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professions and places the writer's wet tongue

Fortune or chance did I was given the privilege of participating in a panel discussion on blogs and literature. My conversation partner was the driver-writer who has a successful blog " not free or occupied." A taxi driver who discovers stories poet in his car in the streets of Madrid, in conversation with their passengers but also their silences, objects forgotten in the back seat, in the equation linking the starting point with the end point of travel of the taxi. After listening, I had no doubt that the best profession for a writer is a taxi driver. Or

postman: a lady of the public said that was his work and said all the stories that could be taken up with each letter or read each card. Or

librarian: the beautiful girl in the library, said all the stories that imagine after listening to users and their strange selection of books.

A writer as well as read a lot, should engage in professions such as these: librarians, postal workers, taxi drivers. Ideal locations for detailed observation and others blatant. Places where stories are born.

Kafka was a clerk.

I had an uncle / grandfather telegrapher who wrote two novels that I have not read.

A writer unemployed or employed in a profession of those who trample nefarious creativity must find ways of being in those places where stories are born. For my part, I try to spend much time at the salon or on buses. In the ministries and train stations. In the squares and public restrooms. But he also spent long hours looking through the intimacies that are scattered in cyberspace network in the form of photos, blogs, avatars, comments. I sail that swarm of foreign voices and anonymous. Valley stories with nothing, the unattainable, wireless.

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Looking

in the trunk of memories I found this picture of the summer of 85 when he was young and handsome and also rode a Vespa 150 Sprint 64.
Some will say what more could you want? The truth is that in those days did not have the glamor Vespas have now. I wanted a Ducati. Surely, peináis not yet gray, you are thinking of a Monster, or something. Forget that, I'm talking about a Strada 250, a single cylinder with drum brakes, manufactured in Spain by Ducati Mototrans sadly missing during the 70's. A cockatoo bike, but for me, at that time was the bomb.
Due to lack of budget I had to content with a old Vespa. Just join the Army Noncommissioned Officer Academy and they paid me 711 monthly Pts. Milpesetista was not getting to, and now complain mileuristas.
cost me a whopping 25,000 pts and fucking gave me more happiness penalties. With it I had a love-hate relationship and did not make the Vespismo. Originally
blue, but was a little waterfall and the seller was in charge of red paint in some detail, as the crest of the fenders and headlight bangs in black. Between that and five stickers the thing was apparent.
On the one hand allowed me to spend more pedestrian to the motorcycle, which is a significant leap. The trouble is that he insisted to entertain the go with a more varied repertoire, thick carburetor, spark plug pearl, zero energy, jabs, shot candle in full swing and other numbers that I forget. It was a tough chick
the condemned. Come to think that breakfast barbed wire, like Clint Eastwood in "Heartbreak Ridge" because occasionally let off a fart and a long metal shavings from the exhaust. When that happened, I gave him a pat on the ass and say "this is my girl." Then I found out they were chunks of sausage docks carrying the clutch disc. All this added to the intrinsic characteristics of the model in question, eg Unless beacon lit a candle and a brake that was a risky sport and the fact that as yet it had not been invented the Internet, or the classical concept, it was impossible to find parts.
Three years later I bought a Renault 5 GTL, which at this point would also be a classic, and as I already had the black cataplines to mechanical practices through the ditches, the Vespa kicked him in the ass and no remorse give it to a friend.

After this experience, eleven years later to return to the world of two wheels and certainly not a Vespa.
course of time and already past forty, maybe a little nostalgia youth, stumbled again with the same stone, and this time the Wasp if got bite me. I am currently the proud owner of a Vespa PX 200 Disc and I have a relationship with her only love. Nice addition, it is reliable and practical for everyday use. You do not have the character of my first girl is not willful or capricious, nor is it metal farts, but that at this age is no longer one for tempestuous relationship.
The twists and turns of life. Who was going to tell me that after 25 years was going to miss?

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From the flowery language

My life in this language follows two movements:

One in which I only pretend to speak at an acceptable level. Put faces a constant, repeating what others just said, leave half-finished sentences. A talk with ellipses.

The other motion is in free fall: a "vente tú" and "every man for himself."

In the first movement I'm a terrible actress who has not learned the script, but simulates and masks as they come. Hebrew with my mask, I swagger, I laugh, I make me crazy, I say but do not understand the question. Did we answer in our own language exactly what we ask? I never stay silent because silence in another language is a sign of ignorance. In this instance I care with the pronunciation, the crutches, the gestures of the tongue mask. I speak, I said, with ellipses as other ultra high complete with words, quotations, quotations from the Bible. Then remains as it was I who did that mean, that they were the others who did not let me finish, but look you, how well we are tuned!

in free fall I avail myself of any word in any language to try to translate untranslatable joke because I have wanted to laugh at the Venezuelan and I can not with whom. Usually the caller is fried egg eyes, scratch your head and decide greetings retire once and for all, do not bring your children never to play with mine, asked to deport me, take me the hair, crazy merely muddy the national language. So I apologize for not having a wet Hebrew, when the truth is that I meant a flowery Hebrew. Two adjectives that sound almost like me.

In the first movement, however, I am an intellectual with great emphasis, as these teachers and cadence bearded Russian mobs usually associated with Einsteins resurrected. Beard and accent Russian are synonymous with wisdom. Venezuelan accent wavy hair and not much, but ... suppose ... In my first move I say that reading and writing cost me just because I'm used to very fast read and write in English and I have no patience.

In the second movement, I assume that little laugh that cause my jokes are due to the lack of local humor, with the flat of thought to a heavy past and an uncertain future. No accent, not the bad pronunciation, not the untranslatable jokes, not a lack of words.

In the first movement, usually talk about things that did not want to talk, but it had the words. Then everyone looks at me, lifting the eyebrows and nod.

In the second movement, usually talk about what I want and occasionally get a look or a smile benevolent eyes out. I'm happier at this point: Is it in our native language we all look and nod or not are just a few of us embrace her laugh?

I hate to be the educated accent, but peliloca dyslexic, but I have to pretend, pretend, dry my wet tongue and pass it through Florida.