Thursday, September 9, 2010

The lion who forgot who he was

After many bulbs lit up, I saw myself in the mirror and realized I was a lion. I also saw the mouse I was hunting. Now I leave the mice to cats, and I hunt for worth whiling preys.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Confesiones de un vagabundo

Muchas creerían estar enamoradas de este idiota, sólo porque sus mentes están jugando a la obsesión. Pero no ella, la intensa hippy que me insulta y me desea al mismo tiempo.

Busco muchas mujeres a la vez porque me fastidio, porque me divierte más la búsqueda que el objeto encontrado, me entretiene más el camino que la ciudad destino. Ellas se dan cuenta de ello, y cada una tiene sus métodos para crearme un trayecto interesante, pero todas terminan abriendo la puerta de la ciudad y acaban con mi diversión. Es ahí cuando voy a la librería a comprarme el lonely planet de otra geografía, no importa cuán cerca esté de la que acabo de visitar, no importa si son frontera. De hecho pareciera que a ellas tampoco les importa.

Pero me encontré con Amapola. Una mujer que me mostró la ciudad la primera noche, pero sólo a través de una ventana. Me dijo que la ciudad esperaba que mis pasos la recorrieran, pero a su manera. Cuando vio que yo no tenía interés en indagar en los recovecos del lugar, se quebró su ilusión y con ella mi pedestal. Dijo que no era un vagabundo digno de la ciudad, que esta esperaba un caminante de verdad. Desde entonces Amapola entreabre la puerta de su muro, me deja asomarme por la rendija y luego el viento me cierra la puerta de golpe. Yo me quedo saltando de camino en camino, nunca de verdad entrando a ninguna ciudad. Y siempre echando un vistazo al muro de Amapola.

Ella es la única que se da cuenta de su contradicción, que la reconoce como tal y no se deja llevar ni por el deseo, ni por la confusión, porque sabe que su mente es errática, impulsiva y cambiante, sabe que pensar mucho en algo no significa nada. Ella ha tenido pensamientos que jamás seguiría, que se repiten y en los cuales nunca confía. Pensamientos como el incesto, como matar a su conejo, como lastimar físicamente a un ser querido, como lanzarse de un 5to piso por curiosidad. Si no le presta atención a esos pensamientos, por qué prestarle atención a los que me desean.

Su intensidad la hace ligera, su intensidad me golpea con la verdad. Me invita a acercarme al muro, pero nunca a tocar la puerta. Aún no sé si no entro porque no quiero, o por cobarde, o porque prefiero seguir recorriendo mis caminos sin destino final. Porque mi fin es el camino. O por lo menos lo ha sido así hasta ahora. Cuando quiera sobrepasar el muro, la puerta no se abrirá completamente, porque ya me vio vagar y sabe que no soy trascendente, sabe que soy pasajero y nada más. Amapola sabe mucho, y eso me llama y me repela. Me molesta que no siga su deseo, porque su deseo es mi deseo. Pero una vez satisfecho ella seguirá deseando, y yo no más. Y ella lo sabe. Se protege. Cierra su muro. Me pica el ojo a través de la rendija, pero nunca entraré a esa ciudad. Nunca sabré los tesoros que esconde. Nunca conoceré sus lugares bajos y peligrosos, la oscuridad que ahí habita, ni conoceré la magia de sus rincones, la luz de sus parques, la lujuria de sus espacios, las montañas de amor que encierra, las calles que se crean y desvanecen luego de ser transitadas. No conoceré este mundo completo, surrealista, hermoso, oscuro, trágico e iluminado que el muro de amapola protege.

Lo curioso es que yo ya tengo mi ciudad y ella cree que es la capital. Pero yo soy un vagabundo de lo que creemos mundo. De todas y de nadie… Quizás no vuelva a ver Amapola, pero siempre recordaré su guiño a través de la rendija, la viva expresión de nuestro deseo nunca satisfecho.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Weird

A woman (a complete stranger) was extremely kind to me in the morning because I reminded her of her daughter. So I started a thought with “That’s something I love about humans…” and I had to stop after that. What is it that I think I am?

