Thursday, November 29, 2007

Single Serve Mayonaise Packets

The bus


Eduardo Galeano and his A Book of Embraces.

The bus number 68 of the Public Transportation System Big City, is one of the most effective throughout the country. His first trip always leaves at 6 am, his last at 10:00 pm. People of all classes is approached from a junkie in search of a cure, workers finished out of the building, students, housewives, and to senior officials. Everyone talked to everyone, of all possible topics.

I took the number 68 every day on his way to college. Y les confieso, al principio me incomodaban las felices tertulias que se allí se daban. Así que me adentraba en alguno de los muchos libros que cargaba para entonces. Pero las conversaciones cada vez se tornaban mas interesantes, así que muy a mi pesar me uní a ellos. Hablaban de política internacional, hablaban de ciencia, discutían Cien años de soledad, intentaban encontrar la cura del sida, comentaban el último chisme. Si alguno tenía algún problema, se le daban sugerencias, se le buscaba la solución. Y otras veces hablaban de religión. Nadie gritaba, todos hablaban en armonía, todos sonreían.

Galeano

guided the number 68. All trips he made them.

He had arrived from Montevideo and some 30 years ago with the intention of returning sometime. But the love he had taken to this new land was so great that he vowed not to ever leave. Galeano was white skin and blue eyes. The little hair that remained was once black was now ashen. He was short, chubby and needed a cane to walk. It was the most wonderful person you could ever know. She was an angel, some said. His eyes were full of peace, almost maternal love. Just looking at anyone is a smile in the mouth.

Galeano had gotten the job as a driver of the No. 68, by a friend who recommended it. By all accounts, this friend was going through a deep depression. He spent hours given to alcohol. But Galeano met and do not know how, was removed from the alcohol. Since then, their lives changed forever.

Unfortunately, this is not the story of Galeano. Nor is the history of the number 68 itself. It is the story of love that filled the bus. Although clear, Galeano and bus, this story could not tell.

We were all on the bus, this time there was talk of family love. Some spoke of their children, other parents and others simply wept at the memory of a family member. Galeano was one of those who wept. All silent to the cries of the angel. Cried the memory of their children for more than 20 years since I saw them. He told us his story, how his ex-wife snatched when they divorced. Now living in Montevideo or so they thought.

All Galenao comforted, we took the tears from the heart.

We passed the airport, Galeano we looked in the mirror. We began to applaud, to mourn with him. Galeano stopped the bus, walked to the back door saying goodbye to each one of us. Before lowering of the 68 said "See you soon friends, here I leave my heart" and walked away slowly.

That afternoon, the heart of completed Galeano the route 68.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Mens Crotch Rocket Helmets

At three Divine

is a nice sentence
the instant before,
is like a wear

a necessity rather than a desire ...

- Soda Stereo, American Blind


watches her walk, footsteps devours them one by one. I would like to have those legs wrapped in them. Her skirts sway to the beat of a tango, the intensity of his gaze. Want to remove, pull them a bit. He closes his eyes, stroking the penis above her pants and forms an image on head. Imagine what's under those skirts. Licks. It is the taste. And her blouse. So delicate, so it would find it impossible to not have it. He closes his eyes again, and it covers the torso with his tongue. He imagines it over her, making hers, making her. Moans of pleasure, hidden, without being heard. He wants, she goes crazy. Can not wait for it to grow. So from Monday to Friday, at three, pull up to school. He jerks imagining that girl of seven years riding in the car with him.