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"THE BRAIN IS NOT A VESSEL TO FILL, BUT A LIGHT TO TURN" - Plutarch (AD 46-119)

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LOOSE UNUSUAL

THE jitanjafora onomatopoeia: "At least I make any sense."

the palindrome AL oxymoron: "SOS As contradictory ..."

And it answered, "A VOS, wherever it comes, EVERYTHING YOU DA SAME ..."


PHRASES Enduring


The syntax is a desert town ...


synthesis could never doctorate.


*****************************

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PHRASES (BUT DEEP) (C) 2005

No matter how many years you have lived, but how you did it.

not mind working a lot, but work well.

TV: No where ambiguous sex beings engaged by low blows, to warp the public. ************

G. Pacheco, 2005

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PUNTADASDEHILVAN (from "Chronicles of Paranoia," Faro Editorial, Buenos As.1998)

Every man creates a Personal Cosmic Balance, whether developed by himself, or accepting a system that establishes it. And from that moment, his greatest fear is to break that balance.

No, Jacques Bergier. I'm not totally agree with you. There is an Organization of Men in Black. There are Men in Black in all organizations.

I'm not going to see my dead to their graves. I find in my heart.

must be very elementary or very naive to assume that we are what we see, smell and touch. The man is the visible tip of the iceberg, is the sign of what is the invisible man. And that is invisible because we have no perception eyes open enough to see it.

men's trial is based on his stomach. In other words, good sense of the human species depends on their appetites.

If he has any idea of \u200b\u200bperfection, is because the known and may achieve it.

The further back we look in the path, the more we will understand that we have to go. You may even glimpse the destination.

A writer is a human being like any other, with eyes ready to see the surrounding reality, able to select the item or ingredient appropriate, as noteworthy, also with the inner eye willing to look at your world interior, to relate the great cauldron of experiences, memories, experiences and reflections with daily events.

Man likes to be told stories, often implausible, mainly those from some omnipotent and supernatural. But he who hath received the gift of writing, it does not always to please others. Usually do to meet a personal need, even that of describe a sensation. Clearly that is often written to convey something, an idea, a belief, a theory. But not always need to be a writer for that.

There is also the need to lie, to perpetuate, but the need to write is many times greater than that of stay, because when you write do not know whether to be perpetuated by it, wishing it might, but only as a possibility, since nobody can know if you are no longer in this world cares or not people will remember.

The humorist is a more careful writer. You must know how to handle the synthesis leading to the striking image, with few elements should know quickly reach the sensitive corner of the reader. The comedian must have the virtue of knowing one's neighbor put a mirror where and when you least expect it, like it or imagine it. People are being hurt suddenly in a moment of weakness, or between two positions. They say that we are what we think we are, which continues, but there are times unwittingly we drop our guard, and that is when the comedian was on the back and photograph us to treason.

First look within yourself: If you can not find anything there, not ever find anything anywhere.

The great secret of success in this Life is sure to answer these three questions: "What things I", "what things I", "what else am."

time to live is a deck that is already shuffling. It is in every one of us to reshuffle our way or our way, put in order.

Our past is like a seabag narrow neck and deep and cabedora. The memories are locked doves in the bag, which can sometimes catch, and sometimes when we unleashed the bag, flying away and lose, then what a relief!

reborn in spring flower, life, love. Is up to us to be reborn spring.

Because the reality is something quite subjective, the artist touches to his condition through his work, may be perceived by others. *******

Grl.Pacheco, 1998

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FLASH WATCH SHOPS

Time is one thing that turns on the clock.
(When I wrote this, had not yet been invented digital watches.)

was flat as a quarter past nine.

When nine-fifteen and three quarter to be visited, always missed.

was obtuse as twenty past eleven.

The twelve is a frown when and grim expression.

There is nothing so crestfallen as six and twenty-five.

not as pessimistic as the six and a half.

clock hospitality offered to the ten and ten of his arms.

Eight-twenty are a man with lbigotes.

was cunning and stealth as five minutes to twelve.

