How to Kill a Man

It’s easy enough to end a life. Humans are so frail, so weak, so gentle, that just about anything will cut the tender thread of life and leave a breath hanging in the air, as if a sigh. It hangs even in the hottest day as if it was condensing in the coldest winter night, just for a second, and then it is gone—the eyes that just a second prior held all the hope the world has seen glaze over with the peace that life can’t bring. The tightest, most alert muscles recover in an instant the placid softness of earliest infancy. The deepest frown relaxes into peace. For a moment, one might even feel one has done this man a favor—and in fact one just might have.

The hard part is not in the doing, but in the doing well. If one gets them young enough, it is said, the possibilities are endless. Here’s an example.

Let us say we get this child, the oldest son of a roads engineer in a third world country, building roads into the unforgiving jungle, leading from nowhere in particular to nowhere specifically. The engineer, a man who built his meager life from nothing by sheer force of will, has drunk all sense into despair and drowned all but the heartiest sorrows for they refuse to sink. Twelve hour days led to twelve hour nights and sleep came only on Saturdays—Sundays are God’s days. He never was what he’d always hoped he’d grow up to be, and so he sought revenge on the back of that child. But children’s bodies heal quickly, and defying death, he grew stronger.

Life was hard then, and there was never enough money to feed everybody well. Being the bread earner, the engineer got the lion’s share, and the kids and the wife got what was left. In those days, food was the measure of a man’s success, and the engineer was just not that good at it.

At eleven, the child dropped out of school. He didn’t have enough money to buy a bicycle, so he rented one from a man in town, bought kerosene by the 5-gallon tin and balancing two on the sides of the handlebar, he rode around town selling pints for people’s wood-burning stoves and lamps. When he broke his arm and couldn’t ride the bike anymore, he bought onions and sold them at the bus stop where people had make-shift little vegetable stands. When his father told him to stop, he went back to school—but didn’t stop working, only now he did it after school. He did his homework by candle light late at night, out in the back yard, where the light wouldn’t bother anybody.

On his fourteenth birthday, he woke up on a strange bed, beside a whore he’d rented to celebrate. No one else remembered it was his birthday. Back then, one celebrated only the first five years of a child’s life, till the highest danger of death had passed. His youngest sister did not make it long past the third. He was happy enough to have that much money.

He left the house and made his way in life, moving closer and closer to the capital, studying more and more, surviving by wit or trick or labor. He was not a great looking man, a lanky little indian boy too tall for his age, with a large, broad nose and a full and thick head of wild black hair—but he made up for it with a great personality, always happy, always smiling, always bringing sense and light to the darkest times. He won friends; he influenced people.

In his twenties, he had a wife who left him to work for the Voice of America. By then, he was well known, his humor shaping the way of many a radio soap opera so popular in those days, making great contrast with the melodramatic soaps of the past and making him a name. Soon, he was writing for the more famous comedians in the country, and then he, too, was one of them. Things were looking up.

He found a pretty girl who wanted a successful husband, and what should have been the beginning of great times turned out to be, in fact, the end. They never really liked each other. Marriages of convenience are so much more convenient when the parties involved are indifferent to each other. Animosity is rarely tamed by custom. This was the middle, the senseless plateau that comes from sheer exhaustion and gives the false sense that things are settling in, that it all might just work out…

In his thirties, he discovered politics. Being a man of the people, he took the people’s side and fought in silence like so many did then. The war came. Many of his friends died—some just went away. The war took his house, his wife, his country. In the end, all he had left were his children.

He had found happiness in his children. Yes, there were far more than those he’d had with just his wife, but that was ok, because that’s what everybody did. And he took care of them—all of them. He visited the ones he didn’t live with, and he paid their way. He had money now, and everybody ate plenty. When he left the old country for the new one, and he could only take the four he lived with, he cried. He cried for home and country—he cried for loves long lost—he cried for children he’d never see again.

Somewhere along the road, he lost his way. He erred, like many had before. He hurt those he loved most because he never knew how to show true love. He tried—he did his best—and if his best was not good enough, how could he be to blame? And yet the blame never left him; the guilt stayed with him to the end.

