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::Piece of a conquest. Conquest of the first world, an ancient continent.
Brainstorm. Haze. Travel. Movement.
Warning: This is a bowl of milk filled up with Cheerios and the marshmellows of a box of Lucky Charms. A Brainstorm. A Haze.
I'm in the mood of writing. I'm hungry for the taste of emptiness in my mind that's filled up with the burnt-out ends of smoky days, glorious days.
Just write... Let it go. One week stand in Spain, Italy, France...And rolling.
Streets that follow like a tedious dream, a Spanish destination.
Woke up at 3 a.m, had to take my train from Kruisplein, Central Station in about 30 minutes.Damn. Age sang me through the phone and the melody made Schiphol- Barajas go smoothly, till I noticed all the bags disappearing into their owner's hands... I saw the last bag bouncing on top of that evil mary-go-round and it wasn't mine. Mierda. They left my bag back at Schiphol. But it's ok. Madrid was friendly enough and the morning came to consciousness with all its muddy Spanish feet that press early y venga! It's ok.
Metro stations revolved the new world with the ancient one. Just like my soul is strech3ed tight across the skies that faded behind a cityblock. Colombia Station, Peru Blvd, Cartagena Av., Cuzco Square...
I' ve measured out my life in coffee spoons. A Spanish coffee to go... "Un pintao" Just to prepare a face to meet the father I once called my hero, now... He's a one serving father, a one-in-a-lifetime, an everlasting figure and a friend. We met, had some beers. Walked the Paseo la Castellana, cought up about my life and his... Talked about you (yes you) and me and us and our glorious past, future and unknown destiny for the next days.
Then I went to Gabriel and Javier's place... Gabriel and Javier, with whom I drank wine until the blood in my veins had the best Spanish grapes running as fast a a great Torero kills his bull.
With whom I played guitar until my fingers couldn't even hold a B minor and my voice was that devastated it sounded kinda corny, with whom the word perversion (I love that word) was more than that...With it's dark, complex thrill, beginning with the enigmatic P that can mean anything, then swiftly tumbling via the ruthless r to the vengeful v... and with whom I danced like a gypsy, despite my bad capacity of smooth movement at the moment, produced by the 14% of red liquid in my arteries.
Rushour. Had to take a train to the coast at 22:00. "2 por favor" " No, don't tell me you' re sold out"...My only hope to Catalunya was the bus. "Buses Anibal" with that name all I could do was pray to heaven for a decent bus driver... One that didn't drive us into hell.
Barcelona. Ciudat vella. Afterall they deserve to win. To drink of the bottle of the champions, the heroes and the villains, like kings and queens of it all. They deserved their own Arc de Triomf, and we were triumphing in Spain, taking a new road...To Rome.
Because all roads lead to Rome, and this one had no destination, not a final one.
And who could expect to see more Colombians than any other south American creature walking the city of gladiators, humanists, lovers and dreamers...And who could expect la merda di artista to be found at the subways? Or a Rumanian whispering his ambitions and vanities in Italy's greates piazzas and telling me the do's and dont's of a forgotten Bucharest?
I had no expectations. No strings attached. All rights reserved.
Death-hour. 6:55 a.m Roma Termini - Venezia St. Lucia. Death in Venice. Venice in paradise.
A trip to Venice by train: €48, An Italian gelato Pistaccio, Limone & CaffèCaramello €3, a tour gondolao through Venice's prettiest sites €100, the way an Italian gondoler grabs your ass if you stand next to him for a picture.Priceless.
Vamos juntos hasta Italia quiero comprarte un jersey a rayas.
En Venecia.... Venecia.
Merda. Had to go Back. Rome and my memory shaked through the spaces of dark midnight, with full moon, behind the Colosseo Romano. My mind reiterated some worn-out common song. A rhapsody (another beloved word) in a lunar synthesis. I missed you, I missed myself being with you. But it's ok. I was in Rome, just had been in Venice, I had you in a thousand images of which my soul was constituted. I felt like a conquistador of the 1st world. I was one.
