E n Malaga. The DRYLAND perpetual sky remains gray. It would seem to be holding a low-key these days, a dereliction of heavenly fables. With the hood, the words seem to redeem himself and not wanting to light more than needed. A few minutes ago, when walking the bathroom washing my hands, I have observed the vortex that forms when water leaks down the drain. That swirl is life and it is this day and perhaps all that we were wanting. A traffic circle, drenched in dirt and warmth that seeks escape the inevitable. ***
penalties A sensitive, of Trapiello, is slowly running out. Reading, as in other years, is forging a complicity that leads one to feel staying on the sidelines of the room, to sit on a bench as an attentive audience spellbound. His hobbies, references, syntax, available on every page, the presence of individuals who are continually being cited, the meeting with an admired poet who loved the things of the field, the emergence of a poet who had my book of poems in Sevilla and certain conditions that upset me more than I like.
Although we are in a way, continued his reading. I note in the margins reactions to some paragraphs and M, very suspicious, I said that this year I will not comment or praise these turns of phrase that both fascinate me and that so few writers meeting today. It is true that I outlined a bunch of them and, when finished reading, I will do mine, as on other occasions. It's the same exercise as when I read Unamuno, Azorín, Valle-Inclán and Delibes, in its pages is a pearl of the language to which I can not think another tribute to reuse.
All in all, from the balcony, the sea, the sea, it seems that fighting itself and remaining glass to the flight from the clouds. M. has declined to buy things I do not know what we were missing to not move from where we are so comfortable, just reading. Now, I hear their pasosacercándose, I felt like a character in Cortázar, tracker tragic that Engola itself. Entered and gave me a hug, with effusion, and the origin of all this I saw a dream that I'm just sensitive. ***
A other views, the two, after so many years together. All that has been fundamental in life, in this apparent life has been shared with her. We have conspired, through language and literature, in a separate brigade has learned to survive immediately. Every time I feel more sharing and less brooding, more alien to all that I am on the inside. Sometimes I say, whispering, I wish I could see myself in the depths of the eyes that behold me daily. ***
E n a pile on the table waiting for other volumes that are waiting. Javier Marias, which I can not resist re-read or Valery's notebooks, which I brought to the sea because they themselves are immense. In the cloth bag that I used to fill it, we also accompany Umberto Eco, Italian, of course, and volumes of poetry and other testing. Also order a book of philological and other philosophy.
Just before leaving to Malaga, in the living room, I was checking the bag of books to acompñarnos iban. In those moments, I feel a hysteria that leads me to hyperbole. Beginning to pick up a book here, Casanova's memoirs there, the poems of Dante on the other hand, Tolstoy, Chekhov and Broch. We continue to JRJ and Unamuno, which I have lately in high regard. When M. see me, Crazy, like a thief in a library, it begins to calm. think ... you'll be able "? ... a string of common sense that harmonizes and returns me to what was always the life and what I worked so hard to sustain. ***
L to poetry is timeless and desespaciado, a phenomenon in which everything is given as a whole without reference to an earlier or later, one here and one there. Poetry is total permanent condition that can only locate in itself. It is no more and do not know the event or submission. Is boundless and each display is updated as the cosmos that we see only in appearance and suggestion.
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