(if by any chance you missed the beginning of the greatest event of 2011, you can start reading it here, where the first lerrnstory starts)
you know, my dear, you can experience living in various ways. your problem is only this one, which is the same as mine. you only live one life at a time.
the moon, clear, invaded the room.
now that the moon reflects your face, i remember a special day. live images and memories, just like you.
in the distance, i notice the ship that seems stopped on the horizon and it’s not the one of my dreams, that one you dreamed with me during the dream we dreamed together.
i watch the ship without seeing it, just notice it now because i remember you as i write, our lives were not little boats that sail to drift, you would see then if i were here, standing, looking at the horizon made of nothing, in it inventing a sailboat filling the landscape, and planning this way, i remember the horizons move slowly, so the boat i put on my most present horizon does not move, there it stays as if the wind stopped not to spoil the metric of this poetry done in prose, whether made in words flung to the wind, that one stopped to let me throw them, in this case so that the horizon does not flee, as if static drops so i can see it and thus think of you.
you say - pretty words that do not convince me - i know. and so i say them, to convince me that you hear them.
i know you don’t hear anything, maybe because i don’t speak, i simply write.
think with me: forget everything you've read so far, what now you read, but also what you read yesterday and the day before, forget everything you've learned until now; just what i say is true, fix yourself on this moment: look at the sun - i know now it rains - but look at the sun: you see the sun behind the clouds, well behind all this gray and you no longer know if it really were there or if it was you who created him?
how? i created the gray?
who was it, if were not you?
maybe have been you.
me? how could i have created the gray? look at me: do you see gray in my eyes? come with me. you'll see what i do.
look at my pictures, for the walls, see well the layers i've covered and recovered, what do they say to you?
they tell me you are better than me.
or they tell you i think i am better than you. i am egocentric and conceited.
or conceited and egocentric.
you're not going far with this exchange of words nobody wants to understand. the books have been books, now are movie and tv arguments: you read books like if you were in an armchair movie eating popcorn.
this book is not a book: it’s a popcornbook.
i am tired of writing these little nothings.
man: popcornwriter of the popcornbook: do you write of what?
i write of the tidbits that make me tired and those that fascinate me. of which that are autobiographical and which are not, but not being, were in my dreams or in my nightmares.
then, it is always autobiographical?
perhaps, if the day is done of 24 hours, being you on, off, zen above or below the stratosphere, into your 24 hours you can do more than to live. maybe i write in my rem phase, or not, perhaps is a word that facilitates communication.
yesterday, you were talking to a friend of mine.
i have? and how do you know?
she told me about you.
yes?
she told me you passed by her three times until being able to say hello.
it's true. the first and the second, she was on the cellphone.
i call her lou.
do you remember lou the first time you bumped with me and you lifted up your eyes like who asks what is she doing here at this hour?
also i asked you the same with the eyes, but you haven’t answered the same way i didn't answer to you, but we both communicated.
do you remember the second time, when you opened your mouth in a yawn? still on the mobile phone, you haven’t laughed or looked, you were just indifferent as if i haven’t been near?
and we were not going to cross near anymore. but arriving to my room, i still lacked one thing and turned down. and you were still there. we were both there, and we walked away or we stayed.
which one looked first? who is the first to smile and to look ahead?
which one of us thinks harder: this moment is mine and unique.
after all, who tells me if i am a writer or a letters keyboard player?
only i can claim it, to write is not to publish. to write is, rather than the act of writing, the repeated will to do so repeatedly. write for to write, as doing by doing, as to read by reading, and that is what you are doing right now.
write by writing, by instinct, as a keyboard player who wanders, and casts his lot with the enough rules to make sense, maybe not for those who read, but for who wanders, who joins the letters as the thought sloshes ashore and thus the contents are spread and arise the in/conscious.
