Fito's way is on this side of the road...

If you see this post, play this video... listen to Fitos musical poem...




It makes me feel attached to Fito, to Arjona, to a few monkeys in the rainforest and to that latin american thing that they say makes you different from others.
It makes you feel like a rebel with a notebook in your pocket.
It's a thing.... a thing about being a romantic pesimist.

I like being on this side of the road; forgiveness is divine; the books, the songs, the pianos, the cinema, enigmas- my father, the beer, love, the stage, hunger, cold, crime, money, and my 10 days... (made me this rebel)


'...siempre se me pasa, es solo la intuicion de mi destino...'

S.-

On love, on a not-so-particular-night, on this computer...

Maybe men don't have women in their heads.

They have sausage rolls, food, CD's, some movies, breasts, but no women.

It rains there most of the time.

Women think of men often.

Whether they like them that much or not.

They just do- they're cute and funny and smart.

No, not the women... Well, yes-also... but I was talking about the qualities women give the men they always think about.

Men don't seem to think about women. They forget, they ignore, they like pissing them off (women, I mean).

Women think of men often.

But what is it that men always think about, then? How could I possibly know? I am not a man.

In a few hours the ciber-retro-astro urinal will rise from below the ground, people will be out drinking and I will be heading home not knowing if the world agrees with my plans of greatness. I feel a little sad tonight. A little melancholic. A little lonely. Maybe I'm just feeling hormonal. Sometimes the four walls that are supposed to make you feel safe, imprison you and dry you from energy.

Tell me... Is it the apron?

I only ask for a little effort. Show me that you care, for God's sake! But no one cares... Maybe they just ran out of mariachis...

of flowers, chocolates, ideas; I don't know.

I'm scared of relationships.

I'm scared of someone falling in love with me and of me not being able to love them back.

I'm scared of falling madly for someone and having that someone falling out of love with me; or just cheating on me with a cow, a strange exotic flower, an underwear model from California, a millionaire or just a bitch.

I've done crazy things; not kissed on a date, kissed on date, called back, not called back, said the truth, not said the truth...driven people away... Truth is I just want what everybody else...

To love and to be loved.

Isn't that what it's all about?

So tell me what the bloody problem is.... is it the apron?

knock knock...

-Knock, knock!
who’s there?
-Doris.
Doris who?
-Door is locked, so I had to knock.



-Knock, knock!
who’s there?
-Norma Lee.
Norma Lee who?
-Norma Lee I don’t go around knocking on doors, but do you want to buy a set of encyclopedias?

Welcome to 11 O'clock...

WELCOME TO 11 P.M.
That (whim-sical) mystical hour between TOMORROW and TODAY.
Full of sleepless minutes in between.
Full of melodies of darkness, of dreamtime cartoons and diminishing temperaments.
The episode of our days we never considered favorite but the one that always, always floats alive with its “what ifs” and “maybes” for days past and coming.
For isn’t 11 o’clock a perfect moment to reflect on the future, on life, on existentialism?
Isn’t 11 o’clock the perfect borderline, the modestly correct time span to survey what you want to get out of the 11 o’clocks that will (hopefully) follow?
Welcome to eleven o’clock.


thinking time.... at midnight..... Sophia.

Pinguinos en la cama.

He is Guatemala's most famous singer-songwriter. This is a song called 'Penguins in bed'. Enjoy.

Did Love return from war?

I didn't see Love again, I wonder if he is back. In case you wonder, his name really is Love.

I wrote this for him the day I met him. He was a little scared, a little sad and a little tipsy. I wonder if he left, I wonder if he came back, I wonder...

Love is going to war.
Afghanistan.
He told his wife yesterday.
He flies tomorrow, at midnight.
He doesn't want to go, but at least he'll have 20 grand in his bank account when he comes back.
(If)
Love has been married for 6 months.
He'll be away for nine.
He's not sure he'll have a wife when he returns.
'She's not happy'.
Love is going to war.
He's only 21.
He wants to marry me if his wife leaves him.
I assure him, that is not gonna happen.
Besides, Love may be just too young to love, and he's going to war.

random thoughts....

There are three spiders living on my window. I can see their shadows through the curtains at night.
I have a little koala hanging from a desk lamp; I have a rose Grant doesn't know I kept.
On a night like this I wish myself in a gallery in New York, holding a glass of wine, watching photographs or paintings. But I did that here last week.
Sometimes I don't understand myself. I can be this today and that tomorrow and who cares if I fuck up, you can't -says our line of thought. Life is an experience, there's no right or wrong, just experiences.
I fucking love music. I could sit there for hours and travel in my head under the influence of a good tune. I think Bob Schneider is awesome.
I used to stargaze. God I did that my whole life. I would search for anything I could find about the stars, planets, the universe; I wanted to be an astronomist. I had glow-in-the-dark starts covering my walls and ceiling. Dance isn't boring; just difficult; but then again, is there any other way of truly flying? I have three small dogs. Dolly slept in my bed since she was a puppy; she still uses it now that I am here. I wonder if Ainslie is writing beautiful new songs.
I've never been to Scotland. I will have the fun of my life, they say.
I did something intending to do something slightly different. Why did I do that?




I've been listening to this song for the last hour. Just this one, I can't yet get to terms with how fucking good it is... maybe another listen... I just realized my friend Bruce is playing the bass in that video.. funny... Maybe if I go to Austin I will get to meet Bob. I like Bruce, although he must think I am a bad tourist guide. I fucked up, didn't I; and I just discovered I am a bad salsa dancer. Why does one do one thing if one intends to do a different one?

I need to stop thinking. I need some meditation. A little yoga. A run in the morning. A smoke.

I need some more music.

Or a sign.