Watch is an endless succession of corners. That is, infinite, no. Have a man who says they are exactly one hundred twenty-nine thousand six hundred.

Funny how the angles are like men: Acute
ones, obtuse
others
upright least
plains the most.

cenvexo An angle is an angle used to be unfaithful.

(O is all about hays concave angle.)

There is nothing that one female mass.

The eight look like a softly Burgess making the fascist salute.

Seven die in waiting who are languishing at seven-thirty, to sit on the timer.

The twenty to seven. A razor half open.
(Remember the razors?)

Three: A clock Cake missing a piece.

sundial was a selfish, instead of giving the hours, the paid.
Sundial
sighs, because at night it becomes len moon clock. He

hourglass had a secret: I once had used to boil an egg.

The moon is a clock without hands. So lovers prefer. For them, time does not exist.

The clock is the heart of business men, well, tic-tac, does ...

why are not poets clock. Sundial

: An angle with himself.

Tested: Cleopatra never had a digital hourglass.

man Nonsense: Trying to time, as if this passed.

Those who passed us.

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LUNFOPOETICO (1964)

BRUSHSTROKE



The lantern is illuminated with yellow, Yeca,
and Orre, the beeping faso,
you walk towards the FECA.

The chafe plays round a tug
pita
and methane in organ
shells "La Cumparsita."

G. Pacheco, (c) 1964

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PHRASES that no writer would be encouraged

.- 1) Sneezing is buds that open into the garden of a cold.
2) Poetry is an unintentional discharge of the soul.

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POST LIGHT BAROQUE AND ROMANTIC POETRY, TO CELEBRATE THE DAY OF SPRING, THE STUDENTS, AND LOVE ... SEPTEMBER 21. QUICK



Arcanum


I placed my hand in the ancient gate.
My iron play their
undressed age and forging his Arabic,
bit of time moaning its hinges, and remains, open.

I entered the courtyard - gray and pink stone - where time
put his patina
arcana (the source was silent a string of pearls
breaking at the metal water lily).

On the cold stone bench rusty,
attached to the granite arms of an ancient sword
ivy - rust glorious -
her red painted on the gray stone.

With trembling hand I took, taken, and I wanted to boot it
its canopy of mold
- suddenly in the sky, horrible crash
announces tremendous storm mode - Presto and


hand withdrew fearing gun lying, and raised my eyes;
and at the sight of the glittering sky
by divine wrath, I fell down on his knees. **********
1964

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WEDNESDAY POETRY - POETRY WEDNESDAY QUICK - QUICK POETRY WEDNESDAY -



IRON CURRENCY
(or the inflationary process in Argentina)
January 28, 1965
Currency
iron, round, flat, disk
arid and cold hard metal,
written thy forehead
how vouchers and have her head turned back! Currency

iron carbide and coarse
what was gold that was your employer?
What was this "fine" to what degree was it?
Only you stayed, brass disk! ***************************

TV

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NARRATIVE - Narrative - A TALE OF THE SEVENTIES -

Norberto came home more nervous, tired and tense than usual. They return home every evening, with the feeling that any of them could be the last, that's not sharing Nora concern, made the journey home was not at all a promise of relief, peace, rest, but another link in the chain of stresses and shocks that life constrituía. On the street he felt insecure, chased, stalked by each pedestrian, threatened by every vehicle that could run him down and kill it at any time, for what could have gotten into this! Sometimes it seemed it was all a game. No one knew of its existence, that their actions had no meaning, that going to the mailbox, and remove and deposit packages were simply natural acts of innocent personal correspondence, to receive and distribute instructions was something penaba anyone because no one hurt, that the words "resistance", "guerrilla", "freedom" and "political" and so on., it meant nothing and were only meaningless phonemes. Other times, until the light of changing traffic lights seemed a death threat.

came home. Not open the door without being quite sure that nobody watched. The words of the phone is still ringing in their ears. It was common for the phone to ring, and answering only heard a harsh voice, cavernous announcing his death that afternoon. He was often. Sometimes he impressed more than others. Today, for example, was something different, and perhaps would be original. The voice had told him to turn on the TV when the news and that "there would know how they die." He almost laughed, because the sentence seemed to him of stupidity, but as he neared home, the words were growing in significance, and accounted for its strangeness, almost a challenge, the TV, and when the news ! Why? Why not at any time? This, in some way away any chance they had planted a bomb in your TV, or that he had been electrified, or something ... Take precautions just in case.

