#Marcos Gutiérrez | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

goalhofer · 2 months

Text

2024 olympics Argentina roster

Archery

Mario Jajarabilla (Buenos Aires)

Athletics

Elián Larregina (Suipacha)

Nazareno Sasia (Cerrito)

Joaquín Gómez (Avallaneda)

Belén Casetta (Mar Del Plata)

Florencia Borelli (Mar Del Plata)

Daiana Ocampo (Buenos Aires)

Canoeing

Agustín Vernice (Bahia Blanca)

Brenda Rojas (San Martín De Los Andes)

Cycling

José Torres (Córdoba)

Eduardo Sepúlveda; Jr. (Rawson)

Gonzalo Molina (San Juan)

Equestrian

José Larocca; Jr. (Buenos Aires)

Fencing

Pascual Di Tella (Brooklyn, New York)

Field Hockey

Tomás Santiago (Córdoba)

Juan Catán (Buenos Aires)

Maico Casella (Buenos Aires)

Lucas Toscani (Buenos Aires)

Nicolás Della Torre (Buenos Aires)

Santiago Tarazona (Buenos Aires)

Federico Monja (Vicente López)

Tomas Domene (Córdoba)

Matías Rey (Buenos Aires)

Lucas Martínez (Buenos Aires)

Agustín Mazzilli (Lanús)

Tadeo Marcucci (Buenos Aires)

Thomas Habif (Buenos Aires)

Agustín Bugallo (San Juan)

Bautista Capurro (Buenos Aires)

Iñaki Minadeo (Buenos Aires)

Sofía Toccalino (Buenos Aires)

Agustina Gorzelany (Buenos Aires)

Valentina Raposo (Salta)

Agostino Alonso (Buenos Aires)

Agustina Albertarrio (Adrogué)

María Granatto (La Plata)

Cristina Cosentino (Buenos Aires)

Rocío Sánchez-Moccia (Buenos Aires)

Victoria Sauze (Buenos Aires)

Sofía Cairo (Buenos Aires)

María Trinchinetti (Victoria)

Lara Casas (Buenos Aires)

Juana Castellaro (Buenos Aires)

Pilar Campoy (Vicente López)

Julieta Jankunas (Córdoba)

Zoe Díaz (Buenos Aires)

Soccer

Fabricio Iacovich (La Plata)

Leandro Brey (Lomas De Zamora)

Rocco Ríos-Novo (Los Angeles, California)

Marco Di Cesare (Mendoza)

Valentín Barco (Veinticinco De Mayo)

Roberto García (Liniers)

Nicolás Valentini (Junín)

Aaron Quirós (Monte Grande)

Gonzalo Luján (Buenos Aires)

Lucas Esquivel (Santa Fe De La Vera Cruz)

Federico Redondo (Adrogué)

Cristian Medina (Moreno)

Thiago Almada (Ciudadela)

Claudio Echeverri (Resistencia)

Juan Sforza (Rosario)

Juan Nardoni (Nelson)

Ignacio Fernández (Buenos Aires)

Pablo Solari (Arizona)

Luciano Gondou (Rufino)

Abiel Osorio (Buenos Aires)

Francisco González (Ordóñez)

Santiago Castro (Ciudad Del Liberator General Don José De San Martín)

Golf

Emiliano Grillo (San Diego, California)

Alejandro Tosti (Gainesville, Florida)

Handball

Andrés Moyano (Mendoza)

Nicolás Bono (Buenos Aires)

Federico Fernández (Buenos Aires)

Federico Pizarro (Buenos Aires)

Pablo Vainstein (Buenos Aires)

Diego Simonet (Vicente López)

Pablo Simonet (Vicente López)

Ignacio Pizarro (Lanús)

Santiago Baronetto (Buenos Aires)

Lucas Moscariello (Buenos Aires)

Guillermo Fischer (Buenos Aires)

Pedro Martínez (Buenos Aires)

Gastón Mouriño (Buenos Aires)

James Parker; Jr. (Ciudad San Luis)

Leonel Maciel (Morón)

Nicolás Bonanno (Marcos Paz)

Juan Bar (Vicente López)

Judo

Sofia Fiora (Buenos Aires)

Pentathlon

Franco Serrano (Buenos Aires)

Rowing

Alejandro Colomino (Buenos Aires)

Pedro Dickson (Buenos Aires)

Sonia Baluzzo (Buenos Aires)

Evelyn Silvestro (Zárate)

Rugby

Tomás Elizalde (Buenos Aires)

Agustín Fraga (Buenos Aires)

Matteo Graziano (Buenos Aires)

Alejo Lavayén (Buenos Aires)

Joaquín Pellandini (Buenos Aires)

Tobías Wade (Buenos Aires)

Santiago Álvarez (Bahía Blanca)

Luciano González (La Rioja)

Santiago Mare (Buenos Aires)

Marcos Moneta (Buenos Aires)

Matías Osadczuk (Buenos Aires)

Germán Schulz (Córdoba)

Gastón Revol (Córdoba)

Sailing

Francisco Saubidet (Buenos Aires)

Mateo Majdalani (Buenos Aires)

Francisco Guaragna (Rufino)

Chiara Ferretti (Buenos Aires)

Catalina Turienzo (Buenos Aires)

Eugenia Bosco (Buenos Aires)

Lucía Falasca (Buenos Aires)

Shooting

Marcelo Gutiérrez (Buenos Aires)

Federico Gil (Buenos Aires)

Fernanda Russo (Córdoba)

Skateboarding

Matias Dell Olio (Mar Del Plata)

Mauro Iglesias (Buenos Aires)

Swimming

Ulises Saravia (Buenos Aires)

Agostina Hein (Buenos Aires)

Macarena Ceballos (Río Cuarto)

Table tennis

Santiago Lorenzo (Buenos Aires)

Taekwondo

Lucas Guzmán (Merlo)

Tennis

Sebastián Báez (Buenos Aires)

Francisco Cerúndolo (Buenos Aires)

Tomás Etcheverry (La Plata)

Mariano Navone (Nueve De Julio)

Máximo González (Tandil)

Andrés Malteni (Buenos Aires)

María Carlé (Tandil)

Nadia Podoroska (Alicante, Spain)

Triathlon

Romina Biagioli (Córdoba)

Volleyball

Pablo Kukartsev (Buenos Aires)

Matías Sánchez (San Juan)

Jan Martínez-Franchi (Vicente López)

Facundo Conte (Vicente López)

Agustín Loser (General Alvear)

Santiago Danani (Buenos Aires)

Bruno Lima (San Juan)

Luciano De Cecco (Santa Fe De La Vera Cruz)

Luciano Vicentín (Paraná)

Martín Ramos (Buenos Aires)

Luciano Palonsky (Buenos Aires)

Nicolás Zerba (Buenos Aires)

#Sports #National Teams #Argentina #Celebrities #Races #Boats #Animals #Fights #New York #Hockey #Soccer #Golf #Florida #Tennis #Spain

2 notes · View notes

agendaculturaldelima · 3 months

Text

#ElEscenarioDelMundo

📣 FESTIVAL DANZA NUEVA 💃

💥 En su XXXVI edición se cuenta con la participación de ocho espectáculos seleccionados mediante convocatoria nacional, en los que la danza contemporánea y otros estilos dancísticos, así como diferentes expresiones artísticas se fusionan para dar como resultado creaciones escénicas únicas, diversas y dialogantes con nuestra realidad social. Esta edición dedicada a la más reciente e innovadora producción dancística peruana, con una treintena de artistas nacionales que se unen para ofrecer una experiencia única. La programación incluye clases maestras y conversatorios con los artistas.

