This is a short post to remember the most amazing person ever met.
When a person decides to end up their life it is inevitable that some anger flows through from the ones they left behind, sometimes is hard to understand the reasons that lead you to do it, you had it all, but it didn't seem enough to make you happy. When you took your life away, you took part of mine with it, I have to respect your choice as I won't get to see you ever to ask you why, and I wasn't there, I couldn't be there to stop it. No one could...
In memoriam. You will be missed.
Forgiven, but not forgotten, I shall miss you wherever you are now.
24 de desembre 2010
16 de desembre 2010
Things I can do with my tongue
Spend a Saturday night home, sleepless but sleep drunk and think about that scene in Twin Peaks where that friend of Laura Palmer does a knot with a cherry stem in her mouth... A technique I like to practice with chewing gum.
So I started thinking of THINGS I CAN DO WITH MY TONGUE
It seems to be genetic and not everyone can do it, I found that out at university (things you learn at uni)
One side
Other side
Reverse
Just a sample
So, how was your Saturday night?
09 de desembre 2010
When everything around me started spinning, when I was praying the Universe to change things for the better, a rain of signs came in a very brief lapse of time.
Some small details, that wouldn’t have much meaning in other moments, in that context, suddenly, became little winks in the form of slight details.
ABUNDANCE
telling me I wasn’t going to reach it approaching empty sources.
“Andar hacia los pozos no quita la sed” – Nuevo pequeño catálogo de seres y estares
I sat in this little tent with a monk. He lets me pull an angel card: abundance. A reminder?
- Do you know what that means? He asks.
- You have it in front of your nose, and it is not the card:
“what are you afraid of?”.
- I am getting nothing, less than that, I replied, remembering last year's mantra.
- Nothing to loose, then.
If thirsty, stop drilling for water in empty wells.
Some small details, that wouldn’t have much meaning in other moments, in that context, suddenly, became little winks in the form of slight details.
ABUNDANCE
telling me I wasn’t going to reach it approaching empty sources.
“Andar hacia los pozos no quita la sed” – Nuevo pequeño catálogo de seres y estares
I sat in this little tent with a monk. He lets me pull an angel card: abundance. A reminder?
- Do you know what that means? He asks.
- You have it in front of your nose, and it is not the card:
“what are you afraid of?”.
- I am getting nothing, less than that, I replied, remembering last year's mantra.
- Nothing to loose, then.
If thirsty, stop drilling for water in empty wells.
05 de desembre 2010
NIT - SOMNI - MATÍ
You think you get rid of certain thoughts when you travel away from them.
I once chose to stay and not get rid of them. I chose to stay and face them until it’s time to move on.
I gave myself up to Morpheus that night, I did as the only possible think I could think to try to take care of myself, as sometimes the duties of “l’apassionant món de la parella”- google: Mikimoto – "Persones Humanes" tells us "in theory" is called so because chances are they're not going turn into anything in practice.
And by giving my eyes a rest, for the second consecutive night, my guilt feelings turned into dreams. There it was, the somni, as if conscious wouldn’t be enough, subconscious made its apparition to show they were in strange consensus.
A tall, long, thin figure, as in other dreams didn’t do much. Its presence could not be ignored. Not by me. How could it ever. Onirically taking over for what was left when the dream was over.
After a third night the presence disappeared.
Sitting, thinking and waking the thought I realize how life would have been different in the other hemisphere, a relatively easy task to wake a dream, very thankful for the help written all over, cowardly easing my way.
TODAY'S FEELINGS:
sleeplessness, I feel like writing, reading, writing and reading again
I keep asking, I keep getting.
Happy to be angry at times, learning to express it.
I once chose to stay and not get rid of them. I chose to stay and face them until it’s time to move on.
I gave myself up to Morpheus that night, I did as the only possible think I could think to try to take care of myself, as sometimes the duties of “l’apassionant món de la parella”- google: Mikimoto – "Persones Humanes" tells us "in theory" is called so because chances are they're not going turn into anything in practice.
And by giving my eyes a rest, for the second consecutive night, my guilt feelings turned into dreams. There it was, the somni, as if conscious wouldn’t be enough, subconscious made its apparition to show they were in strange consensus.
A tall, long, thin figure, as in other dreams didn’t do much. Its presence could not be ignored. Not by me. How could it ever. Onirically taking over for what was left when the dream was over.
After a third night the presence disappeared.
Sitting, thinking and waking the thought I realize how life would have been different in the other hemisphere, a relatively easy task to wake a dream, very thankful for the help written all over, cowardly easing my way.
TODAY'S FEELINGS:
sleeplessness, I feel like writing, reading, writing and reading again
I keep asking, I keep getting.
Happy to be angry at times, learning to express it.
03 de juliol 2010
"vosotros"
Dejé el escrito abandonado a su buen albedrío... Reading, writing which has always accompanied me has been left to slumber these past months.
The months have passed turning around and wondering, wondering and constantly looking for thrills, not being thrilled by anything.
Mild Summer night. Bike ride. Stop in that shop where the clerk always says something nice to you. Today he says to me: we are closed. Hardly looks at me in the eyes. I think "this is what a histrionic finds annoying". I gain eye contact and he lets me in, mild smile and a thank you. There is a woman next to me whose energy eats me up. I can't stop staring at her and wonder why I dislike her so much, not knowing her a bit. I think it is OK not to like everyone and I realize that I have been closest to my feelings in those three minutes, sorrounded by those two strangers than the whole day by myself.
Makes me wonder.
Breakfast. Strong coffee. I couldn't shop for soy milk. I find ice cream in the fridge. That kind I would never buy. I decide to throw some in my coffee.
Terre Haute. Indiana. Mokka caramel. During my stay in the States I used to start or end a trip with a funny flavoured coffee. In Southern Europe, coffee has to taste like coffee.
New York, amaretto
Indiana, caramel, very creamy.
My farewell turned into a long goodbye due to the caramel. I got stuck to my little piece of heaven in Indiana. The caramel got stuck in my stomach, it hurt to leave.
