Etiket: merino
Emergencies, first section of the night, by Olga Merino
In out. Up and down. Black White. You feel reasonably well and, suddenly, the dice of chance or the bad shadow they put you in a taxi heading to the…
The wise hands of the carpenter, by Olga Merino
I go out early to buy apples, effervescent aspirin and EL PERIÓDICO on paper. You should be right back in the ‘batcave’, but I keep walking instinctively beyond the usual…
“I do not regret anything”, by Olga Merino
I put the coffeepot on the fire. I turn on the computer, which is how to raise the blind of the haberdashery without much hope I sit at the table…
Instructions for propping up a column, by Olga Merino
wanted the chance to end a little book by Julio Camba in Madrid, spending time in the cafeteria of the Círculo de Bellas Artes, where the Galician journalist went daily…
The world spins, spins in infinite space, article by Olga Merino
Wet cold. Sol. I go down to the supermarket with my shopping cart, maroon in color, brand new, the first one I have, with an obsessive melody inside my skull.…
Grapes, chimes, hypertensive brother-in-law, by Olga Merino
Overwhelmed with festivities, after-dinners and brother-in-law which raises hypertension. Every time I open the fridge, from a container, the surviving prawns look at me with crossed eyes and mustaches, ‘hello,…
The habit of reading as an ‘organic compulsion’, by Olga Merino
Overnight, it has sprung up on me a swelling in the right elbow, a soft bulge to cushion the ulna, a protrusion that looks like the chin of Fournier’s joker…
To the ‘recherche’ of time lost on Twitter, by Olga Merino
I have wasted a few hours on social networks, but I have also laughed and learned from friends and acquaintances who are now jumping overboard Twitter like the ‘Titanic’. I…
Lula and Brazil, the samba of the world, article by Olga Merino
Sunday passed with Brazilian music in the background for not biting my nails —that is to say— awaiting the scrutiny. And it continued like this on All Saints’ Day, with…
Public, private, intimate, secret, article by Olga Merino
At eleven o’clock on a spring morning, John Cheever, the Chekhov of North American housing estates, writes down, in one of the 29 notebooks he left written, a very physiological…