"You can live without anything," I said, by way of sentence, during an afternoon coffee with a friend, poet and musician, poet or a musician and friend, or with a fellow musician and poet.
We were sitting in a unique naming enclave, almost magical: in front of the facade of the Museo Ramón Gaya in Aromas cafe terrace, a short walk from the Plaza de Las Flores. The dialogue came to mind for my trip to Marrakech, recent, secular and shortcomings of these peoples, as the Moroccan, individuals are immersed in perpetual crisis, and it was derived, almost without transition, into more intimate domains: I remarked that once properties seemed to us indispensable, for example certain books or certain objects in the vicinity, suddenly no longer with us and no we used to do without, or teaches us that are dispensable. As he he rolled his cigarette, I thought of a poem by Borges entitled Things and concludes with this pair of heroic verse: "They will last beyond our forgetfulness. / No will ever know we're gone." But then he, the friend, musician and poet, or poet and musician friend, musician or poet and friend, before turning the wick and closer to the point of manufacture, gently corrected me with his usual foresight:
- With nothing , you say? You can live without everything.
0 comments:
Post a Comment