When I began this blog, I figured I would be flooded by contributions from the hundreds of people who knew and loved my brother. That I would find it hard to sort through and organize all of the comments, stories and memories. The flood never came.

            I have also found it more and more difficult to write about him. I think of a million things: memories, funny situations, stories no one has heard before, things I remember about him, but nothing seems to come together. It’s like a myriad fragments that float around without wanting to coalesce into anything meaningful, anything complete. Is it that Lalo’s now become a part of the past? That he’s no longer as important to us as we all claimed? Is there really a moment when you “get over” something like this?

            I suppose part of it is the natural process of the passage of time. Like John Lennon said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. There’s always “stuff” to be done: work, meals, driving, shopping, cleaning, baths, TV. But I think a great deal of it has to do with being able to “escape” the reality of someone’s death; of wanting to pretend that nothing’s happened. That way, all of the hundreds of little memories and fragments become intertwined with your daily routine. They don’t stand out as much anymore. The intense pain, the tremendous reality of what’s happened only becomes noticeable when other things remind you of it.

            Recently, Davey Jones died. The self-same dreamboat of all the Monkees. When I heard of his death, I cried like an idiot. Sure, I loved “Daydream believer” but, come on! It’s just I couldn’t help but think, “Another Monkee!” Also, just this last Sunday, I woke up to the sound of sirens in the street. It turns out one of my neighbors, a woman near my age whom I had never really had anything to do with, accidentally fell down the stairs of her home and killed herself. She was the sister of the man who fixes my car. I felt completely overwhelmed by grief. I thought of him, of his mother, of the awful indifference with which an ordinary Sunday morning can turn into a tragic, shattering experience. And I also thanked God I had the chance to say goodbye to my brother and to live his last moments with him.

            So, then, have we really forgotten “our” Monkee? Not at all. It’s just that we don’t want to remember he’s gone. We’d rather not scratch at the wound. Maybe, someday, we’ll wake up to find it was all a terrible misunderstanding, a bad dream.

            In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to make all the pieces come together and waiting for the flood. I’m sure it’ll come, even if it’s at a drop at a time.
Susana Olivares Bari

Cuando empecé este blog, supuse que me vería inundada por las contribuciones de los cientos de personas que conocieron y amaron a mi hermano. Que me sería difícil poner en orden y organizar todos los comentarios, anécdotas y recuerdos. La inundación nunca llegó.

Lalo León

Recuerdo a Lalo como una persona con un excelente humor. De muy jóvenes, casi niños, nos veíamos en reuniones familiares, en donde nos reíamos de chistes que nos contábamos en momentos de regocijo y felicidad compartida. Recuer`o que en ocasiones, cuando yo vivía en la calle Dakota # 153, en la colonia Nápoles, mis padres Chinto y Caro hacían grandes reventones los 15 de Septiembre y recuerdo muy bien a mi recordado Monkee cotorreando con las primas Rivapalacio, hijas del Tío Rodolfo y Chabela. Nos encantaba estar con mis primas, ya que jugábamos a la botella, en alguna de las recámaras de mis hermanos, y nos besuqueábamos sabroso con ellas y las hacíamos reír, con ése humor siempre presente de Lalo. Entrado a la adolescencia, recuerdo que me invitaba a dormir a su casa, uno que otro fin de semana, en su casa de 3 niveles, si mal no recuerdo, y nos la pasábamos oyendo música de Rock muy variada. Lalo tenía un excelente gusto por la música; de hecho yo descubrí a varias bandas de la época por él, ya que tenía muchos acetatos, y nos pasábamos las horas oyendo a Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Traffic y Erick Clapton, entre muchos otros. En algún momento nos dábamos un toque y oíamos " Purple Haze", y viajábamos con el pensamiento, y luego comentábamos lo que sentíamos cada uno al oír ese clásico tema del maestro Hendrix. Sin duda era un ser excepcional, buen amigo, siempre dispuesto a escucharte y a convivir contigo. Lo único que siento es que nos distanciamos muchos años, y no porque hubiéramos tenido alguna diferencia, ¡¡¡jamás!!! Simplemente, la vida nos fue llevando por caminos diferentes. Al final tuve la fortuna de haberlo yo contactado por medio del FaceBook, situación que sentí que a Lalo le dio mucho gusto y ya no digo a mí. Puedo decir finalmente que la gente que tuvimos la fortuna de haberlo conocido y tratado, nunca lo olvidaremos. Es de esas personas (conozco muy pocas), que han dejado una profunda huella en nuestros corazones y en donde los recuerdos de él permanecerán en mi memoria por siempre. Espero sinceramente cuando me vaya volverlo a ver en alguna dimensión desconocida ó universo paralelo. Te quiero mucho primo y que Dios te tenga en su gloria, como te mereces. ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡Hasta siempre!!!!!!!