Nora had not yet arrived. Poor Nora! Good wife in the few years they had been married. He shared his political ideal, but given the delicacy of their mission-mail strategy, was not allowed to reveal to him his wife his true activities. Nora perhaps believed that their participation in the movement was spiritual support. If even sometimes wondered why he had not enlisted in the ranks of the rebels, as they had no children and shared in full with the same ideal, with the same enthusiasm and fighting spirit. He, with different arguments, had deterred. Poor Nora! If I knew he was - and probably will be - constantly monitored, constantly pursued ... Closed the front door locked and the pin. Nora was not alarmed if stuck, as I was accustomed to the "eccentricities" of her husband. On the other hand, Nora always carried the master key that opened the pins. Slowly, as I had plenty of time, and go relax the nerves, went to the bar and poured himself a whiskey and soda. The warmth of the drink as it slid down her throat and filled his chest, returned some encouragement.

The house was small. Checked the windows and the kitchen door. All perfectly locked and barred. He had no more than turn on the TV and watch the news while waiting for Nora to return from the hairdresser. By the way, took a screwdriver from his toolbox (prodigy housekeeping) and removed the back of the appliance for a bomb. I knew there was nothing there, and I knew I could not have, plus there was no trace that anyone had entered the house during his absence, or Nora. They were methodical to a fault, so the movement had chosen as e-strategy. Any dish, any box or cabinet slightly out of place, all would have been crumpled pillow suspicious. Nothing found. Sure, there was nothing! He put the lid.

turned on the TV. A batch of notices. He finished the round. The announcer announced the news program. The soft blue-white light of the television became more brightness, much greater brightness, the blue turned pink, red, purple, all in a split second ...

When Nora returned, the first thing that struck his nose was a strong smell of barbecue. Strong.

He went to the living. In the darkness, the TV was working normally, conveying the news of the day. The smell came from something horribly burned, on the couch watching TV. ***************

General Pacheco, between 1971 and 1975

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BRIEF RELICS OF THE HISTORY



Failure of a "Court of Love" the XIIth

A lady is separated from her husband, which she has divorced. But that was her husband with instances demand his love

failure of the court:
"If two people have been united by the bond are married and then separated in any manner, declare that the love between them is not guilty, but to be honest. "(Ermenegarda, Countess of Narbonne, circa 1125).

( of "Troubadours and Courts of Love," Jacques Lafitte-Houssat, EUDEBA, 1963 ).

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Poetry Thursday - Poetry Thursday - Poetry Thursday -

JOB


I just understand you, old patriarch Job.


slipped through your beard on fire of life
and tame your big eyes reflected the love.


Your hands gnarled, full of heroism,
your clothes torn, and your fear of God.


I just understand you, my old friend Job.


General Pacheco, 1955

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NARRATIVE - Narrative - A Short Story


GIGOLO

The orchestra broke with a tango. On the evening of changing light and color foci couples clasped in the embrace rhythmic act on the promise of endless and cried with the bandoneon. Along with Raul in the table, ripe and flabby hand, a bejeweled and manicured hand perhaps excessively, slid morosely on his pants, finally indtroducir something in his pocket. Raul felt pressure roll against his leg. Should be about twenty thousand, he thought. Magdalena was increasingly generous. He was short.

The

started to dance, and as guided by the worn track painfully seventy kilos well supplied with meat, wrinkles, silks and perfumes, feeling in his neck broken and alcoholic breath of his companion, he thought of his weekend house in the geraniums planted last Sunday, before taking the bus that would take him downtown to the routine, mindless grind every night.