This morning my improvised coffee suddenly reproduced a similar sensation.
It tasted like those feelings.
It seemed like a little piece of heaven gone. I am recognizing them. In my quiet coffee time.
Feels like feeling.
The months have passed turning around and wondering, wondering and constantly looking for thrills, not being thrilled by anything.
Mild Summer night. Bike ride. Stop in that shop where the clerk always says something nice to you. Today he says to me: we are closed. Hardly looks at me in the eyes. I think "this is what a histrionic finds annoying". I gain eye contact and he lets me in, mild smile and a thank you. There is a woman next to me whose energy eats me up. I can't stop staring at her and wonder why I dislike her so much, not knowing her a bit. I think it is OK not to like everyone and I realize that I have been closest to my feelings in those three minutes, sorrounded by those two strangers than the whole day by myself.
Makes me wonder.
Breakfast. Strong coffee. I couldn't shop for soy milk. I find ice cream in the fridge. That kind I would never buy. I decide to throw some in my coffee.
Terre Haute. Indiana. Mokka caramel. During my stay in the States I used to start or end a trip with a funny flavoured coffee. In Southern Europe, coffee has to taste like coffee.
New York, amaretto
Indiana, caramel, very creamy.
My farewell turned into a long goodbye due to the caramel. I got stuck to my little piece of heaven in Indiana. The caramel got stuck in my stomach, it hurt to leave.
This morning my improvised coffee suddenly reproduced a similar sensation.
It tasted like those feelings.
It seemed like a little piece of heaven gone. I am recognizing them. In my quiet coffee time.
Feels like feeling.
08 de juny 2010
one about impossible trips
I have travelled a lot. I have used too much kerosene and despite trying to compensate with CO2 programs, that kerosene has been burnt. Long distances that have brought me closer to where I feel at ease. On the way to new places.
And today it's about plane anecdotes. There are many, but the last trip to Barcelona, still under the post 9/11 hysteria... Is just worth being mentioned.
The trip was already calling for trouble as I entered the Amsterdam Metro. I charged my card with 10€, I paid with 20€ and computer says: geen wisselgeld. Warm up for the worse. Already slightly pissed off to loose 10€ just like that.
Train to Schiphol, I understand I don't have to pay it, given the OVV-card 100% commission. No control, good sign, because I am arriving just about on time to board.
Schiphol, 30 minutes before departure. Security check. Massive queue. Oops! bag peeping!
When being searched the officials realise I left two heads of a drill in my handbag. No biggy, no sharp point, no threat...
Boarding. Typically I sit at the back and even being one of the last to board in, there are still people blocking the hallway trying to fit their belongings. I don't understand why they need so long and why can't they scoop a bit towards the seat so others can get through... Plane etiquette I say to myself, slight disappointment on people's lack of consideration... Nothing new.
I sit on row 27. This chick approaches me and says: "excuse me, but I believe this is my seat"
I pull my ticket out. Same seat. Stewardess comes and realises I got in the plane with the wrong ticket, the ticket back: BCN-AMST. Gotta love them! I made it all the way to the plane with the wrong ticket. Kudos to security!
As all joys come in 3, an image will speak for itself. I sit next to this delightfully nice Dutch couple and tará! As I am going through my handbag I find this:
Gotta love airport security. I tell them briefly how I got there with all the wrong controls and pull out my weapon. Luckily they laugh, maybe if I would have been in the states the plane would have made it back... or landed in Paris, which would have been convenient to pay a few visits...
En fin, whatever anal airport security checks, heaven knows all that can be smuggled.
To be honest, I must conclude I am happy my being 'disperse' fouled anal security check.
Selva vs police anuses! Rock on!
And today it's about plane anecdotes. There are many, but the last trip to Barcelona, still under the post 9/11 hysteria... Is just worth being mentioned.
The trip was already calling for trouble as I entered the Amsterdam Metro. I charged my card with 10€, I paid with 20€ and computer says: geen wisselgeld. Warm up for the worse. Already slightly pissed off to loose 10€ just like that.
Train to Schiphol, I understand I don't have to pay it, given the OVV-card 100% commission. No control, good sign, because I am arriving just about on time to board.
Schiphol, 30 minutes before departure. Security check. Massive queue. Oops! bag peeping!
When being searched the officials realise I left two heads of a drill in my handbag. No biggy, no sharp point, no threat...
Boarding. Typically I sit at the back and even being one of the last to board in, there are still people blocking the hallway trying to fit their belongings. I don't understand why they need so long and why can't they scoop a bit towards the seat so others can get through... Plane etiquette I say to myself, slight disappointment on people's lack of consideration... Nothing new.
I sit on row 27. This chick approaches me and says: "excuse me, but I believe this is my seat"
I pull my ticket out. Same seat. Stewardess comes and realises I got in the plane with the wrong ticket, the ticket back: BCN-AMST. Gotta love them! I made it all the way to the plane with the wrong ticket. Kudos to security!
As all joys come in 3, an image will speak for itself. I sit next to this delightfully nice Dutch couple and tará! As I am going through my handbag I find this:
Gotta love airport security. I tell them briefly how I got there with all the wrong controls and pull out my weapon. Luckily they laugh, maybe if I would have been in the states the plane would have made it back... or landed in Paris, which would have been convenient to pay a few visits...
En fin, whatever anal airport security checks, heaven knows all that can be smuggled.
To be honest, I must conclude I am happy my being 'disperse' fouled anal security check.
Selva vs police anuses! Rock on!
31 de maig 2010
Known places, known faces
A bike ride.
I am riding very often lately, listening over and over old songs: Zappa, Toreros muertos, The Who, Cocorosie and not to forget the vibrant Dresden Dolls.
During a particular tune the looks of a woman amidst a very quiet evening suddenly reminded me of other times. A carefully dressed woman with a beehive wig, who never spoke, but always reminded me as the black haired version of Tintin's Bianca Castafiore. That woman I was used to see so often belonged to a reality that showed a me in memories who can't quite be identified, blurred through narrow streets, a bottle green carpet, evenings of wine and the subtle breeze inebriating a table full of people who felt delightfully emprisoned in Babel.
