MEMORIES FROM THE FUTURE

LAST NIGHT OUR HERO went to bed somewhat irritated as usual. Decided to check a confiscated literature review magazine from 1985. CASA LAS AMERICAS, an issue dedicated
to a wonderful, somewhat difficult to follow writer, Julio Cortazar. A strange Argentinian who
made France his country. Strange because apparently everyone loved/liked him. And we know
that Cubans from Havana and Argentinians, well... take some effort to love. I write about men,
the women may be a different story.

At any rate.. Carlos Fuentes told us a story while traveling by train to Moscow, he asked innocently to our hero, Cortazar now, why/how was the piano introduced to jazz. Those who read EL PERSEGUIDOR, may have noticed this author passion, interest, knowledge about the
genre. Any guais, it took the whole night for the Argentinian to explain without getting too technical on the explanation.

Your humble servant thought about it. What a wonderful trip it surely was, listening to someone with a nice personality some wine, guiski, cigarettes, and the clack, clack of the
metallic wheels against the rails.

A good conversation is always appreciated. Unfortunately for the keyboard operator, since
Crispin, that modersucker we thought our friend, has dissapeared. Along with Pito the other
great conversationalist from the old days, that ended in November when the timbiriche mentioned in entradas antiguas was sold.

Me cago en la ostia. NOW there is no one to talk about anything. On this shitty isle everything is everything as in that old Eddie Palmieri or was it his brother Charlie? Tune.
La Justicia is the tittle of the recording a very difficult one to listen. The sound is abrasive,
the lyrics somewhat Young Lord, Felipe Luciano like. I confess I have no warm feelings for
my ethnics growing up in NY, CA, NJ, or any other ghetto in the USA.

They embraced the negro culture as if we were Negroes also. The truth is that we are so mixed color wise, that more often, light people have dark infants with
crispy hair and wide noses. Or the opposite. Not that it matters to me. Women, as long as
they can maintain a conversation about music, drink, smoke, horticulture, literature could
be Norwegian pale or Namibian dark. I am color blind in that conquering field. Well, to be honest, when I was in that bag.

NOW I dedicate my effort, energy, intelligence, (the little I got), to critize creatively,
abrasively. As sand against the rough surface.. Or water against the stone. Time to go.