His partner now watered gently, sighing and asking him to agree to accompany her to not-know-where, for fun not-know-how, as he did not-know-when to not-know-who, entia and is now very lonely, and other things, and if he felt old, and that if not for his money he would not be at his side now, and that all men are equal, and so on Raul style which was already used, and down her ears as the winter rain on a roof without cats. He, meanwhile, had his eye on a tourist sitting on a panel door, passenger assured his bald, with a drink in his hand that moved emotionally that only Latinos are true lovers, and that she indeed like right now ... spoke in spurts, and her voice came at times sharply, sometimes faded among the strains of "Old Right."

The clock turned his arrows several times indifferent. At four, after the show had to go. Magdalena accompanied his department. The left dressed in bed, drunk, fast asleep. On tiptoe went the door. Overcoat with the collar raised, shivering, with tense and sour stomach, he walked the eight blocks that separated him from the dairy where he "kept his uniform." Galician greeted him distracted and claimed payment of the week. Roll out two five hundred bills and put them on the counter. Then in the background cuertito Swaco tuxedo and hung on a hanger. Took over Saddle blue overalls and put it on. Next to him was the case with cold dinner that Laura, his wife prepared for him every evening, before beginning their journey to work. Avidly chewed sandwiches and drank milk. Laura was a great woman, the seven came home. Laura was getting up to make breakfast for the kids, who would leave for college soon. He kissed her, and while he took off his overalls and shoes to take a shower, he thought that every day made it more painful to earn a living.

***************************** (for "Everyone, Every Which ...") 30 - 8-1969

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SMALL POETRY -




Foucault's Pendulum (Published in "La Prensa", BsAs)
(c) 1990

're there,
free and however
still.


Able
show how the world turns.


Able to turn the man
with the inertia of your body,


and obey the
slightest movement of his hand.


Pendulum.


static power.


in jail your rhythm going and coming
as history.

************

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ON SPRING - ABOUT THE SPRING - POUR LE PRINTEMPS - PER SPRING - SMALL POETRY

SPRING (For the magazine "Delta" sept.1999)

September, and everything is reborn. September, and the air clear, cool mornings and warm and sunny in the afternoon, we returned the will and pleasure of living.

Flowers in the garden, birds chirping, and already we seem to have renewed strength to face life and hopes to finalize plans we had saved a long time in our minds. Is the time to open the windows, painting the house, renovated inside and out. From start to believe again in ourselves, what we are capable of doing, and what we can create and build. The moment we find is the most appropriate. The time is right. If we have big problems, is the exact moment couple confront with courage and joy of life that gives us faith in ourselves, never to be missed. And if we have small problems ... well, it's time for them aside.

In the spring everything is reborn. Life reborn, reborn flower. Let out all the good we have inside. Open our hearts to friendship, to contact con los demás, a la acción comunitaria. Dejemos que el sol, que ahora sale con más calor y entusiasmo, nos caliente el alma, nos llene de fervor el corazón. En primavera todo renace. Está en nosotros, en nuestras ganas de vivir, hacer que todos los septiembres vuelva a llamar a nuestras ventanas y a nuestros corazones toda esta alegría hecha canción y hecha torrenbte, hecha fuerza y hecha luz, que es la estación del año a la que llamamos primavera.

*******************************************

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HAY UN DUENDE QUE ESTA SOLO WAITING IN A CORNER AND


There is a goblin who is alone and waiting in a corner
to cheer my sad heart with laughter.


There is a goblin who suffers because
left me and hoped that I snatch back what


There is a goblin who knows that I've never wanted
but refuses to throw you into oblivion.


There is a goblin romantic, a poet and dreamer when
I remember, faint with love.

