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last night. Madrid. Small gathering of writers.
- Oh, are you a poet?
- No
I thought, Cernuda is a poet. How can I dare to call me "poet"?
And I felt like my arms were opened wide
and the tips of my fingers were touching the walls of the air passageway when walking.
was great to meet Manuel Espada and Herman.
It was late. Andrés Neuman and I gallivant a bit. He's charming, is dismissed as if instead of a handkerchief, shaking it in the air a paper note saying goodbye. **
Way Forward
is drawing
winding trail which is charting the future
******
****************** I live
writing stories sitting on the roof of Lavapiés
write poems surrounded by the branches of chestnut trees German Indies
(only happened a shooting star)
** This entry has three colored pins to drive on a map: Germany, Sevilla, Madrid.
I think that's the order / disorder of things.
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