(you may follow this story here)
quinta-feira, 31 de março de 2011
quinta-feira, 24 de março de 2011
THEN11t0324
(if by any chance you missed the beginning of the greatest event of 2011, you can start reading it here, where the first lerrnstory starts)
for those who read will know that i undertook with eyes that don’t know me and an overnight i lost my nationality. or not, if i ever was supranational, or supranational or suprabody, i was never anything beyond this body that contains me and not even a body i am, i'm just the outside, and further knowing that the outside is what least matters, the value of people is inside, and the inside reveals itself in its intimacy or otherwise is never revealed, so i'm the trash to be thrown away, and if you read me, you'll never know joe, despite you see perfectly who he is.
tequila sunrise, bloody mary, caipirinha, kamikaze, margarita, mojito, tornado, bacardi cocktail, costa azul, daiquiri, destornillador, dry martini, fascinacion, feliz crucero, manhattan, paraiso, pina colada, tom collins, rebujito, kir white, kir cava and many other drinks can be called cocktails. the beverage brands drown in the mixtures at the discretion of the bartender. and i feel the lack of porto on the cocktails. no more cocktails for me, until someone serves me a pilgrim porto, a port porto, a porto of refuge or a penalty to porto. bloody porto, in this case a bloody mary, where the vodka gives his place to porto and tomato juice is reduced by half, to be the other half lemon juice.
the ocean is too wide. the land i see on the right side has disappeared from the left, the worth i gleaned from that spring water behind to cool the sun who tempers sensations.
i feel heavy, perhaps because the meal was larger than needed, or maybe heavier on the soul, heavy of cold that numbs my thoughts and leaves me empty.
i want to be so, without soul, as if i ever have had it.
yet oscillations bring the hope of adventure that i don’t desire. let yourself be, ocean, do not react to the touch of the ship. get away to let it pass, without hurting you, soon you take the course without other inconveniences. Do not bring drifts that do not interest anyone. this boat is the king of the seas, so i ask you now to let it be. as long as it is the king of the seas, i can be the greatest of pirates.
the king of the seas, the largest of the pirates.
that said, i weigh 90 kg of muscles to lift the sword of steel that cuts through the air and separates tibiae.
and where are those muscles, my friend? i look myself in the mirror and not see there not even 70 kg, minus the blood and fat and internal organs, muscles must barely weigh 2kg.
i must have some strength and muscles in the skull that are useful in difficult moments, but not those who led men to wars to face men and beasts.
it’s not the body what makes me fascinating, and not being the body anything in me it is, because if i'm just the outside, what else can i be but that outside i am that doesn’t fascinate me.
so i use you to help me, you help me and you must worth 88kg of muscles that neither you nor i have, you because being you the inside you have none, and i only 2, 88 remain to exchange in specie on marginal markets trading bodies for intellects. and you intellect, may i call you intellect, you have to enforce those 88kg of muscle that i lack, in poetry, mathematics and other letters and numbers.
or drawings. or analogies.
or.
apparently, we exchange past memories and present images. digress. sayest thou so far seest. better late than never.
returning to the email, the one lost by not having interest, or its interest being so particular that was lost.
if it was the first.
and your wife and. .. joe? but what story comes to this? this story no longer pleases you now that i notice that you are the inside of joanne and joe is his husband? being just the outside of joanne i did not remember who i was. maybe that's because joanne, being female in her own way, has many traits that define her somewhat masculine. but she is still a woman. and a woman and i, while i cheated you, but realize that without wanting to, i see now that also i were fooled. and after all who cares about these small divergences, you know better which are, i am not going to explain you what they are.
thus we have to endure. the man as the head of a world divided, say, what would be without us, the chance of this universe, or hopefully we never manage to reach the universe, let us be content to destroy the planet earth and the satellite moon inherently. and that being us the cerebral kind, we grow very suicidal.
sitting on the terrace, the phone is ringing.
perfectly normal.
sitting in front of joe, the ringing phone interrupts our conversation.
he rises.
sits.
rises.
sits.
caught in a machine that allows me to make music with my fingers, poems florish i do not expect and yet i am not surprised with them.
joe continues to sit and get up and i do not understand why, but that also does not interest me. truly, i do not care.
