el huge (bilingual)

Sometimes

2010-01-13T16:05:00.005-06:00

Sometimes I wonder why the urge to write is more strident when my heart is torn.
At times I turn back and feel that there's nothing to write related to what I was before.
I'm dead since I let go of the things that I once shared, the feelings that blew up within the paragraphs that I here I used to baste.
I chose to kill myself and be happy, live and transcend on other plains, on other lives.
I regret not.
I accept it in the most humane manner, I live it in the most mundane way.
Caressing moments and late nights.
Intesifying the lines of indelible roads.
I contemplate myself and I know I'm everyday older, stronger and less prone.
My nose is a hook.
My eyes glittered, but now they're sombre.
I'm falling from a cliff manufactured with a permanent levity.
I have ceased growing.
I hide my introspections from the people I love, so as not to hurt them.
I'm water.
I rain and then steam away.
I sometimes run without aim because I'm pouring everywhere...

Sometimes I wonder why the urge to write is more stident when my heart is torn.

______________________________

Click here for original Spanish version.

Bliss

2009-01-17T13:11:00.004-06:00

A character. A small piece of flesh made alive by its very own will to remain. It's ranking its life upon the sole esence within which it moves and flows. All the time, something is leaving from it like smaller fractions of jelly matter and, at the same time, it grows thicker and firmer as it gains vital space. No other thing flows or exists around it. It's moving without propelling amidst some kind of liquefied semi-bubbly substance in which nutrients seem to overexist.

It is growing in size and conciousness. It's starting to feel more and more. It senses its own existence and its own will. "I want to be more," it thinks, even though it really doesn't know where that need might be driven from. And then puzzlement comes: "What am I, anyway?" "What's this thing I'm surrounded by?"

And then, as an answer to a question that hasn't yet been made, a whole set of new fibres start emerging from tis embodied being. New experiences, new ways of sensing the fullness of its vast environment. It's enjoying now. It's gone into a state of supreme bliss. It's so overastonishing that thought has totally left. Abandonment to joy simply nullifies and smoothly blasts away any thought pattern.

For now...

_____

Un personaje. Un pequeño pedazo de carne hecho vivo por su muy propia voluntad de permanecer. Califica su vida conforme a la esencia dentro de la cual se mueve y fluye. Todo el tiempo, algo se separa de él como más pequeñas fracciones de materia gelatinosa y, al mismo tiempo, se siente crecer más grueso y firme al ganar espacio vital. Ninguna otra sustancia fluye o existe en derredor suyo. Se mueve sin propulsarse por entre algún tipo de sustancia licuada y algo burbujeante dentro de la cual hay demasiados nutrientes.

Crece en tamaño y en conciencia. Está empezado a sentir más y más. Siente su propia existencia y su propia voluntad. "Quiero ser más," piensa, aún cuando ni siquiera sabe de dónde semejante necesidad podría venir. Y luego llega el ofuscamiento: "¿Qué es lo que soy?" "Qué es esto que me rodea?"

Y luego, a manera de respuesta para una pregunta que ni siquiera ha sido formulada, un emergente juego de fibras comienza a surgir de su ser corporal. Nuevas experiencias, nuevas formas de sentir el lleno de su medio tan vasto. Ahora lo disfruta. Se ha instalado en un estado de supremo éxtasis. Es tan sobrecogedor que el pensamiento se ha ido completamente. El abandono al gozo simplemente nulifica y tersamente destruye cualquier patrón de pensamiento.

Por ahora...

A and B

2008-07-01T15:47:00.002-05:00

Hermano B (alegre): Caminé diez kilómetros desde mi casa hasta aquí. Me siento muy bien.

Hermano A (gritando y esquivando el abrazo): Ya lo sé, maldito inconciente. La única razón por la que dios te ubicó en esta familia fue para que te pusiéramos una correa como a los perros. Ven y abrázame donde no te pegue el sol.

Hermano B (con el corazón roto): Está bien.

Hermano A (visiblemente enfadado): ¿Por qué te viniste caminando?

