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Cuts, open the windows, clean the attic



I love squirrels. I do not know why, but them I have a special affection for these small rodents. They've been there twice in my life very specific as Puck.

In 1996, when I met Andean in Trent Park and wrote Return to actually embodies the magic Shakespearean, were common in the Maple Room in front of my two squirrels. This was reflected on their moment in that story.

Today, in exile in which I have banished, I present to Willy. There are plenty of squirrels running on a daily basis by the fringes of my garden. Willy is one of them, but always the same.

With great patience, dedication and tons of love I got him used to me. Curiously, the squirrels are sometimes like people, even recognize certain features of Nerea. They approach slowly, and then fearful give several steps back ... and back started.

Willy comes to my garden every morning, breakfast 5 or 6 nuts that grabs my fingers and goes ... until the next morning, punctual to his appointment ... and if I am some morning, or late, do not know how but a few minutes after opening the door to my garden, there is ...



Well, with this it for today ... you have the video of one of the breakfasts of Willy ... I hope this post has earned to take away the cobwebs in the attic and be here again before it reaches the next Sunday.

Dedicated to my "nephew" Alba, which loves Willy

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dream it, even .... I know, you should forget it, I've tried but try not guarantee success. Not go into exile, which, incidentally, is coming to an end.

Michel de Montaigne said that nothing fixed something so intensely in memory as the wish to forget. And who is not, but hey, I can attest that he was right.

And I'm dreaming, but does not want, but dream is to walk into nothingness, to the infinite does not exist, although it is a long way toward a distant horizon with his bare feet on a carpet of nails.

And here I am sitting with my computer, surrounded Budweiser small worlds that are broken to pieces around me ...

remember that I dreamed of a beach, with tropical fruit for breakfast, with love under the stars, his warm skin on my chest and my notebook of poems a sofa ...

I dreamed of Venice and a stroll through the canals in a gondola, to grab her waist from behind while watching the sunset from the windows of the hotel and back of his hand Trent Park, Guinness, or listening to a concert in Temple Bar. .

dreamed with her sweet velvet lips, his hand on my cheek or the trembling of his skin to bare his body

the first time I dreamed of her dimples in my left bed, endless Saturday morning awakening, Quique in the kitchen and Doowap muffins .... I dreamed

Nerea, and upon waking, do not even know if I preferred to keep dreaming, keep sleeping, or they never dreamed ....

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Charles Bukowski dreamed - Considering


"if we consider what can be seen:
engines that drive us crazy, just hating
lovers,
that fish in the market
stares back
Cueing in our minds, rotting flowers
, flies trapped in spider webs,
riots, roars of lions in a cage, love clowns
tickets,
nations who transfer people as pawns,
thieves in the light of day with wonderful wives and wine
night,
overcrowded prisons,
the topic of the unemployed,
grass dying fires insignificant enough men
old to love the grave.


these and other things show that life revolves around an axis rotten.

but have left a little music and a poster
stuck in the corner,
a glass of whiskey, a blue tie,
a slim volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twisting the tail on the blue grass

and screaming and then, again, love
as a car around the corner,
point, the city
waiting,
wine and flowers,
water running across the lake, and summer
summer and winter and summer and winter
and again. "