In the new country, he found times at once far more civilized than the childhood back in the days of home and far harsher. Men who’d been his friends now turned on him and on one another like hungry hyenas on the last carcass to be found, though they smiled and spoke softly and went to church all together. Men who had at home not been half as successful as he, now closed the doors that others had opened to them. For twenty years, he tried all the tricks he’d learned when young, and found they did not work in this new, undiscovered country. He tried to make a new life with a new woman, and she left—and the next one left, too. By the time he found the one who’d bury him, he’d given up—as often happens.

He lost his will.

Things started happening to him. He stopped happening to the world. The strong, happy, virile man that defied the strength of electric cable at the hands of a sadistic engineer since he could remember, could now not remember what it was to be a strong and happy man. He lived from day to day like practicing some masochistic 12-step program whose only aim was mere survival. He who for long had persevered, now merely survived. The end of the end came with a cough. What bullets couldn’t do, an enemy too small to see managed with ease. A viral infection of the heart tripled its size. The lack of activity in a man used to massive meals tripled his size. One day, a doctor told him to lose 150 pounds in six months or he’d die.

Three months later, he was dead.

He died on an easy chair watching Johnny Carson. A random day like many before, promising to be like many after, we all went to sleep and left him alone in the living room. Fat and heavy, he breathed easier if he slept sitting. Sitting there, I’m sure he wondered why he should fight so hard for the next breath. The doctor had given him twenty-five pills to take every day. His wife counted them out for him at the beginning of the week. When he died, we found hundreds of pills hidden in little corners of the house, where he’d put them so we’d think he’d taken them. He’d given up—and who can defeat despair? In his old age, he found himself superfluous, unwanted and unloved, taken for granted and tossed aside like so many old men do. He died because that was the better way.

In the end, one need not lift a finger to kill a man. One only need stop loving him.

The Day God Talked To Me

Yes, before going into much detail, I am insane. I am insane because I think God Himself descended from the Heavens and spoke to me—when in fact He didn’t. Or I am insane because He did and I still battle inside myself with the question of His existence. Either way, I’m quite crazy, demented, deranged, loony… and no, there will be no Patsy Cline puns today.

When I was born, 98% of the population of my country considered itself Roman Catholic. When I left, that number was down to about 90%. When I left, the population was down to 70% of what it was before: the rest had died or left.

After decades of dictatorship, and a war almost as long, spearheaded by people of little or no religious inclinations, the undercurrent of social development was one of mostly lip service to the church and to the God it brokered. After a while, the country had begun thinking of it (the church) as another western European or American (read estadounidense) franchise selling a commercially viable product to a needy consumer base. However, unlike Chevy novas, which gave a tangible (albeit hardly dependable) product for the cost, the God of this church took and took and took, and gave so little in return. Children’s fathers disappeared into the night, carried away by jeeps that never brought them back. Fathers’ sons were found dead outside the universities or movie theatres or dance halls where they congregated. Mothers and daughters fared no better, and God did nothing. “Pray,” the church said; and men prayed and children did not come back.

My parents were of the generation that grew up being taken to church on Sundays by their parents and felt little or no connection to the God that spoke only Latin and whose servants said mass with their backs to the crowd. By the time the Pope ordered otherwise, it was too late. My parents were a bit too worried with the practical requirements of survival in a hostile homeland to go back and make peace with a God that never made them feel welcome in His home. They never took me to church. I went of my own accord. They never took me to Sunday school. I snuck into the confessional one Saturday and asked the priest for help. From then, every Sunday I went to church and stayed an hour after mass to study whatever it is kids are supposed to study for First Communion. One of the things I learned was that, to pray, you need only say: “Padre Nuestro, que estas en los cielos…” I learned it was not proper to ask for anything specific, that God would look into your heart, know what was best for you, and grant you that. I learned you don’t ask God to heal your sick sister, to help with the test that’s coming up, to fix the car that’s broken. You say your prayers and the best will happen.

One Sunday, I got up and put on my nicest shirt and my best pants and left the house before my parents woke up. I got to church long before mass started and kneeled and started praying. Padre Nuestro… Ave Maria… Padre Nuestro on and on and on… And when the mass started I did everything as I had learned it. At the right moment I walked up to the altar and I waited in line for my First Communion. With hundreds of people who did not know how important that day was, I waited in line. With no one in my family smiling and taking pictures, I waited in line. And when I took my First Communion, there was only God and me and an old Spanish priest who taught me not what God was, but how to hear His word. God and I left the church and went home. God and I explained we’d gone to church to my parents when they asked. I don’t think my parents ever found out I had my First Communion. They never asked. I never told.

