Once I lived across the road from an old folks home where about 20 elderly people lived in little separate dwellings. They were all alone and somewhat on the shelf. A sick old invalid called Jack asked me to go shopping for him, buy his bread and milk,so I did that. After this I began to hang out in his little room a bit, talking to him. He was a miserable old man who hated everything and everyone. He was abandoned by his family. He wanted to die. I thought he might have some interesting tales to tell, like his years as a docker, but no, he was just fuming with rage. All he did was moan and complain. One evening, he was particularly unhappy. Here, he said giving me 5 pounds, go buy me a bottle of whiskey. No, Jack, I said, you know you are not allowed alcohol. Ah please its my birthday, just a little bottle. he held my hand and tears appeared in his withered eyes. OK, I said, a little one. I returned with a nagan of whiskey and we shared a first drink and he even cheered up a little, telling me of some of his fond memories. He held my hand again and said, somewhat tragically "you're my only friend in the world..." and I said, I'm off Jack, have a good night, don't get too drunk. See you in the morning.
In the morning I let myself in as usual and there he was in the same chair gripping his last glass of whiskey. Conked out. Ah Jack I said, you never even made it to bed, you are a terrible man. I took the glass from his hand, drained it, for there was still a little bit left -- Jameson's, yum -- and left the glass in the kitchenette. Ill be back in a while Jack,I said, Im off to the shops.
And so i left and went the shops and went about my day. A couple of hours later i returned and there he was, still conked out in the armchair. For fucks sake Jack, I said its past midday, would you ever wake up?!
I shook him a little and then the penny dropped. Yep, Jack was stone cold dead. I had killed him with the bottle of whiskey.
So that's my self-summary. I'm a bit of a murderer, but I don't mean to. But maybe it was the right thing to happen anyhow.

I am adventurous, curious, and reciprocal

I met a Russian in Central Park. It was a tumultuous sunday afternoon in NY and the clammy sun was interspersed with tropical rainstorms. We would shelter under bridges and the rainstorm would pass and the sun would magically appear again in no time at all. And there was something magical about this Russian. A gypsy, time and space conspired around her and strange, wonderful things occurred.
I cant tell you what- maybe you will meet her yourself someday.
But this one nugget I will reveal. We were walking around randomly, by the boathouse, next to the Alice in Wonderland statue, here and there, and I asked her to speak a little in Russian.
No, she said. Why? Here we are in New York, I speak English.
Oh please, I said, because I love to hear the Russian tongue.
No, she said. It makes no sense to speak in Russian to you, you will not understand.
Please.
NO.
So I asked her to speak Russian to someone else.
You are a crazy Irishman. OK, I will ask somebody for a cigarette in my language. Then you will shut up.
So she turned around and asked a random passing couple for a cigarette in Russian.
дайте мне сигарету?
There you fool, she said to me, you have your Russian.
I found it all very funny and liked the expression of shock on the faces of the confused couple, two hillbilly-tourists-from -the-midwest types.
The lady turned with great purpose and grabbed my Russian ladies arm.
Ow! said the Russian, surprised.
The lady handed her a cigarette. She smiled in complicity.
вот, пожалуйста, мой друг!
See my magical gypsy russian had randomly addressed the only other Russian in the whole fucking park that day.
I love this kind of thing. I seek it out everywhere. That, I suppose, is what I'm doing with my life.

predicting who is calling when the phone rings.

Eduardo Galeano.
Los amantes del Círculo Polar.
Bach
Falafel.

That's ok, I will do without.

Brasil

writing