andar por ahí | martin patricio barrios ago. 2012 - Page 106

The smell of flowers and decomposed bodies makes my nose itch. It is cold. There is something weird in funeral processions: I can’t stop looking at them. I haven’t been able to believe in god, I can’t, but more and more I believe in those who believe in god. More and more I believe in those who have built things, lives, fabrics, liquors, canticles, instruments and have interpreted them and have carved stone and wood for the love to their god, while I admire the beauty, alone. Without understanding very well what faith may be, what believing that one is part of something might be. Every now and then I wear the Lobo jersey, somewhere, where the beauty is in uncertain places, at least my tribe will be there, jumping, crying, waiting, even though I do not know for sure if I belong to the bass drums, to the flags. (p. 80) Things that happen a couple of times in life. Few. Things that were worthwhile. Sometime we met up in the living room of the house in 1 Avenue, in that house where two of the most rational blokes that I have met gathered, he would play the piano and I would draw. 30 years later we met again on the other side of the world, he played the piano and I painted and we ate sushi and we drank champagne with blackcurrant liquor and liquid smoke. I also ate chocolate covered coffee beans. Or those afternoons on the terrace in Torrent Street, when we sang out loud tangos and long after we sang “Yuyo