Allinurl: Kates Playground Movie

Thursday


J (sunk back in his chair, bent forward, elbows on knees and hands gripping his temples): It is that never before had brought me where I was ... I never thought what it was that. What were they and we . If you always admired the distancia.Si Catalonia was Barça! The one in my class! As the defending ... Before Ricardo, Eduardo López, Ernesto García. All were Real Madrid and called them Polish. I faced to them every day. Romario had posters in the room and wrote Visca Barca Sociales.También book on the mist from his window on rainy days, in letters reversed, so that you see from the street. I remember my mother told me: "You're crazy! Remove it! to see if they still are going to throw a stone ...-
Veraneábamos in Begur and toasted with Jaume Serra at Christmas.
My grandparents lived here during the war. They fell in love while jumping across rooftops chasing cats to get some protein in the body. My grandmother, at the end of his life, he spoke Catalan at the nursing home where he lived in Valladolid. No, no tinc fred them carers said their childish voice of an angel. And that, after fifty years and a stroke.

(call also stroke)

Finally, we are honest citizens. We pay our taxes and religiously recycle fashion bags green dot ...

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La Encina

walked by that pine forest, arid and dry under the scorching sun
a Castilian end of August.
clothes for the funeral of the late
was not the most appropriate for that raid setting,
than those sandals that let grit and dust, to much longer.

Weeds hooked dry, merciless, the fabric of the pants, penetrating and digging randomly in our legs to walk. River fleas jumped in our way, sharpened by the smell of fresh meat.
walked in silence, looking down,
how robots with a single goal: reaching the oak
about 5 kms from the starting point.

found it, was that , the contour of the pointed cone.
We stopped.
Dad got the tools and he started to open the box,
first with a knife, then
screwdriver and hammer, hitting
thorough
edges trying to pry between the cracks of the container and its lid. That
resisted.

contemplated the scene, inert, stunned, staring
maneuvering,
just waving their hands to ward off the swarm of flies swirling
at that point, attracted by the sweat
sweetness and density of the atmosphere .

I had removed the shirt
thinking about the funeral of the late
N made a timid gesture of help,
and finally gave up the top.

receptacle watched that gray matter
the ashes of my grandmother. Why
always thought of a soft iridescent fine powder? A gust of laughter
I climbed up the throat as vomit:
a loud shriek breaking into the desolation of the withered summer landscape,
hysterical laughter, pathos, it inherited a release of adrenaline


unhealthy I felt a wave of shame when he saw me standing there, saying goodbye to my grandmother
My grandmother's soul,
with ass sweat, almost out

a tit and a halo of flies crowding.

I covered my shame.

refuted the way,
tired and downcast.

Maybe we were not the most conventional family of Castile.
No farewell for days with great pomp,
no funeral or wreaths sublime.
But the oak that stands in the middle of a lost forest punctuated by the Duero,
grim summer, cool and shady in autumn
of my grandfather has the last five years, and now
my grandmother, his beloved wife ,
And his laughter,
thanks, thanks.