It was an instant flash of nostalgy, a reference to certain tracks left behind.
The light turns green and I ride away from that moment. I am back in a bigger box to think out of, a bigger mini-metropoli. A place where the known faces needn't remind me where I'm not or who I'm not.
I do need more music to hum, more fresh air, subjects that touch me to write restlessly, characters to identify with.
I found a place with all of that, within a short distance and worth the ride.
I am riding very often lately, listening over and over old songs: Zappa, Toreros muertos, The Who, Cocorosie and not to forget the vibrant Dresden Dolls.
During a particular tune the looks of a woman amidst a very quiet evening suddenly reminded me of other times. A carefully dressed woman with a beehive wig, who never spoke, but always reminded me as the black haired version of Tintin's Bianca Castafiore. That woman I was used to see so often belonged to a reality that showed a me in memories who can't quite be identified, blurred through narrow streets, a bottle green carpet, evenings of wine and the subtle breeze inebriating a table full of people who felt delightfully emprisoned in Babel.
It was an instant flash of nostalgy, a reference to certain tracks left behind.
The light turns green and I ride away from that moment. I am back in a bigger box to think out of, a bigger mini-metropoli. A place where the known faces needn't remind me where I'm not or who I'm not.
I do need more music to hum, more fresh air, subjects that touch me to write restlessly, characters to identify with.
I found a place with all of that, within a short distance and worth the ride.
13 de maig 2010
Proof of love
I was meaning to write it long ago, I'd like to put it down to words, as it is a great proof of love.
An unfortunate loss in our family brought us again together. The ones who always stick to each other, and the ones we cut contact with.
I lost contact with my cousin, my only male cousin, just because we communicate via different means and we are two worlds apart. But the mutual love is there. There was always a special connection between us, me, being the oldest of all, him being the only boy. I really appreciated a boy in the family, as it got me in connection with my male bit. I saw some family videos and there we were: The boy and the tomboy, always finding a way to challenge each other.
Until February 2010 I hadn't seen him for 7 years. It was sad to loose the contact and not know how to regain it in some way...
And there we were, and it felt great to hug him and tell him, that I was really hoping to see him and give him a hug, that I was sorry for the distance, that I always had him in my mind.
So he took me out for dinner. The best sushi place there is in town. And so I found out that he had moved into music and was doing concerts with his own songs.
And I dared saying that I write lyrics and that I was trying to learn to play guitar.
He said it was easy, he encouraged me, I could see he believed in me and that made me strong.
He took me home with the car, I was fine taking public transport, but he said he had to, because he had something for me.
We arrived at my place and with a smile in his face, he opened the trunk.
A guitar, a beautiful dark guitar, my eyes sparked: "take it, I have many, I don't need it"
"Next time you come over, we will play together"
I keep practicing. I sit, take my guitar and think of him. His little detail meant the world to me.
Blood is thick.
Granny, wherever you are. You would be so happy to know you brought people together when you left. Not only me. I saw some miracles happening the days you were gone. I saw a lot the love you left being spread.
We will miss you, but we took your love with us. Your energy is huge and lives in us.
You always believed in miracles. Well, you made miracles within us.
An unfortunate loss in our family brought us again together. The ones who always stick to each other, and the ones we cut contact with.
I lost contact with my cousin, my only male cousin, just because we communicate via different means and we are two worlds apart. But the mutual love is there. There was always a special connection between us, me, being the oldest of all, him being the only boy. I really appreciated a boy in the family, as it got me in connection with my male bit. I saw some family videos and there we were: The boy and the tomboy, always finding a way to challenge each other.
Until February 2010 I hadn't seen him for 7 years. It was sad to loose the contact and not know how to regain it in some way...
And there we were, and it felt great to hug him and tell him, that I was really hoping to see him and give him a hug, that I was sorry for the distance, that I always had him in my mind.
So he took me out for dinner. The best sushi place there is in town. And so I found out that he had moved into music and was doing concerts with his own songs.
And I dared saying that I write lyrics and that I was trying to learn to play guitar.
He said it was easy, he encouraged me, I could see he believed in me and that made me strong.
He took me home with the car, I was fine taking public transport, but he said he had to, because he had something for me.
We arrived at my place and with a smile in his face, he opened the trunk.
A guitar, a beautiful dark guitar, my eyes sparked: "take it, I have many, I don't need it"
"Next time you come over, we will play together"
I keep practicing. I sit, take my guitar and think of him. His little detail meant the world to me.
Blood is thick.
Granny, wherever you are. You would be so happy to know you brought people together when you left. Not only me. I saw some miracles happening the days you were gone. I saw a lot the love you left being spread.
We will miss you, but we took your love with us. Your energy is huge and lives in us.
You always believed in miracles. Well, you made miracles within us.
06 de maig 2010
Sweet Miss Darling
Miss Darling, I still think of you. But it seems you have disappeared from the face of the planet.
Still have stages where I start a research and look for you.
I started the search again two months ago.
It didn't deliver. Your name is too common and I can't seem to find the people who were related to you, the time we met.
I talked about you then, when travelling. When memories reorganize and somehow your brain resuscitates moments that were in slumber.
Then I could see so clear our promenade. Our crazy days, your sweet words. The day we jumped on that cab, the evenings in the bathtub squattering those rich people's house, wearing their pearls, drinking their bubbly... You making me look like a woman, you taught me great things!
The communes in Berlin you put up so well with, along with your jet set life. You were unique.
The expectations we had from life. Well, the ones you had. I had no expectations but enjoying everything that was happening around me. You were aiming for something, I hope you found it.
I know you are somewhere not far, for sure, but I don't know how to find you. Or if it would make any sense now. Now that we are older... Would it mean the same to you again? Would you see me as the crazy savage messing around your controlled life?
Maybe that is the objective of memories. They are there to feed you at times, to wake them up when necessary, and, I should conclude, not to go back to them in the flesh, not to expect that a memory will live up to its expectations when you face a different time, when you are not aware that other events in life have changed the people in them. We are the same, but not the same. The moment is not there, only its memory.
