I left the recorder accidentally open two hours after an interview-feast, the kind where people go after what you ate on the last page of a newspaper and feel envy, healthy or lousy, ad libitum . What is a miracle occurred, a finding.
my footsteps are heard, my cough, my conversation with the Chinese (one liter of beer, please Glasier), my fucking life. It's strange: most of life takes place in silence. Do not you realize because you're thinking, talking to yourself. That run run of mind that never shuts up (Note: sign up for a transcendental meditation). But out of your skin, your borders, your skull and your sensuality, nothing. The sound of falling beer into the glass sad, the sighs and groans give yourself without realizing it, to sit, to stand up (you get older), when a working email received does not make you fuckin 'grace (not you bastards buy your text.) Suddenly the sound of the phone: phone conversations (you only hear you) to discuss with the Nini that sulking because he's had a bad day. TV, by far.
It's like those movies of Jaime Rosales, real minimalist. Burner.
I was never aware of how much or how snarled sigh: I must be very wise. The noise of the keys writing an email. Elvira Lindo
why not.
My mother when I was young and had squeaky voice.
That's right, to see if they stay and take some beers. (We are so fucking apañoles).
Most of your life takes place in a silence that you are not conscious. Cacho
dog.
Puagh!
(picture the author in 2008 in BCN listening to the silence surrounding by Esther Minia)
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