--------------- Buenos Aires (c) 1992

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NARRATIVE TALES - STORIES - CONTES -



INDIES

I Juan Rodriguez Bermejo, called Rodrigo de Triana, I, approaching the end of my days, to clarify a terrible mistake, a lie that led me to perjury and the crime and would not let me sleep, because my conscience shakes constantly, although I know nothing could be done in order to justify my actions, nor ease the pain that comes from my repentance.

For

that lie had fame and glory, though it was brief. For a few years of relative happiness and fleeting brush with the grandees of Spain, the rest of my life I suffered imprisonment and mistreatment, without ever being proud of what really was the most important event I held in my life.

As I said, I'm Rodrigo de Triana. Juan Rodríguez Bermejo was the Christian name that I had to take to survive in a time of persecution and death for my race and religion in an era when Catholics were baptized Jews by the thousands, by extending a neat certificate of no could take over cost to be skinned alive, hung by the heels like a cow at the slaughterhouse. Among those who were baptized was a certain Diego Yago or Colom, convert Genovese I met in a bar in Toledo, and who claimed to have certain contacts with the Court. We talked a lot with this Diego, with whom I had several meetings, and told me that his brother, Ezra Samson Colom, who came from Genoa, without being converted, but changed his name to Christopher, had encouraged both to the same Kings of Castile his plan for a trip to India by a new route, which had earned him the position of Admiral, granting a host of benefits.

much should not hesitate to conclude that Diego begged me to get in contact with his brother, so I joined this crew. I had been engaged in the South, where black thanks to my beard and my knowledge of Arabic language passed by, and there I learned to navigate by the stars, I told Diego that she intended to request a post of pilot, who was content with only a humble sailor.

Time passed. I had almost forgotten this conversation, when one afternoon when I was taking a bad wine in the tavern, I come to Diego, who tells me no more: "Man, I was looking for! Hurry, because tomorrow we start to Santa Fe! You have been hired for the trip. Bring the certificate of baptism. "" Oh, and take for the initial expenses, "said she, throwing a stone and a gold doubloon, an act that thankfully no one saw, because I think we would have immediately had to defend life with our daggers ; not the time nor the place for exhibitions. but I assure you that if I had any doubts or hesitation in accepting the invitation, the doubloon I took them off their hinges. The next day, early in the morning, we set off on horseback to the city founded a year ago by the Catholic Monarchs, who was a few miles south, about three days' journey in full Vandalusia. (After all, my country, but was now in the hands of the Spaniards).

the fourth day we came to Santa Fe about the sixth hour, and headed to the church in the walled city, which was where the Admiral had set up his headquarters, all around the building was a go people coming and tried to talk to Colom, sailors of different nationalities, Dutch, Portuguese, Galician, and many Genoese, was heard speaking all languages, also the language of sailors, jargon called Papiamento, which communicate with each other seamen of all countries, races and cultures. Many Women, too, hanging around to take their cut in the pile of men. Sellers of fresh water, and sweets and fried, wrapped in a cloud of flies. Life, life and movement activity everywhere.

As

Diego with me, we were able to quickly and easily pass through murmuring crowd, and smoothly through the control of soldiers. I exhibited to every request my certificate of baptism, and I opened all the doors, although I think many who asked me not possess the ability to read. Entered the magnificent temple, we went to a room to the left of the entrance. There was Grand Admiral, which is now called Cristobal Colon.

I was very impressed to see, robust and tan imposing attitude, when he stood up I saw that his stature was medium as mine. After being introduced by his brother, and he explicádole who I was, spoke to me, informing me that I was appointed deputy commander of the caravel La Pinta, which had just bought in partnership with two of his men, Martín Alonso, Vicente Yáñez. Logically, the first commander was Alonso. But I'm not exactly impressed by his personality, although it was strong and dominating, the reason for my state of fascination was the face of the Admiral, who took her as a good rogue completely shaved, was quite equal to mine! By God, his features were the same as mine as a drop of water to another! Luckily, nobody noticed that, for my beard Moorish closed prevented discover that detail. But in my head, slowly began to take shape an idea, I leave to tell later.