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Idiota

(Riiiiing… riiiiing…) Thábita llama a su peluquera pero le contesta una prostituta. “Querida, quisiera yo ser estilista” y agrega con risa pícara “… Igual estamos a la orden”

Minutos después una diseñadora gráfica renuncia a su trabajo. “Ahora soy dueña de mi vida” exclama la desdichada mientras aparenta plenitud.

Todos buscan afuera. En la trampa caí también.

Prostituta, diseñadora, estilista… qué te va a hacer feliz. Nada lo hará. Se acabó lo bueno, se acabó lo malo, empezó la nada.

Eres lo que haces o eres otra cosa?

Cuando no sé quién soy sonrío. Pongo una cara de idiota que atrae. Y todos quieren la felicidad fugaz de ese instante idiota.

Friday, March 12, 2010

.

Una persona inexistente -que permanecerá sin nombre- es esperada por otra persona inexistente. La espera se ha hecho intranquila, ansiosa y recurrente. La segunda persona no sólo espera, sino que además busca. Acción absurda ya que es imposible encontrar algo que no existe. Lo peor de todo es que la segunda persona sabe que ni ella ni la primera persona existen, pero sigue esperando y sigue buscando.

Firma
-Nadie

Friday, February 26, 2010

About Weird Connections the Mind ties

-Sometimes the smell of alcohol reminds me of ice cream. Rum-Raisin Ice cream to be exact. So in the middle of a party or any social gathering, my mind, nose, and taste will experience for the tiniest second a sweet and cold sensation of Rum & Raisins combined with the feeling of blissfully riding a mechanical bird. My grandpa used to feed me with it every other afternoon when I was 2 or 3 years old. The memory dies and I’m back at the party, with my whatever drink at hand.

-Every time I hug a chubby cigarette-smelling guy-friend, I think of my uncle. The hug is upgraded immediately.

-There was a bathroom in my first internship job where I always felt pain. A douchebag broke up with me a week before starting the job, so sometimes I would need to feel miserable and I would do it in the 1st floor bathroom. Five months after the break-up I was more than over him, but every time I went into that bathroom I felt the pain. “What the hell is this?” I would ask and then smile a skeptical smile. Ten months after the break-up that baseless feeling would still emerge but I would just think “Oh yeah, right.” And smile my careless smile.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I

VG: Ves ese perro?

MM: …

VG: Cuando lo veo, me recuerdo de lo que soy

MM: Pero… es callejero, está sucio… y creo que tiene sarna

VG: Pero miraste sus ojos?

MM: Amiga me preocupas.


---Continuará

Monday, February 22, 2010

Blame it on who?

I heard that creative people have had a rough time during their careers because of the pressure they feel regarding their work. Hell, many end up leaning on alcohol and/or drugs in order to get inspired.

A long time ago artists relied on their Muses. That’s where they looked for inspiration. So if what they came up with wasn’t that good, it wasn’t their fault, the Muse had failed. And if the results were outstanding, they weren’t responsible either; the Muse was responsible for the success. This was particularly healthy, that way the artist didn’t fall on depression because of a bad work, nor built up his pride and ego because of a good work.

Sadly all of that changed and the responsibility started falling upon the artist. However, I still believe in “muses”, although I don’t like that name. It’s more like an unknown place where ideas are born and sometimes sucked -like a vacuum cleaner would do- involuntarily by my mind. A better way to graphic this is through another theory I read about. It says that all of the ideas are in the air, like in some wave or frequency, and that all we have to do is tune in and pick them up.

That’s how I feel. When it comes it comes… It doesn’t really have to do much with me. I wonder if other writers feel that way. Or could it be that I’m an amateur? Either way I like the philosophy it carries. No one to blame, no one to suck up to. Just plain equanimity. Of course sometimes I can enjoy a little drama, so sometimes I will think I suck… and then think I’m awesome, and then think I suck, and then think I’m awesome and so on. But fortunately I’ll get my act together and remember that the ideas aren’t mine, they were just shoved in my head. And aaaahhhh, equanimity!