📜 PROGRAMA

🗯 Se inicia el 02 y 03 de julio con PosTacto, obra creada y dirigida por Ana Brito, Cory Cruz y Pachi Valle Riestra,con la participación de Andrea Pereda, Joselyn Ortiz, Lui Vizcarra.Continúa el 05 y 06 de julio con Albagané, propuesta de La Trenza Colectivo y Tumbes_204, bajo la dirección e interpretación de Luz Gutiérrez Privat y Joelle Gruenberg, creación escénica contemporánea, inspirada en la ritualidad festiva del Señor de la Soledad en Huaraz de la Región Ancash.

👁 Desde Cusco, llega la compañía Transdisciplinar Escénicas con Amazonasdelcuerpo, amazonasdelalma, obra de danza teatro y video programada para el 09 y 10 de julio, dirigida e interpretada por Marisol Zumaeta, acompañada por la cantante Gladys Conde. Luego de la función del 10 de julio se propone un conversatorio con las artistas. El 13 y 14 de julio se presenta el Ballet de San Marcos con Ello sensible, coreografía de Arturo Vela, Luis Valdivia, Marlon Cabellos y la participación de Leila León, Karol Martínez, Naysha Meneses, María Elena Riera, Vanessa Rivera, Ana María Tarazona, Rudy Quispe, Juan Salas Ariza, Raúl Trujillo y Luis Valdivia.

🤩 El 16 y 17 de julio se aprecia AYACÁN, dirigida porPável Paniagua, interpretada por Pável Paniagua y Alonso Núñez. Inspirado en el contacto con la noche, propone irrumpir la lógica racional del día presentando la oscuridad como un espacio-tiempo para el redescubrimiento de la existencia personal a partir de la magia, la ternura, el juego, el placer, la violencia y el riesgo. El 17 de julio se realiza un conversatorio con los artistas, inmediatamente después de la presentación

👸 Ojalá que al ocaso tengas compañía, se presenta el 19 y 20 de julio, obra de la Compañía Médula Danza, con coreografía y dirección de Carla Picón, está interpretada por Andrea Zamora, Andreína Dueñas, Fabián Henostroza, Héctor Quispe, Melisa Luna, Pierina Bullón, Sebastián Cornejo y Taty Correa. La pieza explora la paleta de colores de la vida, desde el amor hasta el dolor, y cómo estas experiencias nos enriquecen.

🎯 El humor y el sarcasmo están presentes en El presidente más feliz, que va el 23 y 24 de julio, bajo el concepto y la dirección de Cristina Velarde. Participan, Cristina Velarde, Mariel Tamayo, Fer Escudero, Miguel Campana, Lui Vizcarra, Paul Lazo. La obra plantea una nueva lectura del ejercicio de autoridad y de la percepción de desamparo que sentimos como ciudadanos.

👀 La función de cierre, el 26 y 27 de julio con la presentación de Dejar ir / Orquídea azul de Hevia Dance Company, con la dirección y coreografía de Pepe Hevia. Participan: Ariam León, Valentina Hidalgo, Jesús Paiva, Alejandro Cabel, Diago Borda, Naidubys Ferrer, Sofía Murrugarra y André Tempo.La obra cuestiona la belleza y la pureza en toda regla, toma como metáfora a la orquídea azul y su extrema plasticidad y perfección, haciéndonos valorar lo hermoso que vive en el paisaje que habitamos y diseñamos, asumiendo el dolor del destierro, el olvido y la ofrenda que generamos al dejar ir, intuyendo a lo lejos una nueva vida.

▶️ Video Promocional: https://bit.ly/45Do6Hp

📌 TEMPORADA:

📆 Del 02 al 27 de Julio

🕗 8:00pm.

🏪 Auditorio del ICPNA (av. Angamos Oeste 160 – Miraflores).

🏷️ Entradas:

🎫 Adultos: S/.40

🎟️Jubilados: S/.35

🎟 Estudiantes S/.30

🖱 Reservas en Joinnus: https://bit.ly/3crtXYZ

2 notes · View notes

grogusmum · 2 years

Text

Hechizado (part 2)

JAVI GUTIÉRREZ X American Witch OFC (It's Kelly ya'll, cuz birthday rights!)

WC: 2500ish

WARNINGS: LANGUAGE (nothing much) love spell

N/A: For Kelly's birthday I gave her a coupon for a fic request and this is what she sent me-

Hazel my darling I have come up with the one-shot I would like to redeem with my birthday coupon (but I'm not trying to rush you, write at your pace 💙) "Javi G comes down to his olive trees, either to meet with the caretakers and check in or maybe he wants time away from the compound, and he saves a black cat that is stuck in one of the trees before bringing it back to his place and putting up lost cat posts online. But what he doesn't know is he saved a witch's (me) familiar so when she shows up to collect her wayward companion she gives him a luck amulet in return and unintentionally makes him fall for her."

Okay I am a baldfaced liar! I have gotten completely carried away! I was writing and writing and what was going to be the second and final part was becoming alarmingly longer than part one... Apparently, It's a lot easier to get people into witchy shenanigans than it is to get them out. So I want to say three parts and that's it... and it probably will be, but I shouldn't make any promises...

Song mentioned is On The Street Where You Leave from My Fair Lady

Happy Birthday, beloved Kelly Girl!!! @chaoticgeminate

Part 1

Javi has been trying to concentrate on anything other than the lovely curl of Kelly's flaxen hair, or blue-gray eyes, he wondered if they change depending on the light or her clothes, or maybe even her mood. He went for a swim, but could only think of what she may look like with water beading delicately on her lashes. He couldn’t walk in the olive grove- that’s where he found her cat, all he could think about is what if he hadn’t? What if he had never met her? His eyes welled at the thought.

“What is wrong with me?” Javi asked mostly to himself, but he was in the kitchen, trying to distract himself by “testing” the cooking.

“I don’t know, but if you are going to dip your fingers in all of my dishes, there will be!” his chef, Carmen said, pushing him out of her kitchen, with a heavy sigh. She paused at the swinging door, she knew this mood. “Señor Javi. Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s this wonderful woman I met, only yesterday, she has captured my heart!” Javi’s hands went to his chest, eyes big and brows tightly knit. “I can’t think of anything else.”

Carmen knew Javi’s flare for the dramatic and saw this as the same, though she could see he was suffering.

“Well, go talk to her, is she spoken for? Can you not try to woo her?”

“I don’t even know,” his eyes welled up again, “Carmen! What if she is with someone?”

