Fortunately, this piece was never awarded. Pure coincidence: neither has sent it to the competition. Precisely. I wrote the day after the suicide of my friend, JCP. Yesterday I found it. Or vice versa. Suicide bombers are people friendly, close. There are few words to hand to my absent brother and friend, I repeat in my ear, like a litany, in the days alone and sad. Sontag insisted: "Most of the narrators of today are afraid of emotion." I am not afraid. Neither the new dedications. I add today, I do not know why, one, two more: Miguel Angel Munoz and Magilla. I do not know and reiterate the adverb: precisely.
In the frame are four smiles in front and behind the basilica, parts bare of trees, people in the background, a cloud. I did not know who lived this photo, not remembered. You can never know the things that exist are many. But there we were and that we remain, the four: he, me, my mother and father. We have a photogenic gesture, makes family, and cold. More than thirty years. The scene there, was done to this black and white, for this look than thirty years later. We I have on hand. I move the picture and we all move, we are united in stiffness. Now we are united in remembering that we know. These things I understand, sure. It's cold on glossy paper, we have overcoats and Jorge has a green scarf and what once was called a coat, crossed, to just above the knees. Above my head up the final curve of the dome and a little higher should be the cross. I see that curve, but the photo does not exist, the basilica is straight lines. It will be one insists on things that are not. I think Now, with photo in hand. But I do not understand, so many things that are above one's gaze. Happiness never could make anyone happy, eh, George? That would have said. But I could not, I was late. We are always
afternoon of all things, the same world we are late. When I discovered this photo I did not know existed. It's weird, I discovered and he committed suicide the next day. They said they sat on a bench in the central city square and was sent a shot in the head. A shiver would have said, but the diminutive put him at the end, went to the nochecita. So they said. I thought, why she was crying. Is that when I discovered the photo I began to mourn. A cry quiet, soft, as if a memory is put to mourn.
Now I stubbornly with the photo: the move, we move, the twist and turn. But crying is not listed. Would have to be that appearance. Did it rain this morning in the picture? I do not remember. People are Flies: today and tomorrow we are too. But not the same, others. What happened was that the flies live as identical, so little. We I have on hand and put on upside down. The tiles that surround the basilica are the sky. Nothing serves the sentence. Why was I to find this photo and he was killed the next day? Marlene think I can get ahead of the facts. Maybe. But it is ahead, is to stay still and let facts come to you.
The facts: a picture, a gesture, a sound, a feeling, a color, a bank, nochecita. The nearest are the supernatural. This must be understood. Now I look at it upside down and I realize. He's looking quick camera is an arch smile, a shame just at the click. He was always in a hurry. We saw six or seven months, hear us, to get us. I think we knew we were living well. We drank a gin and we remembered us. We were bringing the neighborhood children. Remember? Always the same question. Remember? But they brought us was to become. Never again that ignorance. He looked at me from the bottom of the cup and I was lying. Me too. We told lies to chat. Then he drove fast, and with shame, but shame was mine: I was a fugitive. One afternoon I said it. With those words. I added more words to comfort him. It is ridiculous to bring words. He is not left over and killed himself. Had a few that I remember. But I'm not going to say, are sacred: he killed them. It was a crime to nochecita, suicides have these jokes.
The picture grows. In the basilica came out two towers on each there is a clock. Are a quarter past three in the afternoon. O'clock. It's time we started to look at us. The two clocks have the same devotion accuracy. A miracle time. What had gone to the Basilica? A grateful. It is an irony that the Virgin did a miracle, he could achieve it, that APSA a miracle. Miracles are commonplace and object of worship. In the streets and in the words there santeros, smells, screaming and scandal venerable faith. Jorge was the chapel of political activism. The screen. Jargon rose to her lips when least expected. The jargon was not to think, to not be sad. I do not deceived: he thought not and said yes. I say think, a word of faith. Thought is a small altar. Political religion is not enough. Do you remember, George? All life I strive to be atheist. You can not. You see the picture and think. Myself, and I listen to Marlene. No output with faith. Many years of friendship and one proof: this pic of shit, shit almost four embraced.
I sometimes wonder what life will be from another body, whether it will be the same. A little above the photo watches over. There is air, but is exhausted. I see two needles that have to exist, it must exist. A little behind the photo we were at this time. Marlene is pure intellect and hate the pictures. You do not have any when I was Marlene. Marlene: I repeat the name and diluted, is lost. The names make people: people are getting used to his roots and endings, the arbitrary meaning of each letter and sound. There are names that end running on their hosts. The bed is the letter of Marlene. Looking
is reversed: tired but not finished. The more you look, the more is. The look is a fervor. And the fervor is what makes real things. You speak always, Marlene. The four who are in the picture I look in the emulsion. I myself look at it from there. The space is lost, it is necessary to lower eyelids.
was like this: you are almost doubled in the bank. Next door is a blue bag. I see things in the bag for the gaze of others: a hotel soaps, a pink towel with a line of red stitching, a brown comb, a revolver 22 short. I do not see is the green scarf, similar to the one you had thirty years ago in the photo. It is rare, it should be. There are also loose bullets, little bullets for the night and a document. Despair are those crumbs, but if they passed a notice would say that this is a survival kit. Do not laugh. Now comes when you join up the bullet. No trial. The bank has no backup. The bag goes to ground. Yes, a shiver. I do not know why you laugh thirty years later.
The photo shows modesty. I have to add some pigeons in the making, two or three, pecking on the ground. The pigeons are another test of faith, but tourism. Sacred places are like that. Not blind faith, are eyes I always grow. But there's more. Some speak of intuition, some of conscience. I do not: the air of the frame appears miraculously. And an earthquake. Before that things are always a tremor of things. I know that.
The quake was a Friday. I can hardly explain it, was so natural. I am sitting, stirring compulsively in the old carved wooden chest. That was not me, but it was there, on the edge, quick hands between family roles and jewelry. The Family: Marlene, Marlene's mother, the grandmother of Marlene. The cult of blood lives on in a brooch, a cameo, in three or four beads on a string that came from Belgium and saved to forget in a chest. The family is a vagina that does not give up. No nothing more dangerous than a family. Brooches, pins exploded in memory.
So I went at night, on the surface of the dresser, next to the carved wooden chest. It was something I called to find the photo, I do not know why, and then that feeling of get away. I walked away, I think. I went to bed. Marlene was asleep, it was like trying to get out of that time. I checked my watch: twelve twenty. That was when she began to cry memory without any explanation, on its own, and I began to see, right next to the chest, the figure of a family that did not surrender. I tried to turn me, I could not: there was a clear space silhouette looking at me. No was a dream, that was beside the dresser and chest. As an outline of the foot. Do you remember, George? Time in a carbon copy, a coloring book. So I trace the image from the coloring book he had lent me and that I had broken. Yes, of course, how will you remember not. I owe it, even today. And I feel birth or loss for the loss because they are words that I have.
The family that does not give me still watching from the clarity of those days. I would love to have them, standing on a smile. Marlene and I shook the scene progressed. For a moment I could see the inside. I repeat what I saw was a diminutive version of suicide. At that time he pulled the sheets Marlene and muttered something that was not enough to get in the shot. That's why I keep
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