Daughter

woke up crying.
i saw her clearly in my dreams... 
beyond the beauty...
an angel... 
maybe in twenty or thirty years now,
recognizing myself in her big eyes for the first time,
stearing at me, pregnant, undaunted... 
with her smattering thick lips finally whispering...
as in a sentence that would condemn my heart forever: 
"you missed it, you missed everything..." -father.

 'Al

Me despierto

Me despierto sin aire, otra vez, y no respiro. Te soñé tantas veces que ni fueran suficientes... y no queda nada, nada que hacer con el eco de esta sombra. Pese a todo he imaginado hoy tu grito, insoportable ausencia. Te he visto al otro lado de la vía, detrás de la alambrada, aguantando la necesidad al enrejado y mirando pálida la cicatriz de mi frente. Y no respiro. En otras épocas podías con los malabaristas del tiempo... jugar, balancearte, girar el reloj de arena y volver a empezar desde el principio. Hoy en cambio, el único camino que por recorrer queda se extiende por el mismo raíl donde nos dejamos; una cuerda sin red para otro acróbata o funambulista. Y ahí me despierto, otra vez, sin aire... con la fragilidad del deseo irrealizable de encontrarte de nuevo en el columpio... caminando de espaldas, mirándote, marcha atrás... por si acaso aún sirviera para llevarme a ese sitio, si en verdad existe, donde no hay tierra, agua, fuego o aire. Donde sin palabras aún susurras: “no hay tiempo, divisiones, ni espacio infinito”. Ni el sol –me alumbrabas– ni la luna... Ni este mundo ni otro mundo. Allí, donde las almas convivían, donde ni se va ni se viene... ni te quedas, ni se nace... y apenas ni se muere. En ese lugar no hay ni frío ni calor, y nada es fijo, y nada se mueve... Nada... Allí, como entre lo nuestro, nada se funda sobre nada... Quizás fuera un sitio, la edad inocente, un instante o tan sólo el amor...
Y si en verdad existiese, de nuevo sería... el fin del dolor.

'Al

Addict to memories

some aren't just a drug; they are sheer sacraments. but maybe this is time for goodbye... i really need my wings to fly, so sick of that. then take the vow now, without a why. i'm gonna go down; you are going to rise up. 'Al

Dónde

¿Dónde estarán?
Detrás de las palabras,
las que te niegas en silencio,
en las que no escribo sobre el papel,
y aún sin papel
te las lleva el viento.

¿Dónde estarán?
Entre aquello que callas,
contra lo que exhala mi aliento,
tras lo que dices de cruel,
y sin querer lo sostengo
con mi desprecio.

¿Dónde?
Veladas en tu rabia,
o en un incendio que ya no entiendo,
amordazadas hondo en la piel,
allí estarán,
las cenizas de lo que aún siento.

'Al

Volver

Ahora

Ahora,
tras toda esta espera,
ahora que podíamos,
después de tanto y ante tanto,
qué nos queda.

Ahora que sin miedos,
anoche que sin penas,
y hoy qué de verdades
de un mañana,
que se anega.

Ahora que aún,
cuando recién y entretanto, 
mientras que dices que luego,
tarde o pronto,
el tiempo me condena.

Ahora...

mi siempre se envejece,
se pierde en el pasado,
cambiando el futuro que soñaba
por presente, que ya...
nunca más llega.

'Al

xiii/iv/xiii

- how long is forever?
- sometimes, just one second

Solynieve

Corrigenda

Yes
you are right

You really lofed me

But like that
with an f

Because it was false
and fucking fake

-in response of Quintero-Noguera's 'Fe de Errata'