Carmen pats his shoulder consoling, “You don’t even know yet, Señor Javi. Do not put yourself in a state.”

“When will you stop calling me Señor, eh?”

Camen just laughed.

“Go see about this girl, eh?”

Javi chuckled knowing she was referencing Good Will Hunting, for his benefit.

“Go see about a girl? Yes. I will!”

With that Javi walked with purpose to his suite, to shower and change, leaving the necklace in place. He was able to take his bandages off and put on some relatively smaller adhesive bandages on just the worse cuts. Now he just needed to find out where Kelly lived. Thinking of the most romantic of movies, he wanted to surprise her with flowers at her door.

If she has a balcony or a fire escape to look down at him from, that would make it perfect, he thought. He remembered she had said she swapped houses with a fellow on Limonerà. He smiled, he could figure out which one.

“I must have dropped it on the way up to Javi’s,” Kelly said to Nightshade, who meowed back and looked under a bush. Kelly was found again by her neighbor Marco wandering the street, he would have thought her cat had gone missing again except she was looking on the ground.

“Not looking for your cat again?” her neighbor called, as he approached.

“Oh, no,” Kelly said with a start, Nightshade popped out of the bush, “ no he’s right here, I think I must have dropped a necklace while looking for him yesterday. I’ve turned the house upside down. It has a blue stone, oval; on a silver chain.” She shook her head irritated, throwing her hands in the air, “I can’t seem to keep track of anything!”

Marco gave her a sympathetic look and offered to help, a hand on her shoulder. Kelly looked at Marco, with a small thankful smile. She was about to decline, to tell him not to worry when Javi appeared.

Javi made his way to the small street, as he did he picked some blossoming plants on his way down, he liked the sunny yellow flowers of a woody plant and took a few sprigs. When he picked the blue blossoms, the plant's aroma hit his nose, and he knew that one was rosemary. The yellow and blue looked cheery in his hand, and he knew the hand-picked flowers were perfect for this romantic endeavor, making him whistle happily as he strolled along. But he was brought up short when he saw his beloved smiling at a handsome man with his hand on her shoulder. His eyes narrowed at Marco, but he could never look upon Kelly that way-

“Kelly?”

“Javi, hi!” Kelly had never seen such puppy-eyes on an adult in her life. “This is my neighbor Marco, he was the one who directed me to your post!”

“Oh, yes, good,” Javi situated himself between Kelly and Marco, tentatively putting an arm on her shoulder. His shirt opened a little due to his outstretched arm and, Kelly caught sight of a silver chain, the way it hung, she knew it was weighted down by a pendant, though she couldn’t see what it was. Thinking back to the day before- she remembered he was wearing an orange shirt, he had several buttons undone and she was almost positive he wasn't wearing any chain.

Nightshade started purring and wrapping himself around the two of them. Javi smiled. And Kelly blanched.

The cat. The name. The pendant. What did you do, Nightshade?

Kelly realized she had been holding it, how the pad of her thumb rubbed it, a lapis lazuli, as she thought about finding Nightshade, and then about how attractive Javi was, she thought a lot about … oh no. No. No. No.

“These are for you,” Javi turned the two of them, cutting Marco out, as he held up the little spray of flowers. Kelly jumped at the opportunity-

“Oh, so sweet, Javi. Come on inside and let's get them into some water.” They started toward her door, over her shoulder she gave Marco a warm if not somewhat apologetic smile. From her first impression of Javi, she was sure he was never so impolite- and it was her fault. Even if it was unintentional. “Thank you, Marco.”

This caused Javi's arm to come around Kelly’s waist. She was torn, because, wow, this was, um… very nice. But it isn't real, but the danger of it was very real. Oh, boy was all she could think.

As soon as they were inside, he got down on one knee to give her the flowers.

“I can not give you the sky or the sun, but I can give you these.”

Kelly centered herself and noticed Nightshade was being very quiet. After a deep breath-

“Thank you Javi they are lovely,” taking them she could smell the rosemary and gave them a good look, “Rosemary… and, what? St John’s Wart?”

She busied herself, finding a jar and filling it with water in the kitchen. There was something about these two plants… Lost in thought Kelly didn't realize Javi had followed her, she was about to call into the living room, to tell him they were lovely. When she turned Javi was right behind her, and she found herself in his arms.

“I am so glad you like them, they are but a trifle, Kelly.” Javi pulled her close, “Kelly- your name is like a bell hung in my heart. Kelly.”

Completely off-kilter, Kelly, just looked at him. Do not kiss him. Not with the necklace on him. Be kind, but do not-

“Kiss me, I would be a happy man, to know the taste of your sweet lips.”

Kelly saw the flash of the silver chain again.

“Javi, is that my necklace?”

Javi, who enchantment or no, backed up. Disappointed but not defeated. He would never kiss someone without permission.

“Yes, I was going to ask you if this was yours. I had not noticed it on your tender neck yesterday, but I found it after you left. It is the same stone as on Bellado- perdóneme, I mean Nightshade.” Javi held the stone tight in his hand.

“That is what I was looking for when you found me outside, what a relief,” Kelly waited. “May I?”

When it was obvious Javi was not going to take it off she gently took it and lifted the chain over his head. She braced herself. Javi looked sadly at it. He, of course, didn't expect to keep it. But he didn't want to be parted from it either. He shook his head a little, and Kelly saw. She turned away from him and carefully placed it in a tea towel and covered it, and took a deep breath. She felt him step into her space again, from behind, and his nose was in her hair.

Oh boy, this is stronger than I thought. How is this still happening? What have I done??

Javi's warm hands glanced over her arms and shoulders. He felt so solid, and warm. She let escape the tiniest of whines. Using all of her fortitude, Kelly stepped away and turned to face him.

“Call me old-fashioned, but let's wait until after our dinner at least.” Kelly smiled, she was going to have to do some quick work to undo this. If she could only fix it without his knowledge. He will never believe it was an accident. And she really did find him attractive, she knew if she wasn't dreading what had happened, she would be weak-kneed. She still was, for which she felt incredibly guilty.

Javi was undaunted, he would woo her and win her favor!

“Very well, tomorrow? My chef can make us a sumptuous meal. Unless you prefer to go to a restaurante?”

“Your home would be lovely,” Kelly thought it best to have privacy, not sure what she would have to do yet, to undo this spell.

“Perfect, yes. I will come to get you at 2, for lunch tomorrow, yes?” Javi swelled. “I do not think I can wait for la cena.”

“Lunch it is, Javi,” Kelly said walking him to the door. “ I’ll see you then.”

Javi allowed himself to be seen to the door, thinking of how he would set the perfect stage. She had not rejected him, she just wanted to go slow. He could go slow. They would picnic in the grove. He couldn’t wait, so he texted Carmen about the menu as he walked up the road. He looked at the riot of flowers, and listened to the birds, of course, this beautiful street is the street where Kelly lived. He started humming as he made his way up the hill. He didn’t know all the words to the My Fair Lady song but enough to feel satisfied by singing it to himself- going full voice once he was alone on his private drive even though he could only sing little snatches.