... I still hope to see Miss Darling again. Maybe she finds me. I am easier to find.
Still have stages where I start a research and look for you.
I started the search again two months ago.
It didn't deliver. Your name is too common and I can't seem to find the people who were related to you, the time we met.
I talked about you then, when travelling. When memories reorganize and somehow your brain resuscitates moments that were in slumber.
Then I could see so clear our promenade. Our crazy days, your sweet words. The day we jumped on that cab, the evenings in the bathtub squattering those rich people's house, wearing their pearls, drinking their bubbly... You making me look like a woman, you taught me great things!
The communes in Berlin you put up so well with, along with your jet set life. You were unique.
The expectations we had from life. Well, the ones you had. I had no expectations but enjoying everything that was happening around me. You were aiming for something, I hope you found it.
I know you are somewhere not far, for sure, but I don't know how to find you. Or if it would make any sense now. Now that we are older... Would it mean the same to you again? Would you see me as the crazy savage messing around your controlled life?
Maybe that is the objective of memories. They are there to feed you at times, to wake them up when necessary, and, I should conclude, not to go back to them in the flesh, not to expect that a memory will live up to its expectations when you face a different time, when you are not aware that other events in life have changed the people in them. We are the same, but not the same. The moment is not there, only its memory.
... I still hope to see Miss Darling again. Maybe she finds me. I am easier to find.
30 d’abril 2010
and I dreamt
Dream in a dream.
More no news of old news. When I am standing in a place my mind travels.
When I travel, my mind settles down.
Countdown-ing. Feeling, lost in time, time back, irreal time.
There you were as an image I could rescue. Not even new technologies would get me close.
I am going over my deadline and I AM. I AM. I am so standing still I am going to push it though.
Not as it should be, maybe a new way. No time to recap. Consciousness is a process that invites to jump out.
More no news of old news. When I am standing in a place my mind travels.
When I travel, my mind settles down.
Countdown-ing. Feeling, lost in time, time back, irreal time.
There you were as an image I could rescue. Not even new technologies would get me close.
I am going over my deadline and I AM. I AM. I am so standing still I am going to push it though.
Not as it should be, maybe a new way. No time to recap. Consciousness is a process that invites to jump out.
24 d’abril 2010
best day of my life
I had the best day of my life on April 23. All emotions went fluently, the most natural thing. I knew that everyone felt the same way as I.
I felt similar to when I gather with language freaks and little needs to be said when we know we are going through the same mind processes.
I felt as inspired and chaotic as I should be, and not afraid, I felt home. I felt in my environment, I felt understood. I didn't have to adapt to anyone, anything, because I belonged.
Today I cried and laughed and I was so aware of things that were so natural for me and the people who surrounded me, I didn't need to give explanations. I felt in a way I didn't feel for very long.
Little needed to be done or said. I found my people, my space.
Today has been one of the happiest days in my life!
I felt similar to when I gather with language freaks and little needs to be said when we know we are going through the same mind processes.
I felt as inspired and chaotic as I should be, and not afraid, I felt home. I felt in my environment, I felt understood. I didn't have to adapt to anyone, anything, because I belonged.
Today I cried and laughed and I was so aware of things that were so natural for me and the people who surrounded me, I didn't need to give explanations. I felt in a way I didn't feel for very long.
Little needed to be done or said. I found my people, my space.
Today has been one of the happiest days in my life!
19 d’abril 2010
dreams -sexual- tendency
One day I accidentally had a very graphic and sexually explicit dream with a person I used to work with and to whom I didn't feel remotely attracted to. Why my subconscious chose him instead of, say, Amanda Palmer still remains a mystery to me.
I made the comment to my flatmate during breakfast. For the coming weeks, at work, I couldn't look at him in the eyes without picturing him naked and feeling somehow guilty and attracted at the same time, and that was creepy.
According to my flatmate's pseudo-Freudian interpretation of dreams if you have sex with someone in dreams it meant we would be friends forever. I didn't even know him or had anything close to friendship with him.
Again, my subconscious never chooses the friends I love most to have dreams with graphical sexual content with. I do dream sometimes of close friends and kiss, hug or get closer to them in an unusual affective way, but I don't think my subconscious would ever choose to have explicit sexual scenes with them, no matter how forever I am going to be friends with them.
I have had wet dreams with girls, strangers, but never with animals for instance (no matter how much I love them), close friends or family members or... my gay flatmate.
So, sexual tendency and sexual ethics still remain, even unconscious?
Interesting brain we have... What did that mean, then? Why him? Why was I condemned to see him in the office and blush?
I came up with some answers. Basically, I think that my subconscious needed to make up for bad sex with a particular someone I was physically attracted to and chose a random person I never looked at sexually but who I shouldn't feel intimidated with so I could use him as a scape valve.
An onyric way to turn things around from being attracted to someone, but not satisfied, to the exact opposite: being satisfied by someone, but not attracted to.
It has a touch of sad. I didn't think the latter could be possible. But you always learn...
I made the comment to my flatmate during breakfast. For the coming weeks, at work, I couldn't look at him in the eyes without picturing him naked and feeling somehow guilty and attracted at the same time, and that was creepy.
According to my flatmate's pseudo-Freudian interpretation of dreams if you have sex with someone in dreams it meant we would be friends forever. I didn't even know him or had anything close to friendship with him.
Again, my subconscious never chooses the friends I love most to have dreams with graphical sexual content with. I do dream sometimes of close friends and kiss, hug or get closer to them in an unusual affective way, but I don't think my subconscious would ever choose to have explicit sexual scenes with them, no matter how forever I am going to be friends with them.
I have had wet dreams with girls, strangers, but never with animals for instance (no matter how much I love them), close friends or family members or... my gay flatmate.
So, sexual tendency and sexual ethics still remain, even unconscious?
Interesting brain we have... What did that mean, then? Why him? Why was I condemned to see him in the office and blush?
