* JuanMapu - Vida en Nueva York

mira que llegué pensando en ti. desde anoche a pocas horas de llegar a otro año. aquí en Nueva York un amigo africano decía que eso de la edad es axiomático. hoy ya tengo 27. es un número interesante, es 9 también pero 27 tiene 7 y siempre me gustará 7. es como cuando comienza la edad de oro de un futbolista crack-show. - pues claro Pacho que todavía me gusta el fútbol. en el libro de Pacho hay un capítulo dedicado al fútbol. es dedicado a un amigo, pero hecho en fútbol. gana el que juega más colectivo y no le pongo comillas porque no me acuerdo bien de su conclusión. Pacho man, como me gustaría acordarme de todo tu libro, pero siempre me acuerdo de haberlo visto en mi habitación y leerlo y leerlo y los juegos hacerlos. tocarlo y aprenderlo con todos los juegos. hay uno que es sobre Simbad, que te habías conseguido una traducción no cristiana (casí que escribo Cristina). Pacho man, mira que vine para acá. me doy cuenta que es un lugar muy grande. sabes que ando haciendo por acá, y si no te la pescas es porque voy a llegar a Sibaté para contartelo con fresas y polas, como esas polas que nos mandamos en uno de esos chuzos de la universidad para que me dijeras que estabas de familia, que te habías enamorado, que serias papá, nos reimos. brindamos. bacan. ahora tengo acento chileno. ya sabes. ya sabes en que ando acá, pero cachas más conmigo en las fresas con pola que nos tenemos que tomar. no sabes como te extraño para que hablemos, para que hagamos oasis, terrarios, cápsulas de tiempo. ahora que ya me siento, que no preocupa el conocer. me conociste conociendo, pero también que mando la u a la chingada. - ahora tengo acento mexicano...son muchos y me la he pasado entrevistandolos y creo que terminaré allá si la virgen de Guadalupe me deja y me recibe. la mandaste a la mierda por los alumnos y yo por los maestros. no todos, una vez hice un periódico del futuro, y la única nota que miré fue la que te tenía de fuente porque era sobre la educación del futuro, y dijiste que la costura y las manualidades vuelven, pero que todo cambiaría, y pues eso a lo mejor lo sabemos, pero lo dijiste también riendo, pero no burlandote. era ensoñación. te busco nuevamente. pronto.

La afortunada. Bright and clean, aparte del vestido blanco que se puso el domingo. Marjorie lo notó apenas caminó por el parlour. Nos encontramos por primera vez frente a una de esas cosas favoritas, con una silla en el medio. Magia. Podemos hablar de todo lo relacionado a atraer la Verdad, y el porqué ella. Es que es una de esas. De las que ha recibido los beneficios y se toma el tiempo para pensar cómo agradecer.

Caminante de calle y monte. Vive con memorias de una ciudad pequeña y rasgos rurales. Su recorrido es visible por su fashion, la risa permanente y su capacidad para comer dos aguacates enteros en una sentada. Dos aguacates.

La resonancia de su nombre. Me refiere a cosas de la niñez. Una marca de juguetes, una comida. Por su puesto que al kinder, y por la manera de quitarnos los zapatos y andar por la casa pues cuando jugaba con Mariana.

Toma tiempo para la amistad. Siente que quiere ir a bailar. Sutil y torpe a la hora de golpear la espalda, torcer la boca y hacer guiños.

El 10 minutos post. Eso es lo que tengo. Molina dejará de trabajar el jueves y vamos a celebrarlo. Parece tan cinematográfico el evento. Todo por el Molina. "El beso de la mujer araña". Todo por lo social. Nosotros working class y cínicos en el calor, con las palmas artificiales de nuestro bar latino preferido. Riéndonos. Tomando fotos. Celebrando que Molina sale del mundo laboral. Marxistas orgullosos. Nosotros los verdaderamente buenos.