Kelly watched him walk up the road for only a moment before shutting and locking the door, and running to her cell phone.

“ ‘llo” a sleepy voice said.

“Mel! Oh my good gods I need help!”

Melinda was up and awake instantly.

“Kelly, are you okay?”

In the safety of f her friend's voice, she broke down. Tears streamed freely.

“I did something. It was an accident! But I still did it and I have to figure out how to undo it!”

“What did you do?”

Kelly tried several times, when it came to it she could only mutter it as fast as humanly possible-

“Iputaneighborunderalovespell.”

“Girl, I did not catch one word.”

“I put- I put a neighbor under a love spell,” Kelly's eyes were shut tight and she was already wincing in preparation.

“YOU WHAT!”

Kelly pulled the phone away from her ear.

“Nightshade started it!”

“Okay, I don’t… what?”

Nightshade finally showed himself, just in time to look affronted.

“I see you, and you are just as guilty as I am Mister!” Kelly wagged an accusatory finger.

“Please tell me what you are talking about Kelly, I love you to bits, but it’s the middle of the night and I’ve already taken your house guest, Miguel line dancing.”

“Oh, Mel. I’m sorry. Here is the nitty gritty. I inadvertently put a love spell on my neighbor-”

“How? Spells are actions, intention, ingredients, specific times of day… half the time they still don’t work!”

“This was more wish-craft than witchcraft.”

“Not the manifesting self-help bull-”

“No, no, If you have the gift it can happen- Think Tabitha in Bewitched, most often it’s children when they aren't really aware of what they are doing or the power they have.”

Kelly explained about the stone, looking for her shithead cat, and her thoughts that had become intentions without realizing it. And then her shithead cat again. And how Javi found it and put it on.

“So, lapis is the exact wrong stone to be giving a deep tissue massage while having these, ahem, thoughts?”

“Well, Lapis is a wonderful connector for me and Bellad- Nightshade. But it also brings love, deepening connection, boldness… for some reason Nightshade was wrapping around us, I have no idea why! ”

“Well as a pain in the keester that familiar is, he usually isn’t wrong even if he tells you with the most assholery he can muster.”

“Yeah.” Kelly glared at the spot Nightshade had now left to find a sunny spot to nap in.

“So how do you undo it?”

“I don’t know,” wailed Kelly. “ I took off the necklace, I had hoped he would just snap out of it. Oo. Maybe I should’ve slap him?”

“Who are you, Cher?”

“Cher was a witch in Witches of Eastwick,” Kelly pointed out. “Sorry, I just, UGH! How can I undo something that was done subliminally?”

“Maybe you need to tell him.”

“Because then I have to explain witches exist, that witches exist apart from people who are Wiccan, and then I have to tell him, this wasn't some ruse to ensnare an incredibly handsome and extremely rich man, who happens to be sweet and-”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, he lives in a huge villa at the top of the street. I think they are in olives or olive oil… they have a grove. But, sure, I can try to convince him it was all just an accident, right? That it really is just some wacky Bewitched hijinx, oops! Maybe if I learn that cute nose twitch…”

“Oh, yeah, maybe not. At least try without letting the cat out of the bag.”

“Cat,” Kelly grumbled. “You are the one who got me into this…”

“Can he get you out?” Melinda asked with hope in her voice.

“That would require him not thinking he knows better than me.”

“Well, that will never happen,” Melinda deadpanned. “ Listen, there has to be a general pull the plug on this shit spell, right?”

“I have to do some research, I’ve got to find something before tomorrow at two o'clock.”

“I’ll look in your books at home.Then text you if I find anything.”

“Thank you Mel, goodnight.”

“ ‘night, Kells.”

Kelly heard her friend mutter something about “Bewitched hijinx” and then a click.

With a sigh, Kelly pulled the stack of books she had brought with her, and her laptop out of her bag and set them on a side table next to a comfortable club chair in the main room. She bustled about in the kitchen getting tea, and the tea towel that held the necklace. She sat, opened the towel, and looked at the amulet. Nightshade came out of hiding and hopped up on the ottoman.

“Does this mean you are helping?”

Part 3

thank you for reading! 💚

You can find more of my work here and if you would care to be tagged for this or any of my writing fill out my taglist form

#javi gutierrez #javi g x ofc #javi x witch #javi gutiérrez #javi gutiérrez x ofc

61 notes · View notes

provincial-charmer · 9 months

Text

As Boundless As The Sea

SURPRISE! It's Chapter Two! Immediately! Because I already had it posted elsewhere so I figured why not! Also hey, first mention of an actual canon character!

If you want taken back to Chapter One, it's over here!

Rated: E for Everyone, briefly slipping toward PG

Warnings: Mentions of religious persecution, the Spanish Inquisition warrants a warning all it's own, brief implications of watching a burning at the stake, brief mentions of torture that Marco doesn't fully listen to because he briefly DISSOCIATES, which, also, warning for very brief dissociation

Recommended Listening: "Map and Willie" by Dave Grusin, from The Goonies soundtrack

Chapter Two: Enter Captain Gutiérrez

In which we are introduced to our central antagonist, as well as our treasure map. Can't have a treasure hunt without one of those.

Captain Aurelio Guiomar Gutiérrez was a mountain of a man. With a heavy mane of hair in varying shades of grey and white and a large, fur-trimmed coat laid over his already broad shoulders, no light came through the door so long as he stood there. I might have been deceived into thinking there was light in his eyes, but it could have been a dim reflection of the sun, too ashamed to look upon him fully.

It also could have been the firelight of Hell. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell was that he came to me with all the joy of a carnivore in his face. And what brought him joy only ever brought me misery.

He returned my greeting by tipping his hat as his smile grew wider still. “And a good morning to you as well, Marco! I hope you’re enjoying your break!”

I looked down to the beignet in my hand. In response, I told him with false playfulness, “I was enjoying it, before you showed up.”

He laughed. It was a heavy sound that shook the bones of any who heard it. Which wasn’t a compliment. “Oh, don’t worry! I won’t take too much of your time! I just have a new job for you! That’s all!”

“Oh, good. ” I responded, knowing it wouldn’t be good at all.

“Now, now, don’t give me that!” He then said to me in a scolding manner I assumed was intended to be playful, only to clap a hand onto my shoulder with far too much force for my comfort. “I think you’re going to enjoy this one!”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve said that before…”

“And I’ve meant it every time! If I may?”

As he gestured to my house with his free hand, I sighed. Of course he wanted in. As if I could refuse him.

“You may.” I removed his hand from my shoulder so I could step aside. “Right this way, Capitán. ”

His smile grew wider, showing more teeth, before he had the dignity to close his mouth and enter. Now, when he smiled with a closed mouth, that was one of the only times I could have been fooled into thinking his smile was pleasant. That was how I figured many felt about him. He might have been pleasant to listen to for some – somehow – and he might have been pleasant to look at for others – somehow – but as soon as he opened his mouth…

“May I also take one of these?” He then asked me, as he pointed at the basket of beignets in passing.

