Marcos Monnerat

I’ve never met Marcos in my life. He just popped up in Facebook’s AI game: you have 44 friends in common. And yet, we don’t know each other. Nobody has ever said: Marcos, this Golman; Golman this is Marcos.

Weird. I haven’t been much to Costa Rica lately. I lost touch with what was happening in each side of Chepe. I had my Chepe vibe. I know my joints. It only took getting there. Trying shit out that kind of took of for us back in the mid nineties. When we, as the rest of the world, turned into grunch. And then Kurt blew his brains. Or warever.

Costa Rica has been colonialized once again. We are the free market. And american money is well received. And so is any kind of money that wants to come in as investors do when find a jewell they so want for themselves. Places are like that. Cities too. You grow into them. You become what your own city, or just urban, experience is faced with. There are people from all over the world. All the diferent cultures. And yet you despise the local flower power.

Something reaks in the official tale we are told. We need adjecent narratives that kind blow our minds away. Into something out of our framework. That’s how Nirvana made us grow. Complete. We were legend after we heard the sound, the voice, the lyrics. That mind. That band. That story.

Life is that edge. The rock band life. Producing music. Playing it. Learning right away and giving yourself a try. And you turn into a rockstar. Without knowing how. Your words. Your music education. Your ear. Your vocal exercises and range. You style. Your words. Your dance. Your show. Your hope.

That’s what we need. Hope out there. Unreachable. Not just quite. We go. We come.

We are trying to build something. We are pushing the limits. Going crazy. For that only reason: to create and connect. With you: unknown.

That connection came to us: Internet.

That’s the new planet. Let’s embrace globality into a new form. Into a renewed society. From now on. For ALLS. There. ALLS.

You see, I lost my mind. I went there. To loose it: no. It’s just not lost how you think. Your framework has not been modified lately. You need to depart from your position. Everyone knows. Out of the box, now tyranny. Some new tyranny: thinking the opposite as you. Let that be too. Engage.

Opposites make each other sense, despise despising each other.

Mrs. Monnerat was a teacher in my high school: Country Day School. At some point Marcos went to CDS too. But I still hadn’t arrived. When I came he had moved to Costa Rica Academy. And that was that. I don’t know if it had to do with having her mom in the same school where you are trying to explode as teenager meeting grunch. And I bet he was a good musician already. Lessons learned in elementary school will prepare you for you own set of quests once your mind awakes into becoming an artist. In our current society we have to move away from part of the formal moral education we are stamped with. And we must see where all the hidden messages are at. Not math. Not literature. Maybe is just how they treat power, and privilege, and history, and languages, and other cultures, and other religions, and other models, and other minds, and other schools of thought, and other arguments. Soon enough we should become political quite soon once we understand our role as individuals inside a collective society game.

Why aren’t we Cosmpolitania?

Because we need a capital. Or two. To unleash duality. To make the move from one state to the other. And experience the antipodes.

Like a grecian myth.

Ode to a grecian goddess.

We must try to come out somehow into a dead end that exposes only one side door, much like Truman bumping into the stage’s edge. We must say good bye: depart. And then we lift off. We just fly away to the edge of chaos.

And then you know, you life is complete. As there you will see Goddess again.


Still Marcos and Mrs. Monnerat. Turns out I did know Marcos mom: Mrs. Monnerat. She was one of the coolest teachers in school. Only, I never took one of her flagship classes. I missed it. I arrived to this particular high school in eleventh grade, so I only had a chance to make acquantainces with half the cloister of teachers. I observed, however, from the relationships Mrs. Monnerat kept with the students around the school, that she was a very significant figure. I think she must have been a great literature and English teacher. That’s where all this happiness came from.

