I’m in a taxi, on my way to an oral operation that will cause me pain for a few hours. Suddenly, some strings go out of the radio, they take me back to my childhood, and then your voice that sings that you are here and the show is about to begin. The announcer joins in, announces almost the opposite, saying you’re dead. I look at the driver, he will be a little older than me, we tear off the rearview mirror.
I go to the phone and find this letter I wrote to you years ago. If you read this, give me an idea hint from the sky of good people. I love you.
I think it was not your fault but one of your producers, TV producers are very bad guys. It is true that we live by making decisions, someone has to do it, but there are many which are unfair, some of us don’t even think about them. We rush when it’s not necessary, when the set is quiet we get tense and we make decisions without thinking about when to do it. It’s also true that drivers know for a while what the program is going to be like, usually they have no idea what’s going to happen. As they are the ones who show their faces, from time to time they get annoyed with that gray power of the producers and shout twice to remind us that they are “genius”. In turn, the producer remains a little angry as he is sure that he will drive better than the man who occasionally yells at him. The driver usually thinks “It’s supposed to come to teach me, that I’ve been doing television since he jumped from egg to egg“And the producer usually thinks”You, If You Don’t Have In Cockroaches, You Don’t Exist“Those are business hazards, no one is angry.
Sorry I got derailed, but it makes sense, because I choose to believe it was your producer and not you, Carlitos, who liked the crap about “My Duck Doesn’t Eat Milanesa” , rather than the wonderful “The Bertoni’s Goals They’re About to Come”. I choose to believe because more than forty years have passed and because I do not understand why you, a sentient being, the creator of the phrases that are going with us from cradle to drawer, “Bertoni’s goals that are already going Are to come after reading” Can’t remember.” Can’t be. I’m sure it was your stupid maker. Able, he slapped any letter, because he was in a hurry, in a hurry to take away the sad. Or the like He thought it was ridiculous not to have a crap about a duck that doesn’t eat a Milanese. Producers sometimes like that crap.
You must remember the facts well, you must remember well that you told him that the winner was “Bertoni’s goals that are to come” and at the last minute, the fucking producer changed the role of the vegetarian duck to that stupidity. Granted, and since everything was live at the time, you couldn’t fix it. Your creator was no idiot, of course, no matter how gullible I was. He was a corrupt man, who had already arranged a presentation tour for that lousy duck. Now I know you kicked it out as soon as the block was over and you’ve spent your whole life regretting it. I know, or it’s just my imagination. Stick to the imagination.
I am thirty-three years old, but since my memory is also good, it is not difficult for me to go to the living room of my house in Barracas, Montes de Oca and Brandsen, in front of the more than forty Los Campeones. Many years ago. In front of one wall is a bed that becomes my sister Mariana’s bedroom at night. A round table in the middle where I once saw Dad cry. I’m in front of black and white TV, on the screen you make funny faces, make small gestures, you ask how salt tastes, I reply namkeen. One question, is salty taste or salty salt?
I was telling you that I am in front of the television and you announce that you are going to do a raffle. You sit at a silver gray Casio brand electric piano, playing a simple melody and while you explain. The story goes like this: You have to send a poem to Pasaje Geli three three seven seven eight zip code fourteen twenty five. Out of all the letters you come across, you’re going to pick one to put on the music. And also, the winner will get a Silver Gray Casio with lots of colorful buttons. You play one and the battery rings, you play the other and it starts talking, crazy.
I think fast. I wish Piano and I had written a poem it talks about a dog that gets lost and the owner cries until they find him, but I think he lives up to your standards No, Carlitos. the man who createdcarindanga“You can’t pay such pathetic attention to those verses. And that’s when I thought of sending you”Bertoni’s goals are coming”, I had a hard time getting it right. Years later I’ll admit that I signed it, even though it wasn’t mine, but I wanted to win the contest so much that I sat Dad down and asked him, as he sang to put me to sleep. Mother was dying of love, she said that she had invented all that song, song and music. Dad was a frustrated poet, he wrote many verses in black-and-black booklets, but this was what I liked the most. I immediately imagined it in your voice and even invented the choreography. I made a field in the middle of the studio and I made you dance by holding the sticks of the arch.
Dad disagreed. He told me he didn’t think I was lying, that if I wanted to send a poem that’s fine, but that I should write a poem of my own. And I, I think for the first time, ignored him. That same night I tore a page out of my fourth grade Gloria notebook and wrote this page in hexasyllables, with rhymes.
clap clap clap
don’t stop clapping
that they are coming.
small maybe? Maybe, but this did not reduce the strength of the composition.
When I lost, I cried out loud. It was unfair. Today it reassures me to know that this was not because of a falsely bad poet, but because of the corruption that has been rampant in Argentine society for decades. I want to live in Norway, Carlitos. Or in Finland, or in countries where good people win TV contests. These are things that are good for democracy and the future of our children.
Goodbye, Carlitos, Eyapepe. Good trip to your noisy Carindanga. I love you so much (we love you).