29 November 2006: I felt the urge to search on Google for my mother’s name and two surnames and, although I did not know what I wanted to find, I was shocked to see that it has no results. The mother has died without a digital trail.
February 5, 2012: In the newspaper I have read an esquela from a lady called Doña Predestinación, de Tafalla, in the Tanatorio de Burlada. If I were funny, the joke would already be done.
6 February 2011: In the kuxkuxero section of Noticias “Did you know that…?” today it has come to the street that by chance Yolanda Barcina and Maiorga Ramírez have joined in the same hairdresser of Pamplona. Good start of a theater play. Both seated looking at the public, at this moment of intimacy and weakness, talking about the sky and the earth, entering a stylist (a little room to fill the topic).
13 April 2009: Ibon, Uxue and I have gone to the Almudena cemetery today. It is an incomparable place, from which you can see almost all of Madrid. If they hadn't brought me, it would never have occurred to me to come here. A sentinel told us that in ten minutes they would close the door, but without specifying where the exit was. We have had a hard time finding it. I start thinking that we would be locked up there, convinced that going would fulfill what an old man said who has taught us the road to the cemetery (“it’s out there, but it doesn’t take your trumpet”). We finally walked out the door of the Crematorium, which was open, perhaps because there was an incineration, perhaps that of the writer Corín Tellado, we thought or concluded. I've recognized the right to say in the future that I've been at Corín Tellado's funeral.
15 October 2008: There has been a producer for us all to sign a supplementary clause to the contract, a confidentiality clause: for ten years we can count on nothing to shoot anywhere, not to mention it or anything. Since I have no choice but to sign, I have to stop making this little chronicle.
(Note: Hairdresser girls, speaking of raccord, tell us that Penelope Cruz, before passing the raccord photos to the technicians, makes them photo-shop if someone filters them, so the makeup ones are burning, because they didn't have grab to follow the scene)
12 September 2012: I'm rereading Marcial. I have found in him virtues that I had not found until now. Look at this poem. It looks like a mixture of a delicate Japanese Haiku and a topical parody of a Roman peplum:
Horacio, alone, with his black coat, sees the
circus games, while the plebe, the senators
and the knights are dressed
in white, in the company of
the emperor, each in
their respective place. Suddenly it began to cloud:
Horacio is watching games with the
white layer.
13 January 2011: My sister calls me to tell me she's been with the geneticist. To determine what gene is affected by the hemophilia of our family, I am the only “family”. The doctor hasn't put a good face. The more relatives you have, the better and more accurate the study will be. Anyway, the doctor has consulted the report and, although they have not sent us the results, they did us a medical investigation seventeen years ago and they say that in Barcelona they have my DNA and that of my mother kept, it is not known in which laboratory, for what purpose. You will try to ask and understand it.