[Listening to: Funny Little Frog - Belle & Sebastian - Funny Little Frog (03:10)]
I am 38 today. An interesting age, if one thinks about it. Not yet 40 and no longer 30, not in between things, but somehow past the middle term of the third decade of my life. It is fine, I guess, if life has been lived relatively well, which I am not sure it is my case. Whatever, I'm OK in a not too nice day in Buenos Aires (cloudy, melancholic and busy).
I am launching another year in the continous ride to purgatorium. There is a reason to celebrate, which I will not do today but this weekend, before the struggle with my working life begins as people (bosses included) begin to return from their holidays.
I felt like writing the other day, and did not quite begin to do it. Another frustrated effort. At this pace, I will become a writer at around the same time as Jose Saramago, although I'll never get the Nobel Prize.
I am 38, currently writing about Brazil politics and energy issues, and reading a great contemporary writer, Roberto Bolaño in a long piece of work put together after his death entitled 2666. This is one of the best books I've read in the past two or three years, a thoroughly recommendable piece of work.
