(181) October 22, 2010
Our country girl, so some people call the home town, meets a new year. And I will 156. The city that gave us birth, one in which the sun warmed us for the first time, celebrates its day, which is ours. We always carry in your landscape, colors, aromas. The city is tacking to their daily today, ordering our ways, making sense of our reasons or wrongs, heat sealing our habits, organizing our history. The same city that shelters us is that sometimes it attacks us, we softens and expels us, unites us and confronts us.
City native people who knew but which was nevertheless thought by Sarmiento. People that evokes a native root name but no stranger to conquest. Streets that recall to Guemes and Rivadavia, Castelli and Mitre, metaphors of a contradiction if you think it hurts. Wounds that will not lock and still bleeding, immobilize fractures more than outraged.
growing industrial park, while the rights of workers retreat for relaxation laws still alive. Silos were working yesterday, but now contaminated. The train whistle announcing its arrival by country in every town, dirty politics and smashing the same country and villages lying to the rhythm of vertigo bullet train. University Center, site of knowledge and life, and bingo, dive center and rot. The priest of the neighborhood and the Church incurable. The good channels and the damn corner of Buenos Aires. The teacher teaches you to live, and the bureaucrats of the manual, curriculum and shut up. Those roasts on Saturday, and they can not the pocket. Summer nights on the sidewalk chairs and paranoia bars. The square of all but better if fenced. Cronopios and reputations of Cortazar, who used to be here, and fame without cronopios Ricardos so many Forts that have been entering high school in our lives. Pizza, birra, faso in the corner of the neighborhood and los que fueron cómplices de la pizza con champán en la época en que el sultán era inimputable. Los amigos del silencio de las urnas bien guardadas que también fueron hijos de estos suelos. Las penas de nosotros, y las vaquitas siempre ajenas. La madrugada de la 125 con los tractores en la calle y esos días en que los dueños de la tierra se creyeron los dueños de la bandera. Los grandes sueños colectivos arriados, mientras el arriero prendido a la magia de los caminos, viene y va…
Y el pueblo siempre en camino, en la calle… en aquellas asambleas que también hicimos. Porque si hicimos piquete y cacerola quedó claro que la lucha no fue una sola. También acá. Ni olvido ni perdón. O tal vez las two things. Because there are those who were shouting "throw them all", who are returning, which will never leave, which had to go. The pearl of western
but the shame of the soup kitchens full of kids. Small fires because not enough for gas and fireworks unofficial and official. Artists fighting from the bottom and top mounting mega-events. Sport by sport, by the hot dog and coke in the middle of twine and one that is negotiated.
The chivilcoyanos abroad, strangers, those who miss those who are surprised, that so often end up feeling strange in our own city.
On this day many of us are tempted talking about our city without even notice that it is she who speaks of us, who we are.
"I feel no nostalgia, said Bruno Traven. I have learned that what they call home, even what we call our hometown fondly, is put canned, stored in folders and thousands of records represented by officials who are responsible for removing any sense of patriotism one until there is no trace him. Where is my homeland? Where no one bothers me, where nobody wants to know who I am, what I do or where they come from, that's my hometown. "
Either way, the truth is that never let go of our city. His birthday is a bit of ours. By origin, by right and by destination. Is that why despite everything one loves his city, he loves her. And never go at all, still deciding to leave. And we are always arriving, as I said Pichuco:
"My neighborhood was so
So ... so ... so.
is,
what if I was.
But I agree as well: Yacumín
with the carbuña the corner, who had the burners
sooty
and always played left
next jas mine, always, always .. Maybe
pa'estar closer to my heart.
Someone once said that I left my neighborhood. When
? ... But when? ...
if I'm always coming
And if I forgot once, the stars
the corner of my old house, like flashing
friendly hands,
told me: Fat, fat, stay here ...
stay here " .
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