Epic and sad song

epic and sad song

Summer rain seen from a hotel room in La Paz downtown. Bolivian rain.

For about two years I’m questioned for unknowns in a casual way about my marital status. Although I’m flattered that someone could think that I’m married sometimes it’s a bit weird to me. When I want to buy something usually they ask me if I’m going to need two; when I ask for a room in a hotel they also ask me if my wife is going to come. At beginning I used to say that I committed marriagecide twice but as it was at the same time then it was null so I’m back to the action. But now I’m bored so I just say “no.”

Among the cities I lived the worst was Arequipa. That is a western city, in the cultural sense of the word, but it’s related to the Europeans from sixteenth century, not the happy people of today so it’s something that didn’t happen with the foreigners I met. We, the natives, to them are libertine because our view of the sex as something natural or funny; also is the mandatory due to be Catholic, so contrary to our veneration of the nature and the big parties; and the worst I guess is the machismo practiced by girls even when they theoretically support the feminism, every feminine ancestor of my line has worked and leaded in the society, to me is a symbol of weakness a girl without dreams and it was sad to see that almost all my classmates at university ended as housewives with university degree.

Also being travelling constantly doesn’t help but in Lima I had a kind of girlfriend in an open relationship, but I couldn’t avoid to think that she saw her as a kind of sinner. I don’t understand that double standard that boys are needed to have every kind of experiences with girls that, in their own words, they wouldn’t take to their homes, but girls are needed to be virgins. But I think the worst is that despite they dislike the idea to be with a native, something natural I guess, is the hypocrisy. The smiles in them when they know that I’m architect.

I hate the idea of love as a business. For that I prefer to be single, there is no sense in to live a life angry one with the other.




I’m architect. The feelings that I try to convey with my ideas (that I’ll publish in a near future) is something similar to this wall made in the seventieth century if my calculations are not wrong. It is just something direct, without adorns. Every element responds precisely to a question and the result is not just and answer but also a mystery that give birth to new questions that makes us richer.

There is a red wall. In this wall there is a door to enter, a window to receive natural light (both small because the need to do wide walls), a lantern to have light to the walkers at night, a gargoyle to the rains, and a bench to rest calm and quietly. But architecture is a service to human beings. Without them, as in this case, it’s not architecture, is more like a catalogue of architectural shapes. It needs the person to enters that door, to opens that window, to seats down in that bench.

About the photograph it’s one of my first post-processing I think almost three years ago, but the style is the same I have till today, I try that my photographs have an aspect similar to my architectonic drawings, where every line is “in focus” and the tridimensionality is given by the arrangement of the elements in the drawing. I never studied photography, if I had I’m sure I had a different photography, better I guess, but then again it would be more a job and I wouldn’t enjoy it so much.




I have been loved the blue colors (yep, colors) since I remember. But, like everything I try to not spend it using ad nauseam, so when I can I choose grey suits, or yellow walls, or red books, or black bags or lemon green cups. Is a haunting presage that some day I cannot see the blue with the same eyes again, see it as some ordinary color if I waste its colors in everything I could have.

I am not sure why I like it, maybe the old superman’s comics where the man, who could be the last inca, used a big electric blue costume; also there are the blues you can see when you live at 3800 meters above the sea: or who knows, could be that it was a scarce color in those days that industries has limitations and everything seemed an uniform and anonymous grey.

Heraclitus whispers to our ears that we are never going to step the same river again. Sure, but I’d love that that other river could always be blue ;-).