Hermano B (con plena conciencia de su simple verdad): ¡Porque quise!

(continuará...)

___________________________________________________

Brother B (joyful): I walked ten kilometers from home to get here. I feel pretty good.

Brother A (yelling and walking away from the hug): I know, you freakin' irresponsible bastard. The only reason why god brought you to this family was so that we could put a leash on you like a dog. Come and hug me where the sun won't hit you.

Brother B (with his heart broken): Alright.

Brother A (obviously pissed): Why did you walk all the way here?

Brother B (with a full awareness of his simple truth): Because I felt like it!

(to be continued...)

Sin título (No title)

2008-06-22T21:19:00.002-05:00

Musas tintinean los cascabeles que cuelgan de sus vestidos a las rodillas con lentejuelas blancas y plateadas. El sentirse inspirado tiene sus vaivenes. Son tan delgadas y tienen cuerpos tan firmes. Son tan invitantes. Cualquiera quisiera abusar de ellas. Entrar en grupo vikingo rastrero, cual estampida de bisontes violadores, y tomarlas a todas de ambas muñecas con una sola mano inmensa de hombre de mar y zarandearlas a un tiempo. Las rubias, las pelirrojas, las morenas, las bellas, las de piernas grandes, las altas, las menuditas, las de grandes senos, las de frente amplia, las de gran personalidad, las tímidas y las de grandes ojos expresivos. Contusiones. Raspones. Fuerza. Lucha. Exterminio. Generalmente -si es que esto se puede hacer de manera general- las batallas contra tales divinidades son aún más certeras y extenuantes que cualquier pelea callejera, cisma o guerra.

Hoy me propuse asesinarlas a todas. Hoy quise simplemente tomar los dones que me fueron obsequiados y usarlos para desmontar la belleza de cualquier paisaje. Después de todo, me los dieron. Yo no luché por ser músico, no luché por tener cierto talento para escribir, para componer, para enseñar, o para comprender... Hoy las quería ver muertas, tendidas frente a mí a un lado de un río enturbiado de lamoso lodo viejo y vil. Hoy exijo y demando de la vida que se me dé lo que quiero y nunca más lo que me sea menos complicado. Hoy hago un reclamo por fuerza. Por ser un macho potente y lleno de brío, furioso y empecinado, alegre proveedor, ceñudo protector, señor en mi páramo. Conmino a los poderes del universo a que me hagan el mejor en aquello de lo que me he prendado por ser y hacer. En lo que soy. Con justeza y autoridad convoco a todas las deidades, a los demonios y a los charlatanes a concederme mi único anhelo. He dejado de ambicionar la atención de los ávidos. He usurpado la necesidad de mi alma y la he comprimido en una bola con forma de suspiros. Y al fin, ahora, con absoluta certeza en el dicho de mi seguridad, he proclamado: Maduren musas, deslíguense de mí, busquen a alguien que realmente las necesite, satisfagan la insaciedad de algún otro genio, hijas mías, corran sin llorar y sin voltear siquiera a ver mi silueta por vez última parada sobre la cima de mi contoneada colina, porque mi búsqueda ha terminado y, por entre las cegadoras luces que me convierten en difuminada sombra desde la distancia, estoy en paz...

___________________________________

Muses twinkle their jingle bells which hang down from their knee-high dresses with white and silver sequens. Feeling inspired has its swings. They're so thin and they have such firm bodies. They're so inviting. Anyone would want to abuse them. To burst in as a creeping viking herd, just like a rapist bison stampede, and to grab them all from both wrists with only one immense hand of a man of the seas and to toss them around at a same time. The blondes, the red haired ones, the brunettes, the beautiful ones, the ones with big legs, the tall ones, the tiny ones, the ones with big breasts, the one with wide foreheads, the ones with great personality, the shy ones and the ones with huge expressive eyes. Bruises. Scratches. Strength. Struggle. Extermination. Generally -if such a thing could be done in a general fashion- battles against such divinities are even more accurate and exhausting than any street fight, schism or war.