I wanted to say no. But he was my guest. My higher-ranking, terribly influential guest. “ Sí, sí puedes. But only one! I want there to still be some for Perlita when she gets home, do you understand?”

“ Sí, sí, I understand…”

He said this as he took the biggest beignet out of the basket. Bastardo.

Now Aurelio, he loved dragging his visits out well into the day. I hardly saw him in years past due to the War of the Agreement, so I didn’t have to dread his visits very often. However, seeing now that he had come back to stay, he seemed to want to take as much of my time as possible. Normally, I would tolerate those conversations to a certain point, then say a key word or phrase that would signal to him that it was time to go.

Not here. I wanted this conversation to last no longer than it needed to. So as we approached the coffee table, I got right to the point. “Now, what am I translating this time?” I asked him. “Not another religious text, I hope?”

I took my first bite out of the beignet after asking him this. And I will admit, the sugar certainly helped me to tolerate him. But only a little.

“Not at all!” He started to tell me with a wave of his hand. “This request has nothing to do with the church whatsoever!”

Ah, wonderful, I started thinking to myself, I won’t have to deal with the –

“Instead, this request comes from Her Royal Majesty, Queen Isabel de Farnesio!”

As quickly as my relief came, it went, and with it went my appetite.

For all my work for the Navy, this much could be said: whatever the Navy made me do was almost always within the realm of what I knew, and they were almost always completely transparent with me on who made the request. This was one of the few benefits to being employed by those who knew exactly the limitations of my education. It also helped that I knew exactly who to curse out when I was losing too much sleep.

But for all the translations I had made before, the requests never came from royalty. This… this was unheard of.

“… Queen Isabel?” I asked him, slowly, to which he gave but a single nod. “What in the world would she want me to translate?”

His smile grew, and there were the teeth again. I regretted asking immediately. “See for yourself.”

The Captain then removed a scroll case he had so carefully concealed under his coat. Had I been paying more attention when he had come in, I’m certain I would have noticed it sooner. But I did not. Instead, I stared at this case, struck silent by the mark of the Spanish royal family upon its seal.

Luckily, I always kept a pair of gloves in one of my pockets, should it get too cold to head out bare-handed. So to protect the case from the evidence of my eating, I put them on before handling the case myself. Even though the case was clearly made by the Crown, and so was in no danger of breaking to my touch, I was still as cautious as could be in opening it. But the cap twisted off easily enough, releasing to me the smell of sea salt and stale blood.

All things considered, I was relieved to smell nothing worse.

Slowly, I tipped the case so what was inside would slide into my open hand. What then slipped out nearly stopped my heart. For something of this case size, I expected it to be made out of linen, or perhaps cotton.

Instead, what fell into my hand was papyrus.

For those who may not know, papyrus is made from the pith - or medulla - of the papyrus plant, rather than the cloth that we use. It was most prominently documented as being used by the Egyptians, but was used by other cultures of the Mediterranean Sea, as well as several Asian cultures.

Up to this point, I had never been given the honor of handling papyrus. The last I had seen of it was on display in someone’s home in Venice, back when I had lived there many years ago. There, no one was ever allowed to touch it, given its age. It may very well have fallen apart if anyone so much as bent it the wrong way.

Yet here it was. A piece of history, sitting in my hands.

I was captivated. He could have presented me with the crown of the King himself and I would have regarded it with less respect.

Carefully, so carefully, I moved everything else on the coffee table aside to unroll the scroll fully. I did this as slowly as I could, not just to see what was on it, but to listen to the sound it made. It had a satisfying crackle to it that pleased the ears. I made certain not to fracture or tear it in the process. Not that I needed to, as it appeared an entire section of the scroll was missing when fully unfurled.

What I saw upon it then was… a map. An honest-to-God map.

“… Capitán, ” I slowly started to ask, “How did you…”

Then I stopped myself. I didn’t need to ask how. It was the Spanish Navy. The greatest likelihood is that they stole it. Instead I asked, “Where did you even find this?”

When I looked back up to him, he looked too proud. “We happened to recover it from the hands of a recently acquired prisoner of ours,” He answered, “one Capitán Jack Sparrow. ”

I actively had to hold my breath to prevent myself from sighing again. Captain Jack Sparrow. Of course. It couldn’t have been anyone else, out of all pirates, no no. It just had to be him…

The Captain continued, either ignorant to my recognition of the name or uncaring of it. “At first, he didn’t want to tell us anything about it. He tried giving us every name and excuse he could, if it meant we could have let him and his scruffy friend go. Pájaro terco. ”

He scoffed, before taking another bite of his beignet. He didn’t even wait until he was done chewing before going on. Luckily he got nothing on the map.

“Once we placed him in the hands of the Inquisition, they wasted no time making him sing.”

A chill came over me then. As it always did, whenever the Inquisition was brought up in conversation.

The Spanish Inquisition, or the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición, as was the full title, was a truly wicked organization, loudly professing their loyalty to the Crown of Spain and God above while committing the most heinous crimes in their name. They claimed to know the word of God, yet acted with such wickedness that I felt even the Devil would have crossed himself in their presence.

No part of our history involving them was good. There was not one good thing they did for us, as a people, a community, or a civilization. My own personal history in dealing with them was especially unpleasant. So much so that I neither saw Captain Gutiérrez’s mouth move nor heard anything else of what he said.

All that was in my mind was fire. Fire, and rain, and the curses that my mother spoke above a raging storm, scorned by an auto de fe.

I struggled to force the images out of my mind as I looked back down to the map. I had no immediate recognition of the geography compared to modern charts. And aside from the unfamiliar coastlines drawn out, there were several islands scattered around the paths marked on the map that I couldn’t immediately recall. I couldn’t even make out the end of the trail. That was the section that had been torn off.

How unfortunate.

“… it’s truly a shame they didn’t have to whip him much. Considering what he said to us, I feel he should have lost more skin for it. Ah, well.”

It was then I remembered where I was, and who I had the misfortune of talking to.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked up to see Captain Gutiérrez regarding the map and I with a familiar fondness. One that seemed to seek some kind of approval from me, for reasons I could never figure out. To satisfy this, I agreed with him. “It is. In all my years of working here, I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you know how this came into Capitán Sparrow’s possession?”

He thought well about this. I figured he was looking for the right words, as I had assumed by this point that there were some things the Spanish Royal Navy knew that I, being a common man, was not privy to. So as much as I imagine he didn’t want to be, he had to be careful with what he told me.

During this silence, I briefly imagined the satisfaction one must have found in being in a position that was able to tell him ‘no’ and get away with it. I also fantasized about a quarry in one of his big game hunts overseas devouring him with the same elegant carelessness that he devoured the beignet.

I quite liked the idea of it being a lioness. Or a bear. Or perhaps a particularly humble little family of piranhas that he tripped and fell into the jaws of while trying to cross a river.

I liked that last one especially.

Eventually, he found his answer. “Well, according to Sparrow, he, eh… acquired the map from a rival of his. A piece was torn off in his escape, so that remains with the previous owners. When he finally told us where he believed it led, Queen Isabel was most interested in authenticating his claim, and sent me out to find one who could translate the languages present.”

