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túyyotenemoslamismacarne ditty of memory. They

These days I've walked cuzqueñas mountains, I've drowned by the height, I sang bossa nova in a bar, I embraced it, I wanted to, I cried for a farewell. These days, even if I have disappointed of Christmas, my mind and my body travel through the years that have passed, as if I were dying, I'm now this, are triggered ideas of what I do, live in stories in my head through deserts, in the midst of thirst in the midst of madness, stories of mothers who lost their children, stories of men who only want to walk alone, stories of people who do not want to leave your place, as if something inevitably tie, stories, voices, rain, humidity, faces, many people want to meet new people I do not speak my own language, I see colors that never knew existed. How fortunate I am, I am dedicated to telling stories, that live, breath that motherfuckers what aforunada am able to do the same since I am a girl who drew her thoughts in the air, on the floor, on the ground garden and then the sheets of paper. I'm immersed in a large centripetal moment where I realize that I am another human being. Be hu-ma-no. Me.

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They


Dear @ s bloggers, many things and events have been introduced in the life of this miss, I want to share one in particular. Sunday December 7, 7:30 pm. Teatro Mocha Graña in Barranco, presents the collective creation "They", a montage made from the Greek myth of Eros and Psyche. The myth, like all myths, in fact comprises a number of ways to understand the human soul, in this specific case the soul of the woman, is from the loss of love that made Psyche a series of tests given by Aphrodite, who finally made her growth as an individual, as well as in folk tales where the princess tontilla naive, vicissitudes to finish going through a woman made a head and spirit in place.

deserves a separate post the tangle of ideas and revolutions that appear to me in the head and daily life with regard to gender, I get tired sometimes be a woman in this space and this time, in Lima-Peru-America The World-The Universe-The immensity. Causes me to be like Maurice Ravel and go way to the supra sexuality, well, we'll talk about that, my dear @ s.

not expect to see characters from mythology, the myth it is dormant, and is a powerful excuse to tell the story of a comatose patient, a photographer and a nurse (this little chest), which traverse a path of anagnorisis, recognition, release and detachment.

The performance lasts 1 hour and also presented on Friday December 12 at 7:30. The entrance is 10 leks.

L @ s encounter.


Cast: Jimena Nuñez


Julia Thays

Katya De Los Heros
Leader: Claudia

tangoa.

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Alfredo Bushby or symmetry of the density.

Alfredo


Bushby is a Peruvian playwright cuarentaitantos a very intelligent man school and has also been my professor at the TUC, I had the pleasure of being the actress in her first venture as director and now I'll follow as host in the publication of his latest trilogy.

The launch of " Conrad and Lucrecia, Dominant Language B Flat and Long. Three plays Alfred Bushby " is at the Alliance Francaise de Miraflores on Wednesday 26, at 7:30 pm, there is a dramatic reading and Vinaches of honor.

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When a song says it better than words ...



Lila Downs is one of the most admired performers, his singing roots, the sensuality of her voice, her deep love for what he does, just a teacher. Health, Lila. See you at the bar.

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She: Understanding Feminine Psychology

So reads the title of Robert Johnson

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Toro not Cry No such spondyllus

Again bothers someone invited me to eat at home, uncomfortable because they do not like red meat and sometimes people can not understand. Oh ya, you eat the salad and rice, but is not the prey? No, ma'am, thank you. I miss you little juices a little time. No, ma'am, please, is little juices same. Ah, now, and why, ah? Then again I'll tell you why not.

Once upon a night of 2004, I can not remember the month, much less the day in the middle of the sheets I am, with frosted body with sweat, I opened my eyes, I ran into the darkness am. Time: 3 to 3 minutes. I remembered as I held his head, my friend Claudia Cusco, told me that was the time when the souls and dreams that have the greatest significance. The images were repeated seizures returned. What I just dream was so vivid that my heart was beating fast and fast for print, without saying a word, without any thought comes to me, I cried, and tears came the certainty of a decision: Never again in my life never eat beef (or bull).