(you may follow this story here)
for those who read will know that i undertook with eyes that don’t know me and an overnight i lost my nationality. or not, if i ever was supranational, or supranational or suprabody, i was never anything beyond this body that contains me and not even a body i am, i'm just the outside, and further knowing that the outside is what least matters, the value of people is inside, and the inside reveals itself in its intimacy or otherwise is never revealed, so i'm the trash to be thrown away, and if you read me, you'll never know joe, despite you see perfectly who he is.
tequila sunrise, bloody mary, caipirinha, kamikaze, margarita, mojito, tornado, bacardi cocktail, costa azul, daiquiri, destornillador, dry martini, fascinacion, feliz crucero, manhattan, paraiso, pina colada, tom collins, rebujito, kir white, kir cava and many other drinks can be called cocktails. the beverage brands drown in the mixtures at the discretion of the bartender. and i feel the lack of porto on the cocktails. no more cocktails for me, until someone serves me a pilgrim porto, a port porto, a porto of refuge or a penalty to porto. bloody porto, in this case a bloody mary, where the vodka gives his place to porto and tomato juice is reduced by half, to be the other half lemon juice.
the ocean is too wide. the land i see on the right side has disappeared from the left, the worth i gleaned from that spring water behind to cool the sun who tempers sensations.
i feel heavy, perhaps because the meal was larger than needed, or maybe heavier on the soul, heavy of cold that numbs my thoughts and leaves me empty.
i want to be so, without soul, as if i ever have had it.
yet oscillations bring the hope of adventure that i don’t desire. let yourself be, ocean, do not react to the touch of the ship. get away to let it pass, without hurting you, soon you take the course without other inconveniences. Do not bring drifts that do not interest anyone. this boat is the king of the seas, so i ask you now to let it be. as long as it is the king of the seas, i can be the greatest of pirates.
the king of the seas, the largest of the pirates.
that said, i weigh 90 kg of muscles to lift the sword of steel that cuts through the air and separates tibiae.
and where are those muscles, my friend? i look myself in the mirror and not see there not even 70 kg, minus the blood and fat and internal organs, muscles must barely weigh 2kg.
i must have some strength and muscles in the skull that are useful in difficult moments, but not those who led men to wars to face men and beasts.
it’s not the body what makes me fascinating, and not being the body anything in me it is, because if i'm just the outside, what else can i be but that outside i am that doesn’t fascinate me.
so i use you to help me, you help me and you must worth 88kg of muscles that neither you nor i have, you because being you the inside you have none, and i only 2, 88 remain to exchange in specie on marginal markets trading bodies for intellects. and you intellect, may i call you intellect, you have to enforce those 88kg of muscle that i lack, in poetry, mathematics and other letters and numbers.
or drawings. or analogies.
or.
apparently, we exchange past memories and present images. digress. sayest thou so far seest. better late than never.
returning to the email, the one lost by not having interest, or its interest being so particular that was lost.
if it was the first.
and your wife and. .. joe? but what story comes to this? this story no longer pleases you now that i notice that you are the inside of joanne and joe is his husband? being just the outside of joanne i did not remember who i was. maybe that's because joanne, being female in her own way, has many traits that define her somewhat masculine. but she is still a woman. and a woman and i, while i cheated you, but realize that without wanting to, i see now that also i were fooled. and after all who cares about these small divergences, you know better which are, i am not going to explain you what they are.
thus we have to endure. the man as the head of a world divided, say, what would be without us, the chance of this universe, or hopefully we never manage to reach the universe, let us be content to destroy the planet earth and the satellite moon inherently. and that being us the cerebral kind, we grow very suicidal.
sitting on the terrace, the phone is ringing.
perfectly normal.
sitting in front of joe, the ringing phone interrupts our conversation.
he rises.
sits.
rises.
sits.
caught in a machine that allows me to make music with my fingers, poems florish i do not expect and yet i am not surprised with them.
joe continues to sit and get up and i do not understand why, but that also does not interest me. truly, i do not care.