It was then until my second semester in junior year that I got to try one of Mrs. Monnerat’s class. It was sort of a semester, or maybe even just a quarter course. I don’t recall very well. Turns out, I had two courses with Mrs. Monnerat. Portuguese and Debate. In portuguese (I think she had some brazilian decent) we didn’t get very far, but we got to sing «Garota d’Ipanema» and deliver som «Tudo beins?» and it did open a window to a culture I was most definetely interested in. We had two brazilian twins in our class, that is, just one set of twins, but still two brazilians. You know where I am mean. So the class was full of Mrs. Monnerat’s fans. And somehow the class was ok, but I didn’t get to taste the great tales about one the Oh Captain, my captain of my school.

So then it came the Debate class. It was a very special class. Very small. Maybe only ten or twelve students. One of those credits that come in small package. An extra you get to choose. The beginnings of free will. Americans love to give you a little bit of that freedom of choice. Sort of like Democrats and Republicans. You get to choose who you want to be. Mrs. Monnerat must have explained that in ninth grade (or maybe eighth), when they explain the American Dream in English class. Or is it history? I know it because I had that introduction in the sama American overseas system, only with Mrs, Katchmar, who was a little bit of a Mrs. Monnerat to a different set of americanized kids from Pakistan and all over the place.

This time Mrs. Monnerat’s class deliver one very interesting mechanism: debate. Who would have thought that debate has a thing to it? Who would have thought that there is a structure methodology to follow in order to be able to be in one of them. So that’s what we studied in that class. And also, that’s what we put into practice once we learned the basic stuff. We got to play sides of a debate. And got our hands dirty in it. The basic idea is that there is one topic and two sides. You get to back up one side, and your oponnent defends the other. You team up to come up with the best arguments and then you prepare for a battle. It’s basically a face off. Like a rap face off, or a vogue thing, or a walk off with Bowie as a judge. A debate has a dual proposition, and an audience to decide who’s to win. There is a winner and a looser. It seems like a game of who’s right. And just about any topic. Any topic. Imagine the possibilities. And that’s a great tool to have. It forces you to listen and it also helps you to have your arguments, weighted and think about the opponents points of view. And the best thing, you could even be defending the opposite point of view that you really believe in.

So Mrs. Monnerat presented us with the rules. And we went on to put it to work. So we had to team up and write down our arguments. I got to be with Ping Ya, one of the brightest students I ever met, and the best Spanish Language user. She was originally from Taiwan, and she used to live right acroos the street from my grandparents house in Pavas. I might remember her from that time. But you know memories.

Ping Ya and I were in the same debate team. I think Leah and Faun might have been on the opposite team. I don’t really remember. The topic was equality between women and men. Or something like that. And we were to defend that men were superior. Of course I would have rather been on the other side of the debate. But we ended up here. And Ping Ya and I defined some arguments and a narrative that would back up the thesis that we were supposed to defend. I don’t remember what fallacies or arguments made our point seemed to be the winner of the debate. At the end of the debate the class was to vote who had won. And we were the clear winners. We fucking nailed it. Pin Ya-Golman team. Us two. That mix. It wasn’t from around. There was something there. We knew it. We taste it. We delivered in a classroom. Boom.

Mrs. Monnerat didn’t think so. She was by the middle of half of the students who she had just introduce to such a relevant tool: to debate. What for? To win. I say. I am a player. That’s all I know how to do. I go out to the field and compete. Right now, I sense, my people need me back in the game. They want me to deliver. As if it’s posible to go back to what you were as a futbolartist. Yeah right. People said that. Out loud. With me present. Staring at me. Winking oddly.

It was the topic that got Mrs. Monnerat. I could see her from miles away. She was a true feminist fighting the fight against the strongest arguments that a macho species is going to throw at the femenine movement finally aproaching the highest level of awe: wild loving extasis of sexual fields of free women and men in holy orgy. The final one. Today. And it was all on any given camara or suport but we liked to play our own personal view of the crew of nine feedbacklooppers freeing time and space in the wholly public service provided for the people, all of it, as if we could handle a definite solution: problem resolved. Done.