Today I intended to murder them all. Today I simply wanted to grasp the gifts I was granted and use them to dismantle the beauty of any landscape. After all, they were given to me. I didn't work my ass off to be a musician, I didn't struggle to have a certain talent at writing, composing, teaching or understanding... Today, I wanted to see them all dead, lying in front of me next to a river made cloudy with old and vile mud. Today I claim and demand from life that I be given what I want and never again what is less complicated. Today I call for strength. To be a potent and full of energy male, furious and determined, joyful provider, frowning protector, master over my moor. I summon the powers of the universe to make me the best at what I have become pinned by for being and doing. At what I am. With justice and authority I call all deities, demons and charlatans to grant me my only wish. I have left aspiring for the attention of the avid ones. I have usurped the need of my soul and I have compressed it into a sigh-shaped wad. And at last, now, with absolute certainty upon what I say about my assurance, I've proclaimed: Mature, muses, unlink from me, search for someone who really needs you, quench some other genius' unfilling, my sweet daughters, run without crying and without even turning to look at my silhouette for this time last standing on top of my swaying hill, because now my own quest has ended and, amid the blinding lights that turn me into a blurry shadow from afar, I'm at peace...

All is so easy

2008-06-01T11:24:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I get so desperate from being so busy. Physically, mentally and emotionally. My job, my fianceé, my no-moneyness, facebook, my classes, the material, the powerpoint slide shows, the final exams, the students, the principals, my bosses, the commitments, my debts, the grades, the extraordinary exams, the championship that's coming, my car, her dog, my mum, my siblings, my friends, Santos, the amount of minutes in my mobile, my clothes, my room, the not-working washing-machine, the people around us, our wedding, the photo shoot, the reception, the feast, the money, the guests, the godfathers, the ring, the proposing evening, the bridal shower and the bachelor party, the presents, my neglected live spaces, my equally neglected blogspot sites, my net friends, los tres coyotes, the freaking suicidal stupid man, the waiting, the nerve, my always showing a good face, the uninvited suddenly appeared, the invitations, the flower arrangements, the video shoot, the Summer vacations that come without a single dime, my eternal search, my pawned bass guitar, the cousins, the uncles, the aunts, the family, my unableness to ask for things -whatever to whomever-, my constant need to always eat in solitude, the concerts I'm not going to, my college buddies, the trips, students who love me, students who hate me, my Michigan diploma with honors, my recognition as the best teacher in front of the dean and all, the wine, the canapé servings, the waiters, the bar-tender, the TV, the fridge, the air conditioning system, the biweekly coffee that turns out to be into dinner for five at applebee's, our munchies, my empty wallet, the sacrificed music with a goosebumpy smirk, the loss that it involves, the death rasping breathing that it promotes, my stress-caused belly growth, my smile, the writing, the reports, the parents of my students that come to visit just to get to meet the teacher of their creatures, the monthly parties made to celebrate all the birtday people, my bad thoughts, my good thoughts, my intransigence of heart that keeps on not listening to my good sense which takes millenia to be aware of my emotinal state, the politics, the flattering, my car wrapped with the local team's flags, my library fines, the books, my computer, the quaranteened applications, the Trojan horses, my nephews, Nicholas, the repairs on our new house, the real estate agents that won't stop getting me through hell just to sell, the payroll receipts, my original birth certificate which says I'm a woman due to a typing mystake, the fucking heat that whips my city, the fence that shall be erected, the window protections, the house widening, the date in which it'll be given to us, the paper signing, the delays, the down payments, the honeymoon, the vacations, the days that we won't we working, the thoughts that just won't stop bothering, her depilation, the make up, my hair that just won't allow any control, the motor oil leak, the translations, the invitations I get to play with other bands, the curtains, the furniture, the trousseau, the dinner, the packages, the bride-shows, the prices, the discounts, my dirty little mind corners, my paranoia, my expectations, my eagerness, my need to get rid of everything and just go on with chaos, my urgency to have order, my family, the balance, the computer payments, internet, the events, the lawn, the lizards, the bridges being built throughout the city which take five minutes each from each of my commutes, her hands, her eyes, the feeling of drunkedness that they cause on me, the lack of concentration, the bouquet, the wedding band, the church, the garter, the lab tests, the civil wedding, the bride magazines, the time that's left and barely lets us make it, her PMSings, our Tuesday's movies, the endless leaflets, tryptichs and bulletins that are now like my car's inside tapestry, the disorganization, her waist, the countless assholes that keep hitting on her knowingly of the fact that she's soon getting married, those mother-fuckers, my laughter, mi vice, her posture, the salads we both make, our ignoring the past, the vampires, my castle on knighthood, my vasals, my songs, my need to sing and yell, the talks, the judgements and prejudices, the emotional charge, the music-knowledge tests, the fact that I winded out being Han Solo on my Star Wars personality test, the value of being, her lips, my restlessness, her father who won't even talk to me, my father whom I won't even turn to look at, our powerless mothers, my unquenchedness, my lack of inspiration, my ego, my libido that demands, my extremities that search and only in her they find my truth, my fate, my punishment, my struggle, my heaven, my grace and my peace...