(you may follow this story here)
quinta-feira, 17 de março de 2011
THEN11t0317
(if by any chance you missed the beginning of the greatest event of 2011, you can start reading it here, where the first lerrnstory starts)
silence. and silence. and after the silence. after the silence. a conundrum starts here because on the next paragraph a mention exists about the last paragraph, but now that i create in here a new paragraph, the next paragraph mentions the last paragraph before existing this precise paragraph, which was the last of this page (not this page, the page pointed in here). and this paragraph, which is not the last paragraph mentioned on the next paragraph, is now the paragraph that mentions the silence, evident silence created with the silent page not published on the last lerrnsthursday, which i am not sure it was lerrnsthursday, but thinking of it, all thursdays are lerrnsthursdays, all depends on how lerrnst is thursday, even if lerrnst is silent.
beyond the poetic moment of the last paragraph (youtch already know, it's not the last paragraph, but the paragraph before the last paragraph exists), youtch still want to know the reason why the key doesn’t work in the lock and youtch are right. if it wasn’t important, there was no reason to describe it, that’s what youtch think and that is what i think, i presented youtch the fact has an evidence and maybe that wasn’t that much. maybe even the key was still in the pocket, none of us knows right now why we didn’t told so, how many mojitos we have drunk before bringing two of them to drink in the company of the wife. and that number may be essential to the correctness of the lock with the key.
who doesn’t know either how many days have passed since joe was home the last time, that is a subject we easily would have obligation to know, i remind youtch that i have left this room an hour ago, what makes us consider the real problem is not the hour we left that counts, only in this case because the time between going out and going in was so short, it’s more important when was the last time i used this key on this door, that i recall it was last night, so or the key no longer is useful to this lock or the mojitos were many.
but if youtch don’t remember i am sure it was not more than one, and being her dancing as i already told youtch, also may have been no change of key, because if it was our wife she would not have opened the door now, she would have screamed inside what do you want and made an argument, whatever the subject, with the door in between.
so i let to your imagination other chances, for me was simply the card demagnetized, if i had said to youtch that the key was digital perhaps youtch already remembered this chance, but in life, and life, full of chances we are all, and we will more quickly go to another subject if youtch accept without further ramblings that was in fact magnetic the card and a mobile phone or other device simply contributed to the loss of data, and this rule is simpler than any key, a magnetic key without codes on a codified lock.
youtch, my friendx, youtch are sick. sorry, inner side, and suddenly i see i may offend youtch, but without reason because that's not my intention. i say we, i speak of joe and talking of joe i talk of me and of youtch, but i do not know if youtch somehow fit in this affirmation. so now youtch understand and youtch do not be offended when i tell youtch my friendx youtch are sick.
a few more remarks are made and most of them are erased.
i am one of the little things. i get lost in details that do not interest youtch, it seems i see youtch seem in a hurry, without patience, and i send youtch pictures of cats standing in the sun, at the feet of two guards with a mustache, waiting hours that turn into days, one day it will explode a bomb to make them feel useful and we are all going to have pity, but now they just kick a plastic bottle at the cat as if they wanted it to go away, that cat has earned their day and time when i looked for him and for them and all of us interact with the cat.
far away, looked down another man with a mustache when i looked to him, hoe in hand was rearranging the red flowers with white stripes that were illuminating the garden sprinkled of fresh sun as if the sun would ever be fresh, even less now that it makes me perspiring, and he, coveralls, composes those that make him the best gardener of the royal garden.
the days of small little things are mine. those that keep me with swollen feet to tread the nothing with colors of the heart of the cities.
and the neighbors, strangers in the window extend shameless pants and underwear, the ones that they use every day next to the ones they use every year, they also boast whiskers as if there were no women, or women have a mustache or hid themselves, or employed in its no-work while the whiskers extend through the parks and outdoor cafes.