I remember Lalo as a person with an excellent sense of humor. When we were very young, practically children, we’d meet at family gatherings and we’d laugh at the jokes we’d tell in moments of joy and shared happiness. I remember that, at

I hear noises.

Little disturbances

that mean nothing,

or everything.

Clicks, cracks.

Normal sounds

I’ve heard before,

or not.

Now that you’ve died

I fear the presence

of your ghost.

The mere idea of you,

roaming the halls,

scares me silly.

‘Till I realize,

with my shrink’s mind,

what frightens me is nothing

but the fulfillment of the wish

to see you again.

Susana Olivares Bari, September, 2012

Oigo ruidos.

Pequeñas alteraciones

NEVERMORE

I wish I could write the words as I saw them in my mind’s eye at 4 o´clock this morning. The “ desfile de las vocales”* paraded past me and the consonants were crisp as fresh lettuce, but since I am now totally awake and no longer as sure of what I need to say nor just how to say it, I’ll just go along as best I can.
            At Lalo’s insistence, I tried to read a quasi-handbook on how to deal with a diagnosis of a terminal illness. He felt it had helped him and might be beneficial to me.  I tried, but I have an aversion to anything vaguely suggestive of platitudinous savvy so I never got through it; however, on the back cover of the book, I did find something that struck a chord of sorts; it said “Life, for everyone, is a terminal condition.” Well, yes, but where do you I find the safety in numbers in that?

            Five months have come and gone and I can’t seem to get past his death.  I know that the official cut-off for normal grieving is supposed to be at six months but I’m not even close.

            Lalo was the keynote of my life...  I became a real person when he was born because I then had an authentic identity; I was a mother. Before that, I was somebody’s daughter, niece, grandchild, wife; but now my official place in the world was that of mother.

            As an only child for practically six years, he was the starter-kit of our little family, receiving all of the attention, both positive and negative, but he weathered the storm although, when Susana was born, I worried a little that he wouldn’t survive the shock of not being the be-all and end-all. I decided to make her arrival an event dedicated to him. His father and I had an easel, paints, brushes and drawing paper delivered to our door a few hours before we were due to arrive home from the hospital. The card on the gift read “to Lalo from his new little sister” and for quite a while afterward he referred to her as “la nueva” ---the new one---.  As was the case of the relationship between their father and his siblings, my dream of this brother and sister caring deeply for one another became a reality, thank God. I also know how very deep is the hurt that Susana is feeling at his passing, although I cannot really plumb the depths of it since I was an only child and never suffered such a terrible loss as that of a sibling. I can at least be there with her in the devastation I know she is experiencing.

            There is a lyric in a song that goes-------Toward a closing door, a door marked Nevermore that wasn’t there before ------ that seems to apply to our situation.