The weekend is over and after Willie here comes Charles, a man of progress and enlightment. Back in the seventies he was a skinny boy with an afro that got placed to work for an American family in the Middle East --count working for foreigners as part of his blessed destiny. He was hire to do home duties including cleaning chores and children sitting. He did it for eight years and then, if I got the story right, he went back home at Sri Lanka where he got married.

Quiero estado de ánimo de hamburguesa gourmet de Balduccis. A la semana la persigue un diagnóstico personal que solo busca dejar en paz a los otros. Incluida tú mi amor.

Compañero de shopping de la Guilla que está en los nuyores. 5 p.m. "¿Cómo está L. y qué es de la vida de tu hermano, y este otro qué tal?". Todos tan organizados como yo. "Ahora sólo tengo un roommate y mi área de desenvolvimiento es más grande".

El caso con la Guilla es que siempre ha sido una suelta. Creo que en el momento que le toca hacer algo responde, ella siempre responde. Suelta y todo, no deja que le cargue las bolsas.

Nos preguntamos por todos los del pasado, pero va saliendo ese presente entre el saboreo de la pasta y el pinot grigio. Lo sentimos, nos relajamos, brindamos. Ojos contra ojos. Directos en las miradas. Teniamos hambre. No me hubiera perdonado no bajar hasta Houston y tener que meterme en la tienda de adidas para esperarla mientras jugaba béisbol en el playstation. La guilla es de las novias que les encanta que el marido tenga playstation porque así tiene dominio del control remoto en la otra TV. Pasa dentro un apartamento en Puerto Madero.

Guerrera. Consetida. Guilla. Graciosa. Guilla. Hermosa. Guilla. Muchos de los que nos conocen son buenas personas.

El asunto con la Guilla es que cuando uno la ve es algo genuino, una buena corazonada.

Como a cualquier otro, repudio las filas. Las peores son las que uno tiene que anticipar aunque la de las 718 Sessions de Danny Krivit valen la pena: uno llega una hora antes de que abran para estar entre los 100 primeros y solo pagar $5. Con las detestables he aprendido a relajarme observando a los furiosos. La oficina de correo de mi casa está llena de estos y con justa razón: abren a las ocho pero solo hasta las diez abren la ventanilla para reclamar los paquetes que negligentemente no dejan en casa.

El martes llegué quince minutos antes de las diez. Fui el sexto en llegar. La séptima persona, una mujer de India, profesora del CUNY, abrió el debate : "It doesn't makes sense". Es que la mayoría trabajamos nine to five, para venir a las diez tenemos que avisar en el trabajo o venir los sábados, "But what if you work on Saturdays", dijo la quinta persona, un gordito con un carro de mercado y varias capas de ropa, que solo esperaba que prendieran la mecha.

I am back in NYC happily eating a gourmet meal and dealing with the cold. The good thing here is that unlike Bogotá indoor places are warmer than outdoor ones --being that a perfect excuse to stay out. Something reasonable I think. Like Barack Obama said about inhaling weed, "That was the point right." So I most of the time I was out feeling the most familiar place of my life. Read that again: I said feeling. I felt like the angels from The Sky Over Berlin, but the love everyone showed to me made me feel like a lovely ghost. "It is kind of unreal," I heard from many of my pals. It was bright every time I saw and hug one of them, including people I met in NYC like when I walked along with Le and Ka in La Candelaria and we have this nameless feeling.

It felt unreal because our love is stronger than ever. It is incredible how difficult is to understand at some point what happiness is about it but when you realize that each hug and the laughs are happening for real there is nothing else than enjoy, go for another hug and look deeply into each other eyes so you keep those beautiful images in your heart forever. That way you know you have been there, living inside happiness.

Jürgen says it is all about sensitivity and imagination, things I have learned in NYC, making my return magical. I am back in the city where people love to wear rubber in their feet and try to be polite in the middle of crazyness. I am looking forward for some house music.

A couple of things from a loud Latina in her forties, walking with a cane. Train A Uptown.

