Saturday, 27 March 2010

For the Organizer: Congratulations on your new health system.

 After reading your book “Dreams From My Father”, I get an idea of the way you think. Thanks to that amazing reading, I have been able to understand all your speech and your huge smile. Yes, you have been able.
As you signed the new law I imagined the satisfaction of your father and your grandfather and the rest of the Luo people in Kenya. I imagined that your hand was the wrinkled hand of an old worker from the South of Chicago. I am sure that all the little children who go at state schools in Jakarta, as you went some years ago, were in the room. It is easy for me to imagine the happiness of the homeless whom I saw asking for money for you in San Francisco in 2008.
I guess everybody around the world can see that the dream of your mother got into real.
But you must continue. There is too much work for being done but… Yes, we can.

Monday, 22 March 2010

Empty Living Room

We go into as we do everyday. He is the first to enter and I follow him. We sit down as usual, he sits on the right sofa and I sit on the left one. We hardly talk but we keep silent. We look at each other for some minutes. Everyday I turn on the television set, no sound, and look at it, but I do not watch anything. The screen blinks made up by an infinite amount of colours. He looks through the window and his eyes get wet but he never cries. While I pretend to be watching television, I glance at him. He appears to be far older than he is. Suddenly I can bear such a heavy silence and I tell him that the walls should be painted and he stares at me hard, as if he did not know who I am. Some minutes go by. Then he replies me: “We must put some flowers”. A cockroach quickly crosses between us but we do not paid attention to it. The daylights slowly disappear and we gawk at it.
She used to sit with him. The little ones used to sit beside me but they preferred to play on the floor. To some extent they appeared to be protected playing in the middle, embracing by the sofas. As if they are into a parenthesis apart from the rest of the world.
I had always believed that you first hear a hum that tears the air. But I do not remember having had any warning. On television there was a football match. I wanted to continue watching the match but he asked me for helping him. We went to the first floor to bring some wine bottles.
This is the reason why we went out although the little ones started to fight and the little girl fell and hurt herself. She was who embraced the little girl and kissed her head and reprimanded the little boy who seemed to be the most frightened.
And that was the last time we saw them as we like to remember them. The last time that they were themselves instead of a lot of pieces of flesh mixed with glass, stones, ashes and dust.
I hope that the people who did it had a really good reason. I guess that they hoped a kind of glory forever in the heaven. Maybe, they are already living in the paradise that they wanted to reach with the killer rocket.
On the news, I saw their photographs and the images of their embalmed bodies during the burial. I even recognized myself. I was crying, embracing him. He was serious, silent, and calm. After our piece of news, the newscaster continued with other news.
Some of their speakers have explained that it was a mistake. Something was wrong. They were collateral victims; we must understand that the big causes sometimes bring these little errors.
They have sent a press release in which they say that they are really sorry about what happened.
I try to hold my hatred back and to understand these ill minds. I try to forgive as I have been taught to do. I try to know the difference between a fierce wild beast and the person who thought, decided, planned, and ordered this intense smell of burned and blood.
Nights are hard. I hardly sleep and I know that he does not sleep. The dawn seeps through the hole in the ceiling, the sunrays first light the space where they were the last time that they were. And I cannot avoid having a spiritual thought and feel that they three come back every morning and fill this darkness of grave with their light.
Every night, he suddenly gets up from his sofa and goes to his bedroom. I turn off the television set and follow him.
We never look at floor; neither do we look at ceiling.

Saturday, 13 March 2010

Read me

I want to tell you, with my printed words, the sad story of Milton. He is an unemployed man but he does not have expenses so it is able to live with the few coins that people give him . Yes, he is a beggar and his only posesion is his white baseball cap. The wealthy old ladies are his main source of money when they leave the church. He likes looking into the cafes and pubs through the windows. He knows he is not allowed to enter. He likes to see those cheerful people but he hates to see himself reflected in the glass. Everyday I meet him. For example, yesterday I was waiting for him on a bench for hours. He arrived a bit drunk and sit on me. He slept for some minutes and as he awaked he saw me and started to read me. I let him to take me and brought me closer to his face (he can hardly see without his broken spectacles). Although he reads me, he does not realize that my story talks on him. This is not strange because reading is very difficult and depends on the reader and on his spirits far more than on the writer. Once I heard a man saying that our protagonist had a horrible car accident and lost his memories. This should be the reason why he does not recognize himself when he reads his name as the author of my printed words.

Saturday, 6 March 2010

Another blog: It's a too-huge world.

Hi everybody,
I have decided to start another blog called "It's a too-huge world". This site is going to be mostly dedicated to talk on trip (landscapes, peoples, languages, museums, beach, mountains, sightseeings, feelings, etc.) I would like to discover you some amazing places. I hope you enjoy it.
I am going to start with a trip from Figueres to Nice. An amazing trip in the land of the some of the greatest painters of the 20th century (Dalí, Picasso, Matisse, etc.).

(By the way, reading is also a way to travel)

Friday, 5 March 2010


When are you going to start to write? How many memories do you need to collect before writing? No excuses. Time is going by. People are sit around you and want to listen your words.

"Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
Keep your eyes wide
The chance won`t come again"
The Times They are Changing
by Bob Dylan