Patricia Bari Frew                                             *Alludes to a children’s song in Spanish: “The parade of the vowels”

NUNCA MÁS

Desearía poder escribir las palabras de la manera en que las vi dentro de mi mente a las cuatro de esta mañana. El “desfile de las vocales” marchó frente a mí y las consonantes eran tan frescas como una lechuga, pero ahora que me encuentro totalmente despierta y ya no tan segura de lo que necesito decir ni de exactamente cómo decirlo, simplemente lo haré como mejor pueda.

Esa noche de agosto llegamos a casa de Lalo con la seguridad de que sería su partida, aunque después nos daría la sorpresa de regresar. Alrededor de las 2 de la mañana la condición de Lalo empeoró y parecía que se dejaba ir a otra esfera de realidad. Desperté a Estela, que dormía con un sueño intranquilo, y corrió de inmediato a su lado. Se recostó al borde de su cama y le acariciaba los pies, esos pies delgados y finos semejantes a una escultura de mármol. Yo me quedé en el quicio de la puerta, sin atreverme a entrar por no perturbar la escena. Susana y Patricia estaban de pie a unos cuantos pasos de la puerta, al lado de su cama, y Myrna estaba recostada a su lado. Era uno de esos momentos en que hubiera querido ser El Greco o alguno de los pintores flamencos para retratar el instante. La media luz dorada de las lámparas. Las sombras que se adivinaban detrás de la ventana. Las miradas atentas y los oídos prestos a escuchar sus últimas palabras. Es cierto que cuando uno está a punto de morir, en la mente se agolpan todos los recuerdos de nuestra propia vida, pero también es verdad que cuando alguien está al borde de la muerte, en la mente de los espectadores se despierta la memoria de los momentos vividos con esa persona. Bueno, por lo menos eso es lo que me pasó a mí.

¿Sexo o violencia?

            Recordé las primeras veces que conocí a Lalo. La ocasión en que, en casa de su mamá, estuvimos Jorge, Estela, Lalo, Susana y yo viendo por cable La Novicia Rebelde. Las risas ante los comentarios de Jorge sobre los comerciales. La teoría era que los anuncios de Cablevisión giraban sólo en torno a dos ideas: sexo y violencia, y a cada comercial Jorge anunciaba, “¿Ven? Sexo. Violencia. Sexo, sexo, violencia”. Después transfirió la misma idea a la película. Mientras Julie Andrews se paseaba por los Alpes o las monjas cantaban consejos sabios, Jorge decía, “Sexo. Violencia. Violencia, violencia, sexo, sexo…”. Creo que nunca me he reído tanto. Me acordé también de todas las comidas familiares. Las veces en que Lalo me lanzaba una mirada a través de la mesa para ver si le hacía segunda para abrir otra botella de vino. Nunca me negué a ello. Me encantaba compartir el vino con Lalo. Disfrutaba de las conversaciones, de cuando nos contaba sobre el último artículo que había leído en Time (después de todo era el “Time Dude”), de cómo se azotaba si alguien mencionaba la psicología (a la que, según creo, consideraba como una “jalada”).

            También vino a mi mente la despedida en el aeropuerto cuando Lalo fue a Medjugorje. Ese fue un viaje muy importante en su vida. Y el tiempo en que hizo música para Tina Nina o como se haya llamado. El estreno de “Acapulco en la Azotea” y el Minimalismo Tropical. El paseo que dimos por el bosquecito cerca de su casa en San Pedro. Fotos y más fotos en mi memoria, junto con esas notas mentales que uno hace: Lalo en Navidad aconsejando y confortando a mi mamá; Lalo, Susana, Patricia y yo en nuestra casa esperando a que los pollos se cocieran en el horno para poder comer. Lalo enojado en Sanborn’s porque hablé mal del Papa y luego disculpándonos ambos por nuestros respectivos exabruptos. Lalo, Julieta, Susana y yo en Cuernavaca la noche en que murió su papá.