1. On bags.
"I am a bag lady, you'll see me with a bag...always."

2. On the racist cartoon from the New York Post.
"They don't understand is Obama's time. They'll soon get it."

*****************
...And on president Obama's performance:

1. A retiree at the doctor's office.
"I listened to his speech. The kid is doing it right."

2. A woman giving advice to some dude in his cubicle.
"You do what Obama is telling you to do".

So I am finally out. It was very hectic to wait a month for my first day without a FT job but I did it somehow. I know I've been exaggerating with that funeral metaphor and all that but people: I just had a fun day. I did a lot of things. Here is an account:

• I woke up late (around 9:30 a.m.) but will try to get up earlier since is so fun to not go to the office.

• I found my apartment is a mess so I started to take care of things by organizing a couple of kitchen cabinets.

• I cooked a sancocho soup.

• I helped a neighbor by giving him a wire hanger.

• I bumped into JW in front of our buildings and got a photo next to Laila at 5 p.m.!!

• I nailed a gig and some other interesting projects.

• I discovered a nice café -with a huge TV screen showing soccer- at 110th Street and Central Park West or Frederic Douglas Ave.

As for those wondering about my last day of work I just have to say that unlike when you quit a job, you don't get a goodbye lunch when they let you go. I guess victory is victory and adversity is adversity.

Purgatory is located at the Chrysler Building and has a magnificent view of midtown Manhattan and Long Island City, Queens. It is close to heaven and that precise location is intended to keep the American Dream alive. If purgatory has something to do with a transition to a new life, it certainly works. After three hours of orientation, we left energetic, positive, confident and with better skills to present ourselves without betraying our values. I guess we left oriented.

Most of my purgatory mates came from the financial world. The same way financial companies expanded during the speculation days is the way they are shrinking today. Some of this souls of sorry -which is what this stupid production based world makes them look like- worked more than 20 years in the same company, when resumes used to be mailed or in the most up-to-date scenario faxed; and had the "Supplied upon request" line in the References field -something I learned is old fashioned, so you better take it out from your resume.

Yesterday was so beautiful and I relax so much that I naively forget to protect myself enough from the wind and now I am suffering a relapse from the cold I was having.

I believe I've been very open since past week, feeling like getting into a cosmic consciousness state that I really like a lot, but being sick at the same time feels like mixing substances in a party.

Or may be is the vibe I got after watching Carlos Mayolo's "Agarrando Pueblo (The Vampires of Poverty)."

I went out for a lil bit and I saw a couple of my freak neighbors: The blond man who wears black and has a hat like the guy from Rene Magritte picture; and the tall man with mystic rings and necklaces that somehow talks to you but is difficult to realize that a conversation with him is happening.

In the elevator a woman asked me where do I live and how is the neighborhood for living. Having some difficulties with my speech and after seeing those characters I found her latest question strange. I put my hands in my face forgetting that I was wearing contractor gloves.

"It is fun here," I said.

For own birthdays I recommend some sacrifice or sign of willingness. Last year I fasted and this year I ran to set up my head, which has been all over the place lately.

I also finished in networking event and have news for you my fellow New Yorkers: We are gonna have a new daily Spanish language newspaper in about two weeks. I know the people so contact me for your community announcements that I will forward them.

Nueva York Al Día will distribute 20,000 copies around the metropolitan area. The promise made during the release party at Paramount Hotel -contact Ingrid for your networking events- is to give Spanish NYC a second choice to read on a daily basis. But hold your horses dear intellectuals: do not expect that NY Times en español you've been screaming for years. No. NY Al Día will be competing with old known tabloid El Diario; after all, the only business that makes money with your intellect is higher education and you can also read in English so who gives a shit about what do you want, go and feed your brain with something else.

Still, it was a warm welcome for Al Día. People were interested, excited and carefully listened to each presentation. Editor in Chief Vicglamar Torres told the audience the paper is going to have some rotating special pages and Mondays will be focused on the weekend sports. GM Juan Carlos Sánchez added that the paper will be focusing in the local community -which I think is how it has to be done. They are all good news in general.

