Antonio Gálvez Alcaide: Diary Network

QUESTION OF LUNG
By Antonio Gálvez Alcaide.
Published in the newspaper ABC, on August 18, 1998.

Here no one can stop. Nearly forty degrees. Holidays. Saw. The siesta. Surely you associate the severity of a harsh summer heat, sparks almost, with certain scenes delusional. Well, here no one stops. This means an online collection of villas, with a roof, a carbon copy of coals, half consumed by the rigorous clicks of the sun and the constant, endless, the Incas, the frantic barking of a dog.

The dog is huge and white and barks like a wild animal. I always restless, moving about thirty meters from my lair, on a mound that invites you to jump the gate, tied with a chain that hangs from a necklace of teeth. It is the keeper of a house demented inhospitable, the gruesome nightmare holiday strangled, the main source of thoughts that crazy walk. If you look closely, it teaches you the teeth, shrink the gill and becomes monstrous. Then you notice a tingling blood, pretend as if the blood levitate, as if the density of blood is inextricably maned by faint grunts.

The dog is huge, a white light that dazzles under the heat wave, and always barks faithfully parallel to the concatenation of the hours. His ears pricked haunt the world as perpetual presences. The tip of his ear perfect right hand breaks a symmetry, seems a dislocated finger and rocks, a faint, according to the agitation. His column will know all the vertebrae, as a man long and rickety. In that area, some faint drops of cinnamon seeking to condone. The dog barks. The world barks. A coterie metal ring in a radio. A nap cicadas escape him. The dog has green eyes blurred, almost gray, spent solvent, hypnotists, deeply magnetic, beautiful. Their barking burst from the depths of their forces. Their bark is rough and happen so serious that a sensible person can get rabies. The exorbitant voice of a neighbor goes to the can: "I'll put a muzzle!". The supportive voice of another neighbor adds, "Of course!". A mess of Chiribitos expand their networks. Chewing a sensationalist outcome. Like jumps, a few words on the radio mention the term "corruption", referring to specific and high political level. And the figure of Azorín-beautiful moment in my bulldog blinks.

Azorín. What a man. Excellent pen. To Azorín growing things of the spirit and intellect would prevent "the corruption of the above." But no. The human condition is unsuspected, including the widely read. Azorín: the polished description of nostalgia. Suggestion ascending, smooth, sour punch inevitable. A great. Its rocky serenity, here, as a fig wrinkle.

Here no one can stop. There are no news. It's all different from the hot gusts of heaven and persistent barking juggernaut. Summer is like the sudden deflation of a sweaty fart crazy kid over there by those dirt roads flesh-colored, very flesh. And the gutters, through the brush, the languid steep decline of some violets, with their bows ... so afflicted.

The barking continues, familiar, almost human.