Aunque te abraces a la luna
aunque te acuestes con el sol.
No hay más estrellas que las que dejes brillar
tendrá el cielo tu color. 
No estés solo en esta lluvia,
¡no te entregues por favor!
Si debes ser fuerte en estos tiempos
para resistir la decepción
y quedar abierto, mente y alma,
yo estoy con vos.
Si te hace falta quien te trate con amor,
si no tenés a quien brindar tu corazón,
si todo vuelve cuando más lo precisás
nos veremos otra vez.
No estés sola en esta lluvia
¡no te entregues por favor!
Si debes ser fuerte en estos tiempos
para resistir la decepción
y quedar abierta, mente y alma,
yo estoy con vos.
Si te hace falta quien te trate con amor
si no tenés a quien brindar tu corazón
si todo vuelve cuando más lo precisás
nos veremos otra vez.

Nos veremos otra vez- Serú Giran.

    I
Ya no es mágico el mundo. Te han dejado.
Ya no compartirás la clara luna
ni los lentos jardines. Ya no hay una
luna que no sea espejo del pasado,

cristal de soledad, sol de agonías.
Adiós las mutuas manos y las sienes
que acercaba el amor. Hoy sólo tienes
la fiel memoria y los desiertos días.

Nadie pierde (repites vanamente)
sino lo que no tiene y no ha tenido
nunca, pero no basta ser valiente

para aprender el arte del olvido.
Un símbolo, una rosa, te desgarra
y te puede matar una guitarra.

                II

Ya no seré feliz. Tal vez no importa.
Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo;
un instante cualquiera es más profundo
y diverso que el mar. La vida es corta

y aunque las horas son tan largas, una
oscura maravilla nos acecha,
la muerte, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha
que nos libra del sol y de la luna

y del amor. La dicha que me diste
y me quitaste debe ser borrada;
lo que era todo tiene que ser nada.

Sólo que me queda el goce de estar triste,
esa vana costumbre que me inclina
al Sur, a cierta puerta, a cierta esquina.

1964-Jorge Luis Borges y un poema que siempre rompe un poquito el corazón.

I am happy to report that in the war between reality and romance, reality is not the stronger.
----------------
I wonder why progress looks so much like destruction.
------------------
This journey had been like a full dinner of many courses, set before a starving man. At first he tries to eat all of everything, but as the meal progresses he finds he must forgo some things to keep his appetite and his taste buds functioning.
----------
Life could not change the sun or water the desert, so it changed itself.
-------------------
Then he said a wise and memorable thing. “You got to be awful rich to dress as bad as you do,” he said.

Travels with Charley. In search of America- John Steinbeck.Podría seguir, pero para eso es mejor leer el libro entero.

If one has driven a car over many years, as I have, nearly all reactions have become automatic. One does not think about what to do. Nearly all the driving technique is deeply buried in a machine-like unconscious. This being so, a large area of the conscious mind is left free for thinking. And what do people think of when they drive? On short trips perhaps of arrival at a destination or memory of events at the place of departure. But there is left, particularly on very long trips, a large area for daydreaming or even, God help us, for thought. No one can know what another does in that area. I myself have planned houses I will never build, have made gardens I will never plant, have designed a method for pumping the soft silt and decayed shells from the bottom of my bay up to my point of land at Sag Harbor, of leeching out the salt, thus making a rich and productive soil. I don’t know whether or not I will do this, but driving along I have planned it in detail even to the kind of pump, the leeching bins, the tests to determine disappearance of salinity. Driving, I have created turtle traps in my mind, have written long, detailed letters never to be put to paper, much less sent. (...)
I can only suspect that the lonely man peoples his driving dreams with friends, that the loveless man surrounds himself with lovely loving women, and that children climb through the dreaming of the childless driver. And how about the areas of regrets? If only I had done so-and-so, or had not said such-and-such— my God, the damn thing might not have happened. Finding this potential in my own mind, I can suspect it in others, but I will never know, for no one ever tells. And this is why, on my journey which was designed for observation, I stayed as much as possible on secondary roads where there was much to see and hear and smell, and avoided the great wide traffic slashes which promote the self by fostering daydreams.

Travels with Charley. In search of America- John Steinbeck.

In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won’t happen.

Travels with Charley. In search of America- John Steinbeck.

I thought I might do some writing along the way, perhaps essays, surely notes, certainly letters. I took paper, carbon, typewriter, pencils, notebooks, and not only those but dictionaries, a compact encyclopedia, and a dozen other reference books, heavy ones. I suppose our capacity for self-delusion is boundless. I knew very well that I rarely make notes, and if I do I either lose them or can’t read them. I also knew from thirty years of my profession that I cannot write hot on an event. It has to ferment. I must do what a friend calls “mule it over” for a time before it goes down. And in spite of this self-knowledge I equipped Rocinante with enough writing material to take care of ten volumes. Also I laid in a hundred and fifty pounds of those books one hasn’t got around to reading—and of course those are the books one isn’t ever going to get around to reading.

Travels with Charley. In search of America- John Steinbeck.

When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, I don’t improve; in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself.
When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult. He has a built-in garden of reasons to choose from. Next he must plan his trip in time and space, choose a direction and a destination. And last he must implement the journey. How to go, what to take, how long to stay. This part of the process is invariable and immortal. I set it down only so that newcomers to bumdom, like teen-agers in new-hatched sin, will not think they invented it.
Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. (...). In this a journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. I feel better now, having said this, although only those who have experienced it will understand it.

Travels with Charley. In search of America- John Steinbeck.

Empiezo el año terminando Travels with Charley. In search of America de John Steinbeck y es tan lindo que no alcanzaba con poner entradas con citas, necesitaba poner esta fotito de Steinbeck y Charley.