As for the party, it was a nice gathering of unemployed journalists and industry people. I saw my two mentors and they are chilling, enjoying life and keeping a good sense of humor. There were also some networking people and a sense of hope and opportunity that was corroborated by each time Juan Carlos mentioned president Obama during his presentation.

*******************
I got good presents. My sweetheart hooked me up with a book that will solve everyone problems, some good records, dinner and...MoMa gave me a free membership for next year!

*******************
I went to the Fish N' Chips joint in Amsterdam Avenue and 156th and read this: "Our moto is: 'Feed the People.'" Awesome.

GBHQ and I have many disagreements but we do have something in common: We love freelance writing.

One night he called after many months without any news from him. He was lost in the middle of nowhere and needed to find his way back to NYC, "The city I should never have left," as he wrote to me days before his come back. With a nostalgic but eager tone, he told me that his best times were when he was freelancing around NYC, earning way less money than in the corporate job he had at that time.

I couldn't help getting nostalgic too after his words.

Finally I've been feeling uncomfortable in the Heights and the blame fall on the recession and my girlfriend.

Lately, I've been hiding from my main barber. The last cut-n-trim was in January, when I got a bachatero look for SuperStar 30th b-day bash. Then I went as an independent worker and decided to try the cut-n-trim myself instead of spending $15-20. (Let's make clear that I like to help the economy and when I have money in my pockets I hire people's services.)

From the last visit, I remember my fellow barber telling me that he wouldn't be able to make his living if I were his only client or if everyone decides to have a hair cut every two months like I used to do. To be frank, I wasn't very happy with the comment and may be I'm just having an unconscious reaction to 'the pressure.'

Around a month ago, I passed by the barbershop and from the window he just made me signs suggesting a haircut, which just worsen everything. I've always been conscious of the gay item in the dynamic of barbershops -do not think about beauty salons please-, and the Spanish love ballads these Dominican machos loudly sing during the mornings shifts heighten my doubts, but the snub feeling I'm getting with this guy is the same I have when I don't want to be with someone.

Now I'm avoiding walking the barbershop block and when I do it I walk fast or simulate being distracted. I hope one day he understands I don't belong to him and that I don't want to be touched by him anymore!

Meanwhile, I've been very happy with the way I'm managing my hair and beard. My girlfriend loves it. You had to hear her in April when my curls started to show up, "You hair is growing!" She sounded proud, fulfilled, sexually attracted. I'm also enjoying being my own barber and feel good learning a new trade. Baby: I'm doing it just for you, my inspiration.

I heard Truman Capote quoted Santa Teresa in his novel "Answered Prayers" when he writes, "Answered prayers cause more tears than those that remain unanswered." Well, I thought the barber issue was a matter within one single block. I was wrong, there is one more barber, one that I hadn't visited for a year, and I bumped into him a couple days ago, face-to-face, in another street. Of course he recognized me: barbers have the capability to memorize faces and heads.

I wanted to disappear or at least have a clean cut. He saw a man in need for a cut-n-trim service. I said hello and ran away as fast as I could. I hope he thinks hard drugs or the recession took my pride away.

Love when things meet at some point.

Months ago my brother released the "_______ is in your hands stickers." A direct message, good for my soul and perfect for my needs. The message for change I think. I also have Comrade ROP and his "Do It Yourself" all the time.

...And I have my barbers' rejection...I finally did it...Haircut is in your hands. Thanks!

Two hangover DJs walk the streets of their beloved neighborhood on a sunny Sunday. Everything is already wonderful. They were magical behind the booth the night before. The dancefloor was packed and hysterical. They kicked ass. Still, there is room for the unexpected scene.

The doorsteps of a brownstone. She is loud. Her voice is as powerful as her whole presence. Black high heels boots. White suit and white hat. Red shirt, red lipstick. She sings loud and the chorus says, "it's the music, it's the music." Something like that. Roaring. She probably does it very often because nobody else cares except for the two DJs. They even stopped to see her big eyes and the modulations of her throat. She points to nowhere while keeps the rhythm with her left foot tapping.

