family on one city close to mine"

     Ancient giants covered with dusty sheets fills our vision whatever we want to watch, blocking us and the life, the poor life of that land. Sometimes I think is like a powerful advice of God, "look poor mortal, I'm still great and powerful, and I can take and give life if I want". But for Juan... I wonder his thoughts. Is he thinking about all those feverish creations of my mind? Is he thinking about the next city he have to visit? How much time he need to return to his home? But he knows those mountains, knows all the names, and sometimes he can create new ones, "this is the nipple hill" said about one, and I was agree about the resemblance. In some way he's a new Spanish conqueror, and with his eyes and mind he's creating a new country. He's Don Juan de Miranda.

     Many years ago people was doing the same route, with thirsty horses, dying by the cruel caress the Sun was giving to them. Now, in Juan's car, with a shitty air conditioning, very far from that time, that agony was just another ancient story from impossible people.

     A long green tongue gave us something refreshing to see when we arrived to our destiny. A little valley and a little town was waiting for us.  How delicate is the balance between life and death when you can see clearly in the north of Chile. In both sides the rocks dinosaurs warning us, in the middle our hopes, fears, lives.

     Soon we have to go back to the car, the work is ready. Just 30 minutes and all is ok. Is so weird, two hours driving to do something so short, and now the large gray snake is waiting again for us, to swallow us into it's hot stomach.

     Couple of CD's later, and a talk about our childhood and our future plans I asked him how he know his city is close. He said "in 15 minutes we will see a bend with some signals", imperceptible signal when finally I could see. "when I see that signal, that little signal on one side of the road, I know I'm in home, I'm already in home". I saw his face, and I was agree, he was in home.

     It came so easy to my mind. A shot on his head and then a long and deep breath... become void. Many times in many ways I made movies on my head about the situation. The bastard sleeping on his bed, me sliding my foots on the floor, becoming the hunter, the perfect revenge for all this years, for all my tears, the blows, the blood on my face, the silent screams, the cheap excuses, the bullshit.

     I don't remember when or how it started, sincerely I don't want to remember. Just have his stinky breath of cheap beer on my nose forcing me. How I hated him during those moments, how filthy, impure, diminished, humiliated, abused I was. So if you think I didn't have any reason you are wrong. I had. Rage is a reason? maybe not for a war. Maybe I'm using the wrong word. You know, I'm not a thinker or a philosopher. Anyway, I don't mind. Between me and him it was my feelings, and none was nice, I swear, none.

     I just needed the will, the opportunity, I don't know. After some time you really start to live and think as a zombie, a slave of his shitty life. Just waiting, waiting for the moment when he opened the door and the nightmare starts. I laugh now when people tells me they had a nightmare last night, cause I lived in one.

     Of course I had also the crazy idea of commit suicide. But after all, it was just a way out for me. No, don't think that I'm a hero or something. I didn't thought about to avoid the same suffering for other women. I don't belong to that kind of humankind. It was just his stupid smile coming to my mind and the desire to erase it what pushed me.

     It wasn't something well planned. I didn't say "this night will be" or " I will do that next week". Sometimes the bag is full enough of shit, just that. Sometimes you have to get out of you the shit. To clean, if you like. I'm not good with words, I never was.

     Because of that I never thought that the rest of the people could understand me. Never waited for a happy end for that. But you know something? In spite of everything, just watching the bars on my prison, the dirty bathrooms and all, I never felt myself more free than now. Never.

    Sooner or later all the atmosphere start to change. Maybe is some kind of evil plan made it by all the companies, maybe is because after all we are in the end of the year, maybe is just because we enjoy it.

     All the shopping malls, all the great avenues, the house of my neighbors, all start to be totally on green, with little lights, and all the kids are thinking if they were enough good during the year. I think even us, because we always keep a little kid inside.

     How is here? Very different from the north part of the world. We don't have snow, maybe we forgot also the real meaning of such days. Days are very hot indeed, and all the people are running as fast as they can for prepare all for that night. Of course, always we forgot somebody, and when that person come we just feel miserable because we don't have any gift. Is all about gifts? Here the answer is YES. OK, OK, very consumer way to celebrate something with so deep meaning, even if you are not Catholic or Christian.

     I'm not catholic or Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim, or Buddhist, I don't feel a close connection with a religious way to celebrate any holiday, but also I'm against such race against time for spend the money you don't have because all the time the TV is remembering you how bad person you are if you don't give a expensive gift.

     For me is about to spend time with the people you love, and to think about all those who are not with you. Is a beautiful excuse for have a nice dinner with your family, and be a kid again waiting for some magical being who come once per year to your home. Is not about snow and deer, not here, although some poor old guys are working with clothe for European winter during the Chilean summer.

     Uf! many things to say. For now if somebody is reading this piece of paper inside a bottle, maybe is a good idea to tell how is Christmas in different countries. So, now is turn for some post. Now I have to write my letter to "El Viejito Pascuero" (here the name for Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Pere Noel, etc)

This is a question. can you see the face on the sky? Do you have a theory about it? 

SoMebody asked me to write something more gentle about Polish people. She said that now I'm some kind of ambassador of them. I will do that because I want to talk also about European people, how far or close they are from some stereotypes.

I have to say first that when I went to the "Old World" in my head I was rejecting all those preconceptions you can easily find on the web. Some of them changed, some not.

One day, after a couple of days, with some irony I thought for myself "All the white people are the same, I can't make any difference between them". If you are the kind of person that use the first image about everything, then you are agree with me in that point, and nothing will change after to read this post. In the same time you will say the same about African, Asian, Arabic and, of course, Latin people. All the world are prisoners of one or more preconceptions.