For reasons discussed on a previous post, I had already read the Bible from cover to cover twice by the time I took my First Communion. I was well versed with the God of the Jews, and the God of the Romans. All around me, though, there was a different God… a careless, uncaring creature that apparently was too busy willing every blade of grass to move to care that people were killing people, or worse. Ten years old is too young an age to find out that there are far worse things one man can do to another than kill him.

On Wednesdays and sometimes Thursdays and on Sundays I would go to church. I would participate in the mass, and I would pray. Confession on Saturdays; communion on Sundays. Prayer, prayer, prayer. And always the prayer went: Padre Nuestro, que estas en los cielos…

One would think that God would have something profound to say to a child whose life is precariously balanced on the edge of insanity. One night, after a particularly nasty fight between my parents, when my mother had broken a bottle on the wall next to my head and then lunged at my father with the full intention of cutting his throat, only to be beat into a pulp by him, I prayed. I wanted so badly to ask him to make them love each other, to keep them from hurting each other. I wanted to ask him for money, because they always argued about that despite having a lot of it. I wanted to ask him to take me away, to give me different parents that would love me like I saw my godmother love her children when we visited on weekends. I wanted to ask him to send an alien ship to recruit me as an assistant in their travels across the universe. I wanted captain Nemo to take me onboard the Nautilus to explore the oceans. I wanted to be the invisible man. I wanted to be Johnny from the Fantastic Four, to turn myself on fire and fly away. I wanted to ask him for so much. But all I could say in my head was: Padre nuestro que estas en los cielos… And then I must have gone to sleep. And in my sleep He came, a large figure with no face or shape, a bright light that did not blind, soft and warm. And I poured all my rage into this shape, and beat and bit Him. I screamed and cried and I asked and I begged for all the things I could not pray for. And all he said to me was “It is for the best.”

What The Fuck?

A child wants a hug. A child wants a kiss. A child wants a gentle caress and a “there, there…” What the hell does a child do with an “It is for the best”?

I don’t pray like that anymore. I have nice long conversations with The Guy when I go on long drives by myself. I look for His hand in all the beauty of nature. But I also know his hand is in all the ugliness of man. His is every ray of sunshine—and every drop of rain. His is every smile—and every tear. Today, I blame him for all the evil that men do, and for all the love and tenderness they sometimes have for one another. I have reached my teenage years in spiritual development, when I question the wisdom of The Father and wonder if His way is the best way. One day, I might outgrow this doubt, but for now I just know I paid dearly for the right to have it and I will cherish it.

But every now and then, just for the hell of it, to hear the old words in my mouth, I kneel and hold my hands in supplication, flat the one against the other in front of my face, and quietly say Padre Nuestro que estas en los cielos…

En Junio Como En Enero

The house was built some time after January of '75, but before November of '76. My parents went to see the models, made a modest down payment, and paid mortgage on two houses for a year before we moved. We we got there, a little before November of '76, my younger brother was a baby and my mom was about to burst--my sister was about three weeks late in coming. Everything was dusty, unpainted, new, exciting.

About a month after we moved, they were done building all the other houses, paving the street, installing street lighting... it finally looked like a real neighborhood. People started moving in, and my older brother and I started exploring, meeting the new kids, playing. We found a new school, new grocery store, new church. My dad had plants brought in, and we picked where we wanted them ourselves--kids of that age love helping out on all dirty chores. It was fun and exciting.

A year later, my dad decided he didn't like the severely sloping front yard, so he had a builder take the grass out, bring some dirt and build a nice, pink terrace where he could now host parties. Just about every weekend, we'd have a party, get-together, to-do, with the neighbors and my parents' friends. The adults would talk and drink and party till the early morning. The kids would play until they collapsed from exhaustion and were carried to bed by their mothers. On holidays, we'd try our hardest to stay awake till the sun came out, but that's so hard to do when you're so little.