I came here to conquer, the place, the history (mine, yours and theirs), my heroism and your heart. Despite the unnatural vices and devices that are fathered by it, my heroism your heart, soul and conscience...
Et Encore, la ville lumiere shines upon me. Moi, mon âme et ma conscience. Neither fear nor courage saved us, this was Paris. Where we're all sinners. But it's ok, at that pointI was invulnerable, I had no Achilles heel, instead I offer a Flemish accent as I tried to whisper my lusts and incantations in French and in exchange of my pronunciation French charmed me with marmalade, Amsterdamer and tea.
Then I thought to myself "If this is wrong, why the hell does it feel so good?" Then I thought to myself "Should I, after Tea and cigarettes and the silence of the lambs of smoky days, have the strength to take the moment to it's climax?" "Yes, I should"
This is Paris. This is me and this is you, my favorite reader, having no idea what I'm talking about. Well, let me tell you my dearest, If you have made it this far, your strength and patience are legendary. Congrats.
Anyhow... This was Paris, this is me, that was the Eiffel Tower behind me and I remember thinking to myself...Putain! "What a hell of a world"
Rush. I felt like a rat from laboratory in that infernal maze called Charles De Gaulle Airport. Then again, we were rushing our heads in Spanish. Barajas. And all of a sudden Yo, José Gabriel (ahum... from the Tv Show) showed up out of nowhere with that capital's accent we all know him for. "Queubo churrito, como estás ala"... gave me a kiss on the cheek as if we had met ages ago and had more than this story as history of one another on our biographies. But it's ok. That's the point when I realized that anything could happen, acually I already knew that... That was just a proof of the egocentric law which deserved a toast.
I had some wine and then some more. A Glass, then another And... and one more. I had a toast on behave of my success, my God and yours. On behave of my Libido and my alter ego, the ones I always carry with me. I had a glass for my life and yours too. For my soul, your heart, my principles and the black billis that keeps our metaphysics warm.
O woke up in Madrid and before I knew it, my body was back in Rotterdam and my soul flying Royal. Royal Dutch. Before I knew it, I was living it up. High and dry Daydreaming of my tomorrows becoming yesterdays' history, my conquest to follow between a coffee spoon, a sigh of you and me and a conqueror's kiss.
As if I gave up the secret of my lips and the world gave up the secret of it's skeleton.
And I ate all the marshmellows. The Lucky ones... Lucky charms.
Now Playing: Complete Control (The Clash)- Burn (The Cure)- Someday After A While (Eric Clapton) Best Served With: Lucky, lucky strikes.::
.:Lo wrote this at: 1:31 PM:.
::The Freewheelin'
Blowing in autumn's wind.
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. Bob Dylan said that.
You only need a saxophone to play keys like celestial symphonies among some trees.
So fuck the wind, get a saxophone and don't play it. Let it play you
cos the answer my friend, lies in between A sus and F mineur.
I said that.
Now Playing: Douceurs Ternaires (Chet Baker)- Rio, Flor Do Mar (Lisa Ono) Best Served With: Pielrojas.::
.:Lo wrote this at: 6:02 AM:.
...
::
Just Like a Rolling Stone.
Roads are meant for journeys, not destinations.
Poco a poco uno se va dando cuenta que no es sino uno el que arma la armadura de su propia suerte, que varios son los que forjan metáforas en nuestras biografias, que todos recorremos la vida en buldozer para pagar peajes, negando lo recto. Pocos logran salirse de la espiral del "y tu qué?", pocos logran no rodearse en la autocomplacencia...ellos crecen, se mueven, evolucionan.
Rolling, just like a rolling stone.
Return, just like a bon vivant.
and there's more to come...
But this was a One week stand.
A self possessed marathon.
Some coffee stands with the other masquerades that time resumes.