I will not recount the details of the trip, which were many, storms, scales (one in Portugal), riots and fights. Colom Cristobal was a very arrogant but always spoke softly, gently but said "Slay" bad leader, extremely jealous and petty, for any misdemeanor was tied to the mast the sailors who did not obey as slaves. He had set up his headquarters in Santa Maria, which was not a caravel but a nao. While Martin Alonso and Vicente Yanez, called "The Finches" were his partners, he, with that smooth voice he had, the dominant like they were their servants. The convoy consisted of three ships: the Pinta, owned by Cristóbal Quintero, who had lent them for the voyage, in exchange for who knows what juicy reward, or participation in the spoils. This was leading it was a two-masted caravel, which, on a scale made in the Canary Islands had adapted a round gear, and to that was I, as deputy commander, and a score of scoundrels of the worst kind. Seeing them, I was so amazed that I had been appointed as hierarchical position. Second was La Nina, caravel commanded by Vicente Yanez, and owned by Juan Niño, which I never knew if they participated or not the issue, because I had no contact with all crew members, and that he should remain in my post of La Pinta while not requiring me to something Martin Alonso, and the admiral himself, in which case I should move in a rowboat to the flagship. Finally he closed the training the ship Santa Maria, owned by John de la Cosa, who had been recently refurbished and named, and whose captain, as I said, was the Admiral. I also would not have any details or particulars, but one thing I have to tell because it's the horrible secret that I can not take to my grave without going mad, and I have to confess may be the only way to relieve my some poor soul from the fires of hell.

When we started, the admiral told us. Castilian spoke clearly, it does peppered with Latin words, Genoese and Galician. We said we were going into the unknown for us, but he was absolutely sure we would come to The Indies, which later would visit Zipangu and Cathay, and would be back with pockets full. That when first discovered in the soil horizon line that meant we had reached the Catholic Monarchs had given a prize of ten thousand maravedíes of gold and a velvet doublet. The case was that it was my turn, the 12 October the year ninety-two the dark lsuerte distinguish the Indian coastline on the horizon, and as agreed (and I confess that with relief and joy) shouted "Tierra !, as I had ordered. I say with relief, because none of us except, perhaps, Colom, was sure to find land in that direction, and say with joy, because ten thousand maravedíes gold, or the Arabic Almoravids, six grams per coin, constituted more than a small fortune. When sending Admiral Pinzon part of discovery, he ordered that the ships stay in the Corda, and also required my presence. We went on a boat to the flagship, which came for, and Colom wanted to talk first with Martin Alonso. After a long time - I was waiting on deck, under a blazing sun - Alonso came out and told me to come in, that the admiral wanted to talk directly with me. I entered the cabin because Colom, and my boss was fired, communicating that when the Admiral had finished me take me back to my ship. Cristobal Colom and I were face to face in the cool shade of the cabin, a large, heavy oak desk stood between us. The Alamirante stared at me, and expressed his great satisfaction for my discovery, who said he was of "fundamental importance in the history of mankind", and then stretch out your hand and shake mine, turned around, opened a heavy and safe solid reinforced Suncho and black studs and metal thickness, and pulled out two medium bags filled with perhaps ten thousand maravedíes ... copper, coined by the Catholic Monarchs, these coins of little value, with the stamps of Castile on one side, and Leon in the other. At that time, almost without thinking, the idea had been simmering in my mind when I met him hatched, and quickly turned around the desk, took out my hanger Arabic, and when he turned towards me stuck it in the chest, one twice, thrice. The Admiral opened his eyes very wide, I do not know if terror or surprise, the fact is that in the next instant he was dead, without uttering a sound, and almost without bloodshed. As if they plan to meet some long thought (and God knows he had had time to think in as many months at sea), I ran to the door, lock, and carried out various activities, without pause and with some haste: Naked body, and stripped me. I took some scissors and a razor, and shaved my dear and closed completely Arab beard. I need not repeat that my features and the corpse of the Admiral were exactly alike. I went to the fridge where I supposed to keep his clothes and pulled out a clean shirt of the finest cambric, white, with embroidery around the neck, and a green brocade jacket, embroidered with gold and silver, with sleeves in the form of crop , finished in tight fists. I placed the velvet breeches, stockings and shoes he had taken the body, as well as long-sleeved red jacket sajadas, with large color tabs snuff, trimmed in black. Finally, I stuck the wide leather belt lined with silk from Cathay, and hung his sword. I went to the mirror, I passed the bloody shirt of Colombia, and when he had to shine combed my hair, put on my coat black three-cornered hat, and I finally looked to see the result of my work.