She is loud. They know the "it's the music" roar is for the rest of their lives.

NYC Subway, the livest metallic creature on Earth.

We all know there is always something sudden in a ride. And what about unforgettable rides. Once I lifted my ahead and look around I noticed the train was very Latino, mostly Puerto Rican. Family people, some of them carrying babies; there was an elder couple talking a little bit loud. Once I noticed the Latin majority I could not help thinking on the possibility of having a whole car speaking Spanish, which is what happened afterwards. It was a smooth ride until a couple of junkies got on. The guy was panicking and the girl was in complete desperation, trying to find a bag of sugar to stop that sort of attack. And here came my Spanish train:

"Están locos," said the lady in front of me.
"Cuando no tienen droga lo que piden es azúcar, ese carajo no tiene nada", said the husband and father of a little girl, two seats away.
"Voy a avisarle al chofer," proposed the elder man.

The conductor came to see if the junkie were ok. He tried to be ok. For the good of his girlfriend and the commuters, he behaved ok.

The ride resumed. "Viste que ahí sino tenía nada," said the husband and father.

***********
Whatever is happening in Iran sounds terrible but the New York Times pressure over president Obama is non-sense too and a black man is pissed about it. This is the subway chat, Train A Uptown, around Fulton Street Station:

"Don't blame the president you coward...take your stinky ass there and stop that thing yourself!"

He got off in West 4 Street. His substitute was a trumpetist who played some tunes over a recorded track. He was less trouble and committed, but somehow soothed the A Train Uptown.

So we said good-bye to Michael Jackson and it was a massive spectacle.

My roomy F. F. anticipated the whole thing and recalled the situationist concept, meaning he didn't have any intention to watch the memorial service. He just got home and turned on the TV but spent most of the time on the phone. (He did bitch though, and so did I, about the performance of the kid from "Britain Got Talent" show.)

Friends and acquaintances facebooked and twitted their TV or Harlem Street experiences. Cata V. smell something wrong when Magic Johnson mentioned MJ's affair with Kentucky Fried Chicken and her status changed to "kfc should pay for the advertisment ???? "

DJ Velvet, someone who plays MJ in most of her gigs, didn't give a shit about the memorial. She has been living in a world without Michael Jackson for more than a week already.

Like most of his fans, I reviewed Michael Jackson musical legacy shortly after the news of his death. Of course I believe Off The Wall is the best album ever produced. But in the myriad of video posts from people, DJ/Producer Solo Muzika put the one of "Show You The Way To Go," a lovely sexy jam, which led me to buy a compilation of The Jacksons.

As a DJ that mostly plays disco music, I found The Jacksons appropriate for my sets. It is romantic, sexy and very danceable era of MJ. The mellow guitar and the vocals were made for the dance floor. It also has the sense of unity and brotherhood that made of House Music a spiritual thing.

It is true Michael Jackson was a wonderful child that reminds us the sense of unity and growing as a family, like the teachings of Elegba, an Orisha often represented by children. The NYTimes got something in a report about the fading of black ambivalence after his death.

Thus, the messages about MJ's love for humanity weren't vain. Something I liked from the memorial was that it went back to the beginning, with the Jacksons and a wonderful child on stage.

Strawberry yogurt, granola, banana.

To avoid writing personal stuff is becoming a hard task. Half of the of problem is a voice's issue, the other half has to do with synchronizing ordinary events and daily notes.

I'll been waiting for news about the new, trying to keep one's composure, away from desperation and stupidity. A Yoruba priestess twitted, "Remembering that who u are under stress is very much who u really are."