Monday, February 8, 2010

When God is not enough

A man was climbing a humongous and challenging mountain in the Amazon. He was near the top when he suddenly slipped and fell about 15 feet down. He grabbed a branch of one small tree and stopped himself from falling further. He was very scared and started shouting for help. No one answered. He insisted.

“Help! Help! Someone, please!”

“Let go.” Said a very calmed but deep and loud voice out of nowhere. It was God.

“Eeeh… mmm… God?” said the man astonished.

“Yes son, it is I, God. Let yourself go.”

“No, I can’t! Isn’t there another way out? Please help me.”

“I am helping you. LET GO”

The man thought about it for a minute or two and then kept quiet and very still. His hand was very sour, so after a few more minutes he started shouting for help again.

“Help! Help! Someone, please!”

The deep voice appeared again and said “Son, just let go.”

The man replied, “Isn’t there anyone else out there?”

Saturday, February 6, 2010

On being VERY old.

In a very remote indian village, there was an old woman, you could say ancient. She was having her 115th birthday that week. The village’s newspaper sent one reporter to cover the not so typical but not so exciting news.

The reporter arrives to an almost falling house and sits next to the old lady.

He asks “What is the best thing about turning 115 years old?”

She answers “No peer pressure”

Entendimientos de una niña


Robertica ve TV en el cuarto de sus papás mientras su mamá se hace las uñas y su papá juega en la computadora. Cada canal goza de 3 segundos de exhibición ya que Robertica 1) no tiene paciencia 2) funciona como un scanner. Un canal de noticias llama su atención, evento raro para una niña de 12 años. El ancla habla sobre Chávez y sobre sus intenciones de poco a poco ir inhabilitando los partidos politicos que se oponen a su ideología; al parecer solo sobrevivirá el partido oficialista.

“Papá, mamá no entiendo la noticia. En el colegio el profe de Ciencias Sociales dijo que ‘partido’ significa ‘formar parte de’. Para que entendiéramos mejor lo comparó con una torta picada en 10 partes, cada parte representando un partido”

Los papas de Robertica, como siempre, la ven entre intrigados, asustados e impresionados. El papá sube ambas cejas y dice lentamente “Aja...”

Robertica continua…
“Bueno… Si Chávez quiere eliminar todos los partidos excepto el de él, significa que quiere poner la torta entera?”

Monday, January 18, 2010

die posSIbility

La posibilidad. Quiero que ya no exista para dejar de pensar en ella.

From now on I'm fucking possibilities, screwing the last shred of hope. I’m holding on to the missing ground, trying to rip the curtain out of my face. That stupid curtain. It has pictures, images, words. Sometimes they move, sometimes they sCREAm.

I’ve heard that on the other side there’s nothingness, and that it will make me feel good, it will make me be. Just be.
Wouldn't that be nice...



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SSApYvnTUQ

Girl-Toys: The Complot Begins



Why is it that since girls are very little, their parents, society, movies, toy stores and basically everyone, orients them towards boys?

On Christmas a little girl could receive several types of presents. One of them is a little easy-bake oven. I wonder what meaning lies beneath this apparently harmless gift. A baby doll is also very popular, but you cannot make a baby by yourself, can you? I once received a vacuum cleaner, which I would push around and different color balls would fly chaotically inside the transparent capsule. Maky-Club make-up kits are also brought by Santa regularly.

As you can observe, little by little the girl is completing the whole package: a kitchen, a baby, a vacuum cleaner and make-up so she can look pretty. I wonder what’s missing.

On the other hand, boys get remote control cars, robots, baseball kits, footballs and Legos, among others. These are all toys that encourage them to enforce male bonding and that basically orient boys to activities that involve them and only them.

The message that lies beneath the toys for boys is very simple: you don’t need anything else to enjoy yourself but this.
The message that lies beneath girls’ toys is: you must practice and get prepared to find a suitable boy. You must learn how to cook, clean, mother and look gorgeous. Why? In order to get a suitable boy.

So screw the whole usual girl-toys. If I have a daughter I would buy her a medical Kit; dancing costumes like ballet shoes, leotards and tiaras; I would get her Legos, Basketballs or Volleyballs, musical instruments, books, a wii, ANYTHING that doesn’t involve a boy ...directly or indirectly.