Susana, Gloria y Lalo

            Poco tiempo antes de morir nos invitó a todos a su casa. Lo hizo expresamente para reunir a sus dos hermanas, Elisa y Susana, y para despedirse de sus amigos como a él le gustaba; con risas y buena conversación y música. En lo personal, me regaló la posibilidad de vernos otra vez a través de la mesa para compartir una copa (o muchas) de vino. Creo que, como expresó él mismo al citar a Henry James, ‎"Three things in human life are important. The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind." Aunque no es posible reducir la vida de alguien a una sola oración, en este caso sí refleja mucho de lo que Lalo aspiró a ser: amable, bondadoso, bueno. No hay nada que indique mayor éxito en la vida que alcanzar ese tipo de meta personal en la que la mente y el espíritu se reflejan en los propios actos. Y eso, entre otras muchas cosas, ha logrado Lalo. Y hablo en presente porque Lalo ES. No sólo en los recuerdos, sino en el ejemplo a seguir. El constante esfuerzo por ser mejor, por ser bueno. Un propósito que quizá a algunos les parezca poco en comparación con éxitos más “brillantes”. Ese logro atrajo hacia él el mayor amor y devoción que se pueda alcanzar. Trató de vencer sus demonios personales, que eran varios y, si me lo preguntan, lo consiguió y con mención honorífica.

Gloria Padilla.

That night in August we arrived at Lalo’s house with the certainty that it would be his last, although he would surprise us with a comeback. Around 2 o’clock in the

There is a scene in an old music video by a Colombian artist, Juanes, where he is shown in the midst of a barrage of bullets, each one passing so close to him you can’t help but cringe. The image has always stayed with me and I’m often reminded of it when I think of my brother.

            The first time he dodged a bullet was before he was even born. Late in her pregnancy, my mother became ill with hepatitis. The doctors told her and the rest of the family, point-blank, that there was no chance of the baby’s living and that her own chances of survival were about 50-50. She spent the last months of her pregnancy in bed, staining the linens yellow with her sweat. In spite of it all, the baby was born; jaundiced and with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, but very much alive.

            The second time was when he was still a baby, not even a year old. In July of 1957 there was a terrible earthquake that shook Mexico City.  Te Angel which crowned the Column of Independence toppled to the ground. It was also the first big earthquake my mother experienced. According to her, the first thought that crossed her mind as she was awakened at around 2:30 in the morning was that the city was being bombed. Her second thought was, “The baby!”

Angel of Independence, 1957

            Lalo was in the next room, alone, and my mother could hear the blinds on the window rattling. My father held on to her and didn’t let her leave. When the quake finally abated and they rushed into his bedroom, the wall against which his crib had been had fallen. And the crib? It had rolled out into the middle of the room. The baby was fine.

            Throughout his childhood years, he dodged the bullets most of us manage to evade as well. All the childhood diseases, accidents and dangers associated with growing up, plus a few more emotional and physical blows dealt, unfortunately, by my father; theirs was not an easy relationship. The violence was mostly psychological, it seems, but violence there was. That is what probably led Lalo to start using drugs. The rocky relationship with my father seemed to create an essential need for approval, for fitting in and being “one of the guys”.

            During this time, Lalo evaded a few more threats, mostly to his well-being. In the very difficult years that followed, many of his friends, as well as so many others of his generation, became victims and either died or wound up “fried” as a result of their drug use. Again, Lalo made it through; although it took years and he was never really able to stop completely (he always openly admitted his addiction to pot) he did quit using all of the other stuff and survived again.

            The last great, amazing survival “exploit” of his, was once when he was talking to someone over the phone during a thunderstorm. There he was, happily chatting away, when a bolt of lightning hit the phone-line, travelled through it and hit Lalo. He said he felt someone had smashed a fist into his chin. He flew through the air a few meters, landed on his back on the floor and felt a funny tingling sensation throughout his body. Later, when he asked my mother if she thought God was trying to send him a message, my mother promptly answered, “Yes! He’s telling you not to talk on the phone during a storm!” The only aftereffect of this adventure was a bruise at the exact center of his chin. It was there for months.