The polished metal plate reflected the effigy of Grand Admiral Don Cristobal Colom

A moment was like paralyzed. I could not believe what habíaa fact, but I knew that at any moment someone could hit the door, and if not follow my plan would be lost, I was, then, to the body and dressed him with my poor clothes, with great care the hair of my beard, and then smash with my knife faction killed until it was unrecognizable bloody mass pressed on my attributes follicles, so that if not watched very carefully, could have passed through my body, his face shattered. Clean and tidy everything was out of place as a result of the fall of the body, which was not much, I kept the bags of coins in the box, opened the cabin door, and rang, loud voice, asking for help.

The second commander Rodrigo de Triana was dead. I was from now Cristóbal Colom, or Colombo or Columbus, Grand Admiral.

The rest we know, is history. The sad truth is that I'm dying in Valladolid, poor, sick and forgotten of all. I suffered a prison, I was chained in La Gorda, paid for many unjustly suffering a terrible price. But now you have my confession. If ever you're going to Seville, come into the Church of Rodrigo de Triana, I sent up a little of my return to Spain, and pray a prayer for my soul.

**********************************************

********

(from "From Castles, Princesses and Dragons" 2002)

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MY DEAR READERS: Thoughts

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1967 (38 years ago)

OF WONDER FOR EVERYDAY

hacermos wonderful thing of wonder and unattainable, and we consider it lost all vanity. Lost after having worn our spirit with the alienation that produces the famous "touch with our peers," the folly of living in a community without knowing it.

This stage of our history we are living in caves. "Evolve" constituting - For purely economic reasons - what came to be called a society.

Now we are back living in caves, but much worse than the first, because they are within ourselves, because they are black holes which holds our soul, while we pretend to be concerned for the health of others. We

held high the flags of ash.

With colorful characters of plastic, which reads:

"God, Country, Home, Unicef \u200b\u200b..."

sing the praises of people who think, people who feel,

or says he feels,

but we do through the people who comes to sing praises, because

What would - other - from us, if we surprised singing in the street?

What would your neighbor over there, across the street department, if one day you, instead of grumbling "Buennññfff" to pick up a newspaper, or milk, or the back of the incinerator, says: "Today is a wonderful day, my friend, come a hug and invite him to the zoo, or to chat about the last fight of Monzon ...

Chances are that ql back of very strong shock that their words provoke him, you look surprised, and very nervous, I replied, stammering: "eee ... nno, thank you, my lady ... mmmgñññ ... you know?" and closing the door violently, or flee down the hall thinking that you are truly crazy, or is a poor fool, for having tried to talk as equals with another human being living in one and a half of his den, living in the cave in front, thousands of miles away social ... without taboos, myths and rituals ...

are good and bad.

Good and evil individual and the collective good and evil, they are different.

is good and social evil good and bad economic, political right and wrong and good and evil religion.

goods and evils.

only man as well, with tiny, it has - usually - the ability (or courage) for analysis.

Many men put themselves Shift Hache, and many men put others above certain Hache.

But this does not take long to deteriorate, and fall.

Hache

True Shift is not removable, but it increases the real man, and was not falling anymore. Let's look

Man True.

encourage one to look

.

"We would encourage?

... what then? *********************************

Gral.Pacheco, 1967

Purple Skinny Jeans Mn

SOME BOOKS PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR

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