IFC is the second of my friends who visits the dump that have not become ends in my cozy home. Well, soon came a music teacher to herd with the hardware of a battery that was running back and forth without any musical benefit.
We chatted for a short time in which we talked a little about literature, about the books they have read, about writers and poets who met in Monterrey, on some local writers on writers and their fervent underground fan turnouts , and finally tell me why almost no Like living with writers, inevitably talk about literature and its design (sometimes also mine) is as much egg will reflect on the trade.
I imagine a worker coming home after seven hours deafening factory ship, and made a sound of engines and scrapers and torches and hammers to his wife and children. As the thing is not that bad. Thus, this writer friend will not talk about literature with other writers. I understand.
speak, then, film, and finally conclude that the film is better look and not comment, so I just rescued the discount coupons that had previously gone to waste, and thanks to the extension of the deadline, we would avoid spending too much.
The movie was good, although inevitably made me realize that I might be a bit reactionary, I tend to enshrine certain characters to the point where I feel uncomfortable when resized to a more human, more deadly, more with the defects that characterize the species and less like the special character that I would like it to remain. Even before I had happened to Sherlock Holmes, and now confirmed with Hidalgo. Then
then, and this is part of what I talked with IFC, I emerged a recurring question: when do we stop being as we were ten years ago? All this cooling, the thorough grinding of the situations that before were simply spontaneous, genuine and well intentioned it may now be carried between the legs of this generation that we called "Mr." and not "carnal."
Still, we're still young, we remain as we were, just that we learned a little more of the world.
That is what I expect, or as I Ching.
(And we've fucked so many ...)
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