Lazarus, come from the dead.
Lo, just like a bon vivant.
Madrid-Barcelona-Roma-Venezia-Paris.
Dejé de dormir pero me llegó un sueño en forma de ciudades, gentes, circunstancias y acontecimientos. Sueño que descansa en los ojos, cansados de tanto caminar.
Hablar de este viaje es hablar de la belleza que penetra en el agujero negro de la mente, es el bilis que trabaja. Es cuestion de ensueño y del soñador.
Hablar de este voyage es meterse en mallas de sombra y luz. Espejos de agua y arte en mil reflejos. Porque estos fuerons lugares y personajes de mil reflejos, esos que no se olvidan... que a la vez son imaginarios y reales. Mitos de pasados gloriosos y una pizca de mi destino mas bien incierto. Es hechizo, sueño y desengaño de mil realidades. Camembert en tiempo y espacio.
Trabajo del ensueño y del soñador.
Cuestion de focos y perspectivas.
Este viaje fue innarrable, indescriptible é inolvidable. Fue olvidarse de uno mismo en la ensoñación de una locura hecha aventura y bueno, tal vez no haya ni relato ni moraleja, ni tan-tan... pero como una imagen dice más que mil palabras, les dejo los hechos en un filtro de reflejos en papel fotografico.
For you
and you...
and of course
you too. Judge for yourselfves.
The images speak for themselves.
Madrid.
Venga tio... que esta corrida esta muy chula. Y Olé!
Plaza de Toros Las Ventas.
Plaza de Toros Las Ventas.
Venga! El nuevo Paco...
de Lucía
Metro. Ventas.
Plaza Mayor.
Gran Vía. Gran Hombre.
Nuestra Sra. de la Almudera.
Palacio Real. Lo en blanc i negre.
Opera.
Lo ft. Gabriel y Javier. Despues de una noche de vinos, tapas y Jaleo. Plaza Emperador Carlos V.
Lo al art moderne.
Centro de arte Reina Sofia.
Museo Del Prado.
Paseo Del Prado.
Plaza de Cibeles
Miralá miralá miralá miralá....
La puerta de Alcalá.
Plaza de la Independencia.
Final de la vuelta a España
Paseo De la Castellana.
Barcelona.Ciudat vella.
Arc De Triomf.
All Roads Lead To Rome.
San Pietro
San Pietro II. Vatican City.
Piazza Del Popolo.
Colosseo Romano.
Colosseo & foro Romano.
With full moon as background.
Metro. Circo Masimo.
Merda di Artista.
Like father, like daughter.
Bologna. Train between Rome and Venice.
Death...
Death in Venice
Venice in Paradise.
Fondamenta Santa Lucia.
Ponte Scalzi.
Canal Grande.
Lo goes on Gondole.
Campo S. Stae.
Ponte di Rialto
Chueca.
C.po De San Silvestro
Ponte Academia
Gran Canal
Lo goes Grand.
Gran Canal.
Traghetto Gondole
Masquerades.
Shakespeare on the wall.
Basilica Di San Marco
Piazzetta San Marco
Encore la ville lumière.
Paris.
Versailles.
Champ Mars. Our beloved.
The sky's above. From Eiffel Tower.
The city's below...
Lo's in the middle.
Keep on walking.
Like Johnny...
Johnny Walker.
Keep on playing
Like Paco...
Paco de Lucía
Keep on dreaming
Like our Salvador -salvador nuestro-
Salvador Dalí.
Keep on livin'
Like a bon
a bon vivant
Keep on Rolling
like a Rolling
a rolling Stone.
Entre l'art y les fotografies en Blanc i Negre.
.:Lo wrote this at: 5:17 AM:.
...
Brainstorm. Haze. Travel. Movement.
Warning: This is a bowl of milk filled up with Cheerios and the marshmellows of a box of Lucky Charms. A Brainstorm. A Haze.
