En aquel niño interrogativo quizá se anunciaba un filósofo en el estilo de don José Ortega y Gasset, quien escribió que la lluvia quiere devolvernos a una elemental zoología de chapoteantes larvas inmersas en el primigenio pantano anterior a todas las ciudades y a la Historia (con mayúscula, que no es esa una historia cualquiera). 
José de la Colina
Let’s say that all metaphors have drowned in the sea. They have seen him alone, like a blind man. They have seen him like the flimsy ground of summer. As an unpunished presence and an artifice of destruction, he is not held accountable for his continuous work, his colossal effort to repair his first mistake: to have allowed earth to escape to air, to have erected the time of its dwellers.
Perhaps the latter is an idea buried in our mitochondrial memory. Children know it (with the ludic wisdom of their bodies): time slows down after the dip. Once submerged, this fleeting fish understands everything; the outside world is unleashed, the violence with which the transitory establishes its laws is exhausted. And just before suffocation begins to blur the illusion, the virtual caress of water envelops its cracked light. Hope begins to rise. Daytime fireflies that once floated on the surface of the sea vibrate below. Now water, in its renewing eagerness, could have ripped apart the net of noise with which man tries to capture the air. Noise of horns, of loudspeakers, noise of the phantasmagorical idea of progress, noise of automata, noise of politics turned into a mere contest of climbers: a market of monkeys and men-pigs who dedicate their lives to the cult of the microphone. Noise: the seal of our civilization.
Back to the surface, having been spat upon the wandering sand, we come upon this musical selection that is nothing more than the continuation of a stream of consciousness, an attempt to summon the miracle; to return us to the water, redress the noise, and celebrate, through dance, the random error to which humanity owes its condition of earth and air. Perhaps it is through this bodily expression that we can return to the original rhythm. Will it be dancing (unjustifiable act of grace) that we will finally say “no!” to the claustrophobic prescriptions of our societies? While they continue with their 21 days to be God without ceasing to pay the bills, let us re-found the cosmos with our foot:
Pie de la danza, pie divino
cuyo tacto doró la última tierra. 
Fragment of El agua desdichada by Efraín Bartolomé / Franco Tamponi – Submarino / Gianni Safred – Sacred Interlude / Trierweiler & Beier – In A Nutshell / Fragment of Father Mapple (Orson Welles) – Sermon for Jonah (Moby Dick, directed by John Huston) / Pedro Salinas – Mar Distante / Billy Cobham – Heather / H Rap Brown – Part 1 (album with Leon Thomas) / The Temptations – Ain’t No Justice / Fragment of an interview with Guillermo Cabrera Infante – La muerte de las ideas / Sonny Fotune – Awakenings / Khan Jamal – The Known Unknown / Fragment of an interview with José Emilio Pacheco – La belleza de pensar / Sun Ra – Nuclear War / Fragment of the documentary Iasos – Paradise Music / Christian Scott atunde Adjuah – Sunrise in Beijing / Yussef Kamal – Lowrider / Dennis Ayler – Friday Night / Duke Hugh – Loft Nights / Fragment of an interview with Álvaro Mutis – Uno no es de donde nació / Nu Guinea, Tony Allen – Ng Theme / Tenderlonious – Ghana / Fragment of an interview with Alí Chumacero – Poesía y danza / Richenel – Autumn / Pasteur Lappe – Na Real Sekele Fo Ya / Danzion – Be A Man / Tony Grey & Ozimba – Time Factor / Fragment of Tomás Segovia’s Reflexión del ojo / Chico Hamilton – Gengis.
 Translator’s version:
That inquisitive child revealed, perhaps, a philosopher in the style of Don José Ortega y Gasset, who wrote that the rain aims to return us to an elementary zoology of swishing larvae, immersed in the primordial swamp prior to all cities and prior to History (with a capital H, since it is not just any history).
José de la Colina
 Translator’s version:
Foot of dancing, divine foot
whose touch gilded the last earth.
About the author:
Alejandro Rodríguez Pascual, aka DJ Lubrix, flees from definitions and from the victim’s enthusiasm. He is a mere subject of the capricious eagerness of Heuristics, which remains adamant in shedding light on the inhospitable jungle that is modern “musical production.” His work is as simple –and as arduous– as pulling weeds: discovering the habitable places in which a resplendent encounter between musician and reader can flourish.