I have a predilection for the pace, I will not deny. It's something that haunts me because of my powers of observation, and I must say that given the contemplative aspect that has taken my life in recent years, we could ensure that the comment has become a fundamental part of it. Because observation is the rhythm. The pace and score of life, art and its miseries and atrocities. Bum, bum, bum, do not know: rhythm. But go chronologically. The first thing you always remember the little old ladies. The little old ladies, and their homes, much of the landscape represent cardinal of children when they still are but observers small laugh, cry, applaud or grumble as how you react emotionally to your gear everyday monstrosities that record thanks to their avidity for observation. The old ladies have a cadence extraterrestrial I loved everything about them, for better and for worse, from their sticky chew their way to traverse the corridors, similar to that of a skinny dinosaur. The pace of old ladies is a slow, delightful. For the inexperienced child, the young observer, a good time at her grandmother is synonymous with development lecture pleasure, while a hard time equivalent to a foretaste of hell, a kind of family hearth. Why?: Because the pace of the old ladies child into a parallel dimension where patience involves all the particulars of life as a spider web. Discovering the old ladies when you're a sucker is something like finding out the Japanese horror film when you're a pretentious film festival audience: from then on, you see everything from another perspective, developing a self insomniac boredom and resigned ability to find entertainment, magic or style in which life is understood as a deep slumber. The pace is, and its nuances.
We talked about old ladies, people. Let's talk about things. There are plenty of objects related to childhood, raised in a specific rhythm, over-the limits of pleasure during the fertile years of their education. This is the swing, whose swing was able to anticipate a spring enjoyment prohibitive devalued over time in this thing we call sexual adrenaline. You swinging form a knot in the stomach whose behavior within sense of pleasure in our bodies is difficult to explain. The children then we formed a knot in my stomach on the swing on the swing the same way as adults we are today as when we swing to the neighbor behind her husband. That adrenaline, identified with the more private enjoyment of our instincts, comes from the rhythm, and bizarre shapes also charged in the extreme sports-bungee jumping, skydiving, "reckless driving or strategic military orgasms in the war front. But is all rhythm, rhythm, rhythm. Bum, bum, bum. Or bum, bum. Or bum. Swing motor bullets. Ritmo! (I do not like exclamations. Infarction texts. But I have not been me who has been the pace. The rhythm takes me.) 
Adolescence. The truth is that I touched him. The teens were hosts at a better price, because there was a reward. The teenager was mature, learn to ride a bike based on noisy falls. Follábamos in adolescence. And watched. Do not forget that computer: observation. From there you could see everything, including sex. We voyeaures before dicks. Powders pretended enlarging the name of Onan, and what was more than what pace? The sum of two factors: rate and comment (raw, neighbors, mothers). Then came the practice. Alas, the practice. We started to fuck with the girls in our class, the few that did not start fucking with the guys from the upper classes. We had to break, it was very violent. There was no rhythm, just frustration. Then we picked up girlfriend, and that bride follábamos us a lot, whenever we could, at the expense of parents, neighbors and whispering. That you became a professor of energy, understand the rhythm. Teenage girls never tire to fuck. And that was fine because you do not get tired. Was to squeeze sex, find those shades of rhythm, amplificarte as a human being through an empirical vehicle toward personal exhaustion. Later, you fell off the bike. Experienced, lied, and reached the twenty, twenty-some years. Those were different. Did not follow your own pace, and fell asleep with the light on. You were good girls, you wanted them. But it was not thirty / forty. No. Sexually those pooled the best of each. Had the effect of adolescent girls and the experience of the twenties, which eventually turned out to be vague. The fragile marriage would come thirties What was needed? What were you looking at? Nothing more, nothing less than a change of pace. Sex after forty is better not to tell: they would like Godfather III : not that it is worse than previous releases, but it is worse than previous releases, but we need to solve it by saying it is different : sex after forty is the same: only a euphemism. (There's a shagging degeneration called 'sex with love. "Well, this is something else. There is a specific rate for sex with love, which is multiple and changing, and depends largely on the animal. In sex with love not affected by age, theoretically, until they no longer influence, because not all lovers can fuck forever as if they were in love. would be a pig! occasionally get out of the script, and that's when the ages involved. Sometimes, even, come to stay for good, happens when love has ceased to matter, or when no longer in love. When the fault is theirs.)
Let
to job. At the gigs everything is rhythm. Entiéndanlo: work in newsrooms. Staplers, rattles, computers, photocopiers. And the pages. How I love the sheets. Whether clean or rough, traditional or recycled. Only if one is able to detach while working can read between the lines as
and adapt to the ecosystem, because adaptation is pick up the pace. This brings us to the next point: drugs. The drugs slow down or speed up the body and the mind and human deformities to achieve the purpose of socializing or work surprising tenacity. The drug makes the most dull dull, the Ready smarter and more gross gross. We are shifting gears, but not the engine. It is a false mezzoforte. We talked about life, let's talk about art. The culture has historical significance to pro-rate precision. To break out of an artistic movement in panties must leave after a new style that amaze the respectable, and that there is nothing better than change, there is nothing better than pace. The ancients were deficient contemplative pace that they did not care for an egg, and as far carved their deities in theatrical gestures of descacharrada vibrance perhaps offered some misguided sense of movement but are far less a precedent to be account. The pace began to be the medieval art and its puppet-very clever, the medieval-and his devilish cartoon scenes of violence made. Movement, rhythm, art. The paintings, pictures and all that, beh!, Is art for the weak. Clowns, mimes, circus. That began to understand the human being the importance of silences, the hosts and changes of pace (the unicycle to the elephant), or what is, not to confuse speed with bacon in the most literal sense can be repellent applied to this phrase.
We missed the theater. It has been a conscious oblivion. The theater is overacted literature, and literature handles pace through the style. There have been major stylists of rhythm, and even writers who happily reified the pace, if Jack Kerouac. Capote said of On The Road was only typing. But Let us place ourselves: who was Capote? A snake Errol Flynt applauded enthusiastically when he played the piano with his dick. From this we can extract that Capote was a frivolous imperturbable rhythm did not understand, only glory, mud and menthol cigarettes, busy as he was rummaging through his tormented hedonism seedy glamor. Ladybugs, beh! Not keeping pace: they fucked up the ass. Then came the film. The cinema is rhythm. Bum, bum, bum, action, cut, positive. Have you seen any movie by Howard Hawks, John Carpenter, Brian de Palma, Martin Scorsese? Have you seen any movie of Martin Scorsese?! That's rhythm. In music I do not go, because I can not imagine the music if not in a movie, whether real or fictional product of my imagination or that of another sick mind. I need to put pictures to what I hear, identify all with pieces of my life and shameful desires primary depraved character, and binding all in one sensory puzzle that will satisfy my instincts. Everything has to do, as you can see, with the rhythm. Because the pace is everything.
Still in doubt? Normal. The new generations are going to the floor raw dispense rate, are simplified in a dull prose, as if having a good ear was a concession to the father. They are deceived. Believe they already have their rhythm. They believe they will survive the editors, real or figurative, that are ahead. That will remain intact. But it's all a fat lie to be believed by the innocent or conceited; still do not know that, sooner or later they will spoil the style, rhythm, love and life, and they will be so deaf, dumb, blind and naked as at birth, with no one to protect or cure them failures, because they run more and more, times the hows cannot before, and they ignore it, I guess happy, guess living.
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