I came up with some answers. Basically, I think that my subconscious needed to make up for bad sex with a particular someone I was physically attracted to and chose a random person I never looked at sexually but who I shouldn't feel intimidated with so I could use him as a scape valve.
An onyric way to turn things around from being attracted to someone, but not satisfied, to the exact opposite: being satisfied by someone, but not attracted to.
It has a touch of sad. I didn't think the latter could be possible. But you always learn...
13 d’abril 2010
... but I shouldn't worry
I've realized I want to become something like the neutral cultural observer. And feel multiculti somehow without really having a blood-shake, to look at ethnocentrism as something exotic and distant.
I'm seeing that putting my will to the test, the will wins. Results... But it is just a test not an indefinite state.
That some people need ludicrous devices in order to get through life.
That I have come to the conclusion that...
I fear I won't get past this screen
it seems forever
but they say I shouldn't worry
I am more aware than it looks like
but I shouldn't worry
They say I shouldn't worry
this stage is temporary
we'll laugh when it's over...
But this stage is now my life
and I reach for consciousness
and yes, if I should or should not... I don't want to worry.
I'm seeing that putting my will to the test, the will wins. Results... But it is just a test not an indefinite state.
That some people need ludicrous devices in order to get through life.
That I have come to the conclusion that...
I fear I won't get past this screen
it seems forever
but they say I shouldn't worry
I am more aware than it looks like
but I shouldn't worry
They say I shouldn't worry
this stage is temporary
we'll laugh when it's over...
But this stage is now my life
and I reach for consciousness
and yes, if I should or should not... I don't want to worry.
04 d’abril 2010
that sensation
...is the title of a little something I wrote in 1990 and published in 1992 in the school's magazine.
I found the manuscript today, and, there ya go: traduttore-traditore played around to do an English version.
Words still came first in German and sometimes I had to do a Catalan-German-English transition.
English might be the easiest language for communicating, but I shall try a German version, German is still richer. The German (B Sprache) translators shall understand what I mean, oder?
It is interesting, because it is lyric and mine. I have never translated a text written by me. Or maybe I do it continuously everytime I use another language to communicate? Well, this is almost sociophilosophicolinguistics, so some other time.
That for the linguistic text analysis.
For the rest, the result.
THAT SENSATION
Like out of an impenetrable fortress
I opened my gates to let you in
you took over, with great delicacy
with a sly slowness, my intimacy.
Slowly you started a conquest
which was an invasion I couldn't perceive
it made my heart and soul pound
with a new exciting rhythm that surrounded me
of a halo of false happiness I was so contaminated with
and every bit of my skin breathed it.
That sensation!
That sensation that still now, sometimes
hypnotizes me and takes me to that plenitude
that sounded hollow on our backs
All I had so close, and still see so far
A fire that seemed impossible to fight
A spark that set me in flames
How come so many tears couldn't extinct it
A love that didn't want to be discovered
that burned us: each and other.
So strong perhaps that couldn't be repressed.
So different and absurd at the same time
that got lost in its absurdity
in the fragmented abstraction of a complex unease.
I found the manuscript today, and, there ya go: traduttore-traditore played around to do an English version.
Words still came first in German and sometimes I had to do a Catalan-German-English transition.
English might be the easiest language for communicating, but I shall try a German version, German is still richer. The German (B Sprache) translators shall understand what I mean, oder?
It is interesting, because it is lyric and mine. I have never translated a text written by me. Or maybe I do it continuously everytime I use another language to communicate? Well, this is almost sociophilosophicolinguistics, so some other time.
That for the linguistic text analysis.
For the rest, the result.
THAT SENSATION
Like out of an impenetrable fortress
I opened my gates to let you in
you took over, with great delicacy
with a sly slowness, my intimacy.
Slowly you started a conquest
which was an invasion I couldn't perceive
it made my heart and soul pound
with a new exciting rhythm that surrounded me
of a halo of false happiness I was so contaminated with
and every bit of my skin breathed it.
That sensation!
That sensation that still now, sometimes
hypnotizes me and takes me to that plenitude
that sounded hollow on our backs
All I had so close, and still see so far
A fire that seemed impossible to fight
A spark that set me in flames
How come so many tears couldn't extinct it
A love that didn't want to be discovered
that burned us: each and other.
So strong perhaps that couldn't be repressed.
So different and absurd at the same time
that got lost in its absurdity
in the fragmented abstraction of a complex unease.
26 de març 2010
no és tan fàcil
No ho és.
How a week passes by as you turn, walk, observe, enjoy... But wait in the slight realisation, that there is always a catch when things look shiny and happy. A tendence to drama or a realistic approach. I really don't know how to deal with this, so I just breathe.
Smell of fresh baked bread and on the way to the petshop to treat my sweet Lala, who has been banned from the appartment the last 2 weeks. In regard to cats love goes first through the stomach although her crawling into my arms when I sleep shows me she has missed me. And me as well. I often say I so wish she was mine.
On the way new shops. The new bakery, a modern clothes shop and a shop dedicated to Indian specialties... How original... An Euro shop? And so many smiling faces I start to doubt if I am in Amsterdam or in a European-looking Brasilian quarter. Spring smells like fresh clothes, clean hair, polen. Feels like soft skin, like nectar.
And I am here. back here. Again.
How a week passes by as you turn, walk, observe, enjoy... But wait in the slight realisation, that there is always a catch when things look shiny and happy. A tendence to drama or a realistic approach. I really don't know how to deal with this, so I just breathe.
Smell of fresh baked bread and on the way to the petshop to treat my sweet Lala, who has been banned from the appartment the last 2 weeks. In regard to cats love goes first through the stomach although her crawling into my arms when I sleep shows me she has missed me. And me as well. I often say I so wish she was mine.
On the way new shops. The new bakery, a modern clothes shop and a shop dedicated to Indian specialties... How original... An Euro shop? And so many smiling faces I start to doubt if I am in Amsterdam or in a European-looking Brasilian quarter. Spring smells like fresh clothes, clean hair, polen. Feels like soft skin, like nectar.