            So, then, the question would have to be, why now? I wish I could tell you I’ve figured that one out. That I’m sure there is a grand scheme, a plan which now lies straight and clear before my eyes, but no such luck. I’ll never be able to understand why after all those other times he survived, this was the one that got him. And he almost cheated death again! For a while there, it seemed he had beaten the cancer; even his doctors were amazed. But he did get a reprieve of almost two whole years, when he should have died in three months.

            It could be, like I told my mother the other day, that God is shaking his head in disappointment. “What more do you want? I left him with you for almost 55 years, when he wasn’t even supposed to be born!”

            In the end, maybe that’s the whole point. We all die. Nobody lives forever. And, if we’re very, very lucky, we get to pass the time, dodging bullets, with people we can love.

Susana Olivares Bari

Hay una escena en un viejo video musical de un artista colombiano, Juanes, donde lo muestran en medio de una ráfaga de balas, cada una pasándole tan cerca que uno no puede evitar sentir horror. La imagen se ha quedado conmigo desde entonces y a menudo la recuerdo cuando pienso en mi hermano.

Chapter 2

Sam Bari

My mother and father met in Chicago Illinois in 1953. My Dad was studying at IIT, working towards an electrical engineering degree, and my Mom had just finished high school at Immaculata, a prestigious Catholic school run by nuns. My mother’s family was not at all happy with the arrangement: how could a nice American girl marry a no-good Mexican! On the other hand, my Scottish/Irish grandmother, Margaret Frew (a descendant of the royal Stuarts), who was the main opposer of this union, had already committed the "sin" of marrying an Italian crooner, Salvatore Schembari, who later changed his name to Sam Bari for artistic purposes (he shared the bill on a number of gigs with Billie Holliday, no less!), and came from a Sicilian family. (My mother has recollections of Frank Capone, sharing soup with her and my grandparents.)

Sam and "Mimi"

            It turns out Margaret or "Mimi" as I always called her, had had a stint as a "torch" singer herself when she met my grandfather at a Chicago nightclub. Then again, my father wasn’t your ordinary, run of the mill "wetback"; he also came from a "nice" family, and brought the Olivares and Riva Palacio surnames and pedigree into the deal. My parents finally married in Chicago. He at 21 and my Mom at 18. They decided to move back to Mexico City because, due to the recently ended Korean War, the draft was still in effect, which made my father’s joining the Armed Forces almost obligatory. As a young struggling couple, they had little money, so my dad, always the ingenious and resourceful type, found this guy who hired drivers to bring American cars down to Mexico.

            Enrique Jorrin's Cha-cha and Perez Prado's Mambo were all the rage when they arrived to Mexico DF on April 17, 1955. All of my dad’s friends were jubilant and my father himself was as proud as a peacock for having married and brought back a beautiful young "gringuita" from the States. My mother’s first years in Mexico were very difficult; she had only turned twenty, didn’t speak any Spanish, had left all her relatives in the USA and had to live with my grandma "Chayo" (Rosario Riva Palacio de Olivares) and my Father’s younger brother Efrén, so she found herself in a very difficult and isolated situation.     

Lalo, Pat and Lalito

            Little by little she adapted to a new country, a new culture, and started to learn how to live, speak, read and write in the Mexican fashion. Patricia Bari de Olivares got pregnant shortly thereafter.

Eduardo Olivares Bari
(This is the last full-text fragment Lalo left)

Capítulo 2

        Mi mamá y papá se conocieron en Chicago en 1953. Mi papá estaba estudiando ingeniería eléctrica en IIT (Instituto Tecnológico de Illinois) y mi mamá acababa de terminar sus estudios de preparatoria en Immaculata, una prestigiosa escuela católica de monjas. La familia de mi mamá no estaba nada feliz con

Chapter 1

This is one of the two complete fragments of “The Acapulco Hilton Experience” written by Lalo.

