Cafrune's No quiero ver el sol

No me quedo de otra.

La cancion, con su lirica delicada, tan nostalgica, me mando a escribir.

His eyes are so tranparent, it's as though I can see through them to the back of his head. That place where the dreams come to him. Where the pulses of his fingers on guitar strings are born. With his eyes, he invites me in. He sits me down. Raises his shirt so I can see the scars that run along his tall lean body. "Here, this one here, this is where at three she left me." "This other one, this one with the bruised flesh, this one came from knowing my true self at the age of eight."

In the amphitheater of his soul I sit. It is lush green with benches of supple birch wood. The air smells of burnt cedar. The light is soft.

Suddenly he has recognized what he has done.

He has let an invader in. A peculiar being with a soul made of bird and skin the color of milk and coffee.

I sit and wait by the entrance of his door. I look up to see if the orange glow of his room signals me to return.

Because I wait I know I love.

I found a piece of eucalyptus bark at golden gate park this weekend as I roamed looking for inspiration. I sat by a tree near a swampy creek, and thought only about "the boy" of course. I am twenty-three years old and still absolutely captivated by romance. I am a romantic. Perhaps because I grew up listening to Lola Beltran and Pedro Infante. I have a huge affinity for bittersweet romance, the kind that lingers in your heart because you let it. You allow for the suffering of unrequited love to rest inside you, even though it tears you apart. See, I told you I was a romantic. This love song by Cafrune took me there. To that special place I like to go to marvel at the emotion of love. To honor it and to feel it and to let it play out fully, with all its agony and beauty. I believe that is the quality that these folk songs from Argentina evoke. They evoke celebration for all the seasons of love, the season of incredible bliss, and the season of incredible sadness. These feelings are woven into the strums of the guitar, the syncopated, swaggering milonga rhythms. The push and pull tension of the metric slide in the songs. The wobble in the voices of Cafrune and Atuhualpa, that sadness that is lodged in their throats. Only the zamba can alleviate, through melody, through wind pushed from the lungs, to unite with vocal chords, to create songs. Songs born of the throat of love.

I painted a woman figure and a man figure. There arms reach to each other, in between they create a landscape. In this landscape the moon shines and the mountains remain in peace. The one I love is from an opposite world. But we meet in the middle and marvel at our extremities. That landscape is our bridge and our love. However, he is afraid, so he rapidly shuts the door and leaves me outside. Yes, I am a romantic. And all I can do is marvel at this feeling in my own throat. I smile because I know what it is.