And I am here. back here. Again.
17 de març 2010
de mis días boleriles
Because I spent a whole week listening to boleros, and everything is contagious...
Me despellejaste a ritmo de tambores
Que em mi mente retumbaban, absorbiendo la energía
Que por mis venas corría
Mira mis ojos llenos del trabajo
Que me exhausta me dejaba
Que apreciaras que ahí estaba
Compartiendo plato y cama
Y cada manana, ay cada manana
Cuando el café a las venas me llegaba
Se abría la realidad que de noche
Con cervezas apagaba
Despegaste, pusiste la infinidad
trás El desgarrado techo
Y yo, yo con y sin mis fuerzas
Conscientemente perdí la cabeza
Pues pequé de saber que quién yo era
Era lo que tu no merecias.
Me despellejaste a ritmo de tambores
Que em mi mente retumbaban, absorbiendo la energía
Que por mis venas corría
Mira mis ojos llenos del trabajo
Que me exhausta me dejaba
Que apreciaras que ahí estaba
Compartiendo plato y cama
Y cada manana, ay cada manana
Cuando el café a las venas me llegaba
Se abría la realidad que de noche
Con cervezas apagaba
Despegaste, pusiste la infinidad
trás El desgarrado techo
Y yo, yo con y sin mis fuerzas
Conscientemente perdí la cabeza
Pues pequé de saber que quién yo era
Era lo que tu no merecias.
19 de febrer 2010
fiction meditational
La cordura es una putada. Su propio nombre ya indica que necesita que la estés desatando.
No se yo si al final etimológicamente ponen a los cuerdos como ligados a algo, o sea atados.
Y locura? No viene de "locus" de lugar? Me hace pensar en el locus amoenus, un lugar ideal.
I checked definitions of locus:
1. A locality; a place.
2. A center or focus of great activity or intense concentration: "the cunning exploitation of loci of power; the insulation from normal American society" (Clifton Fadiman).
3. Mathematics The set or configuration of all points whose coordinates satisfy a single equation or one or more algebraic conditions.
4. The position that a given gene occupies on a chromosome.
[Latin.]
In my further research it turned that "loco" was adopted in Spanish from the Catalan aception "lloca", used for animals, mostly chicken or other domestic birds. The "lloca" birds are the birds which are loud and out of control.
In any case, really, to hell with cordura! let's untie...
No se yo si al final etimológicamente ponen a los cuerdos como ligados a algo, o sea atados.
Y locura? No viene de "locus" de lugar? Me hace pensar en el locus amoenus, un lugar ideal.
I checked definitions of locus:
1. A locality; a place.
2. A center or focus of great activity or intense concentration: "the cunning exploitation of loci of power; the insulation from normal American society" (Clifton Fadiman).
3. Mathematics The set or configuration of all points whose coordinates satisfy a single equation or one or more algebraic conditions.
4. The position that a given gene occupies on a chromosome.
[Latin.]
In my further research it turned that "loco" was adopted in Spanish from the Catalan aception "lloca", used for animals, mostly chicken or other domestic birds. The "lloca" birds are the birds which are loud and out of control.
In any case, really, to hell with cordura! let's untie...
15 de febrer 2010
see it come and go
I realize writings take place between coming and going.
I correct myself...
I realize my life takes place between coming and going.
the constant statement of temporarity goes in my case a bit like:
I am not staying long.
In the temporarity of our staying on the Pacha Mama the shakesperean obsession took over me.
Somebody is now gone. We sat on the table and somebody pulled out a few notes she once wrote. There they were, there she was with us on lunchtime.
I am now trying my very best to comprehend, and fill that space with all the memories, sensations or thoughts that go into an emptiness.
A morning unplanned epitaph. I just sat to write about something else, but you came in first...
You'd be amazed of all the things a person leaves behind, that cannot be counted, that cannot be read.
You'd be amazed how long we stay after our death.
I correct myself...
I realize my life takes place between coming and going.
the constant statement of temporarity goes in my case a bit like:
I am not staying long.
In the temporarity of our staying on the Pacha Mama the shakesperean obsession took over me.
Somebody is now gone. We sat on the table and somebody pulled out a few notes she once wrote. There they were, there she was with us on lunchtime.
I am now trying my very best to comprehend, and fill that space with all the memories, sensations or thoughts that go into an emptiness.
A morning unplanned epitaph. I just sat to write about something else, but you came in first...
You'd be amazed of all the things a person leaves behind, that cannot be counted, that cannot be read.
You'd be amazed how long we stay after our death.
04 de febrer 2010
la part més difícil
The hardest bit. And while not playing with the meaning, words play with me all the other way around.
The hardest bit of every morning is to know it is one more day and one day less.
That the same tiredness welcomes you in the morning, similar to the one you went to bed with and the one you will go to bed with again. It is a cyclical tiredness.
The sun is not quite up. No landscape to look at in the morning hours, no colors to see shaping up.
The morning silence will be broken by the succulent semi thick blubbling of the coffee coming up the espresso machine. Its delicious smell guiding my way out of the shower.
Sometimes I go to bed and I am already happy to wake up anticipating the coffee ritual, a ritual that has settled in the same way ever since I first arrived here. Not a bit has changed in that matter of all the things that change, that come and go. And while I cannot keep traditions, I am relieved to discover one that prevails.
I refreshed my throat with some gulps of beer last night. And all of the sudden I remembered I forgot something and I felt the need to go back home. Consciousness and mind games, my mind took over me all of the sudden. Forgetting made me feel down.
I realized I had forgotten something crucial and ran back to sink in my sheets. I couldn't forgive myself... I forgot to!
The hardest bit of every morning is to know it is one more day and one day less.
That the same tiredness welcomes you in the morning, similar to the one you went to bed with and the one you will go to bed with again. It is a cyclical tiredness.
The sun is not quite up. No landscape to look at in the morning hours, no colors to see shaping up.
The morning silence will be broken by the succulent semi thick blubbling of the coffee coming up the espresso machine. Its delicious smell guiding my way out of the shower.
