The hopscotch is played with a pebble that has to be pushed with the tip of the shoe. Ingredients: a sidewalk, a pebble, a shoe, and a beautiful drawing with chalk, preferably colored, on top is the sky, below is the Earth, it is very difficult to get to the sky with the pebble, it is almost always miscalculated and the stone leaves the drawing, little by little, however, the necessary skill is acquired to save the different squares (hopscotch, rectangular hopscotch, hopscotch of fantasy, little used) and one day you learn to leave the Earth and climb the pebble to Heaven, until you enter Heaven, the bad thing is that right at that height, when almost no one has learned to trace the pebble to the Sky, childhood has just been blown and it falls into novels, in the anguish of the divine rocket, in the speculation of another Heaven that you also have to learn to get to, and because you have left your childhood you forget that to get there to Heaven are needed as an ingredient, a pebble and the tip of a shoe. "
(fragment of Rayuela chap.36 . Julio Cortazar)
(For my son)
REQUIEM PARA UN RECOLETA STYLE
written for JP
"Do not accept another order
(Fragment of the other story of J.Cortazar)
SALUDAME LIKE WHEN PASSING, THAT DAILY, ONE GESTURE SAYS ALL.
A DAY ANYONE MAKES THE MOST SOFT LOOK, BUT SUSTAIN IT,
THAT ONLY BE A WITCH THAT PENAS LETS SEE YOUR SMILE MORE TENUE.
INVITE A COFFEE, SPEAK ME OF SIMPLE THINGS, I DO NOT WANT IT TO APPEAR
ETERNAL, BUT CONTINUOUS, DO NOT LET MY EYES FALL, LET ME LOSE IN YOURS
UNTIL HE DOES NOT LISTEN.
FROM ONE MOMENT TO ANOTHER, LET A LOYAL SMILE RELEASE, COMPLICIT FROM
MY APPARENT DISTANCE.
THEN I AM GOING TO LAUGH DISCUIDLY, I WILL INSINUATE TO BITE MY LIP
WITH CERTAIN PICARDY, WITH CERTAIN INGENUITY, AS CONSISTING THE KISS
THAT YET TODAY YOU WILL NOT GIVE ME.
SLOW, SOFT, DISTRACTED, BUT WATCH US.
(Convince me that, the look is everything or ALMOST) to A.P
POEM OF THE DAY AFTER
A tree dressed as birds,
and only a sparrow in the window.
The sound between the sounds.
A little bit of my dream.
Tomorrow stopped, gray Sunday,
Motionless since a few days ago.
It's three winters,
My soul quiets down
Looking for a fantasy I closed my eyes,
You can still lose your innocence.
Like the memory of the twinkling,
Of sparks from a mountain fire,
That burned to sing their timbers,
That I illuminate the night with the compas
of the moon,
Because today, it is waning.
Ashes of the dawn.
Hardly smoke or haze.
So warm was our love.