At the edge of the grapes, I suggest opening the first pages of the immaculate notebook of 2019 with a renewed list of purposes that incorporate some of the past winter earrings, but that feel above all the illusions unpublished, the unthinkable projects and the real cravings absolutely unusual. I propose, for example, dawn at noon and without any guilt, eat without a script and without notice of fattening or walking aimlessly and at a slow pace.
I intend to read the Quixote -As every year-knowing that it will be the first and the nth time I do it, just as I will offer the month of March to discover for the first and seventh time a novel entitled One hundred years of loneliness and give someone the unpublished pages that Octavio Paz left under the title of Overcast weather or re-read for the first time in the world the stories of Carlos Fuentes and the end of Pedro Paramo. If possible-and in the same spirit-I want to give me the first, unique and undeniable recording of Beethoven's first piano concert, performed by himself, and return to dawn in Lisbon.
I propose a healthy deafness to the widespread stupidity of almost all politicians and a sudden attack of silence for the most nefarious, as well as a fulminating ray at the very center of the pituitary gland of the impure usurers, irredentist plagiarists and prostitutes who believe worthy winners of the concert. I propose a facial paralysis on the faces of the scoundrels, pedophiles and huachicoleros of the amniotic manure and also the gradual disappearance of the lies that underpin so many of the supposed truths prevailing around.
So, I propose to learn to fly and play during the next twelve months with the changes of time and the direction of the rotation of the globe, take on the glow of the gray hair a little longer and forget the shaving on my face and in the paragraphs that I intend to transcribe during a whole year, passing them from the spoken verb to the purple ink until completing three books of outstanding stories, a new novel and two or three anthologies of chronicles that join the already existing ones as a small shelf of constancy that, In fact, every year I propose exactly the same thing I dreamed of since I was a child: read beyond any normalized or conventional schedule, write at will and sometimes piecework and draw outstanding characters, non-existent landscapes and purposes that are always achieved in dreams.