Sometimes I go to bed and I am already happy to wake up anticipating the coffee ritual, a ritual that has settled in the same way ever since I first arrived here. Not a bit has changed in that matter of all the things that change, that come and go. And while I cannot keep traditions, I am relieved to discover one that prevails.
I refreshed my throat with some gulps of beer last night. And all of the sudden I remembered I forgot something and I felt the need to go back home. Consciousness and mind games, my mind took over me all of the sudden. Forgetting made me feel down.
I realized I had forgotten something crucial and ran back to sink in my sheets. I couldn't forgive myself... I forgot to!
20 de gener 2010
Jay Bee
Jay Bee has been on my mind lately, time to let go.
I have been looking for him in close references, far friendships.
He disappeared, he is gone like his memory that suddenly returned in the departure lobby on the way to Phu Quoc, accompanied by the metallic, monotonous rythm of the escalator leading to the door.
Why his memory caught me that moment? And why when I thought of him I thought of a faded-green frog carefully kept in alluminium foil? Me attending mass with a huge toad on my lap, our crazy ideas that only made sense for us?
We were mates. We spent days on trees and chasing bugs.
He stole things and told me on lunchtime, when everybody was silent and the theft was uncovered, when no silence broke, his eyes searched mine to confess by making funny faces.
He had hair of hay. And a pointy nose. And always smelled like soil and rocks. Others feared him, not me. We'd meet anywhere unannounced, just casually, climbing on trees, or chasing reptiles.
Summer ended and back home I dedicated the end of it to swimming morning to evening in my parents' swimming pool, on the good side of the barrio, until my skin turned soft and wrinkly and I had to dry for supper time.
I didn't know he was on the other side of the fence, observing me.
Do you know when you do something and imagine how you'd look if somebody was watching you? Someone watched my very moves. There, protective. My loyal friend. The same one who was there by my side when I stood up for my sister when the priest went way too far.
After the spying, paper notes rained wrapped in a rock to the bottom of the blue tiles of the swimming pool. The paper would come out in bits, so I read them inside the water, head down with goggles on.
Jay Bee and I were... like Bonny and Clyde. Accomplices. For a while I thought that with his strange silence and his elaborated trouble making he was getting the darker side of me. But in fact, those holidays I got the light in him. I helped him stay out of trouble by building tree houses, chasing dragon flies and observing frogs develop from toad to young froggy in their habitat.
After the notes, the phone calls from a booth in the outskirts of the city arrived, from the bad side of town, with a background sound of street fights and drug dealers shouting around. Peep... peep... Silly conversations that surrounded him of a halo, hard to define, that kept me wondering of this kid's life and the reasons to be eligible to become a delinquent one day.
During summer camp he gave me the most beautiful present a girl could ever have.
A plastic cup, with a frog in it.
"I caught it and named it after you" he said.
I carefully covered the cup with aluminium foil and made some holes. I slept next to it, hid it in the dorm and checked on it every time I could.
Selva-the-frog aftermath was a decoloured agonizing froggy. I didn't dare tell him.
I woke up in the middle of the night, grabbed a torch, sneaked out of the dorm, went to the pond, unnoticed I climbed the fence of the pond and let the froggy free in the shallow end. I don't think it moved anymore.
Many years after the froggy episode it hit me, overlooking the China sea:
Jay Bee and I were in love, it took me a decade to process.
Whatever he might be doing now I thought of him on a lonely island. I got to hum a song thinking of the times that made us so unpopular amidst other kids.
I didn't kiss a frog. It got it already packed up in a plastic cup.
Thank you for the best present a girl could ever have.
He vanished from my life.
Anyone knows what has become of him?
Why can't i find him?Is that so hard?
I have been looking for him in close references, far friendships.
He disappeared, he is gone like his memory that suddenly returned in the departure lobby on the way to Phu Quoc, accompanied by the metallic, monotonous rythm of the escalator leading to the door.
Why his memory caught me that moment? And why when I thought of him I thought of a faded-green frog carefully kept in alluminium foil? Me attending mass with a huge toad on my lap, our crazy ideas that only made sense for us?
We were mates. We spent days on trees and chasing bugs.
He stole things and told me on lunchtime, when everybody was silent and the theft was uncovered, when no silence broke, his eyes searched mine to confess by making funny faces.
He had hair of hay. And a pointy nose. And always smelled like soil and rocks. Others feared him, not me. We'd meet anywhere unannounced, just casually, climbing on trees, or chasing reptiles.
Summer ended and back home I dedicated the end of it to swimming morning to evening in my parents' swimming pool, on the good side of the barrio, until my skin turned soft and wrinkly and I had to dry for supper time.
I didn't know he was on the other side of the fence, observing me.
Do you know when you do something and imagine how you'd look if somebody was watching you? Someone watched my very moves. There, protective. My loyal friend. The same one who was there by my side when I stood up for my sister when the priest went way too far.
After the spying, paper notes rained wrapped in a rock to the bottom of the blue tiles of the swimming pool. The paper would come out in bits, so I read them inside the water, head down with goggles on.
Jay Bee and I were... like Bonny and Clyde. Accomplices. For a while I thought that with his strange silence and his elaborated trouble making he was getting the darker side of me. But in fact, those holidays I got the light in him. I helped him stay out of trouble by building tree houses, chasing dragon flies and observing frogs develop from toad to young froggy in their habitat.
After the notes, the phone calls from a booth in the outskirts of the city arrived, from the bad side of town, with a background sound of street fights and drug dealers shouting around. Peep... peep... Silly conversations that surrounded him of a halo, hard to define, that kept me wondering of this kid's life and the reasons to be eligible to become a delinquent one day.
During summer camp he gave me the most beautiful present a girl could ever have.
A plastic cup, with a frog in it.
"I caught it and named it after you" he said.
I carefully covered the cup with aluminium foil and made some holes. I slept next to it, hid it in the dorm and checked on it every time I could.
Selva-the-frog aftermath was a decoloured agonizing froggy. I didn't dare tell him.