When they built the terrace, they left a space of about two feet from the sidewalk, to be able to accomodate for the steps up to the house, and to plant some trees or grass--other neighbors were doing the same thing; the neighboorhood finally looked lived-in. Kids' bike crowded porches, swings hung from trees, dogs barked, smells of cooking wafted out to the street as one walked to church, or to school, or just went for a walk to visit with friends. I asked my parents if I could have that space between the wall of the terrace and the sidewalk to plant a little garden, instead of just getting grass. They agreed, as long as I took care of it. They asked what plants I wanted so they could buy them. I told them not to get any--I would get them myself. They looked a bit doubtful, but agreed.

For a couple of weeks, I walked all over the neighborhood, asking people for clippings of their rose bushes. I always picked the most striking ones, the ones with the strangest colors, the biggest or nicest ones. Some people politely declined, but by far the majority were more than happy to let me have some. A couple of the ladies were even nice enough to get them for me and keep them in water until they grew some roots before giving them to me. Most were more than happy to let me clip a few little branches here and there.

Roses are hard to grow from clippings. They're frail, finicky, temperamental. Once a they grow roots, though, they're very sturdy and forgiving of a young boy's neglect. I planted way too many, and a few kindly died so the rest could grow strong. In almost no time at all, I had the best rose garden in the neighborhood. People who'd given me clippings would walk on by and recognize their roses and say hi. Boys would pick them for their girls. Old women would always make a fuss when they saw me doing a little gardening.

When the war came, the bushes were old and strong, some so thick at the base they resembled my bony calves. I was very happy with the result. Some produced roses pale in color, but sweet and strong. Some produced roses with little smell, but bright red or yellow, or the fiery mix of both in orange tongues of flame from the ends of tall and well-kept branches. Water was scarce, but they kept flowering. Tanks tore up the street, but my bushes didn't die. The house got bombed and we had to leave. We were gone a couple of months, but when we came back, my bushes had only grown more, jealous guardians of the house that--by then--had become my home. We rebuilt it with our own hands. When the house was done, I set to rebuild my garden, and I did.

Some bushes didn't make it, and I went around the neighborhood looking for more clippings. Most of the neighbors were gone, replaced with strangers who had taken out all the plants and replaced their old gardens with slabs of concrete or bricks, or nothing but grass. Still, I got enough clippings to replace the bushes that had died (I insisted on not having two bushes that produced the same roses, so I couldn't just get clippings from the bushes left to replace the dead ones). It took a few months, but at the end, everything was back to normal.

But now there were no parties. Kids didn't go out to play. The world had suddenly turned far more dangerous and parents kept their families huddled around the nest. We still had get-togethers from time to time, but now only in the back yard, never as loud as before, and mostly friends and relatives, no neighbors. About a year later, we were gone.

We had moved out of the house, staying at my aunt's place for about a month. One night, we drove to the house, where we met a nice older lady who gave my dad an envelope full of money. My dad handed her the keys to our home. We got back in the car and drove away. I didn't take a rose--I didn't think of it at the time. I didn't stop to check on them. My dad cried in silence all the way back to my aunt's. Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.

It has been more than twenty years now. I wonder if my roses are still there.

De verdad, y de amistad.

When I was learning English, our ESL teacher used to play movies for us, which we would later discuss, or with which we would interact. One of the movies I remember most vividly was “A Man for All Seasons”, about Saint Sir Thomas More’s confrontation with Henry VIII when the king broke with the Catholic Church. Once he set himself as the head of the new Anglican Church, the king demanded an oath of fealty from anybody who was anybody in England, especially those in positions of power. Having refused, More is locked up, pending execution. As the movie develops, many of those who had been his friends come to him, practically begging him to accept the oath and save his life. At one point, one asks (I paraphrase) “will you not do this for me… for friendship?” More’s answer was (I paraphrase again): “and when I go to hell for not having followed my conscience, will you go with me… for friendship?”

This brought up 3 questions to mind even back then, which I have not completely answered to my own satisfaction and which I would like to discuss with others to resolve. These questions (in no particular order of importance or appearance) are: 1) Does the following of one’s conscience determine the nature of sin? 2) What is the nature of friendship? 3) What is the interaction between right-and-wrong (if there is an objective approach to this) and friendship?