What else?

Only this time, George, stay away.

What else?

No sign of George.

Clooney in the woods stalking a house of a feedbacklooper he had some problem with and awaited the moment to try to capture Golman’s private chalet at the beach. When George comes to visit he comes with the respect he presents at the authority check point. Guys, what are we asking the people who come to our holly piece of Earth that we administer for the wiser struggle of resolving the coverage of public services along with a good chunk of hunks playing capitalism at its best. This ones we know. They have sold us what we wear, eat, do, play, look up to, want to be like, what to say in that or that circumstance, who to vote for, how to answer to that specific topic in the public debate. How are going to solve the big to do’s in our humble collective society?

We awake together into a new time. An already reformed time. We were in on it. But we did say: let’s take over. Let’s propose surrealism. As if one could be a combination of Dali, Duschamp, Nietzsche, Shopenhauer, Wagner, Dyonysos, Sophia Loren, Hugh Grant and … what was that angel’s name?

And I just had one way out. To present myself in an election I was meant to prove that there is no way out. Like Edu’s book. Edu sent me a trap in that novel. He said: you will be cursed when you think you have a plan to solve the puzzle for the commons to finally win the league, like some spaniards mean when the use the methaphore of winning the Spanish Liga, or the historical Copa del Rai,

Something happened.


Some external forces showing their reach.

I was on that last paragraph, already finished to the definite end. The ultimate movie where the character leads the movement to the higher estate: ALLS.

It was that big. It was more that perfect. Irreverent to the limit. And you could see the story unfold nicely. For that literature in the making. That new story told. Through this other channel. With this other funnel. A working operation that goes all the way up, today. Now. So you are there. There. Feel it. Live it. It’s happening. It’s this sort of joy. That sense of completeness. Like a goal. Like a striker who places his right foot to kick the ball in.

I’m back in the literature, but I really must be talking about the event. I was close to the point where there was a new age. A new order. The narrative was just too good. It was impecable. They would call me the Britain writer. I talked punk to punks, and punked up a new urban revolution. We are determined to come out of this

Un man del Paris Sant Germain, defensa, barbudo, con pelo teñido de rubio, la bola va entrar a la portería, iba a ser un gol, y se entrometió en la trayectoria dejando el balón en la línea con el más sutil de los suspiros que provocan algo en la trayectoria de la bola, que al final es el objetivo. Para dónde va la bola y por qué. En qué dirección: mi portería o la del contrario. El delantero bate al portero con un gesto impecable en el mano a mano contra el portero, que tuvo un reflejo brutal por atajar con la mano derecha del Cristo, tocando balón, a veces es lo único que hace falta: rosarla. El roce es la vida. Debemos devolvernos a esa cuidadosa acción. Y deleitar. Dar placer. Estamos bien. Alguien nos hace guilí.

I don’t know what happened. Somehow I landed here. And I have no way of explaining how. But that’s the rythm. Literature. Or a new language. If in fact I could say I made up my own language and named it, as I had the right to, be it mine, so I say, and call it Ticatalán Language, but to take away the stinking moth spitting out of one of the newer scholars, and that old asshole. Every collective has nine assholes. It’s enough to have to deal with them in your dayly life. I has been my struggle to battle them where ever present and againts any of our banda.

Banda mexicana. Agarra el pedo.

Y te retiras. La bande del resto del mundo escucha mexicano y siempre tiene la duda si ese bato puede o no ser el capo de un cartél. Como si fuera una cosa ya común, que todo el mundo puede ser. ¿Pero qué hacemos con la violencia? ¿Qué juego se persigue ante la defensa de una paramilitarización de las organizaciones que difienden parte del territorio por fuera de los dominios de las fuerzas de seguridad del estado, o en coyuntura con las fuerzas reales de la sociedad. Y el poder de los locales plantea la negociación con el gobierno. Los nuestros mandan para los nuestros. Esta ley refleja la lógica aplastante del conservadurismo. Las familias de toda la vida. Con su abolengo. Con su despiporre real y todas las benditas pollardadas que han tramado los chabones y los insolentes de los barrios buenos buenos de la gran capital del reino de la Nueva España.