Each step he lifted the dust tierroso was seated on the floor, there was a smell of wet garbage in the environment, I remember clearly that smelled so the streets when they took me to the center of Lima in the eighties (although some still keep that stench, as if ensconced in the cement), we arrive at the plaza de Acho, worldwide sold out orange juice, I approached one of the posts and I was just hypnotized by the stripping device oranges and made the shells were coiled ribbons to infinity. Orange smell and wet garbage, the empty buckets of paint were the waste bin improvised all posts, I wanted to catch the shells rolled, but they seemed so beautiful that it made me reach. In the instant that my hand was decided to play a roller orange, I was transported to the arena itself, but the plaza de Acho was like a citadel itself, had even mounds of earth and could see distant houses, were the perfect people tierroso dust, the sun was strong, and I sensed that I should not be seen.

Oeeeee, oeeeee, shouted some youths with a rash on his legs, came up to me, how I have seen, I wondered, but it was not me they were looking, they passed close to my hiding place, they were like 7, all with very dirty clothes, his body assaulted by vermin bites, all eyes injected with poverty and violence. I looked at the back of the body, I did not belong there, not to be discovered.

Tuuuuuuuuuu, Tuuuuuuuuuuuu, Tuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu was serious and sustained sound that seemed to call, the great ship departed, then gentlemen, the Plaza de Acho is not just a fortress, was an ocean liner, we were moving, where we would not know , nor never knew. For some reason it did not worry me, as to the movement of large contraption that kept a city of intense sun and dust tierroso within its enormous magnitude, I saw a piece of sky and sea, ever denser and more blue light they had seen my eyes, the colors blurred together which impressionist painting, the light fell so generous over the water looked so hot and cool at the same time, I felt that towards the sea that point we were going to lead. More

a twinge in his chest made me turn to the opposite side.

I wanted to scream but could not, I would discover the horror that was about to witness.

had in the breeze roofing environment, there was a man, a tall dark and solid, had brought olive green pants, bare-chested still remember so clearly, the movement of the muscles of his back, the shadows were walking in your body. The turned brown, I hope I never meet face that reality, his face was calm, but his eyes, ah, had a dull and fatal flash. Something bad would happen.

A bull, black with black fur, so that looked blue, letting the air breathed his chest swell. I saw the bull, and I felt I knew him as my Platero, like a companion that my mind could not remember. The animal was huge and impressive, of those fighting bulls that their symmetry and purity were designated as studs, so that the offspring have the majesty of the father.

The man, who was also barefoot, rolled up the hem of his pants, his legs a little separated the picture reminded me of the black preachers of the watercolors of Pancho Fierro: aguaterito bad yerberito miserable, bloody milk.

From his belt, the poor man took a stick and with the strength of his heart corrupt, hit the bull, the bull takes, takes. The bull kept his integrity, but his thoughts were somehow connected with mine, I said look, look what this man makes me. The executioner downloaded strength against the animal's body, but not happy with that, I grabbed her legs and raised his head and, using ropes, raised the animal to the tip of a tall pole that was there, then swiftly climbed the dark as far as The bull was bruised, he pulled a dagger from his belt and began to cross the flesh of the animal. The bull bellowed, throwing no complaint, but tears began to like glass eyes, I could feel his pain, but my cowardice kept me in my hiding place, the bull's voice replied in my mind Help me, Julia, help me. I can not, could not do it, man would kill me too.

By the hand of the murderer ran the blood of his victim, wanted to scream, wanted to run, but I stood there, witnessing the murder of my bull, he would say, why not help me, I apologized, I could not hold back the tears, I felt the helplessness own animal and drowning in my throat. Finally the bull laid eyes on me and called me with his last breath, why hast thou forsaken me.

Blame and punishment for those words got so deep in me, I woke up with anguish. Then the sweat from the body, then the time, then the tears brought me the decision not to betray the bull anymore. My mouth would no longer contain his blood and flesh.

People who invite me to dinner, do not tell them my dream, I say simply that I am against the ways and breed the animals we eat, or just do not like meat.

I can not write more, sorry, I must leave this memory.

Concolón at six hours: Well, do not eat meat since then, the only treatment that is consuming the fish, sometimes when I'm in the whirlwind of work such as chicken. Toro, anything that walks on all fours, my friends tell me I am very impressionable, but I've never had a dream that has driven this way a part of my behavior, but the eyes of the bull does not allow me to betray him again. Yes, that dream I was impressed.