I woke up in the middle of the night, grabbed a torch, sneaked out of the dorm, went to the pond, unnoticed I climbed the fence of the pond and let the froggy free in the shallow end. I don't think it moved anymore.
Many years after the froggy episode it hit me, overlooking the China sea:
Jay Bee and I were in love, it took me a decade to process.
Whatever he might be doing now I thought of him on a lonely island. I got to hum a song thinking of the times that made us so unpopular amidst other kids.
I didn't kiss a frog. It got it already packed up in a plastic cup.
Thank you for the best present a girl could ever have.
He vanished from my life.
Anyone knows what has become of him?
Why can't i find him?Is that so hard?
sleepless
I keep looking at the clock. Nothing. minutes, hours passing by.
Awake.
Mourning.
Did you ever encounter that the very root of your problem is not to have any problem at all?
That there is a very big hole somewhere and you can only fill it virtually, staying away from it?
That you are solid matter and then a few drops fall and turn you into a grainy, porous, cementy paste?
That this is just another life played by location, like those games in screens.
Waiting for a new screen to come.
That there is not always enough available fruit of excitement to squeeze a glass.
That you cannot digest known flavours...
Just wondering
Awake.
Mourning.
Did you ever encounter that the very root of your problem is not to have any problem at all?
That there is a very big hole somewhere and you can only fill it virtually, staying away from it?
That you are solid matter and then a few drops fall and turn you into a grainy, porous, cementy paste?
That this is just another life played by location, like those games in screens.
Waiting for a new screen to come.
That there is not always enough available fruit of excitement to squeeze a glass.
That you cannot digest known flavours...
Just wondering
06 de gener 2010
warming up
I met a guy in Vietnam, who used to take me out to this exclusive places for dinner, as we found an affinity in liking company on the table and for good food and wine.
He was coordinator for a reputable newspaper, a correspondent abroad, an interpreter and now and then a touristic guide.
I saw passion in what he did and I shared passion on what he thought and knew.
Among the people I have been crossing paths with, he, not knowing me, gave me a few tips to go on in this new stage in life. I looked up to him, I always admire people who reach their goals professionally in a field that is also their passion.
So among the advices of that Vietnamese stranger, there is one I remember and cherish, and wonder if I should work on or just admit my lyricism. While I was interested in writing my traveling experiences from the point of view of sensations, he believed I should work on my journalistic writing. Leave the sensations, the smells and the thoughts and focus in the facts that reveal stages in history, tell people how different places and cultures are, what are the differences or how parallelisms acquire different shapes in different parts of earth.
I do capture it, and that's why I like to trot around the globe, but I often think that pointing at differences with journalistic scrutiny is like stressing in them. I personally usually celebrate those differences and retain how they made me feel, forgetting the details of that process, in which people are usually so interested in.
Or I think of my friend Jahel, who gave me an insight on writing scripts, that so fascinated me because there is a lot of visualizing involved, detail, you predict who is going to appear, what is going to happen next, how, where... What is going to be said, how is it going to end.
Such different styles, such different views on writing. Does it reflect our personality?
Am I too lyric because I can't see further from my heart? I can write about the past but not the future, I can't picture it. Excited to see what happens next, totally unprepared: Is it good or bad?
... I know is a rhetorical question as these writings don't serve as start of a thread,but sometimes I would love to read opinions.
As I arrived back in The Netherlands I noticed cloggie things, things that make me find the answer to "how are Dutch like?"
I know I shall work on hanging pictures, to gain attention (the purpose of writing needs also feed, and readers), I just got up, had some coffee and I am still setting myself up in an empty apartment that strangely feels like home. And trying to define my line of work with routines. Like writing a lot more, developing old ideas and writing a few songs.
So here a preface to write a few more journalistic things in coming days and move on to develop a script, on a heavy heavy matter, but let's see...
All good.
Today's feelings:
Just laziness, every other thing is peace.
He was coordinator for a reputable newspaper, a correspondent abroad, an interpreter and now and then a touristic guide.
I saw passion in what he did and I shared passion on what he thought and knew.
Among the people I have been crossing paths with, he, not knowing me, gave me a few tips to go on in this new stage in life. I looked up to him, I always admire people who reach their goals professionally in a field that is also their passion.
So among the advices of that Vietnamese stranger, there is one I remember and cherish, and wonder if I should work on or just admit my lyricism. While I was interested in writing my traveling experiences from the point of view of sensations, he believed I should work on my journalistic writing. Leave the sensations, the smells and the thoughts and focus in the facts that reveal stages in history, tell people how different places and cultures are, what are the differences or how parallelisms acquire different shapes in different parts of earth.
I do capture it, and that's why I like to trot around the globe, but I often think that pointing at differences with journalistic scrutiny is like stressing in them. I personally usually celebrate those differences and retain how they made me feel, forgetting the details of that process, in which people are usually so interested in.
Or I think of my friend Jahel, who gave me an insight on writing scripts, that so fascinated me because there is a lot of visualizing involved, detail, you predict who is going to appear, what is going to happen next, how, where... What is going to be said, how is it going to end.
Such different styles, such different views on writing. Does it reflect our personality?
Am I too lyric because I can't see further from my heart? I can write about the past but not the future, I can't picture it. Excited to see what happens next, totally unprepared: Is it good or bad?
... I know is a rhetorical question as these writings don't serve as start of a thread,but sometimes I would love to read opinions.
As I arrived back in The Netherlands I noticed cloggie things, things that make me find the answer to "how are Dutch like?"
I know I shall work on hanging pictures, to gain attention (the purpose of writing needs also feed, and readers), I just got up, had some coffee and I am still setting myself up in an empty apartment that strangely feels like home. And trying to define my line of work with routines. Like writing a lot more, developing old ideas and writing a few songs.
So here a preface to write a few more journalistic things in coming days and move on to develop a script, on a heavy heavy matter, but let's see...
All good.
Today's feelings:
Just laziness, every other thing is peace.
Subscriure's a:
Missatges (Atom)