            I don’t know why, but for some bizarre, baroque, balmy and breezy reason the Acapulco Hilton became the “magnet” for quite a few significant situations during my lifetime, including “the” experience which is the excuse for the writing of this manuscript. I've lost count of how many times I’ve been to Acapulco, but onhy because I was born in Mexico City in 1956 to a middle class family. Back then, and all through the sixties and seventies, Acapulco was the favorite and closest vacation spot for “chilangos” as Mexico City dwellers are now called; so naturally I went there many times as a child with my family: parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, etc.  And, curiously enough, many other times during my puberty and early teens with my grandmother and my “cousin” Carlos and his father, who piloted a small one motor Cessna. Not that we ever stayed at the Hilton; that treat was reserved for the rich and famous.
            I don’t remember, but according to my mother, the first time I ever saw the sea was in Acapulco as a toddler; I hit the beach running, towards the sea, with my Mom in tow, the chase culminating in a broken toe for my mother and me stopping short of the surf’s edge, in awe. The last time I saw the sea, a few weeks ago, was in Acapulco.

Lalo and Alda Villacorta Olivares

            Acapulco bay is a natural harbor, like San Francisco in California, and has a very interesting history. When Alexander Von Humboldt arrived to this port in 1830, coming from Prussia, he declared it the world’s most beautiful place. I myself shared the same feeling when, as a boy, I saw photos of the bay from the 1930’s and couldn’t believe the virginal beauty of its golden, palm-filled beaches which, by then, had been inundated with all kinds of hotels, condos, and hordes of people. The bay was “discovered” by the Spaniards, back in 1521 and became the port of departure and arrival for the “Nao de la China”, a small fleet of ressels that sailed west to the Philippines, trading in Mexico’s native cocoa, beans, tomatoes, silver and gold (during the XVI century, ¾ of the world’s silver came from Mexico) for silk, spices, and other products from China. These fineries were then transported to Mexico City via mule packs, through the treacherous Sierra Madre pathways. One of these mule drivers eventually became the second president of the Mexican Republic and the first Afro-American president of the continent (way before Obama); he was Vicente Guerrero (of whom I’m a proud descendant).
            The port became increasingly important and fell prey to more and more pirate raids,          (including Sir Francis Drake’s) until the Spanish built the Fuerte de San Diego, a bastion with 22 cannons.
            After Mexico’s Independence, the bay was virtually forgotten, until it was “rediscovered”, supposedly by the Prince of Wales, in the 1920's. From then on it evolved into a getaway for Hollywood stars and celebrities like Johnny Weissmuller, Frank Sinatra and Elizabeth Taylor. Even John F. Kennedy and Jackie honeymooned there!
            By the time I was born, Acapulco was one of the foremost, glitzy, glamorous and exotic spots for "jetsetters” all over the world, as is mentioned in the song composed by Jimmy Van Heusen, with lyrics by Sammy Cahn, “Come Fly With Me”, in Sinatra's classic and superb interpretation. 
Eduardo Olivares Bari

Capítulo 1

Éste es uno de los dos fragmentos completos de “The Acapulco Hilton Experience” de Lalo.

 Capítuho 1

            No sé la por qué, pero por alguna extraña, barroca, agradable y despreocupada razón, el Hilton de Acapulco se convirtió en el “imán” para una serie de situaciones significativas a lo largo de mi vida, incluyendo “la” experiencia que sirvió de excusa para escribir esta obra. He perdido la cuenta de las veces en que

Lalo...

Tendría que empezar por decir que me ha costado trabajo escribir algo sobre mi hermano del alma.

Tengo un nudo en la garganta...

Mi historia es larga, es intensa y es hermosa.

Cuando lo conocí fue hace muchos años cuando Lalo regreso de EU en el año 1980. Un día Jorge me dijo que íbamos a ver a Lalo su amigo del cual ya había oído varias historias. El monkee era amigo de mi hermana Elena y resultaba que era el mejor amigo de Jorge.