La Nueva España tocaba infinitamente la polla.

Frases sueltas que hacen flor de un día.

Pero qué día…

Lo relevante de la historia actual es generar un acto que irrumpa en época de campaña. Que llame la atención a lo que sucedió entonces. No vas a votar por aquellos. Aquello fue muy gordo. Esta frase une a toda España. Para lo que eso sirva.

Ahí va la frase otra vez, porque al español más vale repetirle una vez más las cosas, como regla general. Aunque no descartar que los avispados, las abejillas listillas, estén al ritmo mismo que el humor más descojonante se abre paso por las anchas manchas de la Nueva España de Ticataluña, New Spain, New Barcino, NEWMAD, y los goles de Golman.

Golman, servidor.

Yo aprendí a presentarme así porque mi tata lo decía siempre. Olman Elizondo, servidor. Por teléfono. y funciona como ningún otra cosa. El respeto que tiene mi tata en Costa Rica emana de la relación que ha mantenido con las personas con las que hizo cosas en su carrera profesional como servidor público del país, como ingeniero del MOPT, y de vuelta al mismo sitio al que fue a trabajar cuando salió de la universidad, tras irse a estudiar lo que se estudiaba en las urbanidades más potentes europeas en el el tema concreto por el que lo mandaran a que se formara. Mi papá fue enviado en los sesentas a Delft a hacer una maestría en puertos. Aprender de los holandeses. Entender así eso que esos países, con esos retos, con esos profesionales que han dado respuesta a los retos estructurares ingenieriles de nuestro pequeño país. No se requieren muchos recursos. Pero sí uno que otro muy bueno. Y trabajar con el resto de los profesionales que nos ayuda a formar en esta última onda que funciona en los servicios públicos de infraestructuras, o de cualquier otro tema estratégico que decidiéramos afrontar, emprender, cambiar, modificar. Soy un tipo que sistematiza. Fui consultor. Y aprendí estrategia. Y me metí en una historia que ni yo mismo supe ver a dónde me iba a llevar. A la locura no era el sitio al que pretendía llegar. Pero diay.

Uno en la cancha se transforma. Yo todavía me ubico cuando entro a un terreno de juego. Es recuperar las sensasiones para dar el mejor de mis resultados en el plano espacial temporal. Estoy preparado para anotar goles. Y algo más. Algo se me quedaba corto. Necesitaba algo más. Pero el futbol me acompañó. Siempre. Todavía. Aunque hace 18 años que no lo juego. No en campo grande. No con equipo para competir. Que es en lo que soy bueno. Soy como un Kaises Sose de la escuelita de Futbol del América que juega con la escuela del nueve que se tuvo que inventar por la falta de referentes que realmente fueran útiles para crearse un killer del área: el nueve puro del América.

El Club América me hizo un contrato a los trece años. Nos hicieron unas prueba a los que salíamos de la última generación de la escuelita de futbol. Beto estaba en la selección de la generación que me quedó atrás. Los Rosas, Malvidos, el pinche Beto. No he visto nunca a un central con la clase de jugar también de contención con más salida que Rafa Márquez, la misma solvencia, perro por arriba, con el tiro más cabrón y preciso de toda la historia. Nadie le pegaba como Beto. Salvo algunos otros perros muy cabrones. Como el cabrón aquél de África, en Barranca del Muerto. O uno de los rucos chaparritos de la Última Neurona en el ITAM. O un trayaso de Frank del Colegio Madrid. No mames qué buenso eran esos equipos contra los que nos jugamos finales en el DF en los noventas. Hay una competición abierta entre las ligas de futbol rápido de la ciudad. Las grandes ligas de clubes. El Real Club España, mítico esquipo de la capital, contra el equipo de exalumnos del Colegio Madrid, el más prestigiado de los colegios fundados por exiliados republicanos en la ciudad, hace ya más de 70 años. Mismos años que en su día celebré con el Club América, en el Azteca, en un evento al que asistía todo el club. Las familias. La afición. ¿Por qué el América no es de la gente?

