Activity Report - Vinkel Bay - may/2022

An emperor is pecking at my boots. Stravinsky doesn't like boots, especially mine, and the orange color irritates himself to deeply. It shouldn't be long before he and his friends leave for Atka Bay. They're late, they should have left two weeks ago.

The sun doesn't appear anymore, we live the 24 hours of the eternal night. Only the stars and occasionally the moon in a pale light. A not-so-dark night at the edge of the South Pole. It's autumn and in less than two months winter will begin.

It's crazy these guys go to breed at the worst time of the year. The blizzards when arrive make everyone feel like we are on some  moon of Saturn or Jupiter less on Earth.

Solitude makes the imagination fly.  Women are a rare thing here. They been rarer in other times, but they are still not many. I was told that there are two Swedish women, but I'm not sure, are they Swedish or Indian? I don't remember. They are not exactly women, but certainly not men. Nothing against them, quite the contrary, I have never see them. I know some who have fallen in love with them and others who have been disappointed in themselves.

Like a loner lost in the middle of this inhospitable environment, I end up letting my imagination fly. I write to empty my mind and fill my time. Some people even like it, but they are few or fewer. Certainly less than my ego would find acceptable. That's why my ego deserves your contempt.

I could write stories of different styles, times or situations, but my mind is a little more perverted than I would like. I even write texts of other styles and reasons, but they are few. I end up imagining stories with the most diverse characters, usually leaving them naked and enslaved to the most shameless sex.

Nothing a good writer would feel honored to do.

But the worst is that I like it. I like how I construct the scenes and invent the characters in the most obscene and divine acts. But there are times when I feel like Dorian, with the deepest fear of seeing myself portrayed in a painting tucked away in some attic of my soul.

I live in this strange dilemma, I'm addicted to writing exciting stories, and at the same time, I can't brag about that fact. I am afraid that not even the Swedish girls want something from me, or is it the Indian girls? I can only reveal myself to this buddy who pecks at my boots.

By the way, Stravinsky, what did you leave here? Is it a fish, Stravinsky? Do you think I look like your cub? I don't know where I got a friend like you. You are sick, Stravinsky, we are.

Also living in this land at the end of the world, no wonder I got so lewd, me and my friend. This is yes, the end of the world. Ushuaia does not deserve that title. Argentines are always inventing ideas.

Oh, you want to know if I read? Of course I do. But not the ones you read. In fact, you will never read my list:

* 'O Tempo e o Vento.' by Erico.
* 'La guerra del fin del mundo.' by Llosa.
* 'Grande Sertão Veredas.' by Graciliano.
* 'La casa de los espíritus' by Allende.
* 'Cien Años de Soledade' by  Marquez.

The list is so long that it would be impossible to name them all. You don't deserve it and I honestly don't remember anymore. One of the advantages of senility is precisely the loss of memory and decency, at least in my case.

As for the movies:

* 'The Battleship Potemkin.'
* Citizen Kane.
* O Pagador de Promessas.
* The Godfather.

There are infinite movies. The problem is that the impression remains that the best ones have already been produced.

Stravinsky! For God's sake, my friend. Stop pecking my boot!

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