May this Friday night be a start of a fantastic weekend that will be full of happy moments, love, and serenity. Wishing you a restful night and sweet dreams.
I assumed I wouldn't go to see Paul this time. I always went, even to Montevideo in 2014 when he didn't come here. When the tickets went on sale I didn't have a penny so I said to myself: I've seen him several times. It won't have to be.
But life taught me to expect the unexpected. Some money appeared (Thanks, old man, from beyond) and a friend, Barbie, appeared and asked me: "Are you going to see Paul? I have tickets." The miracle had happened.
And again I was at River's stadium, like so many times, waiting for the indescribable. Because there is no video, no photos or audio that can decode it. What happens intimately I feel incapable of translating into the precariousness of spoken language when I try to convey my feelings. That was what struck me in body and soul, that night in 1964 when I was 8 years old, when I watched the Ed Sullivan Show on Channel 13 at the old black and white Zenith (Thanks, old man, again). And nothing was the same.
On the night of October 5th, I was 8 years old again.
Although reality “keeps hitting us down,” ART saves me. Thanks, PAUL,for coming to the rescue.
I made the drawing as soon as “the cherry album” (that’s what we called it) appeared, I must have been around 14 years old.