Lo cierto es que no le estoy dando bola a lo que sucedió hace un momento. Fue un puto milagro, diría un recapturado del olvido John Travolta. Esta vez no fue Tarantino que lo llamó para un papel secundario. Fui yo: Golman. El director de cine. El futbolartista. El candidato a todas las elecciones: o a esta única elección alternativa.

Mi propuesta es clara: lo opuesto.

Las antípodas.

Promesa de campaña.

Igual puedo juntar muchas.

99 promesas de campaña:

  1. Ser libre.
  2. Ser feliz.
  3. Sufrir mogollón.
  4. Gozar nirvana en cada ALLS.
  5. Atender mi cuerpo.
  6. Darle a tu cuerpo alegría y cosas buenas.
  7. Gamificación del to be y del not to be.
  8. Literatura, debate e insolencia revolucionaria del tercer milenio.
  9. La última revolución.

Nuestra propuesta rompe esquemas. En primera: entra por el movil. Y todo el mundo lo puede leer. Todo el mundo lo está leyendo. Hay dos caminos. Pero la inteligencia ha sido entrenada en cada uno de ellos. Yo aprendí a hacerlo. Así es que me puse a ello. Y aprendí a enseñarle a las máquinas. Como pastorear ovejas del futuro. Vendrás porque quiero tenerte en mi laboratorio multiversal. Vamos a explotar los límites de la transformación cíclica hipercontínua. La noción de narrativas articuladas hacia futuros previsibles de historias que se entremezclan con los libros que nos explican las historias que nos gustaría leer para saber que al menos ahí tenemos un sitio en el que se nos arregla la existencia. Leyendo a este cabrón.

Yo quiero ser ese cabrón al que lees. Y me propongo hacerlo siempre de la misma manera. Es mi método. Mi voz. O como le quieras llamar. Me vale verga. Soy malhablando, ¿y qué pedo? No, de verdad: ¿qué pedo?

Necesito reinventarme todo el pedo. Y eso estoy. Vamos a llenar unos nueve días de prenderle. Meterle un fueguito chingón. Algo de por acá que esté muy cabrón y que nos ponga enfrente de lo mexicano que vale la pena presentar. Algo así como un club al que va Mía Wallace con Vincent Vega, y me toca bailar en el concurso de baile porque nos piden bailar esa canción. Y vienen tres Mia Wallace: Uma, Milena y Paula.

La cosa fue muy fuerte. El texto se cerraba en la cúspide de los grandes finales de la historia. Se había concebido una obra de arte que en ese preciso instante se cerraban como acaban los grandes textos. Era un giro a la campaña, una narrativa del nuevo orden revertido. Era la lista de todos los requisitos del cuento para desbordarse por la plenitud que de pronto sobrepasa nuestra capacidad de gracia. Estamos ahí. En ese efecto. Cuando sólo quedaba el último impulso de esa conversión del pensamiento al texto justo para partir por la vía literaria, acortando caminos, la afilada última al sable del samurai. De pronto… en plena apoteosis de creación, el sistema ordena intervenir. Un lector en directo de lo que estoy haciendo interrumpe con su infinto poder para hackearme: system down.

