cat I am not, nor do I have an odd name, I also stumbled through the city like a fucking drug addict who needs the night and the bugs to exist, but I think honestly, sometimes I felt like half full of whiskey, acids, puffs of smoke everyday and do intersect with each exhalation reached as to an ecstasy of fear, emptiness and nothing.
Then, recognizing the simplicity of what I am, I find a breath of what happens with Pink Tomato, yellow, with Lerner, Max, Gary Gilmour and Marciana. They all come to be a kind of projection of myself. Cristina Peri Rosi said that in most humans there are two kinds of fantasies, some motivated by a deep desire to be something other than what we are to others, revealing another life within us, too, the fear that things can go wrong and that what we hate may appear at some point in life to upset us and submerge us in a chaotic world in which we do not want to be part.
That is precisely what happens when I read the novel by Rafael Chaparro Madiedo. Perhaps it is something taken right now, but I can not find another way to approach with a sincere understanding of what is proposed median Chaparro, because it is not clear an argument. You may be alienated, completely stunned and full of sleep in the middle of what appears to be a really reading Trip Trip Trip. Like when you're in the midst of a spree and they say that it has reached new and more powder spray that rises the spirit to the point that you need new aspirations to be in tune with the music and the night dripping drool and lust opens dawn of a new day. Then I understand that much of the pages are accumulated in an enormous townsman sense, deep elixir overweight suburban ennui, words that reveal internal disgust and retraced our stock of smoke, trip and marijuana.
really what happens is that in the midst of a burst read something strange psychotic metamorphosis of self, aspects of being oneself which progresses page by page through a sea of \u200b\u200bfear , ash, smoke and spittle dripping unlimited throughout each chapter, in which Pink and I are broken pieces of night that sneaks slowly on the pupils dilated around the teats of the neighbor who pretends to be a Yellow that approaches to mitigate boredom ash, smoke, rain, acid and glass.
Di, I think, two readings of each section of the novel to unravel the story that stunned Chaparro proposed, and I know that reading really fail if you are not under the influence of a psychoactive that puts you in tune with each phrase word verse image page chapter in which relentless unwinding the skein of life hallucinations travel deaths in middle of a town that disappears into the sad eyes of a couple maybe three cats roaming the night broken Tues full of fire deaths from dog drool thetic enraptured by the embrace of a mouth hungry lust trip trip trip sounds while I can not get no satisfaction near Gary Gilmour's electric chair in your reader night in a squalid high chair casters by the influx of oil entering venereum with every breath you give your eyes to the lyrics word poetry night chapters broken images rain I can not get no satisfaction shit.
So no one else can understand the reader of this review do not want, nor will I make an attempt to explain the plot of the novel, because the shit I like when shits on an inter-city bus stumbling with curves and then you thought possible Untes tipping and all passengers in your own shit, as it did in the bathrooms Mars Bar Cosa Divina with lipstick at the mirror as he said " pass me a cigarette, this is just for you, this little tune just for you, no matter if you have not bathed, come here, I have, do not close the window, but please do not cry, you I swear I'll be with you when the rains of November, come here, come to my drivel, you're sensational, let me put my teeth in your teeth, let me take down all your words, I want hands, I rub my body in each of your words, your name, in your armpits ... (p. 105.) Because Mars is really possible to know all the yards of those who went to the Bar Cosa Divina and everyone was saying soils according to the rhythm of sex condition, perfectly shaped like a melody written in red lipstick on the mirror full of stories, a thousand and one stories of death, vomiting and acid stabs baby boy quiet and a bit of I Want a trip trip trip.
In this lapse of talk and travel takes the novel, chapters according to each night's misadventures character, to sweeten the reader that translates as the self-conscious life of each, their way of drinking, poke, smoke, fuck and jaded with each blink of a busy city by migrants of the avenue Blanchot put from LSD to psychotic pills they get in the asylum as a gift for trying to burn your own family on the road that goes straight to the sea, or because one day he happens to get naked and steal the horse race track that had secured Derby bets fall through the sand singing something like It Was Twenty Years Ago Today Sgt Pepper taugh the top band lay They've Been going in and out of style I do not really want to stop the show uhhhhhh. (p. 130)
Write something about Chapman's novel is truly frightening is to see millions of black birds are dumped on your humanity to cagarte and prove you're a boat Garbage in which one or maybe two starving dogs looking for each of your bones to write sick puffs filled with bubbles of yellow slime and halitosis in the morning saying he wants it all away for shit and all who wants to can make your humanity that really give the fucking win either in the rain to feel really wet trip trip trip or at the end the night when all are turned shit and there are only Pink Tomato her and wanting to make tomato juice Amarilla where you can commit suicide or die in the rainy morning trip trip trip.
Ultimately this novel is serious, and it would be better than those who take their reading is fully prepared to recognize themselves in the midst of such existential horror, between the supreme power over which days Lerner , Higway 34 and Alain, sobredopados of their need for highway diesel fuel truck and motorcycle bug, or perhaps with the fierce life of Carol and the Loco mired in the rattle of a frustrated love which leads to both at the apparent death of a wheel exploded in the middle of the viscera may have some scope to voyeur morbidity with what happens to Max and Sven stuck on his face in his private club in the tree, and sits with them the desire to lick the thetic Helga pinkish freckled and fiery Beast The Snow with a little whiskey and some cigarette until it makes them trashy life as they themselves do with their private club to go each to his own shit.
Maybe you feel the reader on every page may experience a real climax made self-satisfied with the possibility of being being part of a of uncontrolled orgies and bloodthirsty love, defeat, anxiety, black coffee, well, come here my love, I have, do not close the window glass, not close the page, continue, embriágate make my body and my An autopsy pages filled highway motorcycles LSD acid marijuana Cuba Sandinista Deep Purple And Yellow running naked through the sand on the rooftops mortuary bars like Bar Bar La Gallina Punk Kafka for the eggs to catch us kicking and ensure that is carried After the ceremony the future until we not taken to the hospital and we sew the wounds of living death to awaken in the middle of the room completely deluded literature sutured with fears and hates it so much Opium Clouds.
Omar Alejandro González.
Book Details: CHAPARRO Madiedo, Rafael; Opio en las Nubes. Babylon Ltd. Bogotá DC. Seventh Edition. 2007.
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