2 ou 3 choses que Godard savais d'elle et le silence

¿Dónde está la verdad? ¿De frente o de perfil? Y antes que eso, ¿qué es un objeto? Tal vez un objeto sea lo que permite enlazar un sujeto a otro y así vivir en sociedad, estar juntos. Y entonces... puesto que la relación social es siempre ambigua y mi pensamiento divide tanto como une, y mi palabra acerca por lo que expresa y separa por lo que calla; puesto que un abismo separa la certeza subjetiva que tengo de mí y la verdad objetiva que soy para los otros; puesto que me declaro culpable aunque me siento inocente, y cada suceso transforma mi vida cotidiana; puesto que incesantemente erro en comunicar, en entender, en amar, en ser amado... y que cada fracaso me confina más a la soledad; puesto que... puesto que no puedo apartarme de la objetividad que me aplasta ni de la subjetividad que me exilia; puesto que no puedo ni elevarme al ser ni hundirme en la nada... Debo escuchar, debo observar a mi alrededor más que nunca, al mundo, mi semejante, mi hermano: al mundo... ahora que las revoluciones son imposibles, donde guerras sangrientas amenazan, y el capitalismo ya no está seguro de sus derechos; donde la clase obrera retrocede, donde la luz del progreso científico hace del futuro una presencia obsesiva; un ahora, donde el futuro está más presente que el presente, y las lejanas galaxias a la vuelta de la esquina. Mi semejante, mi hermano... ¿Dónde está el principio? ¿El principio de qué? Dios creó el cielo y la tierra, qué fácil... pero eso es cobarde y... simple. Uno debería poder dar explicaciones más complejas ¿Qué más puedo decir? decir que los límites del lenguaje son los límites del mundo, que los límites de mi lenguaje son los límites de mi mundo... Que... hablando limito al mundo, lo termino, y sobre todo... que un lógico y misterioso día, la muerte llegará, destruyendo esos límites... y entonces no habrá preguntas ni respuestas, todo será borroso. Pero si por casualidad las cosas se aclarasen, no será por la aparición de la conciencia ni de lo consciente. Después de eso... todo, todo se pondrá en su sitio.


Where then is the truth? In full face or in profile? And anyway, what is an object? Maybe an object is what permits us to relink... to pass from one subject to the other, therefore to live in society, to be together. But then, since social relationships are always ambiguous, since my thought divides as much as it unites, since my speech brings nearer through that which it expresses and isolates through that about which it is silent, since an immense gulf separates the subjective certitude that I have of myself from the objective truth that I am for others, since I do not cease to find myself guilty although I feel innocent, since each event transforms my daily life, since I ceaselessly fail to communicate -I mean, to understand, to love, to be loved -and each failure makes me experience my solitude, since... since....since I cannot tear myself from the objectivity that crushes me nor from the subjectivity that exiles me, since I am permitted neither to lift myself to being nor fall into nothingness, I must listen, I must look around me more than ever at the world, my likeness, my brother. Where does it begin? But where does what begin? God created the heavens and the earth, of course. But that is a bit cowardly and easy. One should be able to say something better, to say that the limits of language are those of the world, that the limits of my language are those of my world. And that in speaking, I limit the world, I end it. And that one logical and mysterious day death will come to abolish that limit and there will be neither question nor answer; everything will be fuzzy. But if by chance things again become sharp, this can be only with the appearance of consciousness and conscience. After that, everything will connect and proceed.

Happy

A mis obligaciones

Cumpliendo con mi oficio
piedra con piedra, pluma a pluma,
pasa el invierno y deja
sitios abandonados,
habitaciones muertas:
yo trabajo y trabajo,
debo substituir tantos olvidos,
llenar de pan las tinieblas,
fundar otra vez la esperanza.

No es para mí sino el polvo,
la lluvia cruel de la estación,
no me reservo nada
sino todo el espacio
y allí trabajar, trabajar,
manifestar la primavera.

A todos tengo que dar algo
cada semana y cada día,
un regalo de color azul,
un pétalo frío del bosque,
y ya de mañana estoy vivo
mientras los otros se sumergen
en la pereza, en el amor,
yo estoy limpiando mi campana,
mi corazón, mis herramientas.

Tengo rocío para todos.

- Pablo Neruda

How to try it

If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.

 Charles Bukowski, Factotum

Solitude and Arts

Voyage in time

merry xmas

we met each other

I met you…

in a moment of laugher

and I don't remember 

what came up after

But I'll always love you

and that moment of dreaming

and whatever's above you

I know that it seizes me

You met me,

in a moment of sorrow

so please don't expect me

to be here tomorrow

But I always loved you

in that moment of meaning

in no matter you were through

in all that we dreamed in

I met you,

in a moment of laugher

and I didn't expect you

to know what came after

But I respect you

in this moment of leaving

and I won't neglect you

in the pain we're receiving

you met me... 

in a moment of dreaming

and I don't remember 

all that its meaning

But I'll always love you

in that moment of laughter

in wherever's your present

and whatever comes after

True love will find you in the end

And the movie: The Devil and Daniel Johnston

Oscar Wao

the next day
he woke up feeling
like he'd been unshackled
from his fat

like he'd been washed
clean of his misery

and for a long time
he couldn't remember
why he felt this way

and then
he said her name.

Junot Díaz

invito yo

Te invito a soñar,
a ser feliz,
si me quieres,
aunque no importa el matiz.