In the pursuit of a calm mental state, I remembered to expand present life. The Internet has helped a lot. I've been stumbling upon sites, twitting and reading twitts, voyering people, gaming online. I hooked up this blog with new features and friends. I got new deals for Manzana Pecosa. The second edition of my book Mango Preacher is coming along thanks to my browsed discoveries. (I did not find new tools to make it, but I woke up after all!)

That's why yesterday I twitted, "I do better with my own hands." I believe that goes for anyone. It is who you are. It is like my brother sticker, "______It's in your hands." Even a mind thing like stress.

Since last week, I scheduled myself for the Believer Magazine, McSweeney's writers panel from the Word for Word Author series at Bryant Park. I needed to hear other writers writing and thoughts, which is a feeling that is becoming as usual as going to listen and dance other DJs.

The night before to the panel, I decided to ride my bike there and basically have my longest ride of the summer: All the way to Bryant Park, then to Tribeca to pick up my new records (I finally got The Revenge remix of Marvin Gaye's "Heavy Love Affair"!) and then come back to Washington Heights, my home sweet hood. I was very on time for the panel and lucky enough to find a good seat, next to a red hair girl I had seen before. After the panel I got a copy of the Believer's music issue, so I put more weight than the expected on the come back ride. My shoulders felt it and by 110th Street I was ready to walk and have a break with Rossy.

Going to the panel turned out to be a good thing to do. (At the end of the day that's why I am New York City). The substitute moderator Amanda Stern had a sharp sense of humor and writers Joe Hagan, Jessica Anthony, James Hannaham, Arthur Phillips and Brandon Stosuy told good life stories and gave a broad inside of the publishing world.

What I wasn't expecting was them talking about music and writing. Four of them happened to have written about music and although Anthony did not write on music she said her novel The Convalescent was for Queen. As a writer that happens to be a DJ, former editor of a music site and with a writing project that involves a lot of music (house) in mind, the panel came in the nick of time. Here some random notes I took:

"Writing about music is about the feelings people have with."
"You can finish writing about the sound of a city when you write about music."
"You don't need technical expertise."
"Writing is creating sounds, the sounds inside your head."

The boys opened the fire hydrant and a little girl with beautiful curly hair immediately went there to jump around it. Refreshed happiness.

I normally don't like to see an open hydrant. Water waste. I even have called the city's emergency line to get them closed.

Yesterday was 92º. I wanted to get wet too!

Some feet away from the hydrant and the curly little girl, a man seated in a chair put a foot in the water path that was running through the edge of the sidewalk.

"Look up what they gonna put next to you...That hot thing," said his mate with disdain when he saw the white Chevrolet Lumina being parked right on their spot.

Of course there is a reason to be disappointed! It is easy to tell the feeling of that man when he put his foot in the water. 92º. He blessed the boys. I wanted to put my foot too! Only one and be as happy as the curly little girl! 92º.

That white motorized hot thing. How come?

Yesterday was a kind of hectic day so after I finished with my daily tasks around 4:00 p.m. I decided to go for a dance, listen to some music, have a taste of a summer night out in New York City. All by myself as I usually do. "It's been a while," I thought, "Probably months." I couldn't call the last time I went out alone.

"What kind of house head are you motherfucker?"

**

One thing I like about house music places in NYC is they stay loyal to the underground ambient. Few clubs have signs in this city. One recognizes them by a line outside or the velvet ropes managed by big guys known as bouncers. Somehow these clubs are always located in non-well-illuminated streets. Santos House Party is located in Chinatown, by Lafayette Street.

I went to see DJ Spinna but he wasn't there. It was disappointing because it was part of the deal of going out but it didn't change the main meaning of being out there. It was great to be in a dance floor again, in front of a loud sound system and dancers throwing powder on the floor. And it was like my lucky night, I got in there for free and drinks were back to their regular prices. (Beers were $4 and later I bought a double gin on the rocks for $10).

Lately, every animation I watch makes me think of my good friend Rocha. He makes muñequitos, the word we have for animations in Colombia. This week's morning movie was marvelous "Fantastic Planet," the Czech animated film that won the special jury prize in 1973 Cannes Festival. It was my second animated movie of the week. The first one was "El Monstruo (The Monster)," a short film made by Rocha, which now is a contestant in the II International Festival of Animation Online 2009.

