sent me this link q appeared in The Sunday Nation SCL
--- I q appeared last dgo
Chilean newspaper reporter asked the Cali dispatching from Ground Zero,
from Calicalabozo
---- this is his report following the departure of Colombia
My body is a cell
Damn Cali, damn Andrés
By Jorge Enrique Rojas,
from Colombia / La Nacion Sunday
Writer Chilean Colombian became obsessed with the recently presented My body is a cell , an autobiography that opens the veins of long-haired stranger. Here is a Colombian journalist runs your city, this little haven of drug traffickers and global capital of cosmetic surgery, to talk about that writer myopic, but look with surgical precision in his writings anticipated the curse.
Seconal. Doctors say that it was. They speak of sixty pills. You have you took a sip, when I found there was nothing to do.
Now the story as an eyesore, open their eyes and making exaggerated vowels account ("Sixty"), but the truth is that at some point in this March 4, as the sun rested all his fingers on Cali, barbiturates exploding inside your stomach often came to be seen as less evil than the heat of the day: Before you had already attempted suicide. You were always a persistent guy.
did say several times. Some are aware of two attempts, some up to six. Although the number does not matter anymore.
disbelief among some and stunned silent slumber other that morning in 1977 finally fulfill your promise. What you said: "live over 25 years would be a shame."
Of course, you already know. It must seem silly to write letters to a deceased person, even if it has a reason. Let me explain: Recently, when his birthday was dead, I found a girl in a bar wearing a shirt emblazoned with a picture of yourself.
The photo was that where you have beer in hand and a grin that hovers between the smile of a drunk and a suicide lightly resolved.
But when she moved to the sway of a raucous reggaeton, everything changed: the undulating folds of fabric became a blur your face twisted, crossed by the deformed questions over and over again. The girl had
artificial beauty: plastic breasts, nail, hair dyed blond. I drank a soda with apple flavor.
- Do you know who is the kind you wear on your chest, I asked.
"No, I said, still moving
- So why do you wear the shirt?" I insisted.
- is fashionable, right?
- Seriously, not a vague idea?
- Mmmm at the store told me it was a model
That night the image of the girl giving me answers sterile and your face deformed by movements of the rhythm clumsy clumsy, were a perfect metaphor for the ignorance in your own town about you. Sometimes you
blur, Andrew, and by the whim of some and the ignorance of others, you end up just turned on that you never wanted to be. But it's not your fault. And so I write. That night I told this story to the girl in the bar.
HOW YOU DIE AND YOU TELL ME WHO YOU ARE DIRE
As an old maxim of death is one of the most faithful reflection of life. Tell me how you die and I'll tell you who you are, joking with some irony in Colombia, the country where sixty suicides per hundred thousand inhabitants, has become the Latin American nation where more people kill themselves. Sometimes they are right. The maximum is met.
The boy skinny, stuttering, myopic oval lens that would later be exalted to the status of literary prodigy, had ended his life just a day after he had published his first novel.
Long live music! , that restless banquet narrated through his alter ego and heroin, "Maria del Carmen Huertas" was at last a book. And then he choked on Seconal. "If you leave work, die alone", was broadcasting life.
Andrew began early and ended early. Genius after all. Perhaps the only certainty that has emerged from the city of appearances that he looked like a dungeon.
Cali-cell, called. And one of the few able to consummate their manifestos. At thirteen he wrote "Silence", his first story.
A text too sensible for a talent so early. Although it was fortuitous: as before, a sort of enlightened self-imposed regime, had begun his career against time.
Luis Ospina, director of cinema today, but then one of your friends closer, was a day from early morning till late at night, Andrew brooded only in shaping their own work, draw their own universe, turning to their own whims and trying to hoard as much writings, films and obsessions, to get well armed at the time of the reaper.
And he did. And the universe emerged, or rather discovered by those glasses that could see what others only suspected, was none other than the city where he imprisoned, but also drunk.
In a love-hate relationship that at times reached proportions mathematics, told and retold, and studied and Putian, as if theirs was not a speech, but the only way to throw this city.
"I hate to Cali, a city that expects, but do not open the doors to the desperate ... Yes, I hate Cali a city with some people who walk and walk and think of everything, and do not know if they are happy, they can not secure ... Sixth Avenue hate to believe find in it the beneficent importance of real personality ... I hate whores and longed peddle false in all its houses and streets ... ... Cali is a city whore "he wrote in" Infection ", the first story in a compilation published ten years ago under the name Norma Editorial of Calicalabozo .
IMPLANTS
Cali, then, was a city of eight hundred thousand people crossed by a river still blue waters. Thirty degrees in the shade, Eternal Summer, plump women, the Richie Ray sauce on the streets and an emerging drug business that was beginning to prosper.
Yes, at that time it was racist and snobbish, having the largest black population has always been a sort of stain on the flap to its bourgeoisie.
And that carved into the shoes of Caicedo. Much more to integrate a high-class family in which he, being what it was (writer teatrero, bohemian, profane, drug addict, movie buff and salsa) was all they revolted.
Caicedo The house is located in Santa Teresita, an exclusive area of \u200b\u200bthe West of Cali, now the town of penthouses, through which the crystalline part of the river Dying who still insists on visiting the city.
Rosario, a social worker who lives in the United States and for thirteen months older sister of Andrew, get me there on a Monday afternoon. The city is different, because they joined others misfortunes.
half of its poor inhabitants, today a small paradise for drug dealers and more recently the world capital of the implants and nose jobs, but it is still known as "the branch of heaven."
- What killed Andrew?
- Among other things, Cali.
's two in the morning and I have never seen the girl. We are in the same bar of that time. This time slips sauce through the speakers.
The site is called Evocation and is on Fifth Street, the avenue of asphalt bored by both walked with your boots worn soles. Yes, it's the same street that follows through the city as a diseased artery. Although now it is more.
This girl called Angela. Angelita, I say, trying to find the similarity with that girl you talked to in "Angels stuck" inside the novel where two young lovers on a rich journey through the neighborhoods of Cali, which led them to discover a delicious hell .
But if I can. This Angelita live in an apartment with a window without curtains, where the city is. And at night, under dim light poles, Cali turns into something worse. She offers me a beer from the fridge. Again see the shirt.
is on the counter and is now a rag with which Angelita dry the dishes and clean the dirt. Your face is now a sticky spot of grease and food scraps, which make you look like dead disrespected.
I stop looking at you. She is naked. In the radio sounds the same song. Lavoe about a girl sad and empty.
0 comments:
Post a Comment