Could it be the years or this inability to finish understanding that I am an old man who surrounds himself with memories and, at times, has a hard time understanding this convulsive present that we live in? Every day I go to Casa de Teatro, which is in the very heart of the colonial zone. Every morning I do this to avoid the disturbance caused by the jungle of cars that savagely fight for space on the city, an exercise in thought where I forge cultural plans, strategies, pending calls, meetings about dreams and utopias…. every morning I do exercises of joy and invent dreams that feed in some way the cultural activity in which I live. Every morning I deceive myself and tell myself that I will live forever and that heaven, if it comes, will come suddenly without expecting it and when my dreams have run out.
The route, depending on the plugs, is always the same, I rarely change it, unless I have to make a stop en route.
Sometimes I talk to myself, rehearse proposals, criticize myself or put the future project in the hands of the almighty.
Since I have been driving the houses, streets and buildings they tell me their stories, they flood me with anecdotes and memories assault me unexpectedly, some are repeat offenders, here once I met someone who helped me overcome my fears, on that staircase I I broke my arm when I fell, my friend hid in that house escaping from a relentless persecution, in that park I played cops and bandits with my first childhood friends, here was the bookstore where I used to buy Spanish plays for 30 cents a edition, here I saw her for the first time in a procession and I fell in love immediately, she was so similar to the Virgin they carried, she was my virgin, and then we finally became boyfriends and learned to kiss together.
I was born in this old city of Santo Domingo, I walked it as a child, I grew up in it and it is impossible for me to escape from so many memories. Some happy others very painful, like those in which in the middle of the revolution I had to count corpses in the Padre Billini hospital and the blood flooded the floors and the nuns couldn’t cope healing the wounded.
Is city is a witness of my life, in it I am leaving my footprints that, like all footprintswill be erased over time, memories flood me and every morning, without being able to avoid it, new ones arise that are woven with the new experiences lived in my Theater House.
Since I became aware that one dies, I decided not to take this living very seriously.
I knew that time was short and that the best way to have a good and happy time was first learning to laugh at myself and then accepting many of the things I could never change. Every morning, and excuse me, I try to be a better human being, to do as much good as possible and, of course, I reinvent myself and have fun.