As I have grown up, I have approached these individually—fearing my inability to address/resolve them together. The more I learn, the less I understand. Any help in clearing these points would be greatly appreciated, as this is a serious issue for me, and one I’d like to resolve (if not definitively, at least satisfactorily) before I can ask the One who knows. To that effect, here’s what I got so far:

1) There are definite layers to the nature of acceptable behavior. Needless to say, intelligent behavior is what separates us from animals. Biologically-dictated actions (eating, breathing) are inherently beyond the reach of this conversation and only the context in which they occur can be reviewed for probity. Still, beyond the natural restrictions to self-destructive behavior (for example) there are legal, moral and ethical restrictions. I make no distinction between religious ethical and purely secular ethical restrictions—suffice it to say “beyond moral”—morality being the temporary, socially contextual framework in which a group evaluates its members’ actions. While certain sexual behaviors are considered morally acceptable sometimes in some places, others are universally considered harmful (i.e.: relationships between cousins vs. relationships between siblings—and even these not always). Legal restrictions, permissions or requirements are far more transitory and subject to the local climate at the time of inception. Sin, therefore, would appear to me to be entirely a matter of ethics, and not of morals or laws. This said, even divine writ is subject to the interpretations of “enlightened” individuals or groups—being catholic, I think of the church. Nonetheless, I still purport there are some people who have nothing better to do with their time than subvert holy writ to their own self-serving (albeit eloquent) intentions. Coming from a culture in which tradition often turns ideas into truths, I am skeptical of anything being branded a sin simply because it now bears the label. As dangerous as it is to trust situational evaluations or (however unchanging) my own perception, I’ve settled on the idea that I’ll know a sin when I see it. Two inherent problems with this idea are that I set myself as sole arbiter of goodness, and thus above scrutiny form others—and I’m not really that self-important—and that it is contrary to the idea that redemption can only be gained through the man called the Christ, but rather can be achieved on one’s own merits—and this contradicts my observations from the Bible (can’t seem to make my views universal when I’ve only had a catholic upbringing).

2) I am a firm believer in the idea that most of what we are is based on calcium bridges connecting dendrites in the soft crust of the brain called grey matter. That said, I still hold a firm spiritual belief in the idea of a soul, and its transcendence over the merely physical nature of the vessels we use while on this planet. The first would lead us to believe we create friendships out of custom (exposure to the same individuals over time simply increase familiarity and breed friendship); the second doesn’t preclude the first, but expands it by suggesting pre-existing affinities based on shared “previous” experiences (together or separate). Either way, once the friendship exists, how do we quantify it? Can we quantify it? Should we? There are always people for whom we’ll do more than for others. I dare say that sometimes we might even find ourselves willing to make great sacrifices for people we hardly know (or not at all), based on some ethereal affinity. Some do these things for purposes beyond themselves—Gandhi? Mother Teresa? Some do altruistic things (for friends and strangers) for ultimately selfish gains (politicians serving meals at the mission on thanksgiving). Still others, like me, give a dollar to the homeless guy at the 7-11 only to momentarily shut up our conscience—call it a bribe.

But I think it is safe to say we do more for those we know, and even more for those for whom we care—friends, whether related or not. And I don’t think that blood is really thicker; I just haven’t seen enough proof of it. Friendship, then, is necessarily defined after the fact, based on anecdotal evidence, and only quantifiable when it is over. Fragile as a single flake of snow, enough of it can sink boats and block roads that lead away. Solid enough, it can split mountains in half, only to melt under the slightest fire. Subtle as the beating of one’s heart, one only really knows when it is done that it was there. Men have built kingdoms on its strength, and many have turned saints by its testimony. And yet, it is often so subtle and fragile, especially when viewed from the perspective of the previous point.

3) And now, to the crux of the matter. Being that right is often indiscernible from wrong, and that friendship is so difficult to understand from day to day, are there things that ought to be beyond the asking? Beyond the expectation? Can I ask a friend to do wrong for friendship? And if he does it, is it wrong for him? Asked in such simple terms, the question seems naïve or disingenuous. From time to time, I run into the internet description of friendship as: a good friend bails you out of jail; a true friend is sitting next to you, shaking his head, saying “f**k! we shouldn’t have done that!” And funny, irreverent and deliberately facetious as it may be, it begs the question of this post: “And when I go to hell, for not having followed my conscience… will you go with me… for friendship?”

Once again, I’m full of questions but have too few answers.

Help! I need somebody…

10,000 Razones

A veces es dificil hacer lo que a otros les resulta muy sencillo.

