View of the house from the road 


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A red rose for Claudia

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I cut a red rose close to the head and removed its thorns. It was small, but fully opened. Its fragrance filled my air and made me think of Claudia. Carefully, I placed it on an open page from the book I bought her. Baudellaire's collected poems. Not very romantic, but we both shared the same love for dark poetry. The rose found its place, evenly pressed by the weight of the pages around it. I kept the book for several days afterwards, to ensure that the rose took it well. When it works, the rose maintains its color and brightness with a trace of its aroma. Mine looked fine. Claudia was sitting alone, reading, at a small cafe called The Place, not far from where she lived. She was still wearing her school uniform, but she had on a thick, white virgin wool sweater over the top. It was the button down type, with big brown wood-like buttons. She looked terrific. Barely fifteen, and she lit my world. She was taking a sip from her tea as I approached. "Hi," I
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San Lorenzo

I recall the beaten path of rocky grass, entrenched by moss covered stone walls. It ran alongside the border of my father's farm, and for many miles farther across the foot of the mountain. El Camino Real, it was called. Too narrow and contoured for any wheeled vehicle, it was only to be traveled afoot or on horseback.   Before the advent of carriages -and later motor cars- brought about the need for better roads, El Camino Real was the only way for the local folk to cross the territory without trespassing on somebody else's property. In rural Colombia, during the early twentieth century, the lands were vast and sparsely populated, and the laws were vague and barely enforced. People brandished machetes and shotguns, and defended their turf by whatever means necessary. Many shallow graves were dug near the riverbank; unmarked and unvisited.     Inhabited mostly by mestizos and descendants of the tribal natives who innocently welcomed the Spaniards and the slaughter they
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We're getting older...

I don't want to be very graphic about my activities, late yesterday afternoon. Suffice it to say that having several gloved medical personnel prying open your buttocks so that another may cut and scrape away offending blood clots from your anus, is not an enjoyable occurrence. I rank it up there with root canal or having my toenail removed (I had hemorrhaging below my big toenail and it was getting infected - they had to remove the entire toenail to get to it). I guess it's a sign of age, that the last few years I've had to undergo so many procedures. Things that ten years ago I barely knew existed. How we change... My wife turns 39 today. I turn 39 on Sunday. I married an older woman. This will be our last year before we hit the big ***40***. Funny, how I used to consider 40 as being old. Now, I'm vigorously trying to view it as a new beginning. We'll see. I have a whole year left to ponder it.
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