En el momento que lo conocí supe quien era y cuanto lo iba a querer.

Y así empezó mi amistad (o más bien mi hermandad) con el hombre que sería parte esencial de mi vida.

Empezamos como hermanos, o sea que nos conocíamos y nos queríamos como hermanos. Nos peleábamos camino a la escuela (el Conservatorio), nos cuidábamos y nos contábamos todo.

Eso siguió a lo largo de toda nuestra historia; yo le contaba todo y él me contaba todo.

Él estaba a mi lado en todos los eventos de mi vida.

Y cuando digo todos es que son todos...

Lo recuerdo en todos los momentos de felicidad y de tristeza.

Y para mí fue siempre mi apoyo, mi consuelo, mi cómplice, mi guía...

Cuando nació mi hijo Daniel él me dijo:
“Yo voy a ser su padrino y voy a ver por el toda la vida.”

Y se encargo de cumplir su promesa.

Después recluto varios ahijados como a Isabel, Pablo y Beto.

Recuerdo sus llamadas periódicas, en las que me decía "¿Estelita como estas?".

Y empezaba yo a contarle todo, él me escuchaba...luego el me contaba lo suyo y yo lo escuchaba...

Recuerdo tantas veces que nos sentamos a tomar un vino y a platicar.
Extraño tanto estar así, una tarde platicando de todo, el y yo...

Desde que supe de su enfermedad, para mi cada instante de estos fue un tesoro. Yo sabía que un día solo sería un recuerdo para mí y lo veía tan bien, tan esperanzado, tan entero que difícilmente podía creerlo.

Veía a mi querido Lalo y pensaba en el día en que ya no estuviera conmigo.

Cuanto aprecio ahora cada instante de ese tiempo en que tuve la oportunidad de estar al lado de él. En el fondo el también lo sabía y por eso era tan especial.

No quería hablar de eso y yo lo respete hasta el último instante.

El estaba listo y esa era su manera de enfrentarlo.

Al final de sus días le dije, "¿Tú sabes cuánto te quiero verdad?"

Y me dijo: “Yo siempre lo he sabido Estelita; desde el día que te conocí.”

Ahora sueño con él y él regresa y me cuenta...y yo le cuento...

Estela Miller

Lalo…

I would have to begin by saying it has been difficult to write something about my spiritual brother.

There’s a knot in my throat…

A Lalo:
Amigo, te me vas y te me quedas,
tomaste un atajo inesperado.
Te alejas a otro paso, adelantado.
Alzando vuelo sobre las veredas.
No creas que tu violín ya se ha callado.
el arco sigue tenso con sus sedas.
No creo que donde estés, tú ya no puedas sonar tu viejo blues apasionado.
El cuerpo se deshoja, árbol muerto.
Misterio de la vida, ineluctable vuela en calma, tu fruto está en el huerto.
Ya sabes del dolor, eres experto.
Mas dejas un aroma de algo amable y sabes que el amor es siempre cierto.
Tu viejo amigo, Jorge

*********************

Jorge Ritter ha sido amigo de Lalo desde siempre. Sé que, para Lalo, Jorge era mucho más que un amigo, era su hermano. Desde el momento en que Jorge

To Lalo:
Friend, you've left me and you're with me still.
You took an unexpected shortcut.
You walk away at a different pace, you forge ahead.
Taking wing over the paths.
Do not think your violin is hushed,
The taut bow-hairs quiver even now.
I don't believe that where you are, you cannot play your old and ardent blues.
The body sheds its leaves, a lifeless tree.
Mystery of life,inescapable flight in serenity, your fruit is in the orchard.
You know of pain, you have become an expert.
But you leave behind a fragrance of something kind and you know that love is always true.
Your old friend, Jorge
*********************
Jorge Ritter has been Lalo’s friend since forever. I know that, for Lalo, Jorge was much more than a friend, he was his brother. From the moment that Jorge