Te invito a reír,
después de amar,
a traiciones,
en tu cama o en mi impostura.

Te invito a ser,
sólo por hoy,
la coartada ruptura,
del recuerdo de quien no eres.

Te invito a besar,
saborear en mí,
los labios a los que debes,
el pesar de tus ojos.

Te invito a cambiar,
tus fluidos,
y del corazón los despojos,
por el aullido de otra voz.

Te invito al consuelo
fingido y ciego,
mutuo y precoz,
de follar para olvidarnos...

de los que ayer perdimos.

'Al

La memoria del espejo

Quisieras saber qué se esconde
tras el sueño del reflejo,
ahondar más allá del horizonte,
en las transparencias del mar,
en sus profundidades casi visibles,
pero inabarcables.

Averiguar cómo las cosas se gestaron
o gastaron para siempre,
adivinar si no existieron,
especular si fueron o tan solo si se fueron...
borrándose en el tiempo.

Quisieras atravesar el injurioso cristal,
de sus misterios y tus dudas,
para ver, sentir, y del olvido aprehenderlo bien,
si es sólo una imagen la que pierde
o el espejo te sigue recordando,
cuando te apartas de él.

'Al

Notes about what to carry

I've always done whatever I felt like doing in life. People may try to stop me, and convince me I'm wrong, but I won't change.
I look up at the sky, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of kindness there, but I don't. All I see are indifferent summer clouds drifting over the Pacific. And they have nothing to say to me. Clouds are always taciturn. I probably shouldn't be looking up at them.
What I should be looking at is inside of me. Like staring down into a deep well. Can I see kindness there? No, all I see is my own nature. My own individual, stubborn, uncooperative often self-centered nature that still doubts itself- -that, when troubles occur, tries to find something funny, or something nearly funny, about the situation.
I've carried this character around like an old suitcase, down a long, dusty path. I'm not carrying it because I like it. The contents are too heavy, and it looks crummy, fraying in spots. I've carried it with me because there was nothing else I was supposed to carry. Still, I guess I have grown attached to it. As you might expect.

- Haruki Murakami

Dos recuerdos de La Plata

Quiero hablar de tu amor, porque es el mío:
decirme tu impaciencia y tu sorpresa,
tu soledad de mí que en mí no cesa,
tu sed que ignora el borde del hastío.

Quiero decir tu dulce desafío,
tu inseguro temblor y tu certeza,
tu júbilo que es casi una tristeza,
tu miedo indetenible como un río.

Quiero hablar de mi amor,
porque es el tuyo: porque estoy en el grito y el arrullo
-desesperado actor, mudo testigo-

porque soy quien se va pero regresa
para morder tu mano, mientras besa,
porque soy el que otorga. Y el mendigo.

- Julia Prilutzky


Se me va de los dedos la caricia sin causa,
se me va de los dedos... En el viento, al rodar,
la caricia que vaga sin destino ni objeto,
la caricia perdida, ¿quién la recogerá?

Pude amar esta noche con piedad infinita,
pude amar al primero que acertara a llegar.
Nadie llega. Están solos los floridos senderos.
La caricia perdida, rodará... rodará...

Si en el viento te llaman esta noche, viajero,
si estremece las ramas un dulce suspirar,
si te oprime los dedos una mano pequeña
que te toma y te deja, que te logra y se va.

Si no ves esa mano, ni la boca que besa,
si es el aire quien teje la ilusión de llamar,
oh, viajero, que tienes como el cielo los ojos,
en el viento fundida, ¿me reconocerás?

- Alfonsina Storni

Salía poco de casa, ella... escribía...

En mi flor me he escondido
para que,
si en el pecho me llevases,
sin sospecharlo
tú también allí estuvieras...
Y sabrán lo demás sólo los ángeles.

En mi flor me he escondido
para que,
al deslizarme de tu vaso,
tú,
sin saberlo,
sientas casi la soledad que te he dejado.

--

I hide myself within my flower,
that wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too
And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,
that, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting,
feel for me Almost a loneliness.


- Emily Dickinson

Escribiendo

Ya lo decía Hamsun, sí... guardando evidentemente las distancias entre los genios y nosotros... tenemos algo en común: somos de esa clase de culos inquietos, condenados: "vivimos porque nos expresamos", pero de la misma manera que se lo juraba a los suyos, yo también espero que este guión sea el último... Lo sabes, lo sé, lo sabe mi entorno cercano, incluso el que me detesta y me abandona. Demasiado sufrimiento, demasiada soledad y demasiado dolor. Esto va de llenarse juntos en el mundo y vaciarse el alma a solas, hasta acabar exhausto, enfermo, destruido una vez más. Lo sé, es una vida espiritualmente insana. Murakami también lo sabe, por eso decide correr, cada día, como el que intenta escapar de la maldición de uno mismo, dejando atrás su alma durante un rato, en busca de un equilibrio, para mantener al menos, a falta del resto, un cuerpo a tono. Yo también debería.