Anoche fui con unos amigos a Chico's--un bar gay. Esta era solamente mi segunda vez ahi, y fue tan decepcionante como la primera vez. Estaba demasiado lleno de gente (si, es necesario aclarar de que se llena el lugar, pues parece corral o chiquero), pero eso no es decir mucho de su popularidad: la unica y decrepita mesa de billar deja apenas suficiente espacio a su alrededor para pararse junto a un amigo a platicar, y eso si nadie quiere pasar, porque entonces uno estorba. Aun asi, la platica es casi imposible, pues los parlantes fueron diseñados en los fabulosos 70's y lucen lo que podriamos designar su espiritu de supervivencia exagerando sus habilidades al punto que la musica no se reconoce--lo que al fin no les importa a las locas que siguen solo el martillar de sus freneticos pero poco imaginativos ritmos.

Despues de empezar una cuenta, lo que no fue necesario porque al fin solo tomamos $60.00 entre los tres, lleve al agua de colores que me quisieron pasar por tragos a donde estaban mis amigos y a señas les pedi salir a fumar. No quisieron, sino que fueron a bailar, lo que yo no hago, y por eso me quede sosteniendo la pared al rato. La bola infernal con la que remplazaron the disco ball de los 70's daba vuelta tras vuelta cambiando de luz al azar, y por mala fortuna me daba en el ojo derecho justo cuanto la cantante pegaba con la nota mas alta. Tortura--y nada mas--era eso; Dios no queria que fuera ahi. Platique con un muchacho que conoci en ese momento, pero platica es mucho decir, pues el ruido (digo, musica) permitia solo un saludo.

Cuando regresaron mis amigos, los convenci a salir a fumar, o mejor dicho a acompañarme, pues ellos no fuman. Un cigarro despues, estaba tan aburrido que les pedi mejor irnos. No quisieron en ese momento, pero decidimos juntos solo tomar un par de tragos mas e irnos. Si de casualidad esta historia suena aburrida, es porque lo es.

Saliendo de ahi, nos fuimos a la casa de mi amigo, a unos 20 minutos por freeway, lo que hice en diez gracias a la hora (el trafico en los angeles es abominable). Me quede a dormir en su casa--detalles para otro post--y casi con pena reporto que llegue al trabajo dos horas tardes hoy. Me lo perdonan porque al fin y al cabo les regalo horas y horas cada semana, pero aun asi me siento mal.

Pero el punto de esto es que al final de la noche, antes de dormir, como siempre sucede cuando salgo, me volvi a ver en mi mente, culo contra pared, trago en mano, viendo a la gente bailar...y yo no bailo.

Eso sera para otra historia.

A Partir De Mañana

Estoy cansado. Voy a descansar. Mientras, pa' que pasen el rato, una de las que le gustaban al viejo.


A partir de mañana empezaré a vivir la mitad de mi vida;
A partir de mañana empezaré a morir la mitad de mi muerte;
A partir de mañana empezaré a volver de mi viaje de ida;
A partir de mañana empezaré a medir cada golpe de suerte.

A partir de mañana empezaré a vivir una vida más sana,
Es decir, que mañana empezaré a rodar por mejores caminos;
El tabaco mejor y también por qué no, las mejores manzanas,
La mejor diversión y en la mesa mejor, el mejor de los vinos.

Hasta el día de hoy, sólo fui lo que soy, "aprendiz de Quijote",
He podido luchar y hasta a veces ganar, sin perder el bigote.
Ahora debo pensar que no pueden dejar de sonar las campanas,
Aunque tenga que hacer, más que hoy y que ayer...
A partir de mañana.

Si a partir de mañana decidiera vivir la mitad de mi muerte
O a partir de mañana decidiera morir la mitad de mi vida,
A partir de mañana debería aceptar, que no soy el más fuerte,
Que no tengo valor ni pudor de ocultar mis más hondas heridas.

Si a partir de mañana decidiera vivir una vida tranquila
Y dejara de ser soñador, para ser un sujeto más serio,
Todo el mundo mañana me podría decir: "se agotaron tus pilas,
Te has quedado sin luz, ya no tienes valor, se acabó tu misterio".

Cada golpe de suerte empezaré a medir a partir de mañana.
De mi viaje de ida empezaré a volver a partir de mañana.
La mitad de muerte empezaré a morir a partir de mañana.
La mitad de mi vida empezaré a vivir... a partir de mañana.

Alberto Cortez