I'm in the mood of writing. I'm hungry for the taste of emptiness in my mind that's filled up with the burnt-out ends of smoky days, glorious days.
Just write... Let it go. One week stand in Spain, Italy, France...And rolling.
Streets that follow like a tedious dream, a Spanish destination.
Woke up at 3 a.m, had to take my train from Kruisplein, Central Station in about 30 minutes.Damn. Age sang me through the phone and the melody made Schiphol- Barajas go smoothly, till I noticed all the bags disappearing into their owner's hands... I saw the last bag bouncing on top of that evil mary-go-round and it wasn't mine. Mierda. They left my bag back at Schiphol. But it's ok. Madrid was friendly enough and the morning came to consciousness with all its muddy Spanish feet that press early y venga! It's ok.
Metro stations revolved the new world with the ancient one. Just like my soul is strech3ed tight across the skies that faded behind a cityblock. Colombia Station, Peru Blvd, Cartagena Av., Cuzco Square...
I' ve measured out my life in coffee spoons. A Spanish coffee to go... "Un pintao" Just to prepare a face to meet the father I once called my hero, now... He's a one serving father, a one-in-a-lifetime, an everlasting figure and a friend. We met, had some beers. Walked the Paseo la Castellana, cought up about my life and his... Talked about you (yes you) and me and us and our glorious past, future and unknown destiny for the next days.
Then I went to Gabriel and Javier's place... Gabriel and Javier, with whom I drank wine until the blood in my veins had the best Spanish grapes running as fast a a great Torero kills his bull.
With whom I played guitar until my fingers couldn't even hold a B minor and my voice was that devastated it sounded kinda corny, with whom the word perversion (I love that word) was more than that...With it's dark, complex thrill, beginning with the enigmatic P that can mean anything, then swiftly tumbling via the ruthless r to the vengeful v... and with whom I danced like a gypsy, despite my bad capacity of smooth movement at the moment, produced by the 14% of red liquid in my arteries.
Rushour. Had to take a train to the coast at 22:00. "2 por favor" " No, don't tell me you' re sold out"...My only hope to Catalunya was the bus. "Buses Anibal" with that name all I could do was pray to heaven for a decent bus driver... One that didn't drive us into hell.
Barcelona. Ciudat vella. Afterall they deserve to win. To drink of the bottle of the champions, the heroes and the villains, like kings and queens of it all. They deserved their own Arc de Triomf, and we were triumphing in Spain, taking a new road...To Rome.
Because all roads lead to Rome, and this one had no destination, not a final one.
And who could expect to see more Colombians than any other south American creature walking the city of gladiators, humanists, lovers and dreamers...And who could expect la merda di artista to be found at the subways? Or a Rumanian whispering his ambitions and vanities in Italy's greates piazzas and telling me the do's and dont's of a forgotten Bucharest?
I had no expectations. No strings attached. All rights reserved.
Death-hour. 6:55 a.m Roma Termini - Venezia St. Lucia. Death in Venice. Venice in paradise.
A trip to Venice by train: €48, An Italian gelato Pistaccio, Limone & CaffèCaramello €3, a tour gondolao through Venice's prettiest sites €100, the way an Italian gondoler grabs your ass if you stand next to him for a picture.Priceless.
Vamos juntos hasta Italia quiero comprarte un jersey a rayas.
En Venecia.... Venecia.
Merda. Had to go Back. Rome and my memory shaked through the spaces of dark midnight, with full moon, behind the Colosseo Romano. My mind reiterated some worn-out common song. A rhapsody (another beloved word) in a lunar synthesis. I missed you, I missed myself being with you. But it's ok. I was in Rome, just had been in Venice, I had you in a thousand images of which my soul was constituted. I felt like a conquistador of the 1st world. I was one.
I came here to conquer, the place, the history (mine, yours and theirs), my heroism and your heart. Despite the unnatural vices and devices that are fathered by it, my heroism your heart, soul and conscience...