Spanish version

Regarding how Ariadna finally accepted that witches do exist

2008-05-13T00:31:00.004-05:00

Which freaking witches? She thought as she saw Daniela's sent mail's subject. You're the witch, she told Daniela from here in Mexico all the way to the west boundaries of downtown New Zealand's capital. She, being here, with all the sense of decency that only solitude without her best friend's vacation brought up, and Daniela being there in paradise showing off her being able to send stupid mails.

There was a boy that had been looking at her since a while ago, sitting two tables away from her. The guy chit-chatted, smiled and laughed with a friend of his whose face she couldn't see. The crossing of a glimpse of hers with his definite beholding baffled her at first, but then it came strangely over her just like the fixed gaze of a lover in obviously contained insanity, in such a way that, a little while afterwards, she knew that she herself was feasting her eyes with waves of glimpses over the screen of her laptop.

Daniela's mail was one of those chained things. Poorly written and so commomplace now that internet was so concurred. Everything seemed too annoying and lacking coherence for the friendship level that she and Daniela had managed to grow. In fact, it was thinking in their friendship that she decided to read it all.

She read a little bit here and then she looked up. He wasn't looking anymore, but his body language was too obvious. He had opened his legs so that she could see deep into his Jamaican bermuda. Blond. Impressive aqua green eyes. His hair seemed to keep a perfect balance with tidiness even though they looked as if they hadn't even been a bit watered for a couple of days. He was shaved, though.

Suddenly, he looked back at her now hiding less and she, stupidly, went back to reading her witchcraft mail. Make a wish, she could read while she scrolled the text. You've got 10 seconds. The stupidest thing was that most of those silly chained mails even had a countdown from 10 to 1 so that the readers would concentrate in whatever they wished for.

Do you want to know what Ariadna wished for? Click here!

Chiquitita survey

2008-04-29T22:22:00.005-05:00

Well, you won't believe it, but this weekend I went to see the college theater play season that goes on every year. Of course you know this sort of matters has a more professional and more
bombastic name, but well, since as a matter of fact I winded out going there because the ticket was given to me, I obviously can't remember the name at all. From there comes what I'm here to say. The thing is that the play was some sort of requiem dedicated to Abba. And there you had me accompanied by the love of my life watching some post puberty guys hopping, acting, dancing and singing in Spanish all of the most famous songs of the Swedish quartet.

So here comes the interesting part of all this: I want to write some dissertation about musical appreciation, but before anything, I want to make a survey to get warmed up in order to post it with some more foundations.

All of us have heard Abba's "Chiquitita" at least once in our lives. I think that it's been so deeply blended into our tiny heads with tributes, special editions, homages, requiems and remakes that, even though we wouldn't like the song, we could affirm that we know at least two of its verses. True or false? So, my question goes as it follows:

Why do you like the song?