“I recognized one of them as Ancient Greek, then recalled you mentioning you had studied Greek while you worked abroad. So I went to find you at once.”

On my second look at the map, I noted that yes, Ancient Greek was there… alongside Egyptian hieroglyphs. The latter was used on the names of locations such as land masses, cities, rivers and oceans, and the former was more common as fragments scattered throughout. In my mind, the parts in Greek were likely notes made by whoever purchased the map when it was first made. The hieroglyphs had to be from the map’s creators.

An Ancient Egyptian map with notes from an Ancient Greek expedition… were it any other circumstance on any other day, I would have been beside myself with joy. It just had to be a work-related translation…

“Well, you should consider yourself lucky you managed to catch me when you did.” I then told him. I did my best not to let my disappointment at the situation show. “I’ll have plenty of time to translate it for you, seeing as you caught me before I could even schedule my next hunting trip. ”

I brushed my fingers gently over the surface of the map as I said this. It was a marvel holding such a priceless piece. Alas, I couldn’t ignore who it came from. It was a map valued by a pirate , after all. If Jack Sparrow himself was interested in it…

I had to ask. “Where did he say it leads? I imagine he would have been after something incredibly valuable for the Queen of Spain to be interested…”

Captain Gutiérrez straightened himself up and told me, beaming with well-contained excitement, “ Well, if Sparrow is to be believed… then it may well lead to Atlantis.”

I looked up to him from where I sat.

He looked down at me from where he stood.

The silence weighed heavy like an anchor between us.

Did I hear him correctly?

I might not have. Best to check.

“… Atlantis.” I slowly said.

"Sí,” He repeated. “Atlantis.”

“The ancient city, lost to the Greeks.” I went on. “The city said to have spurned the gods, and to have sunk beneath the waves for it? That city?”

“One and the same!”

As I slowly looked back down to the map, the academic in me wanted to laugh. All through my years I had heard scholars and sailors alike tell stories of their search for it, only to return humbled and empty-handed. And I myself had participated in my own share of debates as to the validity of its existence. I was among the audience believing the theory that Atlantis was invented by Plato to try and warn his own people to be more humble. Nothing else would have made sense to me. There was simply no way an entire city could sink to the bottom of the sea without any outside record or evidence.

It was a cautionary tale to me. Nothing more.

And yet, part of me wanted to believe in it. That part of me that grew up loving the tales of my father’s expeditions – that believed every fantastical story my brother Thorello told me to help me sleep at night – wanted to believe that Atlantis was real, and that it was out there, waiting to be uncovered.

Waiting for someone like me.

That, and there was no denying the age of the map before me, nor whose hands it came from. It would have taken a master to try and recreate a map like this for any kind of forgery. Even if it proved to be yet another dead end, I allowed myself the briefest moment to fantasize…

Realistically, it could have been a ruin, like so many others. A husk of its former self. It might not have even had much to offer in the way of monetary gain. But oh, the possibilities! Mosaics and pottery! Glimpses of ancient artwork and architecture! Undiscovered historical records, memories from the people that lived there, depictions of now-extinct wildlife, or perhaps even the fragments of an incomplete epic… the possibilities were endless!

Oh, if only it had fallen into someone else’s hands! If only it wasn’t the Spanish Royal Navy that had found it! I knew exactly where all that was found in Atlantis would go if they got their hands on it.

Still, the map I held in my hands was real, there was no mistake about that. Whether the destination was real or not had yet to be seen. All I knew was that I had my work cut out for me in translating it.

Which begged the question… “So how much will I be paid to translate it?”

Captain Gutiérrez grinned. “That’s the best part,” He started to say. He proceeded to finish off his beignet with a few final bites before continuing. “ If it happens to lead to Atlantis, and if we are able to claim it in the name of Spain, then I’ve convinced them that it should be a valuable enough find to dismiss what remains of your debt! Rather clever of me, don’t you think?”

There were no words I could recall, in any of the countless languages I had been taught, that could at all describe all the conflicting feelings that arose in that singular moment. But I will still try to explain, in brief, to the best of my ability.

See, my debt to the Navy, at the time, was not the traditional kind of debt. I wasn’t told specific numbers to work toward paying off, nor was I allowed to even ask how much was left. If I tried, all I got were vague answers. Professional speeches that sounded perfect on paper, yet gave no real human comfort.

Not once, in eighteen, almost nineteen years of service, was I ever told, “doing this will absolve you of the rest of your debt.”

It felt too good to be true. Like a dream I had yet to wake up from, before the tiles beneath my feet suddenly collapsed out from beneath me and dropped me into sea.

But that was just it. It was too good to be true. If not for just one word in that entire conversation, I might have jumped for joy. I might have kissed a man, even, if not for that one accursed word.

"… ‘If’?” I asked.

"Sí. ‘If’.” Captain Gutiérrez confirmed. That proud grin on his face fell when he said that, but it fell in a way I couldn’t read clearly. I could never quite tell if his hopes for me were sincere or not. “Sadly, it will not be so easy for me to convince them to pay you as much if it doesn’t lead to Atlantis. So I suppose you’ll need to authenticate it first.”

“After all, there’s no speaking for what has not yet been proven, is there?”

I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. What little hope had stirred slowly turned to hatred. Hatred that I didn’t allow to show in my voice, knowing just how much power he had over me in this situation.

“… No, there isn’t.”

“As I thought!” He clapped his hands together. “How soon can you have it done?”

Slowly, I breathed in, then out. Re-imagining the piranhas helped, to some extent. “If you’re only asking for authentication,” I told him, “it should take me no more than a day or two, once it’s clean. A full translation of the map will take much longer, depending on if you want me to make a fully translated copy or merely make notes on what the original says.”

“We’ll prioritize authentication, then.” He said this with a honeyed sweetness that, to me, tasted like poison. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

I smiled back at him as he rose, as he passed me by, even as he broke his own word and stole two more beignets out of that little woven basket. I let him think I didn’t notice. Only when I knew his back was to me did I let it fall, scowling as I had wanted to for the entire conversation. As he made ready to leave, I heard him pause at the door. I could feel him staring at my back. How I loathed the sensation.

“Oh! And thank you for the beignets! They’re delicious!”

My hands slowly tightened their grip on the table as he left. It took every good grace within me to resist the urge to throw the remainder of the basket at the back of his head. But that would have wasted perfectly good food. Then Perlita wouldn’t have been able to have any.

Once my door was shut, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was gone, I let myself relax. I was left alone with my thoughts, once so neatly organized, now all disoriented by the weight of the task laid before me.

I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Mierda...”

Whatever beignets were left in the basket, I left for Perlita. I was no longer hungry for them. Instead, I washed my hands properly before taking the map, the case, and my gloves up to my office to begin work. By the time she finally came back about six hours later, that’s precisely where she found me.

Alone, in my office, working the daylight away.

As usual.

