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.
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