youtch know, people go through us, touch and smell, enjoy the flavors, discover sensations, inebriate of the best contact of the city without realizing they changed reality. those who were invaded in their privacy, or rather those who opened their doors and sold their privacy, or rather those who otherwise agree with sympathy to welcome strangers in their life, also plunge into their memories and both parties enrich the joys and sorrows, mutual learning of life, people who pass by us enrich ourselves with their smiles or on their serious faces we can feel the questions, the best smile is the one of that girl who just happened to me offers with her eyes, i like the smile she uses to reward me, but it is the smile of the eyes that captivated me, i feel the city now, i forgot mine and now this is the one where i live, native here who dances and eats here with others of his kind, the woodwork, ceramics, carpets, full of colorful meanings, memories of the countries that were not mine and now they are, just because i have received two smiles, the one i received from the lips of a stranger but mostly what i got from the eyes of the same stranger.
people. people. me people. youtch people. we people. peoplex.
(you may follow this story here)
silence. and silence. and after the silence. after the silence. a conundrum starts here because on the next paragraph a mention exists about the last paragraph, but now that i create in here a new paragraph, the next paragraph mentions the last paragraph before existing this precise paragraph, which was the last of this page (not this page, the page pointed in here). and this paragraph, which is not the last paragraph mentioned on the next paragraph, is now the paragraph that mentions the silence, evident silence created with the silent page not published on the last lerrnsthursday, which i am not sure it was lerrnsthursday, but thinking of it, all thursdays are lerrnsthursdays, all depends on how lerrnst is thursday, even if lerrnst is silent.
beyond the poetic moment of the last paragraph (youtch already know, it's not the last paragraph, but the paragraph before the last paragraph exists), youtch still want to know the reason why the key doesn’t work in the lock and youtch are right. if it wasn’t important, there was no reason to describe it, that’s what youtch think and that is what i think, i presented youtch the fact has an evidence and maybe that wasn’t that much. maybe even the key was still in the pocket, none of us knows right now why we didn’t told so, how many mojitos we have drunk before bringing two of them to drink in the company of the wife. and that number may be essential to the correctness of the lock with the key.
who doesn’t know either how many days have passed since joe was home the last time, that is a subject we easily would have obligation to know, i remind youtch that i have left this room an hour ago, what makes us consider the real problem is not the hour we left that counts, only in this case because the time between going out and going in was so short, it’s more important when was the last time i used this key on this door, that i recall it was last night, so or the key no longer is useful to this lock or the mojitos were many.
but if youtch don’t remember i am sure it was not more than one, and being her dancing as i already told youtch, also may have been no change of key, because if it was our wife she would not have opened the door now, she would have screamed inside what do you want and made an argument, whatever the subject, with the door in between.
so i let to your imagination other chances, for me was simply the card demagnetized, if i had said to youtch that the key was digital perhaps youtch already remembered this chance, but in life, and life, full of chances we are all, and we will more quickly go to another subject if youtch accept without further ramblings that was in fact magnetic the card and a mobile phone or other device simply contributed to the loss of data, and this rule is simpler than any key, a magnetic key without codes on a codified lock.
youtch, my friendx, youtch are sick. sorry, inner side, and suddenly i see i may offend youtch, but without reason because that's not my intention. i say we, i speak of joe and talking of joe i talk of me and of youtch, but i do not know if youtch somehow fit in this affirmation. so now youtch understand and youtch do not be offended when i tell youtch my friendx youtch are sick.
a few more remarks are made and most of them are erased.
i am one of the little things. i get lost in details that do not interest youtch, it seems i see youtch seem in a hurry, without patience, and i send youtch pictures of cats standing in the sun, at the feet of two guards with a mustache, waiting hours that turn into days, one day it will explode a bomb to make them feel useful and we are all going to have pity, but now they just kick a plastic bottle at the cat as if they wanted it to go away, that cat has earned their day and time when i looked for him and for them and all of us interact with the cat.
far away, looked down another man with a mustache when i looked to him, hoe in hand was rearranging the red flowers with white stripes that were illuminating the garden sprinkled of fresh sun as if the sun would ever be fresh, even less now that it makes me perspiring, and he, coveralls, composes those that make him the best gardener of the royal garden.
