was born in the mid-forty-one. Two months later, in spring, I was baptized. According to the album, my baptism party drew more than fifty blood from the paternal side and as many of the maternal branch. Dad was the oldest of a series of eight brothers and three women. Mama, the youngest of nine sisters a number of women which were interspersed patriarchal shadow of two boys. In the City Journal published my picture of baptism. Then the family got the cliché and sent blue feather print on a greeting card. I still have copies of that impression which I appear, and sitting with very clear eyes under an enormous roller blond sucking the right thumb. I look at my picture and it occurs to me that I have not done anything else in life: posing, looking toward the camera and suck my fingers. I do not remember my baptism party, but instead remember the family gathering and the shouting of my first birthday, I spent my childhood amazing parents, neighbors and relatives, scenes with precise evocations of time that had not yet begun to walk. I remember the yellow lights and public lighting flickering filament lamps incandescían from ten at night, when everyone turned off the radio and went to sleep. I remember the war, stories of war, emissions of short-wave radio, and I remember vividly the revolution of forty-three and the first Peronist demonstrations. I remember the voices of men crammed into trucks singing the Peronist march that said "I will give you, give you beautiful country, I'll give you one thing, a thing that begins with eg, Peron." I remember all the songs of the era, the serials, shows aliadófilos in Harrods and confectionery Ideal, special effects and curtains Belgrano radio music. Among them, those twenty bars of the second movement of Rachmaninoff's concerto number two that always appeared at eight in the evening and initiated me into the love of music. An Italian grandmother and sang me songs murgas and political groups had been enthusiastic about his childhood, around 1886. Another English sang me and told me stories of English country, but set in southern Argentina, with gentle Indians aquerenciara rheas in the rooms and ate domesticated clothing buttons and pins that used to hang Bakelite airing on the rope. With dad toured the center and accompany demonstrations celebrating the liberation of Paris, very late, I guess it was after midnight-breakfast coffee and churros in Victoria on Avenida de Mayo, full of Republicans Galician by singing the Marseillaise phonetics. Just when my grandmothers were losing their fear of the anarchists, who, until the mid fifties, they continued to attach the habit of planting bombs in the bakery, my parents began to fear the Alliance, who shot and killed. My father taught me iconoclasm: by 1946 touring the center and the subway stations, he lit cigarettes and so I was going for me, feigning innocence, will burn the eyes and noses on the posters that were pasted with pictures of Peron, Evita and Colonel Merchant. I had my first bike at age four in 1945. My first skates in 1946. My first gun, a Smith & Wesson 32 of the so-called "lechuceros" - in 1951. That was the gift of an aunt and I practiced shooting in the hallway at the bottom of my house and not explain how I killed. I got my first driver's license in 1955 was false, but belonged to a real game. Distributed by the commissioner for children of families who had conspired against the dictatorship. I had my first ship in 1956 my first girlfriend in 1957, my first diploma-degree in sociology in 1964, my first child in 1968 and my first book, of poems, bad-in 1978. Studied medicine, literature, philosophy, mathematics, singing, music, French, English, German, Greek and Latin rudiments, and I forgot almost everything. Taught methodology, statistics, communication theories, ideologies and theories of sociology, did not learn much of anything. I was advertising, market researcher, writer, entrepreneur, stock speculator, and con-terrorist in my handbook warns the Federal Police, "columnist many media specialist, university professor and business consultant. Often guess I'm a woman, but these fantasies soon be diluted or lead to a vulgar sadistic lesbian scene and regret. I am disabled for marriage: I do not know of anyone who has lost so many things, houses, furniture, clothes, CDs and books like me. Twenty years ago I have resigned myself to living without a library, which saves me from any compromise with critics and scholars drills. Write me it seems easier to avoid the sense of meaninglessness of it. I sailed a lot, I planted a few trees, and raised three children. I believe male menopause exists in the form of a attachment to the siesta and objects that evoke the father's youth: evidence that my parents have died each day I find less tolerable. I spent my first twenty years of swimming, rowing and sailing under the sun of the Rio de la Plata, it ruined my skin, premature aging which was a tool of seduction for twenty years and is now a testament to the state of the soul that awaits me. For seventeen years I was the subject of psychoanalysis and I got used to being misunderstood. For over fifteen years I was a pipe smoker and that was distorting my jaw to wipe my teeth. For over fifteen years I was addicted to cocaine and that changed my social and I did lose a lot time. In my work published poems rescue parties at all, six of the twenty stories contained in Blow diurnal birds head and punk girl and the novel The analyzed texts. In my unpublished work are three stories, two novels and two poems that, if the height of the personal anthology, will be duly published.
Fogwill (1941-2010)
Originally published in Graciela Speranza, First Person (Buenos Aires, Norma, 1995). Photo: Alejandra Lopez.
taken from: Otraparte JOURNAL http://www.revistaotraparte.com/
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