I went to college with Rocha and I can assure he has always been a good kid, meaning he has well managed the child energy around each one of us. He is a man of noble thoughts, cosmic conscience and bitter sense of humor (because a good kid must bite). He is also an accessible intellectual. A chat with him last hours on a myriad of topics. To give you an idea, he lent me two essentials readings: a Bernard Shaw's book of aphorisms and Subcomandante Marcos' "Relatos del viejo Antonio."

I am back into daily selling of time--at least temporary. My almost six months of non-daily business could be summarize as a period in which meditation was napping. Now I am back into other morning routines. It is pivotal to always take good care of the mornings. I've been reluctant to go out at night just to give respect to the freshness of the mornings. At some point it's about waking up even if an hour later I go back to sleep. I like to cook in the mornings too.

But I'm going to stop trying to be Gary Gilmore. My new workspace is a micro vertical city--home of one of the owners of this nation. It is a corporate environment. I'm wearing neither sneakers nor jeans. My contractor status, however, helps me dealing with it (plus I have an artist as a co-worker). The situation is favorable.

What has impressed me about this place is they have real plants in the hallways. Every pot has a pipe to pour the water--an idea I'm going to apply to my lonely plant. The person that takes care of them is another contractor. She wears jeans and has a peasant-like style. She is the ultimate resistance's fighter.

El plan de un par de cervezas terminó con un apretón de manos, la barriga llena de comida y un regreso temprano a la casa. Las cervezas no fueron.

Otro plan salió tras la media vuelta y dos bloques hacia el norte de la 103. Salsa. A todo volumen en el Julia de Burgos ahí sobre la Lexington entre 105 y 106. Una cosa que pasa todos los miércoles. ¿Can I come in? Ten dollars, there is a live band there. Ok. Un salsa party en un barrio boricua de Nueva York lo merece así no haya orquesta.

El resto es un regalito pa' el corazón. "Kikiribú mandinga, kikiribú mandiga", el coro al entrar. Al menos 200 personas, 60 en la pista de baile frente a un septeto , bailando agarrados, sueltos, dando vueltas, arrebatados. Luego un bolero antillano para tomar impulso y enamorarse otra vez

Dos números más. JuanMapu alucinado y pensando a quién llamar, a quién traer. Pensando que Juampa le había preguntado por un lugar de salsa.

El remate. La orquesta termina y el DJ arranca su labor con un disco. "Electric Slide" de Marcia Griffiths para una coreografía colectiva en el dance floor. A la izquierda, hacia atrás, a la derecha, hacia delante. Todos alegremente coordinados. Cómo no querer a Nueva York, cómo no pensar que es la ciudad de mis sueños. Salsa de la nada con ñapa de disco. Maferefun Egun.

A la salida uno de esos buses blancos y azules que transportan a personas con impedimentos físicos se estacionaba.

En el budismo se insta a acumular mérito. Funciona.

Clase de meditación para eliminar hábitos dañinos. Desde comerse las uñas hasta actos compulsivos como abandonar el trabajo que se tiene que hacer por unos minutos de Facebook u otras maneras de procrastinar. Nuestra guía aconseja que acojamos ese momento de inconformidad hasta reconocerlo. La intención es controlar la mente y no lo incontrolable.

Woody, el súper (conserje) del edificio de al lado, sabe de la cosa. Es un hombre dulce, local, que siempre está trabajando. Un día en el laundry room le conté mi tragedia cada vez que tengo que hacer el laundry. Se mantuvo callado mientras me quejaba lo que me relajó al punto de terminar diciendo, "...but I guess you gotta to do what you gotta do". Y Woody asintió, dijo "that's right," y siguió trabajando.

Así que Woody es un monje, un súper monje que siempre está haciendo lo que tiene que hacer. Y lo hace con gusto.