Oh yes

There are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

- Charles Bukowski

Toco tu boca

Toco tu boca, con un dedo toco el borde de tu boca, voy dibujándola como si saliera de mi mano, como si por primera vez tu boca se entreabriera, y me basta cerrar los ojos para deshacerlo todo y recomenzar, hago nacer cada vez la boca que deseo, la boca que mi mano elige y te dibuja en la cara, una boca elegida entre todas, con soberana libertad elegida por mí para dibujarla con mi mano por tu cara, y que por un azar que no busco comprender coincide exactamente con tu boca que sonríe por debajo de la que mi mano te dibuja.

Me miras, de cerca me miras, cada vez más de cerca y entonces jugamos al cíclope, nos miramos cada vez más de cerca y nuestros ojos se agrandan, se acercan entre sí, se superponen y los cíclopes se miran, respirando confundidos, las bocas se encuentran y luchan tibiamente, mordiéndose con los labios, apoyando apenas la lengua en los dientes, jugando en sus recintos donde un aire pesado va y viene con un perfume viejo y un silencio. Entonces mis manos buscan hundirse en tu pelo, acariciar lentamente la profundidad de tu pelo mientras nos besamos como si tuviéramos la boca llena de flores o de peces, de movimientos vivos, de fragancia oscura. Y si nos mordemos el dolor es dulce, y si nos ahogamos en un breve y terrible absorber simultáneo del aliento, esa instantánea muerte es bella. Y hay una sola saliva y un solo sabor a fruta madura, y yo te siento temblar contra mí como una luna en el agua.

 ---

"I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.

You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, they merge into one and the two cyplopses look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water."

- Julio Cortázar (Rayuela, capítulo 7)

What I talk about when I talk about - reading notes

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. The hurt part is an unavoidable reality, but weather or not you can stand any more is up to you.

I'm the type of person who doesn't find it painful to be alone. I had this tendency ever since I was young. I could always think of things to do by my myself. I learned the importance of being with others and the obvious point that we can't survive on our own. But the desire in me to be alone hasn't changed. When I'm alone random memories come to me... and in a way I give time to myself in order to acquire a void. But as you might expect, an occasional thought will slip into this void. People's mind can't be complete blank. Human's beings' emotions are not strong consistent enough to sustain a vacuum.

The thoughts that occur to me are like clouds in the sky. Clouds of all different sizes. They come and they go, while the sky remains the same sky as always.

The accumulation of my memories has led to one result: me. And the fact that I'm me and no one else is one of my greatest assets. Emotional hurt is the price a person has to pay in order to be independent.

Life just isn't fair... some people can work their butts off and never get what they're aiming for, while others can get it without any effort at all.

The most important things that we learn at school is the fact that the most important things can't be learned at the schools.

In the final analysis we are all the same.

At any rate that's how I started running. Thirty-three - that's how old I was then. Still young enough though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ died. The age that Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. That age may be a kind of crossroads in life. That was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was belated, but real, starting point as a novelist.

Nobody is going to win all the time. On the highway of life you can't always be in the fast lane. Still, I certainly don't want to keep making the same mistakes over and over. Best to learn from my mistakes and put that lesson into practice the next time around. While I still have the ability to do that.

La vida en cuentagotas

La vida en cuentagotas,
en instantes que pasan
de la alegría al llanto,
para ti no la quisiera.

La vida entera...
de lapsos que olvidan
la dicha por dolor,
para ti nunca sería.

Ni en cuentagotas,
malgastados momentos
de la soledad en los ojos,
a ti no te los viera jamás.

Mares de fondo
o tangentes de existencia
o vasos de savia a medias…
esas vidas, para ti no son.

Para ti quisiera la vida en vida,
de soplos eternos desatados,
que de la aspereza a la esperanza,
me sacaran de mi vida en cuentagotas.