Thanks I was totally wrong, blind and I gave myself the chance to know more deep people and learn about diversity. I learned about my own mistakes.

Which are my conclusions? First, I don't know anything about people, and they can be good or bad whatever the country they belong. That also for my own people mi raza like Latin people call ourselves in US.

What more? Of course I felt more close connections with Latin European people. I meet people from Spain and Portugal and many of them are my friends now. But connection is not about to belong to any cultural world. I have also very close friends from different's parts of the world: France, Germany, Korea, China, Ukraine, Ireland, Turkey Korea, RSA, etc. One of my best friends in the world is now Austrian... my brother.

But besides that, the idea about how cold are people in Europe is totally wrong. I have to say that I thought Slavic people were all rather cold. Wrong again Gonzalo, and I'm very happy to know that already. Polish people are considered in many ways bad people among all the European countries. People say "they are thieves, drunk, conservative, racist, etc" and about girls unfortunately is well known as an idea that Polish girls are synonymous of easy dumb woman ready for have sex with any foreigner. I wonder how sad and angry any person in the world can be if anybody start to talk in that way about your country.

But the fact is I never saw people more similar to my own. I never felt the cordiality and the warmth I had with that friendly and proud country. Such amazing, great, rich and, at the same time, sad History. I felt like in home, but not the same. A new one.

Many of you who know me already have some smile on your faces, because you know how "impartial" are my opinions now, "yes, sure. He's making some kind of Apology of Poland because..."

As I wrote before, give you a chance to learn an discover by yourselves. A world with many great people is ready for you. Give your hand and your mind to the human kind, let's be one.

By the way... I really hate Slovakian people. Somebody have to throw a bomb in that despicable country ;)

This story was true, totally. For reasons you will understand later, I can't use all the real names, so I will not use your name Stefan, nobody will know that you were that night with me. Is okay my friend?

One evening in Krakow I meet an incredible friend, my brother, my Austrian brother. The most similar person to me I ever meet... but in "Arian" version. The fact is we felt the need to talk deeper, get out our sadness, share our life experiences and to dive into the night life of that magical city. Because I was something like an "expert", I propose to him to try with polish vodka in one of the many places I visited before.

I was looking exactly one. I was there many weeks ago. It was a quiet bar inside some building. A perfect place to drink some Wyborowa and try to solve the world, or maybe just our lives.

People say that by night all cats are black. I saw some place, very similar, and that was enough to me, so I decided we should go inside. I must say that the atmosphere was nice, a little bar, just a couple of guys drinking, all the people very warm, something like a club of friends. Perfect place I thought, and also Stefan, so we started with some wodka shots.

Then all started to change. An old guy, maybe 55 years old, came to our table. He was some kind of typical old polish guy, which means basically somebody with Lech Walesa look. He wanted to talk with us, but in German. When Stefan asked him why not in English  he said "English is a language for black people"... nice!!!

So we started to "talk". That guy and Stefan in German, and then the English translation to me. I notice the face of Stefan started to change a little while more they were talking, and the he look at me and said "Gonzalo, this guy is totally gay, and I think he's in love of me". After that I asked him to leave this place, but he said "you know, this situation is even funny, so let's continue this talk and see what happens".

While more we talked, more that old guy was looking at my friend with "in love face". In some point "Walesa" suggested that we were a couple, and not a straight guys, and if that was the situation, we were a "nice couple". Then Stefan had the good idea to go to the toilet and leave me alone with that guy. He was totally drunk, speaking in German and Polish, with somebody who were able to speak in English and Spanish, what a lovely talk!

Of course I was nervous! But I saw the owner of the bar, who speaks English, and I asked him to translate what he was saying because "this guy is gay, and I don't want to have a misunderstanding". He saw me and made a very mysterious smile (Monalisa's smile was nothing compared with that one!). When my friend came, suddenly another guy come to our table, and that one was... also gay! and worse (oh my luck) he was crazy with the fact I was Latino. Then the situation was dangerous for both, and Stefan said "Could you excuse us? we need to go to the toilet... together" Of course it was the only way to escape about that situation which was turning faster and faster more... surrealistic.

But when we came back to our table, then we started to notice the fact that all the people around us were guys, and... it was so fast... we didn't had time to even say what we discover... a louder music coming from inside the bar started to invade all the place... a Village People song... and when we saw the interior... I will never forget what I saw... a lot of guys were dancing without t-shirts  over the bar!

Yes... it was a gay bar. Maybe the only one in the whole Krakow, and we were among all those guys. Even the owner, the one who gave me that smile was among them. When we were drinking our wodka as fast as we could, Walesa came again to our table, without t-shirt, and I will say without dignity, because his pants were below, close to the floor. He invited us to join the "party", and then we understood or fate... or we start to run like hell or... I never liked disco music anyway.

When we were leaving the place, more guys came to our table to try to convince us to stay there. One of them even knew a lot about Chilean wine, and even invited to me to visit him at his work... to taste the red "dangerous" Chilean proud. We went out, walking very fast, just thinking to see all the girls in the universe in front of us because we had enough of guys that night. 

Moral of the story? alcohol is bad, no matter if is Wodka or Wine. Another one? Never believe you are an expert because you went to one place just one time in your life. The last one? more I think about that night, more I like women. Sorry guys, maybe in another life.

Dedicated to my brother Stefan, who were running with me from those guys that night in Krakow (in pink words!).