I'll give you some options:

a. Lyrics.
b. The melody.
c. Its music.
d. The mixture of voices.
e. The pretty piano at the ending of the song.
f. Because it's an icon of its time.
g. It's Abba!
e. Because the second bar of the chorus goes longer into five beats instead of four.
h. Instrumentation.
i. Any other reason...x
j. I don't like it.

I'll be waiting for your answers...

And here's the song in case you want to analyze it...
Or the Spanish version, in case you want to hear it as well...

Or, if you want to listen to Coldplay instead, click here.

REVENGE

2008-03-26T01:16:00.002-06:00

Revenge does not grant relief in itself.
It is mostly the fact of our now being aware of our being able to act in a more despicable way than that who has damaged us.
It is the fact of knowing ourselves as being worse human beings than those who trespass against us.
It is believing ourselves as justified to do wrong.
It is having ceased being afraid because we know ourselves to be superior to the hurt that may be inflicted on us.
It is to wield a banner that gloriously, overwhelmingly and proudly leads a retinue that now has taken a strong hold of life and comes back home...
To hell...

His tears were made of stone

2008-03-22T10:22:00.004-06:00

During that masterly dream, Manuel glimpsed until the death of his epiphany that the only transcendental thing he could possibly scribble in his eternal and boring autobiography would be having conceived children.
After so many studies, provings, tries and errors, ambiguous and secular experiences.
Several, none, all and the only one.
Decisions, some erudite and other ones anger-sheltering.
Reactions, contempts, absolute or pleading intentions to hurt and even to kill.
Or to love.
How different could they ever be?
The most sincere of his words told him that depressed was barely a nickname, a sentence to define, a blurry state that just wouldn't end up his poisoning.
He wasn't twenty-five yet and he already felt as having reached the top of his capabilities.
He was aware of his being common, austere, plausible and definitely one-handed.
Just a man.
Mr father.
One more.
He felt like crying.
His eyes wouldn't respond, though.
Nothing did, since his soul dryness was turning him into a statue.
He hungered for being released from the chains that now skewered him away from life.
But at trembling, he proclaimed that nothing was now under his control, if it ever happened that anything was.
So drifting.
No pride.
Lacking of a peaceful backwater.
So much love, so much work.
So lusty.
So fun within the sin that in its moment was almost barbaric and arrogant but that by today was left worse than degraded.
Merely common-placed.
Less than that.
Just another series of stupidities.
A totalitarian stain.
That turned him almost into an animal.
Nothing now.
Only boredom.
And no tear whatsoever.

Imbecil...

Why?

2008-03-16T13:14:00.002-06:00

That who eternally seeks, by universality devotes his life to seeking. He rarely finds.
Who has found never lost what he's encountered. He's always known where it was.
Who has arrived just as he promised didn't get lost on the way. His essence is spotless.
Who has been found was waiting for his being looked for. His need has defined him.

That who always knew himself has always been what he is.
He exists.
He guides.
He chooses.
He does not touch: He feels.
Lives.
His value goes further away from what simple mortality represents.
His joy resides in everything that there is, everything that is surrounded by his presence.
The truth is that his happiness does not matter, though.
He does not search it, he does not claim for it, does neither frivolize nor idealize it, doesn't yearn for it.
Why?

Amorphous anniversary without roundness but with a locomotive and a weight scale

2008-03-05T14:33:00.004-06:00

I believe in balance. In inevitability. I almost believe, barely knowing about it and without having met it, in ying and yang. I almost believe that Jesus was merely human, and that fills me with hope. I love my beautiful one as love is without conditions, as love is with courage and kindness. I suffer, because love is like that and life is as such, always in balance. But, hey: the balance I'm talking about is rarely in my mind when I make decisions...

I ought to confess: I didn't remember that February 21st was my blog's second anniversary (the one in Spanish). My God-blessed blog. So bad the matter is that I didn't even realize that all the information within the lists within my Spanish blog has suddenly disappeared.