En "Timequake" Kurt Vonnegut dice que la calle es la que le ha dado todo el material de lo que escribe. Por acá pasa lo mismo, excepto cuando se atravieza una película.

Sol primaveral para ir a buscar la comida de la gata en el East Village. Un brunch contrario a mi ideología. Demasiado caro. Por la revolución es mejor entregarse a huevos a la mexicana o mangú con cebollas en los restaurantes locales. A este punto ya se que me perdí el partido del Manchester contra el Chelsea, pero puedo ver el final del Arsenal contra Wolves. Mimosa en el pub después del brunch, sin mucha revolución en la cabeza. Siento que la mañana toma un buen impulso, se hace especial.

Calle ocho para llegar al W4. Parada obligada en Disc-o-rama. Noticias: dejaron de ordenar vinilos nuevos, ahora sólo hay clásicos.

Una cagada en el Starbucks para estár relajado en el tren camino a casa.

Los turistas desocupan el tren en la parada del Museo de Historia Natural. Wow. El museo es popular, dice el hombre que queda a mi izquierda. Gracias a dios, dice el de mi derecha. Los dos son artistas. Empiezan a hablar conmigo en la mitad. El de la izquierda recomienda la exhibición de William Kentridge en el MoMa. El de la derecha habla un poco de su arte, dice que es sobre él, él y él. El de la izquierda es punzante, quiere saber más de lo que hace, le parece extraño que el de la derecha crea en el azar. Está más en el cuento de la causa y el efecto. Como yo ahora. El de la derecha dice que además escribe y nos pasa unos pequeños zines. Una muestra de una obra extensa. El zine es una maravilla, creo en cada cosa que dice. En ese zine no hubo una sola tirada de dados.
La pregunta al bajar del tren es si quedar en la mitad de estos hombre es causa y efecto o azar. La respuesta es causa y efecto. Tener vida espiritual.

Más vivo que nunca. El Mundial no pudo conmigo. De hecho pude (pudimos) con él. La prueba de mi productividad está en la sección Sudáfrica 2010 de Manzana Pecosa. Más de 15 días consecutivos de podcast.

Pero no solo de fútbol vive el hombre. Fue poco pero hice todo lo que pude para estar vigente en otros ámbitos. Tres recomendaciones cinematográficas y dos visitantes bien atendidos. Solo espero quitarme la jerga futbolística.

Mononoke-hime (Princesa Mononoke) de Hayao Miyazaki (1997)
Tengo que darle gracias a la novia por abrirme a Miyazaki. Se ha portado como sus heroinas. Mononoke tiene un marco es histórico con mucha espiritualidad. Miyazaki me recuerda el filósofo francés Michel Serres: es tiempo de un contrato natural. Deidades de la naturaleza. Ninguno bueno o malo. Deidades de mi gusto.

Das Leben der Anderen (La vida de los otros) de Florian Henckel-Donnersmarck (2006)
La tenía pendiente. Otro asunto ético esta peli. Me gusta el planteamiento de una sociedad igualitaria a partir de la ética de sus ciudadanos. Cuando al protagonista le dicen "Usted es un buen hombre", el tipo lo pone en práctica. Y recibe su crédito sin pedirlo, desde su discreción. Un guión maravilloso en cada línea. Sin cabos sueltos.

여배우들 (Actrices) de E J-yong (2009)
La recomendación es todo el New York Asian Film Festival. Hay para todos los gustos. Me tocó una película ligera, sobre celebridades (cinco actrices coreanas en un shooting de Vogue), con una narración vibrante, escrita con todas las reglas (ficción, documental, reality show). La película es bella. Sobre mujeres. Para soltar lágrima (referencia a uno de los visitantes que tuve esta semana).

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Los Diegos:
Pude ver a dos Diegos muy famosos en Colombia. No se conocen pero se bañan en aguas parecidas. Los dos inspiradores, profesionales, tomadores de tragos fuertes, grandes amigos.