Et Encore, la ville lumiere shines upon me. Moi, mon âme et ma conscience. Neither fear nor courage saved us, this was Paris. Where we're all sinners. But it's ok, at that pointI was invulnerable, I had no Achilles heel, instead I offer a Flemish accent as I tried to whisper my lusts and incantations in French and in exchange of my pronunciation French charmed me with marmalade, Amsterdamer and tea.
Then I thought to myself "If this is wrong, why the hell does it feel so good?" Then I thought to myself "Should I, after Tea and cigarettes and the silence of the lambs of smoky days, have the strength to take the moment to it's climax?" "Yes, I should"
This is Paris. This is me and this is you, my favorite reader, having no idea what I'm talking about. Well, let me tell you my dearest, If you have made it this far, your strength and patience are legendary. Congrats.
Anyhow... This was Paris, this is me, that was the Eiffel Tower behind me and I remember thinking to myself...Putain! "What a hell of a world"
Rush. I felt like a rat from laboratory in that infernal maze called Charles De Gaulle Airport. Then again, we were rushing our heads in Spanish. Barajas. And all of a sudden Yo, José Gabriel (ahum... from the Tv Show) showed up out of nowhere with that capital's accent we all know him for. "Queubo churrito, como estás ala"... gave me a kiss on the cheek as if we had met ages ago and had more than this story as history of one another on our biographies. But it's ok. That's the point when I realized that anything could happen, acually I already knew that... That was just a proof of the egocentric law which deserved a toast.
I had some wine and then some more. A Glass, then another And... and one more. I had a toast on behave of my success, my God and yours. On behave of my Libido and my alter ego, the ones I always carry with me. I had a glass for my life and yours too. For my soul, your heart, my principles and the black billis that keeps our metaphysics warm.
O woke up in Madrid and before I knew it, my body was back in Rotterdam and my soul flying Royal. Royal Dutch. Before I knew it, I was living it up. High and dry Daydreaming of my tomorrows becoming yesterdays' history, my conquest to follow between a coffee spoon, a sigh of you and me and a conqueror's kiss.
As if I gave up the secret of my lips and the world gave up the secret of it's skeleton.
And I ate all the marshmellows. The Lucky ones... Lucky charms.
Now Playing: Complete Control (The Clash)- Burn (The Cure)- Someday After A While (Eric Clapton) Best Served With: Lucky, lucky strikes.::
Blowing in autumn's wind.
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. Bob Dylan said that.
You only need a saxophone to play keys like celestial symphonies among some trees.
So fuck the wind, get a saxophone and don't play it. Let it play you
cos the answer my friend, lies in between A sus and F mineur.
I said that.
Now Playing: Douceurs Ternaires (Chet Baker)- Rio, Flor Do Mar (Lisa Ono) Best Served With: Pielrojas.::
Just Like a Rolling Stone.
Roads are meant for journeys, not destinations.
Poco a poco uno se va dando cuenta que no es sino uno el que arma la armadura de su propia suerte, que varios son los que forjan metáforas en nuestras biografias, que todos recorremos la vida en buldozer para pagar peajes, negando lo recto. Pocos logran salirse de la espiral del "y tu qué?", pocos logran no rodearse en la autocomplacencia...ellos crecen, se mueven, evolucionan.
Rolling, just like a rolling stone.
Return, just like a bon vivant.
and there's more to come...
But this was a One week stand.
A self possessed marathon.
Some coffee stands with the other masquerades that time resumes.
Lazarus, come from the dead.
Lo, just like a bon vivant.
Madrid-Barcelona-Roma-Venezia-Paris.
Dejé de dormir pero me llegó un sueño en forma de ciudades, gentes, circunstancias y acontecimientos. Sueño que descansa en los ojos, cansados de tanto caminar.
Hablar de este viaje es hablar de la belleza que penetra en el agujero negro de la mente, es el bilis que trabaja. Es cuestion de ensueño y del soñador.