2 notes · View notes

sociedadnoticias · 9 months

Text

Opinión | En Corto | El desplome de Xóchitl

Opinión | En Corto | El desplome de Xóchitl #PeriodismoParaTi #SociedadNoticias #Xóchitl @araujogar @PartidoMorenaMx @XochitlGalvez @VillanuevaVa_ @FENAMM @TonyRodriguezMX

Al interior del frente opositor cada vez cobra más fuerza la idea de sustituir a Xóchitl Gálvez. Por Raúl García Araujo Al interior del frente opositor cada vez cobra más fuerza la idea de sustituir a Xóchitl Gálvez. La construcción de una pésima imagen, la falta de conexión con los sectores de la población, incluso con los que representan los…

View On WordPress

0 notes

ursocongelado · 1 year

Text

ESTADÃO/ALIÁSDiegoEscrever é dar banho no mendigo que mora dentro de vocêCom uma Samsonite verde cheia de roupas, contos e poemas, elesobreviveu ao fim de um loucoromance, ao crack e à solidão

Em São Paulo, a solidão é um miúdo de galinha esquecido no canto do freezer, mas também é um escritor de ressaca esperando no lobby de um hotel em Higienópolis. Check-out ao meio-dia é criminoso – principalmente quando o sujeito em questão foi dormir às 6h da manhã, depois de enfrentar um sarau de poesia e uma festa de black music na Vila Madalena. Quase um Mick Jagger em turnê. I can't get no satisfaction. Oh, no, no, no.

Diego Moraes, 33 anos, escreveu certa vez que o sonho dele era casar com uma jornalista do Estadão. Dançou. Não desta vez, mano. Agora é curar a noitada com soda limonada, subir no carro da reportagem e encontrar uma velha conhecida: a Praça da Sé. Marco zero da cidade. Lugar em que o hoje promissor escriba, a aposta mais garantida da temporada, já pediu esmolas e comida. A rua é um poeta lido em voz alta. Assim, desmistificado, o artista fala por meio da sua própria obra, misturando versos com respostas cruas, lirismo coado por uma ordinária conversa de bar.

E vai ser o quê, Diego? Vamos contar a história do herói redimido ou do anjo vingador? Ele ainda não tem certeza, mas fala de um insight quando estava no metrô, com os pés para além da faixa amarela de segurança, e o trem foi se aproximando da estação assim como uma vontade atrevida de se atirar. Imagina que lindo? Aquele barulho do metal. O choque do cidadão comum. O transtorno. O poeta que morou na rua se vingando da Cidade, ferrando com o dia de todo mundo. O corpo estraçalhado nos trilhos. O sangue. E pairando sobre tudo isso, no alto, uma placa onde estivesse escrito: CONSOLAÇÃO. O começo de uma lenda.

Respira. Lenda nenhuma. Morrer agora seria uma piada ruim. Vou morrer com uns 80 anos. Poeta bom é poeta morto. Não, não. Tá errado isso. Poeta bom é poeta gordo. Justo agora que as coisas começaram a acontecer, que uma editora importante acena com uma possibilidade de contrato, que tem livro novo pra sair, que umas meninas estão dando mole e uma graninha decente pode pingar. Escrevo para tirar meu nome do Serasa. 80% dos leitores do Dostoiévski estão com nome no Serasa.

Diego passa pelos pastores, pedintes, engraxates e malucos da Sé. Reencontra velhos personagens de Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, John Fante, Charles Bukowski e Plínio Marcos. Quantas vezes eu deitei nessa escadaria da Catedral usando minha mala Samsonite verde como travesseiro e consolo. Dormia pesado. Nunca sonhei. Só paranoia e medo de ser queimado. Na época, tinha esse lance de uns playboys queimando moradores de rua...

Um pouco antes dessa época, Diego morava em Manaus com os pais. Estudou até a sexta série e completou sua formação com um supletivo. Também ajudava o pai em uma gráfica e fazia pequenos bicos. Na adolescência, assistia muito à Sessão da Tarde e amava os filmes do Stallone. Foi vendo Rock, Rambo e Cobra que eu peguei gosto por frases, foi o começo da minha inclinação literária. Quando o Stallone diz (em Cobra) que “você é um cocô... e eu vou matar você” isso é poesia. Millôr e Nelson Rodrigues apareceram um pouco depois.

Em Manaus, conheceu uma garota em um bar/sorveteria. Uma Nina que não tem esse nome. Nina é um nome de literatura. Branquinha, olhos azuis e sardas. A mulher mais linda da cidade. Foi Nina quem ele beijou uma vez. Foi Nina que ele namorou. Foi Nina que inventou que queria uma vida nova em Barcelona. São Paulo seria apenas uma ponte. Só uma ponte, hahaha.

Quem tinha grana era a Nina. Foi ela quem vendeu o carro para bancar a viagem. Foi dela o plano de casar em São Paulo e depois partir para a Espanha. Eu ia para ser chapeiro, ter um subemprego qualquer. Quando o cara está apaixonado faz muita merda. A mãe do Diego foi contra. Não gostava da garota, dizia que aquilo não ia terminar bem, que ele iria se arrepender, jogar a vida fora, que... Tarde demais. Em março de 2003, Diego e Nina desembarcaram em São Paulo. Com ele, uma Samsonite verde cheia de roupas e contos.

Tinha um mundo inteiro aqui nessa cidade. Uma solidão do tamanho de Saturno para ser apreendida e absorvida. Foram morar na Aclimação. Descobriram o yakissoba da Liberdade, os botecos em que desconhecidos não se conversam e o crack. Não tão rápido assim, calma. Primeiro, ela queria um comprimido de êxtase. Fui atrás e me deram um placebo. Depois, corri atrás de pasta de cocaína. Pasta de cocaína? Me disseram para experimentar o crack.

Experimentaram. O crack bateu. Doce. Um vício instantâneo. Mais rápido que Miojo. Paranoia. Morte. Não tão rápido. Play it again. Eles ainda tinham Barcelona. O plano: se casar e bye, bye, Brasil. Só que o inconsciente cria suas próprias regras e armadilhas. Eu esqueci a minha certidão de nascimento em Manaus. Sem ela, não conseguiria me casar.

Nina virou o bicho, como alguém pode esquecer uma certidão de nascimento? Ela disse coisas pesadas, falou que ele tinha feito de propósito, que ele era um zero, um mané e outros petardos. O ar na casa foi ficando irrespirável. Muita droga. Muito crack. E a grana que ela tinha para se estabelecer em Barcelona já estava no fim. Diego foi expulso de casa. Pegou a Samsonite verde (com roupas e contos) e se mandou. No amor, a gente é sempre meio Keith Richards e Chimbinha.

Diego diz que foi andando da Aclimação para a Praça da Sé puxando a Samsonite guerreira. Escolhi a Sé porque me disseram que lá davam sopa e pão com queijo. Não queria ligar pra casa. Orgulho. Sei lá. Não queria assumir o fracasso. Fui pra rua e fui ficando.

