Oreos Make My Poop Black

Walking slowly through the streets. IV

" Only once in my life I have experienced before processing. For me before it had been just a word, and when it started, not in a calm but suddenly, at first I thought it was my final. He handed me a death sentence. Suddenly as I was there was no one, instead of me, a waste, for which, unlike what happens with the familiar grotesque forms of the old Prague, even had the opportunity to flee to the images, however they were terrible. The transformation came over me without a single image, as a single bottleneck. On the one hand I was petrified. On the other went about my daily life as if nothing had happened. So, once I saw a passer-released into the air by a car, sat on the floor with both feet on the other side of the radiator, and I, as usual, I walked at least a few steps. (...)


Transformation "Who? What kind of transformation? To start, just know this: at that time lived the transformation. I paid off as nothing else had given me. For years now, am taking that time period, with an appetite always fresh. There is nothing that I can take the world that fruiting. For her I know what is there.
But while I'm waiting for further processing. I'm not dissatisfied with the way my days pass, and even I'm happy to have passed as well. The way I do, so like I will not do, is, in general, which I belong, and is equally my surroundings: home, garden, village, paragraph and also so close to the great city, forests, valleys overlooked, railway lines, the proximity of the great Paris - a closeness that feels, by the very fact of being invisible - down in the Seine basin, east, behind the forest the hills. Here, in this delicate silence, I want to stay as long as possible.

(...) Rather, what could happen would be blind to fail to do what I'm doing, living, writing, walking. Since I am always tempted to suddenly stop doing what I do, to stop the game and let me down, or to take me to a head against the wall, or hit in the face of the first one found, or not move a finger anymore and not never say a word. (...) The new transformation

want it to be without torment. One bottleneck that lasted for years, interrupted by moments of great lucidity, two decades ago, should not be repeated. (...) I liked to go alone and yet needed to go with the others, and when that filled me with joy, I was burning with desire to be with the missing: the fullness, that would force had to share it with them immediately and larger. Joy in me could only go in the company of others, but how in the company from whom?

myself staying, threatened with atrophy. The new change was urgent. And unlike what happened with that first, I was attacked from behind, this time would be I who would go. The second transformation was in my hands. I was not going to start with a withdrawal but making my more and more, something I would carry out with determination and prudent and careful. (...) And that dream to escape to the port city farthest from the world, the other air dissolved in the blast near the temples. (...) This new transformation I am determined to carry out here in this landscape, as someone who lives here. I do not know in detail what I need for my job, but certainly not a trip at least a great trip. Now such a trip would be nothing but a loophole. Do not want to forget how close beauty, at least here. This time the game has to be produced by something other than a change of venue. Has already occurred with the first sentence of this story. (...)

© Johanna Lozoya Liébana

But this story should only deal with me and many others things. I feel compelled to intervene in time through it. And as a traveler, unlike what happened to me before, now might not intervene in anything anywhere. Just as one can exhaust you peoples, regions and even entire countries have been exhausted for me to be on the road, traveling. Even the idea pilgrimage, anywhere, without an agreed target in a period of time was something solid and tangible, over the years is a possibility that I have been closed. Staying in this region is presented to me as long as an opening.
This does not mean that in my notes also appear on a journey. To a large extent this has to be the story of a journey. This will even travel, future, present and yet, I hope, always full of discovery. Anyway, the hero of these trips is not me. Will be a few friends of mine, who, in one way or another, carried. Since early this year are underway, each in a region different world, often even from each other separated by continents, like me, I'm here in this region. Each knows nothing of his companion, who is touring the world at the same time as him. Only I know them all, and me, I'm down in the small room overlooking the garden, with grass almost at eye level - a moment ago, the warm air in January passed a bee triggered by above it - is the point of meeting and news gathering. That


(...) where I live is shaped like a bay, did not see it until one day I had before my eyes from the line of mountains surround it, and stop so I had to be above all, (...) Displaying the bay calmed me all anxious to see the world. And nostalgia for my country for some time that no longer had what was not true that now, almost over the century, all sorts of nostalgia for the homeland had disappeared from the world, like a conquered disease? And to live there in that place, I do not need any distractions, and no special concentration or cinemas or football, or stroll along the boulevards, sit on the terrace of a bar, perhaps not even read now. Compared with the activity of seeing, recording and transmitting what was there, everything else was losing time. "

Peter Handke, The year I spent in the Bay of anyone , Madrid, Alianza Editorial, 1999. ISBN 84-206-5444-2

...

Real de Catorce © Johanna Lozoya

"In a witty essay on the stay at home -" a place to indulge "- Patricia de Martelaera ( Verrassingen [Surprises] 1997) stain with the humor that characterizes the idyllic images that people project almost always home and stay at home: a place where you should physically able to trace their identity, that's what they expect, or fear, as appropriate. But being at home is almost always something very different, often stranger than they are abroad, is where things become invisible, where we use our senses to explore the world. At home we put our powers of observation at ground zero. Our home is where the world be rendered invisible, which brings us to the rest we need to think about things further away. At home things are hidden under their reputation, everything disappears and is neutralized, objects and perspectives seem to sleep, no wonder you can wake them up, things go through smoothly and we are alone.

We call this home. It is the place where we can be alone with ourselves without interference, not because we are somewhere, but because we are not anywhere. (...) The home is still paradoxical place where we travel around the world. (...) Who really travels, check again and again that the new things around continually to remind him things he thought he had left behind. We can also say that anyone who really travels, always left a little at home. (...) Do not be home, so perhaps it is not nothing but a mindset, an attitude, a way of ascent to the world, or should we say, against the small world of their own. Not being at home means may stay in your little room amazed by things that had long warned not. Who found again, after years, a memory hidden in the dust, no answer when the doorbell rings. "


Hertmans
Stefan," Clouds. Home "on Cities, translated by Julio Grande, Valencia, Editorial Pre-Textos, 2003. ISBN 84-8191-569-6