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Before discussing something personal, I want to cry out against the corruption widespread contagious disease which spreads in the state apparatus. First, the congressmen who are offended when asked to surrender operating expenses, which they manage, collude, then the filth in PetroPerú, which I suspect has not yet reached its ultimate consequences my old lady told me yesterday, but .. . Who is he that has recorded the conversations, are varied and at different times, Montesinos told anyone? Will the weapons Doc shows the government to treat him suevemente? Lanzo

soprano cry then, what this shell, dammit. Here

just below, a song that is nothing to do with the situation, but The Smiths always appropriate.

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Chega de Saudade

Thanks to the Lord Jesus Christ that is in heaven my mouth did not produce foam, not arching my back amid a relentless spasm, you did not come to the last, thank God ward off the evil mine for me. Could not avoid embarrassment, disappointment, lust, sin ... breath (breath), all is well because he stayed in me bringing peace to my whole life, I'm crying, now alone, was just what I went through, I learned to give myself to you entirely, because life is life from thee, my Lord.

Lady B is now turned into a servant of Christ, was released from prison because the court was left without legal grounds to hold it in the prison of Santa Monica. Prison

that imprisons my body, my soul imprisoned, as she flies to your spirit, my Lord, I belong, I am a trustee of your love ... your love ... of love

your
I know nothing, you left me in a solitude that know existed, my face has swollen by not seeing more, I threw a betrayal of the underworld, there was nothing that I could grab, you were just in the middle of contrails left shadow, your face is blurred, she saw in my childhood, my father's hand on my cheek, the right sit the hell, the body you want and can not pee on the bed, drink it all so there is no sign of my weakness, I see your face open and swallow me, I have inside, swallowing is slow, and breaks every fiber, every muscle, "Am I dying? No, I can see you yet, your insides are so gray, why I said you were red, also lied So, I left you see the depth of my throat, I sunk into every pore of my skin, now I'm broken, no no, I'm not broken, I'm badly patched, what monstrous doll, why God, I feel my soul is a napa piece imported from China, give me back to my senses.

Lady B says no further relationship with her ex-partner, who is currently listed as desdaparecida person. The former presidential bodyguard denies illicit enrichment even though his brother won more than seven bids with his construction company, during the government of Alejandro Toledo.

The power of man on earth is not a little of the power of the Lord, let him mistake, to correct them later. Yes Yes
Dame
give me all the power ... give me give me all the power

If you see Through the lace you can guess how pleasant is the sound of my flesh swaying, I have everything, I'm rich, I'm rich, juice overflows, my content is overflowing, no doubt, touch me, burn, let me incinerate with my mouth, goodbye to what you had, now it is mine, you can not make this, I've become an addict, without the smell my breasts migraine begins will not have me, love me, I need you, do not you realize you want more? I want everything. Poque is because it always will be, every time you call me, you my beloved audience at this concert for a single voice.

Lady B is taking the word of God to other inmates, to learn from their sins and become children of God.

Amen.

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today I read that this song "Chega de Saudade" by Vinicius de Moraes and Carlos Jobim, we are celebrating 50 years of Bossa Nova. I checked in the Sunday supplement of El Comercio, I can not help but smile and remember my mother's house abandoned, because there, everyone loves to read daily newspaper, each with their own hours, of course, then the house had saudade Martinez of our lives together, but with the sweetness of seeing them now all with new eyes, in my own space. I suffered a little death to go, but do need to give back to the blood wind, once again giving back to the circle, but is a bit devoid of print.

What is the essence of nostalgia? It is nothing simpler than tenderly feel a nostalgia, a sweet pain (not the same sweet sadness, but some people know that), because each individual will be given its own graduation, its saborcito bitter honey. Many times have we felt longing without knowing it. How every culture has its own concepts to define their feelings, because that sense has no meaning in Castilian, do you have in another language?

few weeks ago I started testing the Catholic, after many weeks stepped college, I sometimes think maleada me and I always say that it was not difficult to finish the race and let the tender cotidaneidad of a school of theater, Me, I pounded the sternum could not smile away the grin of my face, just leaving the inn around barefoot girls were red-faced, certainly had acting training class, the TUC's clothes were always all combat without shoes, singing, cavorting on the grass, or going to the bathroom half naked at times. And suddenly, the sight of these red cheeks came an immense nostalgia.

