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My brother and I

The morning of Saturday, just over two years, a vallenato song woke us all up. My brothers and my mom got up to discover a late-model car parked in front, with the doors open to let conveniently sprout Villazón's voice and accordion of Lallemand. It was his most recent album, and although I decided to stay in bed [the sheets at 4:30 am with a special holding power], I could not ignore the good songs, and the certainty that someone had come to rest drinks on the terrace of our house.

Now, no other vallenato album makes me sad more than The Power of Love, and in particular the songs The and Caramelito Whenever I , were the most repeated Jader that morning, while his boss, beaten , drunken sleep in the back of the car and put him with the power of sincerity that gives the alcohol, he advised my brothers, my mom commented to the wanderings of my stepfather [her father] and offered to help with a job at the university where he held a good administrative fee. Luck was smiling at him from doing a good time. They used

confused as brothers, since the majority of people had a strong resemblance, both physically and how to act. I never told, but I liked this misunderstanding, feel my blood brother, he was a man quite mature for his age [was two years younger than me] and I knew what I wanted and how to get it, qualities of a strong character and honest. That strength led us to face more than once, children or adults, when we played football when competed in bicycle or motorcycle trick that [do you remember, old man?] ... but there was always someone ready to stop we came to blows, and after reconciled laughed at such nonsense, between beer and beer, with the voice Poncho background, which is the best liniment and most of all ...
abetting Jader
was killed in one of those mornings of drinks, in the same car and also with his boss, when, according to the official version, the ate a curve at nearly 200 mph, while returning Sincelejo, where he was to work the next day [unofficial version says other things, of which I hope his boss, truck driver and miraculous survivor, has a clear conscience]. Since then, July is synonymous with pain for our family.

I started writing this obituary while notes Caramelito flowed from the stereo. And the lump in my throat confused with the cold that morning, and through the eyes moist inevitably I see me sitting on the terrace of my house with the words camisilla pasty white and the rum, and while my brother sings the lyrics on par with Villazón, once again I hurt all the time we lost everything that we do not live, and all the things we left unsaid. And

Despite the lateness of this note, I know I know, old Jade, now and always remember you, my brother ...

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Claim

Alberto Fuguet out in his blog an extraordinary reflection of the Argentine Rodrigo Fresán about loneliness but that in turn is a valuable claim of reading and books [and artifice as unusual activity in the taste of modern man]. The exact transcribe, and I urge you: LEE, Armata, THERE!

Reading is one of the few forms of loneliness socially accepted by a world that tends to be suspicious of the activities in the singular. Saying "not now, I'm reading" is a shield and say "I read in a book" is a spear. Thus, a book is a weapon of mass construction. Leo, therefore I am. Rodrigo

Fresán

Ringworm Around Breast

kid in the eighties bohemian Sultana del Valle, I learned in the pages of Sunday Readings the experiences of a bully looking straight and trigger early , he deposited in his revolver balance confidence of his words sparingly. Strange reading for someone of just eleven years old, his father became angry when the boring is imbibed in the evening news, and still did not understand that reality sometimes is more cruel than any cartoon. Naturally, then little I care about the author, enjoyed the action without worrying about whether there was a creator behind the comic, but eventually discovered the inevitable name Fontanarrosa , associated with each shot of the dreaded mercenary.

Much later, when under the Hay Festival in Cartagena, Fontanarrosa was honored as the highlight of the event writer, was born to me its literary figure. It was only logical that this acerbic writer was not satisfied with the framing of the vignettes, and directing his words more intricate ways. In order to remedy the lack of his work, I turned to the search of his writings, sometimes with little success [in bookstores in my town I found not one of his books] but with great satisfaction and enjoyment to others [mainly in the author's web ] . I have rarely read an author so natural, so spontaneous in his prose, yet so rich in the management of the subject that occupied it. Especially football, perhaps his greatest passion.

Now when has left The Black pencils, perhaps in the maturity of his side writing, feels a lack of time to know and value it more, not me, I'm still discovering, but for all readers a fresh literature, created with simplicity and passion, as should be all good things of this world.

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It was The Black Parenting

Pálpito, joy, fear, joy and shock [combined], I think in that order were the reactions to confirm the story [the last two remain]. It's a strange feeling, you feel powerful yet fragile, immensely responsible ...

[By the way, I remember an anecdote: We were drinking beer on the terrace of the house of a friend and suddenly comes out and tells his wife Juanita, I'm pregnant, parallel balls. My friend looks at us with a stunned face and says he was blameless!]

Once Anny, thank you, thank you never finish to the one in my life, and already I wait, my little Alejandro.