Luciano’s Memories

Dear Mark?

I have no idea who you are or will be, since I still don’t have a grandson to inherit an empire from. I don’t have no empire either, but just like one day did Adrian (Warning, not the Brazilian striker who shone at Inter Milan, but Publius Aelius, the one who ruled Rome), I am going to leave you a letter to help you in your life. Also, if you ever exist and it occurs to you to google “Luciano + Olivera + GlobeLiveMedia + Culture +Stupid”, at least something will appear to you. Legacies are legacies.

Let’s say, first, that just as this wise ruler wrote because he was beginning to see the profile of his death, I do so because I see the cut of a strip of roast on a grill. It’s not me who’s grilling today, it’s a third party (I’ll protect his name because he has family). I watch him horribly manipulate this asset adored by humanity and that’s why I launch out to warn you, dear Marco, that never in the fucking life of the gods has it ever occurred to you to put yourself at cook a strip of roast on the meat side. When you are older, this advice will seem stupid to you, I hope the ember exercise has given you enough wisdom. But if by chance you find this letter in this territory of life where having a barbecue is still something unknown, remember these lines: “Always bones first”. Moreover, I propose that this, dear Marco, be the motto of your reign. The slogan, the claimhe hashtagsince this certainty, simple in principle, will define your intelligence and your ability to govern.

As I write these lines, I’m sweating. It’s maddeningly hot, Marco. The birds commit suicide in the middle of the Via Appia, which here more than a street is an ice cream parlor or a pizzeria. The heat is scorching. In case you don’t know yet, Heat wave It is a constellation that contains a star called Sirius. It seems that when you see the ortho of Syria, dogs heat begins, dogs. You read correctly, young heir, I wrote ortho. Wikipedia assures me that this is what is said when a star appears, and it is not I who will question this marvelous source of irrefutable truths. So how shall I say AristotleIt’s very hot, Marco. As soon as you can, grab an army and invade Stockholm, cut summers. And hit the air conditioning hard. In seventeen, because the whole planet is already lost.

Speaking of stars, dear Marco, I tell you that I was born under the sign of Capricorn. I was a goat who lived its life by migrating towards the slopes with the strength of its legs, clinging to a ground that was sometimes too hard. Perhaps that’s why I recommend the use of pliers only when your nails, already exposed to deep contact with the inside edge of the shoe, present themselves in pain, never before. There will be those who will accuse you of being barbaric. Don’t listen to them, put up with blasphemy, be stoic like our parents. Goats are practical and, above all, we hate falling.

Independiente played last night, dear Marco. He drew 0-0, in a match that managed to cling to my corneas. Hours pass and I can’t forget such praise for ugliness. In any case, if you maintain the tradition of being a fan of Rouge, which in this family comes from the time when your ancestors harvested olives in the olive groves of the Peloponnese, I assure you that you will know the honey of victory. Also the sour taste of bitter defeat (the sentence is from my father, who did not make me Emperor but King of Cups), but hey, these are the vicissitudes of life. Ah, one thing: if you still haven’t seen Avatar II Come on, Lola says she’s very hot. Lola, if you don’t make the connection, she’s my daughter, so she should be related to you. So we can clearly see the relationship, because the world, dear Marco, is a mess. They are all ortho.

You will wonder about your heritage. It is time to admit to you that I have been wise in almost nothing and even less in mathematics, which is why I am almost completely ignorant of the cumulative meaning of matter. This is my fancy way of telling you not to look for wares in my name in faraway lands, because you won’t find a wretched acre of it. Neither ortho.

Adriannot that of Inter, that of Rome, he liked Antinous. Me, dear Marco, I did the same with the flour. (Have a hand, proofreader! Leave that “a” where it is, not everyone puts such a joke in the middle of a section of Culture). I’m telling you because if at the time of reading this letter you get into the third croissant for breakfast, or a milanesa special, I want you to know that it’s my fault. Still, I’m calm about something. Contrary to Antinous, that in order not to grow old it occurred to him to go and see Egypt from the bed of the Nile, the flour will never leave you. Neither do the floats, but it’s a good thing the suicide bomber needed them.

You will have noticed, dear Marco, that our ancestors were very fond of making statues. I see in Google, which is like Wikipedia but in color, one of Adrian. Curly hair, symmetrical face, lomazo. Rich boy. I cross his body and stop there, because it is impossible to resist the temptation to compare. It must be recognized that the artists of antiquity turned out to be good people, beings who when it came to carving limbs were pious and made them of a size that one looks at and thinks “well, I’m not that bad…” (Leave those “aaaaa”s where they are, proofreader, it’s not a joke but I need the hypothetical reader to drag them with me). I think, as I glimpse the profile of a malpractice-ruined roast gang, how little our esteem would be had the idols of antiquity been modeled on the Rocco Sifreddi, For example. Maybe we’d all end up like Antinous. Or almost all of them, because he never misses the one who follows the casting and reads with a smile. Ortho enlargement.

Finally, dear Marco. could feel me Marguerite Yourcenar and write an entire book giving you my perspective on the God of Dulce de Leche, telling you about the horror of reaching adulthood without mastering the backhand with a spinning top, reminding you it was in Rome, more precisely and precisely at the Olympic Games in Rome, where Bochini and Bertoni built walls and built an empire… But I fully understand that at some point it is convenient to end it and let you live your own adventures. The only thing I ask of you is that one morning you take out your pen and spend some time writing a letter to your grandson, some kind of keepsake. Surely a newspaper of the time will publish it for you and so, from heat wave to heat wave, we will leave the mark of a lifetime of greatness.

I like you.

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