Here's the song, performed by Chico Buarque. Note the smiles of everyone. I can not with that of Chico.





Here are the lyrics. Obrigada. Chega de saudade



realities É sem ela não há that peace

Não há beleza É Só melancholy sadness
E
That não sai de mim Não sai de mim
, não sai.

Mas ela voltar,
if she comes back
What a beautiful thing What a crazy thing

Because there are less fish swimming in the sea Than the little kisses

I will give to his mouth.

Into my arms, The hugs

There will be a million hugs so tight
,
together like, well
Draft

Hugs and kisses and endless caresses
What is to stop this thing Of living away

me I do not want this thing anymore Of you living without

Let me stop this thing Of you living without
me.

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The wonderful Mr. Jones

"Me and Mr. Jones" by doña Amy, una genia tormented.



"Me and Mrs. Jones" by Al Green.

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A man path through wet street of Lima, are the twelve o'clock and he, along with other spectra brothers levitating move through the track , and the sounds of Alfonso Ugarte Avenue are isolated in the presence of these magnificent vampires, I see and my mind fills with images dark, bloody, full of music and pleasure. Finally arriving at the queue to enter the NO-HELDEN. I run a word, but a quick look loose and disapproving chompita my green, I'm not pristine black, not even enough that it was, maybe if my face was hidden behind a layer of white powder to bring me pale, my hair whipping and cascading over my eyes or my boots awesomely full of brooches, buckles and pins, plus of course a gigantic shape, just then, maybe they could watch me as similar, but the most genuine I would breathe, guessing that there is no bloody ritual under my belt, at least none done on purpose.

Helden

The No-no longer exists.

I remembered with a friend, exalted the two of the disco wave in the center of Lima. I can not remember more adrenaline in my body, when once he was in the queue to enter, down the metalheads to get the shit out of vampires, they kicked mind comes, military boots, gothic boots and stirred in a string disorderly legs, all under the density approaching the serious music to the street rumor amid the grayness of Lima, was all very confusing, screaming transvestite, conchatumadresmaricóndemierdaposerocojudoytuviejatambién.

may not understand that metalera gratuitous violence, but if you look at the people on the Non-Helden, it was understood this hatred diehard metalheads; boys were thin and fragile with individual hairstyles, shemales with blackened eyes and mouth red, women in purple coats, until that night was shackled. Fragility, sensitivity, individuality Justito what most infuriates the frenetic metalhead.

But if you lived outside the danger was in the glory, you got a mirror to improve egotistical and solo dancing, there were no lights or strange atmosphere wonderful, but the best was the music and spirit, no one danced in couples, we were all together, but it was clear that the value was in the individual in himself, and I of course happily danced enchompada green.

Talking with others with the dawn, when the vultures, when the No-Helden shut their mouths, which vamp intolerant of the day, I learned that many of the kids so beautifully characterized, were workers, vendors Wilson computers, factory workers, second generation migrants, they were all part of the system, all belonged to the establishment in some way, did not get into some cave or a shelter to wait for the night appears lush and moist, these boots cost a lot friend, somehow had to maintain taste.

All we were going to our destinations with the mascara run, his body vibrating much dancing, just that they in a sad little moment seemed like children dressed up, but to turn to view away for the last time once again became a city in spectra.

PS: The photo is Clan of Xymox, a grupazo not leave me since those times.

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Lord No-Helden Vargas Llosa, a question ...

I mean so much about everything, but once more language betrays me, my thought and the written word are distancing themselves friends, love or hate with the frequency at which a change of underwear (a common saying of my grandmother Chela, hahaha, powerful woman labia Chincha .)