the days of small little things are mine. those that keep me with swollen feet to tread the nothing with colors of the heart of the cities.
and the neighbors, strangers in the window extend shameless pants and underwear, the ones that they use every day next to the ones they use every year, they also boast whiskers as if there were no women, or women have a mustache or hid themselves, or employed in its no-work while the whiskers extend through the parks and outdoor cafes.
youtch know, people go through us, touch and smell, enjoy the flavors, discover sensations, inebriate of the best contact of the city without realizing they changed reality. those who were invaded in their privacy, or rather those who opened their doors and sold their privacy, or rather those who otherwise agree with sympathy to welcome strangers in their life, also plunge into their memories and both parties enrich the joys and sorrows, mutual learning of life, people who pass by us enrich ourselves with their smiles or on their serious faces we can feel the questions, the best smile is the one of that girl who just happened to me offers with her eyes, i like the smile she uses to reward me, but it is the smile of the eyes that captivated me, i feel the city now, i forgot mine and now this is the one where i live, native here who dances and eats here with others of his kind, the woodwork, ceramics, carpets, full of colorful meanings, memories of the countries that were not mine and now they are, just because i have received two smiles, the one i received from the lips of a stranger but mostly what i got from the eyes of the same stranger.
people. people. me people. youtch people. we people. peoplex.
(you may follow this story here)
quinta-feira, 3 de março de 2011
THEN11t0303
(if by any chance you missed the beginning of the greatest event of 2011, you can start reading it here, where the first lerrnstory starts)
and from my point of view, which is vaste, lowermost on its small amplitude of being only the outside of joe, here i am hearing the bells of the cathedral, and you ask yourself or after all ask me what is the purpose of the cathedral on this story, and i see the cathedral as a new moment of abstraction, trapped in the alleys where i am, i follow someone like so many others follow me, and the gentleman, short hair under a fancy hat, looking suddenly i would say he is around 60 years, may have more or less but the facial aspect, the body itself, advises us to come and we go inside, en esta parroquia de santiago fue bautizado picasso el 10 de noviembre de 1881.
on the side, a lady sells almonds being so many produced in the region, behaviours adopted during centuries or otherwise more recent attitudes created for spontaneous commerce taking profit of touristic conglomerates. fashion, but what is fashion if not only the behavior, the habit to cut and after that cut the behavior, and going back to writing we go back to the old behavior, new letters that repeat what so many others already said and so many others already contested.
so, let’s go back to our story, what is really difficult to me because i don’t know anything of the story not even of the sequence, i remind joe was there without keys of the room or with keys that could not open the door they should open, and it seems to me the woman opened the door because she heard some noise from the outside of it, and opening it she said to joe, scared, you scared me.
and joe must have said, or in this case i said it, what i told you above. what in this case, maybe you don’t find funny but not less than myself, because i tell you after all what i said and it simply is what you told me to say, so it should be me asking you why am i saying what i say when after all is you who truly knows the reason, and i simply imagine the reasons.
going back, i try to support myself on some aspect i can use to follow ahead on this story which seems to not have beginning or end, what is probably true like all true stories, there’s in history no story that really starts, all restart or repeat themselves.
it was good that joe’s wife opened the door, considering he had one mojito in each hand, well seen it was indifferent because he already tried to open the door, and to do it he used the usual system of who is used to do this kind of stuff, that means, one hand holds one glass and one finger of the same hand holds the other glass against the first one, being elegant to offer the glass held by the entire hand, with the hand always external to the glass, even if like in this case the glass was offered to the wife, what is not so much important but doesn’t mean it’s less elegant to keep to the owner of the finger the glass that kept a finger inside.
