I'ma city boy without myths. Or maybe he did. TV and football and a slippery memory. Capricious. Patchwork quilt made me no shelters in the winter. Television: SWAT, Starsky and Hutch. The clowns on TV. Football. Non-adhesive stickers. Iribarren. Parties in the park in the square after school.
I'ma city boy with no cinema. Or maybe he did. Geyperman war movies. Envelopes soldiers. Paratrooper plastic. Light cables. I
nothing remains of a teenager unconscious. The herd, most, copying, uniformity. Time spent on drinking and music in English without understanding the lyrics. Euphoria and nothing else. Not a poem or a fruit. Not a step or artificial turf.
I am an adult in my pajamas. An adult without a sponsor. A small town city. I am now the Argonaut. Dreamer, tried, convicted and kamikaze. I will now discover and feel shame and also a strange fear.
And thou, foundling, world champion. You who had everything and lost everything. Who lived fast and then you had a thousand different jobs. That overcomes and were defeated. I had never heard your name.
Perico Fernandez is one of the many secrets hidden beneath their skin Zaragoza . Statue of a city that now comes to life. World Champion. Fashion halftime. Home magazines. Famous. Idol with feet of clay. Character. Broken toy. Ash. You
world champion for the second time, you lucky girl losing fame. With time left to reinvent yourself. No return to sing anymore. Not go out on television stumbling over words. No replay the mass laugh thanks.
And now, Perico , more than thirty years after Octavio and Juan Luis write your story, your hagiography in verse. The story of the angel first. Now that the days repeat like broken out of a photocopier .
Now Enrique Cebrian and Forego Manolo warn you recognize and find. Hospice child remind you, hungry fighter, gore and glory millionaire. Contemporary history repeats itself. Resurrected man who never died.
Juan Luis Octavio and are children of good memory. Memory brand new color TV. Flared trousers and pullover. Men who do not want to lose their childhood, stop shelter with her to give up hope and innocence. The myth that won the world, put his city at the center of the universe.
Manolo, Enrique, and Juan Luis Octavio write against oblivion ingrate of a very old town and Roman. Not like you to be reborn to let you down later. In your resurrection they too are reborn. Recover the memory of a city with television club. With another moon landing, with the morning across the world . With the success and triumph, a hero, an orphan Torrero world champion. The sky beneath your feet. you give fire to life. Parsifal. Disco lights. Chivas and coke. Until
arrived that day in the fucking heat , with your lungs as reefs tar Bangkok. Lies on the canvas, heavy and sad tomb / coffin in the cosmos that smells fresh. 's defeat. Oblivion. Decay. The downhill without brakes. Fool. Mono fair. Despised. Cornered. Defective product, old-fashioned. Unproductive useless empty box. Meat squeezed every last drop. Besieged by bright colors, the rash of bumps, chavalas lapsed, any food for my magpie mind. Bebo in the sources as do the dogs, I am more animal than many humans. Can you sobrevivirte yourself?
And now, thirty years later , and Juan Luis Octavio , eternal beginners, are a cult you write little empty prayers. We learned how to grit my teeth every morning, angry consumers public bus transfer. And you, Perico, you reinvented yourself with drawing and color. You do not study anything. That gave wafers as anyone. You, child hospice world champion, a survivor of neglect, the son fled the voracious Saturn.
did not know you, Perico, sorry.
Now I know your name.
Close the door and tell me what dreamed as a kid .
"Perico Fernandez who art in heaven" Juan Luis Saldaña and Octavio Gómez Milian. Books of (a) Not to be missed. Zaragoza, 2011. Marking and prologue: Manuel Martínez and Enrique Cebrian Forego. Cover Drawing: Perico Fernandez.
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