When I was in college I fantasized about becoming one of those beat writers anointed with dirty realism. Men who overturned in cheap rented rooms, withdirty glasses everywhere and refrigerators full of beer. Men who drank compulsively and were impassive to the destruction of the world. Men who, there in their tiny windows, held the weight of reality while dirt and uneasiness tarnished everything, even the reflection on the other side of the mirror. Men who loved to the point of madness all their eyes could see.
So I found my bones in a flat on the outskirts which was rented by rooms, drinking three or four bottles a day of the cheapest lambrusco wine you will ever see and filling leaves and leaves with misery.
Sometimes dreams are too much like nightmares. But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger... they say.
Here are my scars. So far all in Spanish.
A book about the city of Madrid, the love after the love and the impossibility of distinguishing between the existential, emotional and economic crisis. I don't know if I was writing about the whole country or just about myself in this book.
¨Men in silence, women without makeup¨ (literal translation) is a discourse on the pass of time and the relational bridges that memory establishes with the past, with what we once were, or could be, and the present, almost full of industrial and emotional failures and ruins.