Na rua, revirava lixo, bebia muito e passava fome... mas nunca roubou. Tinha medo. Por outro lado, nunca foi assaltado, nunca sofreu nenhum tipo de violência. Acho que essa São Paulo violenta só existe no programa do Datena. Conversava muito com os pregadores religiosos da Sé. Não encontrou Jesus. Ou talvez tenha encontrado Jesus por acaso, rapidamente, sem prestar muita atenção, sem dar muito papo. Quando você descobre que Deus é ironia, sua dor vira piada.

No frio, tinha duas opções: Corote ou albergue. Corote é o amuleto de quase todo vagabundo, uma cachaça que vem em uma garrafinha de plástico, que custa uns R$ 2 e que ajuda a disfarçar a fome e o frio. Mas, às vezes, o frio não pode ser derrotado. Daí, era a vez do albergue. Tinha que chegar antes das 17h. Pegar uma fila e torcer pra ter uma cama e sopa. No albergue, não tinha conversa. Cada um na sua. E dormia-se de olho aberto.

Diego começou a sofrer com abstinência de crack. E, principalmente, falta de comida. A fome dói. Não é uma dor espiritual. É uma dor física mesmo. Emagreci quase 30 quilos. Ia morrer. Nesse ponto, desisti. Liguei pra casa. Mãe, preciso de ajuda. Quando abraçou a mãe no aeroporto de Manaus, chorou. Eu estava salvo.

Salvo – e com a Samsonite verde. Dentro dela, seus contos. Os escritos que renderam o seu primeiro livro A Fotografia do Meu Antigo Amor Dançando Tango. Rodado na gráfica do pai. Esgotado. A publicação foi elogiada, embora algumas pessoas tenham pescado um certo sexismo em seus textos. Nunca agredi uma mulher. O cara que bate em mulher taca fogo no lugar onde podia morar. Destrói o leito onde podia repousar.

Uma vez, saiu na mão com um cara que disse que ele imitava o Bukowski. O mundo não precisa de outro Bukowski. Chega! Diego sabe disso. Ama o Bukowski, mas está mais para o lírico do que para o maldito. Ou um maldito lírico. Porrada em que fizer essa acusação. Ou em quem imitar o velho Bukowski.

A carreira foi ganhando corpo no mundo virtual. Com blogs, postes no Facebook, aforismos e polêmicas, a mitologia ao redor de Diego foi crescendo. Escrever esperando likes no Facebook é mais triste que pedir esmolas na rua. Sua autoficção chamou atenção das editoras. Com intervalos curtos, escrevendo muito, publicou na sequência A Solidão É um Deus Bêbado Dando Ré num Trator (Ed. Bartlebee); Um Bar Fecha dentro da Gente (Ed. Douda Correria); Eu Já Fui Aquele Cara que Comprava Vinte Fichas e Falava Eu Te Amo no Orelhão (Ed. Corsário-satã), Meu Coração É um Bar Vazio Tocando Belchior (Ed. Penalux) e um romance, ainda sem título, que já está apalavrado com uma grande editora.

Um relativo sucesso já pode ser sentido em Manaus. Lá, eu sou um Cazuza chegando em um bar do Leblon no sábado à noite.

O escritor Milton Hatoum, nascido em Manaus, leu apenas um poema de Diego, mas gostou do que viu. “Tem um ritmo de prosa, uma coisa que passa longe do regionalismo. É elaborado e tem muitas influências da cultura pop. O mais importante é que a crítica comece a olhar para uma produção que está acontecendo fora de São Paulo e do Rio.”

Em São Paulo, Diego voltou a desembarcar em novembro do ano passado, convidado para participar da Balada Literária, organizada pelo escritor Marcelino Freire. “Diego é um verdadeiro poeta. Um escritor único. Desses raros de aparecer. Porque tem verdade. Tem raiva lírica. Não tem pompas na língua. Nem papas no juízo. Leio um livro dele e sou capaz de colecionar versos, ativos, demolidores. Não gosto de parágrafos engomados. De literatura que veste gravata. Diego é inteiro e visceral no que faz. Veio para desconcertar. Como toda boa literatura deve ser: um motim. Uma fuga da mesmice. Avante, para o abismo”, garante Freire.

Parece a história do herói redimido, não é? Agora, ele volta para São Paulo, já tem leitores (que se deslocam de outras cidades para ouvir os poemas dele, na voz dele) e convites para frequentar os eventos “do meio”. Se está feliz? Não. É contra. Diz que a felicidade nunca escreveu um verso que preste. Tem raiva de poesia de autoajuda, de literatura cheia de bons propósitos e da necessidade de alguns autores de ‘passar uma mensagem’. Se quiser continuar escrevendo, vai permanecer flertando com a infelicidade.

E o amor? O amor é um erro lírico. Acreditam que o poeta sofre por amor. Eu só sofro quando acaba o conhaque. O resto é dor inventada. Diego não quer se apaixonar, diz não conseguir mais, que prefere a solidão, que é mais inspirador, e que já esqueceu a menina que ele batizou de Nina. Não quer saber mais da anestesia conjugal.

Mas ainda pode ser que ele seja o tal do anjo vingador, não é? Fica puto com a cidade que vende cerveja por R$ 12, que tem leitor dizendo que vai comprar o livro dele “só para ajudar” e escritores que se comportam como se estivessem no programa do Amaury Jr. Nunca dê as costas para um escritor em busca de fama. Aqui, ainda não se sentiu acariciado pelo sistema nem frequenta a Mercearia São Pedro (point dos escritores de São Paulo). Últimas notícias: poeta aparece com dinheiro em bar e surpreende fãs e leitores. Na cidade, ele é mais da turma do Mário Bortolotto, Marcelo Mirisola e do Marcelino Freire.

Literatura é um treco instável. Hoje você é o bacana do pedaço; amanhã, sabe-se lá. As melhores coisas da gente foram escritas para alegrar gavetas cheias de baratinhas que roem sonhos. Mas se tudo der errado, Diego tem um plano. Vai levar o hot-dog prensado para Manaus e ficar rico de verdade. Hot-dog prensado dá mais dinheiro do que poesia – e isso é uma coisa que não se discute.

No fim, olha lá ele sentado na escadaria da Sé, de novo. A sarjeta é Fiel. Não demonstra nenhuma emoção especial. Já colocou tudo no papel, já transformou o bagaço em literatura. Mas quanto da história dele é inventada? O que ainda não foi coado pela fantasia? Diego diz que passou por tudo isso em São Paulo, que o que escreve é feito de sangue e realidade. Mas nunca mentiu? Menti uma vez quando disse que saí com uma vencedora do prêmio Jabuti.

Pois é, quem abraça o mundo com muita força vira poeta ou perde os braços. Parece que o Diego quer as duas coisas, ser poeta e perder os braços. Dessa vez, foi só uma visita. Na próxima, pode ser que São Paulo tenha um novo escritor residente. O cavalo é um poeta que escreveu um troço bonito e saiu galopando. E assim, galopando, Diego voltou pra casa.

Por Gilberto Amendola - jornal O Estado de S. Paulo 23/01/2016 | 17h00

3 notes · View notes