'Al

After Dark

I once read a story about three brothers who washed up on an island in Hawaii. A myth. An old one. I read it when i was a kid, so I probably don't have the story exactly right, but it goes something like this.
Three brothers went out fishing and got caught in a storm. They drifted on the ocean for a long time until they washed up on the shore af an uninhabited island. It was a beautiful island with coconuts growing there and tons of fruit on the trees, and a big, high mountain in the middle. The night they got there, a god appeared in their dreams and said,
"A little farther down the shore, you will find three big, round boulders. I want each of you to push his boulder as far as he likes. The place you stop pushing your boulder is where you will live. The higher you go, the more of the world you will be able to see from your home. It's entirely up to you how far you want to push your boulder."
So the three brothers found three boulders on the shore just as the god had said they would. And they started pushing them along as the god told them to. Now these were very huge, heavy boulders, so rolling them was hard, and pushing them up an incline took an enormous effort. The youngest brother quit first.
He said, "Brothers, this place is good enough for me. It's close to the shore, and I can catch fish. It has everything I need to go on living. I don't mind if I can't see that much of the world from here."
His two elder brothers pressed on, but when they were midway up the mountain, the second brother quit.
He said, "Brother, this place is good enough for me. There is plenty of fruit here. It has everything I need to go on living. I don't mind if I can't see that much of the world from here."
The eldest brother continued walking up the mountain. The trail grew increasingly narrow and steep, but he did not quit. He had great powers of perseverance, and he wanted to see as much of the world as he posibly could, so he kept rolling the boulder with all his might. He went on for months, hardly eating or drinking, until he had rolled the boulder to the very peak of the high mountain.
There he stopped and surveyed the world.
This was the place he would live, where no grass grew, where no birds flew. For water, he could only lick the ice and frost. For food, he could only gnaw on moss. But he had no regrets, becouse now he could look out over the whole world. And so, even today, his great, round boulder is perched on the peak of the mountain on an island in Hawaii.
That's how the story goes. Well guys, as all the stories we got a moral in it. Two, probably.
The first one is that people are all different. Even siblings. And the other one is that if you really want to know something, you have to be willing to pay the price. You would say the lives chosen by the two younger brothers make the most sense, and it's true.
Nobody wants to go all the way to Hawaii to stay alive licking frost and eating moss. That's for sure. But the eldest brother was curious to see as much of the world as possible, and he couldn't suppress that curiosity, no matter how big the price was he had to pay. Intellectual curiosity.
- Haruki Murakami

Dormida

Qué lejos estás,
y bonita,
cuando al caerte los párpados,
reposas tus sueños
tan cerca de mi mejilla.

Cuando te veo dormida,
navegando entre suspiros
y pálpitos inquietos
qué lejos que vas,
sin dar un paso,
estirada, recogida, aquí,
con tu abrazo,
pero a la vez tan lejos...

Imagino en ocasiones
que allí a donde te diriges
podría encontrarte...
Cierro los ojos,
murmuras, ronroneas,
intento dormir y entonces
desde lejos apareces,
o yo en los tuyos
o tú en los míos,
y ebria me preguntas,
o yo a ti, da igual:
por qué razón o sinrazón
se cruzaron nuestros caminos
o si es delito colarse en los sueños ajenos.

'Al

#3 - sense of observation - 'the fourth kingdom'

#2 - a place where an action occurs - 'sub ways'

#1 - sense of a place - 'light time'

x/viii/xix - "random's miami bus stops postals"

x/viii/xiii - 'china-town vs. flushing meadows'

x/viii/ix - 'lights'

x/viii/vi - "got t/here"

I got t/here

8/5/2010
6 am, two eyes but just one opened: the room was dark but through the window the day was showing the early lights of the dawn. Some breaths, quick dress up, fast trip to the airport and hard goodbyes when we realized that I confused the terminal: taxi to the T2 and one more anecdote to the trip.
8 am. Things to know: airport check in workers are alarmist: baggage excess = you cannot fly; no "esta" = you cannot fly. Finally, after juggling with the luggage and with the angry girl, we took the airplane. Mission accomplished.
13pm. The frisk: before getting the second airplane we were stopped. They don't do it with everybody but we had the luck to get search. Everything... mistrust and suspicion, why?
17pm. Relativity: the day was too long, the ship seemed to be stacked at the same place, to the same light for hours, the time changed strangely slower, the place there was now here and finally we got it. NY.

my first imput

I've been dreaming tonight.
I was a traveller getting into Cuba. Just arrived I got an interview with Fidel Castro. He gave me a cigar and told me that La Havana was a bigger city. It was on the north... He barely asked me why I was there. He seemed happy and calm.
I started walking through the streets of a little city, trying to find the way out to go to La Havana.
When I passed next to a shop window I saw my image in the crystal, but it wasn't my image. I was another person.
My brother waked me up.