Earning my living (or losing it, depending on how you look at it) as a psychiatrist and trapped between two impossible jobs, that of a father and partner and that of a worker of entelechies and absurdities with no horizon or God to promise them, I leave embers in each mistake that burns me and I move forward in fits and starts with more good intentions than success. I was born in Girona in 1963 and I still have that old feeling of those of us who were born during a dictatorship. I never joined parties, creeds or myself, because I don’t trust any of the three. I never even wore a helmet in the mountains. I went to fight for the Nicaraguan revolution for a number of years without a return ticket, and the revolution taught me the best (the very best) and eventually the worst (the very worst) of human beings. In any case, those years and the many years I spent in other slopes and edges came close to the best years of my life, before discovering the deep vocation of being a father and having roots where the earth drops you. I signed up for everything that I didn’t have to sign up for, and I always insisted on arriving too little too late for everything. To workshops where we look into each other’s eyes and to the kilometers of tracks in the back of pick-up trucks, to adopting and enjoying patients (more than what the handbooks say you have to do).
I write, as you will see, a lot, which is probably too much. Because nobody invents anything and all ideas, since Aristotle, have already been said somewhere. We all copy each other. On these pages is more or less almost everything in copyleft. However, even if you can download it without further ado, I would be happy if one day you write to me, even if it is merely to tell me that some of the material has helped you and that the thousands of pipes that have been smoldering the air in the house for years also create an atmosphere in these pages in which you can feel at ease.
There are no “literary” texts. Those are left to be shared with friends