is Sunday morning. In the rain outside while four drops an apple granny smith breakfast and the first cup of coffee. Have changed the time and do not know if they are nine or ten or eleven. With the second coffee, the sun comes around the corner from my balcony.
I shave quickly and I shower with a gel which then gives me tickles in the skin (some fresh and do not know what else). I put an umbrella in my backpack and go out to the street to the bus 55 on the Passeig de Sant Joan. Appears on time with thirty minutes late, and I telephone the production crew will arrive promptly to say that thirty minutes later than agreed.
The vehicle left me against the walls of the Teatre Grec. I call again to say that I'm there on the mountain. I climb stairs criminals for smokers, to meet the project manager and his new assistant (a girl with eyes more beautiful morning, strong and shy, which is the best combination).
Fra Miquel want to do a post a few new gardens and chose those with the most uneven of the city: the Teatre Grec and Laribal. He spends the afternoon (like a white-haired genius, for whom there is nothing else in the world that their fans) taking photographs of a corner where there is a branch on the ground or in the water lily or a fern a wall. And I scored what I can in my notebook the words fast grid botanist, while she (the girl with the prettiest eyes in the morning, strong and shy, which is the best combination), walks with discretion by not leaving the stage to the pictures. Then the portrait I will repeat a thousand times the text in that post-production (which is working with photographers, botanists first level).
We just before two in the afternoon, I do not know if one or all three, because they changed the time on the clock. They are going to eat at a nice restaurant, but first pay me a bologna sandwich in a pub economic. I stay on the mountain of Montjuïc with my meal wrapped in a paper bag. Weather permitting, with white clouds that seem to spring on the horizon. I take the sun for an hour on the esplanade in front of the pavilion Mies van der Rohe, surrounded by a thousand French high school students traveling course start, they read books without stopping (including reportable necklines, and they with winter shoes without socks reportable). Are outdated. Here our high school students read the Catalan mobile. are cool.
I sit on a bench to eat. There are a thousand pigeons trained at my feet, waiting for crumbs. One has a broken wing. I try to play with head start to swallow the bit of bread with tomato to throw around his feet (he'd slice very small). This list, which precedes their peers and gobbles up the rations to survive another day. Maybe just one more day, but to her that it will be an achievement.
I'm fine there, open the legs and arms (discreetly), leaving for good weather bathing. Sunbathing.
then entered the Caixa Forum Museum to see the exhibition "Miquel Barceló (1983-2009). The organisative solitude." And I see the most beautiful eyes in the afternoon. The Dore Ashton, a portrait of 2009. I do not know, sometimes it hurts me to see a picture in a minute if it has taken hours, days or weeks to finish its author. Give birth to. And we are going as fast as amateur art critics address these cords ridiculous that protect works of painters.
I go into the street. I liked the exposure. Someone was before me and recommended me. There are still daylight. Homecoming picnic a granny smith apple, with the last coffee of the day.
knock at my ring. The poet is downstairs. I could not put an age, but is much older than me. Perhaps like my mother. Just want to ask if I see good channels on my TV, TVE, shyly. Appear in his fog. At this time, she also has the most beautiful eyes in the twilight, little ones, weary, and to end the day. It is under my door, and it is night, after a happy day. I tell him pass. We sat. We chatted for a bit of your day or my day. As we take a tea (it) and a latte (I), which was no longer playing.
PS: Thanks for the morning, Anna and Michael. You are handsome.