Hablar de este voyage es meterse en mallas de sombra y luz. Espejos de agua y arte en mil reflejos. Porque estos fuerons lugares y personajes de mil reflejos, esos que no se olvidan... que a la vez son imaginarios y reales. Mitos de pasados gloriosos y una pizca de mi destino mas bien incierto. Es hechizo, sueño y desengaño de mil realidades. Camembert en tiempo y espacio.
Trabajo del ensueño y del soñador.
Cuestion de focos y perspectivas.
Este viaje fue innarrable, indescriptible é inolvidable. Fue olvidarse de uno mismo en la ensoñación de una locura hecha aventura y bueno, tal vez no haya ni relato ni moraleja, ni tan-tan... pero como una imagen dice más que mil palabras, les dejo los hechos en un filtro de reflejos en papel fotografico.
For you
and you...
and of course
you too. Judge for yourselfves.
The images speak for themselves.
Madrid.
Venga tio... que esta corrida esta muy chula. Y Olé!
Plaza de Toros Las Ventas.
De Estación Aeropuero Barajas... bajando por la estación Colombia.
Heil!
Plaza de Toros Las Ventas.
Venga! El nuevo Paco...
de Lucía
Metro. Ventas.
Plaza Mayor.
Gran Vía. Gran Hombre.
Nuestra Sra. de la Almudera.
Palacio Real. Lo en blanc i negre.
Opera.
Lo ft. Gabriel y Javier. Despues de una noche de vinos, tapas y Jaleo. Plaza Emperador Carlos V.
Lo al art moderne.
Centro de arte Reina Sofia.
Museo Del Prado.
Paseo Del Prado.
Plaza de Cibeles
Miralá miralá miralá miralá....
La puerta de Alcalá.
Plaza de la Independencia.
Final de la vuelta a España
Paseo De la Castellana.
Barcelona.Ciudat vella.
Arc De Triomf.
All Roads Lead To Rome.
San Pietro
San Pietro II. Vatican City.
Piazza Del Popolo.
Colosseo Romano.
Colosseo & foro Romano.
With full moon as background.
Metro. Circo Masimo.
Merda di Artista.
Like father, like daughter.
Bologna. Train between Rome and Venice.
Death...
Death in Venice
Venice in Paradise.
Fondamenta Santa Lucia.
Ponte Scalzi.
Canal Grande.
Lo goes on Gondole.
Campo S. Stae.
Ponte di Rialto
Chueca.
C.po De San Silvestro
Ponte Academia
Gran Canal
Lo goes Grand.
Gran Canal.
Traghetto Gondole
Masquerades.
Shakespeare on the wall.
Basilica Di San Marco
Piazzetta San Marco
Encore la ville lumière.
Paris.
Versailles.
Champ Mars. Our beloved.
The sky's above. From Eiffel Tower.
The city's below...
Lo's in the middle.
Keep on walking.
Like Johnny...
Johnny Walker.
Keep on playing
Like Paco...
Paco de Lucía
Keep on dreaming
Like our Salvador -salvador nuestro-
Salvador Dalí.
Keep on livin'
Like a bon
a bon vivant
Keep on Rolling
like a Rolling
a rolling Stone.
Entre l'art y les fotografies en Blanc i Negre.
Now playing: Somewhere over the Rainbow. (Chet Baker)Best Served with: Caffé Machiatto, camembert & gambas al ajillo.
::Ik zit tussen nu en ooit, maar nooit was altijd erbij... Siempre a la orden!
Uma noite de música afinada com as harmonias telúricas, vibrações e rítmos... `Se sumergió en la algarabía caliente de los pimpiabotas y los vendedores de pájaros, de los libreros de lance y de los curanderos y las pregoneras de dulce que anunciaban a gritos por encima de la bulla cocadas de piña para la niña, las de coco para los locos, las de panela para Micaela." *El amor en los tiempos del cólera
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