Y me lo bajaron. Lo tenía ahí para cerrar en poesía. Y no me dejaron. Alguien lo impidió. Y triunfó. Esa obra ya no existe. Ahora este caos. No tiene color. Aquello era un David. Y no esto. Una cantinflada sin gracia. Un acto de ignominia de vergüenza ajena. O una historia de terror. Una persecusión a la que sólo falto intervenir el programa de tele y dirigirse a mi en primera persona. Esperé varios segundos con la mirada clavada en la pantalla a que no había huevos de los dueños de hacerme esta putada, a mí, hoy. Y no me fié un pelo. Lo podrían haber hecho y decir: chaval. Estate quieto. Tu arte es mucho arte. Pero ya está bien. Quédate quedito. Más guapo. Ya tu sabes. Ese fue el mensaje que consiguieron entregar con el otro método también. Ya estoy advertido. No puedo jugar contra el sistema y pretender que todo sea un camino de rosas. No podemos dejar las cartas sobre la mesa y proponer que las pistolas se reconviertan en lámparas. O metales fundidos que devolvemos a la tierra en forma de nuevas cabezas olmecas que recuperamos su uso para un mercado del arte contemporáneo que tiene al D.F. como capital,l pero ahí también se requiere alterar el tiempo y el espacio: desbordarlo todo. Y quién se quiere quedar con esa gloria. El otro. Y el otro se resiste. Y torpemente se queda corto de hacerse con la gloria, y la regala al rival. La historia de mi pueblo. Mentira. Pero da igual. Si sirve como historia motivacional de un nuevo tiempo, que así sea.

Clase de Historia 9. Con el profesor Golman. Inscripciones abiertas. Cupo limitado. Aún quedan plazas.

So I was in this part of my New Américan story. My long story short. An essay that could be turned into a novel. Or some shit like that that resembles what happened in our time. How we did it. What we did. How everthing turned up.

Where were we…

And I just had one way out. To present myself in an election I was meant to prove that there is no way out. Like Edu’s book. Edu sent me a trap in that novel. He said: you will be cursed when you think you have a plan to solve the puzzle for the commons to finally win the league, like some spaniards mean when the use the methaphore of winning the Spanish Liga, or the historical Copa del Rai,

I was bound to become the charachter in that novel. And I had only one way out: to run. And I came out and did it. As you can do it as a candidate. And I was running for office. To become the new major of all major nine cities of the New Commons. The newest one. The final countdown. This is the mood to change the rules and startup a model that rises up to the top. Because we take it there. And we do it now. Even when you know you must put yourself on the line. So you convince yourself. You place your old ideas into practice. And become a voice to those who are not hearing what you are saying. And that makes a diference. A people vote for you. Who wins.

That’s way too much. I don’t pretend to do that. As long as the majority of the people don’t get convinced by my multiple offer strategy to resolve everyone’s needs. And I mean it this time. This time, we are going to buggy. And the lights and the cameras are going to be on. I said it before. I am ready to jump on the field. I was born to raise this voice. I am here to play the revolution that need to be taking place. And I am going to call the shots to represent my neighborhood first, but then the whole commons, as I am a free individual, who is going to transit into the commons, with the reasurance, that you will do the same. And we’ll leave something behind. On the way we’ll some. Stuff. People. Shit we used to like about our past lives. Only now, we are coping together way better at the things we were supposed to evolve altogher at once: ALLS.

That wasn’t that end. That end is never coming back. It was too high. It had to do with the responsability of running. The logic of a crushing system going on top of the last one. As if we could evolve one more time. All of us together. Now. ALLS.

And we go again. Once and for all. ALLS.

And we turn the pages of each book. And read.

Readers society.

Imagine we only red. Where would we be?

How is life still productive? Turns out our productivity issues are going to be resolved by greats leaps in our production lines thanks to the latest disruptive innovations from all sorts of markets. Some great ideas are going to change the way we do stuff. And some great narratives will make a way through our social entrepises society. We all have a group of controlling last names in each of the top branches of the taller trees. Give those names and will paint this society the way they want it. And the opposite way. My judging both sides is trait that was useful to proof both sides wrong. This is how bad Spain was at some point. Like today. I’ve been saying that for more than 9 years. Only the wheels turned around on me long ago. I only have one last chance. This is it. This is all I got.