if joe could know what i know, wouldn’t have come to that door. he would have climbed to the superior deck and would have crossed to the back, where, without needing to go down, he could notice the show his wife was offering to the sun, on the exact moment when he, or if you prefer you and me, we arrived, and we scared her, but that show she never dared to show him, not even in the most intimate moments they mutually discovered, she never confessed him that pleasure for the dance, where she left the body evolve graciously at the sound of the sun rays, and to them she greatly expanded in waves, bows and twirls, the sun was burning at its highest strength of august but to her he couldn’t touch, just scraped slightly with its musical notes, her hairs, the hands and feet, the arms, forearms, all areas exposed or even those more covered on a thin blanket of several colors, sometimes, between a volte, felt the hug and the kiss each ray brings, or it was better this way, without knowing joe may hear the sermon on the front door, you scared me joe, you don’t understand me, or is it you who is never going to understand me, thought his wife, arriving at this moment from a shameful orgy of tastes where is hidden lover would never be discovered, or at least that was what she was thinking.
(you may follow this story here)
and from my point of view, which is vaste, lowermost on its small amplitude of being only the outside of joe, here i am hearing the bells of the cathedral, and you ask yourself or after all ask me what is the purpose of the cathedral on this story, and i see the cathedral as a new moment of abstraction, trapped in the alleys where i am, i follow someone like so many others follow me, and the gentleman, short hair under a fancy hat, looking suddenly i would say he is around 60 years, may have more or less but the facial aspect, the body itself, advises us to come and we go inside, en esta parroquia de santiago fue bautizado picasso el 10 de noviembre de 1881.
on the side, a lady sells almonds being so many produced in the region, behaviours adopted during centuries or otherwise more recent attitudes created for spontaneous commerce taking profit of touristic conglomerates. fashion, but what is fashion if not only the behavior, the habit to cut and after that cut the behavior, and going back to writing we go back to the old behavior, new letters that repeat what so many others already said and so many others already contested.
so, let’s go back to our story, what is really difficult to me because i don’t know anything of the story not even of the sequence, i remind joe was there without keys of the room or with keys that could not open the door they should open, and it seems to me the woman opened the door because she heard some noise from the outside of it, and opening it she said to joe, scared, you scared me.
and joe must have said, or in this case i said it, what i told you above. what in this case, maybe you don’t find funny but not less than myself, because i tell you after all what i said and it simply is what you told me to say, so it should be me asking you why am i saying what i say when after all is you who truly knows the reason, and i simply imagine the reasons.
going back, i try to support myself on some aspect i can use to follow ahead on this story which seems to not have beginning or end, what is probably true like all true stories, there’s in history no story that really starts, all restart or repeat themselves.
it was good that joe’s wife opened the door, considering he had one mojito in each hand, well seen it was indifferent because he already tried to open the door, and to do it he used the usual system of who is used to do this kind of stuff, that means, one hand holds one glass and one finger of the same hand holds the other glass against the first one, being elegant to offer the glass held by the entire hand, with the hand always external to the glass, even if like in this case the glass was offered to the wife, what is not so much important but doesn’t mean it’s less elegant to keep to the owner of the finger the glass that kept a finger inside.
if joe could know what i know, wouldn’t have come to that door. he would have climbed to the superior deck and would have crossed to the back, where, without needing to go down, he could notice the show his wife was offering to the sun, on the exact moment when he, or if you prefer you and me, we arrived, and we scared her, but that show she never dared to show him, not even in the most intimate moments they mutually discovered, she never confessed him that pleasure for the dance, where she left the body evolve graciously at the sound of the sun rays, and to them she greatly expanded in waves, bows and twirls, the sun was burning at its highest strength of august but to her he couldn’t touch, just scraped slightly with its musical notes, her hairs, the hands and feet, the arms, forearms, all areas exposed or even those more covered on a thin blanket of several colors, sometimes, between a volte, felt the hug and the kiss each ray brings, or it was better this way, without knowing joe may hear the sermon on the front door, you scared me joe, you don’t understand me, or is it you who is never going to understand me, thought his wife, arriving at this moment from a shameful orgy of tastes where is hidden lover would never be discovered, or at least that was what she was thinking.
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