Anamelba was a fat woman acute and powerful voice who lived a few blocks from my house. I remember like it was yesterday because it sold paving stones of fruit and "Sun" colored with which financed his career as an artist and that I got sick to avoid going to school (which always seemed cattle farms, places of punishment, only learning spaces and learning the neck down and obey and never to command or direct: "schools of the subjects" remembered my teacher sentenced Heads-of which I have spoken before in another Ybarrario -). Every time I went to look for Anamelba tell me "how the child is cute" - a compliment that was repeating old to all children - and stroked my hair and I looked through the eyes of slaughtered lamb or eyes a student with the Oedipus complex refracted at his teacher.
ever, in this strange and icy complicity, I sang a song a capella because I asked her. It was an April morning, the summer was beginning to subside and I with my new uniform, my dress white, my dark gray pants and my black shoes shined "the duco" walked plump for those streets of my old neighborhood. There in the living room of his house and chewing ice completita heard her sing a song about the heartbreak, but in that time I did not understand anything I just worried that I pitched sounds such intemperate teeth. I guess now that it was the disaffection he felt by Julio Jaramillo, Ecuadorian singer corridors, with which had a torrid affair with a tandem who recorded some songs that even the radios go on the memory, those that are too far right or far to the left of the dial. Though I never liked the boleros, every time I walk by an old street and hear a little song I feel old again I am standing outside the iron gate of Anamelba, in the third block of Jiron Lucanas, or chasing with my 11 years Vicky Jimenez's daughter, "the queen of bolero"-at that time Anamelba direct competition, "who lived a few blocks from my house, she always presumed that was responsible for getting on self-esteem by saying that I was not anyone and that his mother was an artist, known singer and, therefore, could not be my friend, and while saying this, he was showing me all the gifts her mother ("the doll of the bolero" and had named a famous television presenter) had brought back from his travels in Europe, and I was looking at me falling in love to the marrow of the bones to the bone marrow reconcho, to the depths of the soul, yes, always yes ... but myself. Those boleros
not returned to hear more. As a teenager I devoted myself to listen to rock, jazz, frejazz, new age, gender and other so-called "cults", more "evolved" more "technical", more "progressive", etc.., etc. But one time I walked away from all this, I stopped listening, stopped writing. I took a trip abroad and so I walked a lot of time traveling back and forth with backpackers and craftsmen with whom I was accompanying a trail and then follow the path set until one day I became sedentary. And when someone, for some odd reason, I wondered boleros I denied in all possible languages \u200b\u200bthat know anything about this, now, marginal genre.
been more than 30 years and I clearly remember that song he sang a capella Anamelba one morning in late of the seventies was this: "I will accept." With regard to the girl conceited, daughter of Vicky Jiménez, I forgot even his name, just remember his broken sentences and "you're not anyone." And now with that "accept" tragic background I can say that I keep wondering the same thing in effect girl of my worst dreams, I'm nobody, I'm only witness to a vanished time in my hands, a past that sometimes returns as a boomerang and gives us a blow to the chest, but, after all, I'm just witnessed myself.
.
0 comments:
Post a Comment