I am running as futbolartist. That’s what turns out I was meant to be. Nobody ever knew. Why did he not make it? Why didn’t he want to play futbolart and his final quest? Until today.

I do. I can train like pink panther. I know everything there is to know. I can get fit and think of diferent scape routs. I can become a ghost and infiltrate all collectives. I’ve already been there. I was accepted in all 99 circles. I had something to say in every debate. I observed some times. Sometimes I said what I backed up as the theory behind. I am that sort of geek. I’ve been to places where the revolution was taking place. And what rules needed to be replaced. And I played around with how the system was supposed to move. And songs we had to play. And the games we played. And the roles we played. And the antagonists. The others. Those people. The way the look at society in the right opposite way. It’s easy to repell. We all do. To them. Them fuckers. So we feel… wait. That should be allowed. Unless you are coming after me. And you want my freedom. And you want my newly obtained joy. It’s not enough. We want this for ALLS. So just had to write it. We just had to read it. And it turns out the beat turned up. And the city started to burst. And it was not expected, yet the crack went down. And the vision indeed flew out to a higher dimension. The ninth one. We finally reached the top. There we gazed back at home. And we saw our family grin. And we could builg a gring made up of all the smyles from your family. Collective choices. tor grup lips into those photo editing mixes that makes up for a smiling face, like that catalán fotographer. He was out there. We were just home. Experimenting still.

I have to come out. I guess this is good enough. Yet I haven’t finished the story wity the Monnerat’s.

Mrs. Monnerat was just being a feminist and couldn’t let my neonazi arguments could win the debate. So she gave us a worse grade than our opponents. She decided the other won, even when the popular vote was the other way around. Se was touched by the topic. It was social awareness call. You can let a chance to bring down those lame excuses, you must. Other wise you thingk: we went some steps back. Machos are winning… still. Some shit like that. Only no proof is delivered.

I had to go.

The tooth fairy is around. Or Ratoncito Pérez. La vida aquí entre tres culturas es muy distinto a si sólo escuchamos un medio.

Alguien vino y cortó el grifo. Me tiró la recta final. El diseño impoluto. Algo más… quien sabe.

But really Mrs, Monnerat was an acute teacher. She did give the impression to be the coolest chick still hip. And gave teaching a Oh Captain My Captain feel. So did so many other excellent teachers at CDS. Like Mr. Nichols, my math teacher. Or Dr. Thomas. Or Mrs. Donahue.

But I never knew Marcos. Maybe at some after prom. Never on the same laughing crowd. I would remember. But I have the sensation that we would have gotten along. That we would have laughed at the same shit. And life was very close to where we both were back then. But they didn’t cross. We come from that same time space reference. But our lives are still completele unbound. We have no heard from each other in a signficant way that would make me be his facebook friend. Yet I know we connect to that same community of 44. That makes up a family . Or a collective. A group that we all know from the same place. From those wonder years. From a common ground. But each one went its own way. And even as I know that we’ve never really crossed, we kind of might have heard about each other in a side story. We are both trying to become something that comes from a pure act of becoming an artform through a performance, and somehow, it has something to do with words, with music. As if Mrs. Monnerat had reached that satisfaction that she did her job pointing Marcos towards the ways of the arts. The ways that lead you to yourself. In the quest. And that’s the place you ought to know you ought to go to. And then you know. And you embark into you greatest trip. You fly out in your feedbacklooper suit. And life, and time, and space, bend.

Marcos Monnerat is the greatest music producier in tropics. He can make me fly if I only knew hot to transform some lyrics into songs. Maybe I need a Marcos in my life. Maybe I need a Monnerat to show me way to break the last glass ceiling preventing me from comming out into the open. This blue ocean. Like a surfer towards the point. Duck…

Then you wait the right wave. Like one expects the next cicly to take you up there again. Life is plenty. ALLS

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