Let's see ... I was recently the opening of the Lima Film Festival, I had fun with the presentation on Mario Vargas Llosa in the house O 'Higgins, in particular a room where there are a number of books the writer has obviously read his notes he has left all blank, even on the last page he wrote the book a note evaluator, with which professional examination, 20 Flaubert puts almost always, Joyce, a couple of philosophers Mariátegui and others, what fun it was, I even feel a little school spirit and fervor that has Don Vargas. There is something I've always wanted to ask, I'd like to tell you about my grandfather, for he has written on it three times: in Conversation in the Cathedral, The Fish in the Water, and some other that I have not read, my grandfather was his partner in San Marcos, formed a study group as well, you know how it is, forms with people, whether by his lucidity, his knowledge or beliefs, a group where you read and study books, texts and relics to then dedicate to crumble to deconstruct. The passions are aroused, ah yes, those gatherings; imagine my grandfather with a cigar in his mouth, ashes falling sooner, he lights Vargas Llosa and other students, really, these generations of intellectuals in San Marcos were the best, since Porras or Basadre was established a love for the study and knowledge that is rare in these times.

Anyway ... for not swinging through the branches which monkey. I wanted to go up and say: My name is Julia, and yes, Aunt Julia told me, and not only my niece, but some readers who remember him even in the jokes, but I am the granddaughter of Indian Martinez, the copper face cholo with everlasting cigar, lights it has more than once, right? If not, would not have written three times about it, Mr. Vargas Llosa tell me, what my grandfather, "his eyes sparkled upon hearing a great idea? What was your face when defending anything? Was her gentle smile? Ever was seen sad? Have you ever allowed to be distracted? Have you always combined his cashmere sweater with leather bag, as I remember? Have you ever talked to me, the times I was carrying and took me to his chest that smelled of snuff and good man when I left to be in accompanying library for hours, from when I bought ice cream in winter, when I bought a typewriter looked just like his, but little, Satacho of when he said, are Satan? No? Well let me tell you that died long ago, fifteen years or so, and I was there, holding her hand, watching as his body relaxed more and more, how their pain was slowly slipping away as my mom told me not to cry so he did not have pity upon me, because he left me, you know? He left when I wanted more, when is penetrated his words and hugs me, he was most passionate when he saw his work when he saw more reading and researching and the more I was smoking too, never left snuff. Is that why he died, Mr. Vargas Llosa's why I'm glad that men and women like you, like my grandfather live, live to continue to create, to continue writing, to continue ... Shortly after my grandfather died I met a beggar, was about 80 years, was hungry and ragged, I gave him money and I was pensanso why this man, who had abandoned his living existence, why, why my grandfather, who had to give a lifetime of no work. Do not worry, I get that every human has a place in the world, every human has something to do, that I have the opportunity to feel his tenacity in me that I can take over from his passion; and I understood it, but my memories as a child still has the feeling of having been the victim of an enormous injustice. It was just that Mr. Vargas Llosa, nothing more. So long and healthy!

did not tell because I had no chance, and then I dipped into a drink and laugh with friends. Only a moment I was silent and solitary reviewing the look between exposure and people, but hands grabbed me by the waist and again he brought me a kiss to the here and now, laughter and conversation from time then saw Vargas Llosa's books, but I felt neither nostalgic nor regret, because the Indian just turn Martínez his pipe in my heart.

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Do not fight "for my sake" ... Oh, no.

should not smile at this, or at least I have the feeling that you should not: apricot fought "my account" a few days ago, in Pucusana, or rather because of the repression and breaches of this group subjects or put another way because it messed with my butt in a community, or rather coral, as one throws a nickname and the other seconded with singing drunk and babbling, laughing corolla particularly rum.

The issue is that it took a few punches, head butts, he also pulled her hair, taking advantage of his long locks (and somewhat rare.)

Say that a Lima Peruvian woman or at least is a little more accustomed to ignore the hurtful compliments than men and arrows thrown at us (when a teen goes through the hits and more than a little body through our feminine), but there you nosequé , male beings can not stand, it's about respect say yes, but not only that, it's like an attack on masculinity that right under the nose of one, the lusts o respect your fellow woman ... and good to us, at least to me, sparked outrage, anger, frustration, but I also left internal giocondesca smile, a taste because he fought for me and the flesh of my buttocks.

I always freaks me super neutral and uninvolved consabidamente female characteristics (feminoid), I found myself proud at this. Well, one is known on the road.

PS: Even before a male had fought for me, but I admit frankly that was not cause for pride, as he hit his friend with whom I laughed and talked, and after lying on the floor, shouted: This is my wife, do not touch, dammit! He then vomited. Presumably embarrassed me a lot, while the shame killed my love of eighteen.