This is my reality: I order to love as I should, as my own beliefs say I must do it, I shall do certain things and stop doing some others. The interesting part is that everything is now my decision and in the end what I choose is for me and only for me. The place in my awareness destined to cast blame upon others because of my own decisions has ceased to exist. To delegate guilt is as much as avoiding responsibility. As my college coordinator used to say: "ever since excuses were invented, stupid assholes did not exist anymore". The truth is that, to me, I ran out of stupid assholes because I've already pulled us all up in category. We're simply human. We're mudane beings that, in our search for balance, can get to doing the most insufferable blunders just as we can as well do the most transcendental actions.

I'm trying to explain why I didn't even remember until four days ago that it was my blog's birthday. The truth is that I won't be able to explain why everything is in fact a series of factor that mishmash into this result. I'll make a list:

I start my work from seven in the morning and I get through up until ten at night. I am now working as the In-company program Coordinator of the Academic Area within the Centro de Idiomas. I don't listen to music anymore. I don't watch TV. I'm happy. My boss always says I look sad. She says my eyes depict sadness. My fianceé says they look at peace. I say that I'm a little tired. Incredible as it may seem, I've already quit music. I have no time to think as much in my blog. The truth is that I am somewhat sad because of what I've just left behind, in my own search for happiness. (But it is because of the blessed balance: When I'm happy, I'm veeeery happy.) I work even on Sundays. I have no time even for myself. Sometimes I don't know how to grant quality time to the things I do. Sometimes I don't know anything. I'm always inspired, but I'm always doing something else. I get very few visits to my blog. It might be because I don't have any more time to dedicate to my own visits to my cyber-friends. That saddens me too. I'm getting thinner, but my small belly keeps being there (Is that due to balance as well?) I'm 33 already. I know that even though I'm already tired of so much work, my task load is barely starting to build up. I don't go out anymore on weekends. I'm keeping all my money in order to... I bet you don't know what for! I don't see any more fights, muddlings and disentanglings as when I used to play in clubs. My goals are more palpable, more real. Now, the muddlings and fights are only withing myself. If I were just knowing me, that would make me terribly irresistible. I'd love to meet myself and untwin me. To write my own story. But it would have to be a whole surreal, psychedelic ostentasious, seventies type of novel. I've got no more insomnia. Only anxiety on Saturdays like at 10 at night. I'm saving. I can't live without showering in the mornings. I'd never before struggled when waking up, not even when I only had two or less than two hourse to sleep. I may be getting old. But I'll erase that later. My stupid mind won't stop thinking about things it shouldn't. Sometimes I believe, in fact, that it is my heart the one that influences mi mind and won't let it think what it should. I say this because, when I'm really aiming at something based on concentration, I can really think of things that I must definitely have in mind all the time. I love. My path is drawn. And the truth is that all of these thirty-three years I've been fighting for not having a drawn path. Maybe that's why my boss sees sadness in my eyes. Maybe that's why I'm so tired even without having walked that much. Maybe I haven't gotten used to the fact that my car has turned into a train. I'm a locomotive. A coal one. I'm still burning inside, but my energy is channeled and held within by nothing but iron. My inner fire keeps burning, but now it is under control. And I smile. At last. Because the tracks set before me are guiding me to the place where I always wanted to arrive in my desire to fly as a space shuttle in order to contemplate the fields that surrounded me: home...

invited

2008-02-22T09:09:00.003-06:00

Books I've read the last months:
.
1.Alvin Maker Jr I. - Seventh son of a seventh son (Orson Scott Card)
.
2. Disciplina Inteligente (Vidal Schmill) - I don't like reading this sort of things, but I had to because of work.
.
3. Complete tales II (Isaac Asimov)
.

Music I've recently been hearing:
.
1. RUSH
.
2. DREAM THEATER
.
3. Diego Torres - haha, this one is not from work, I admit it. I really like it.
.
4. Los toreros muertos
.
5. Laco Tayfa
.

Movies I've seen recently:
.
1. American gangster.
.
2. I am legend.
.
3. Ratatouille.
.
4. 27 dresses

Monday afternoon

2008-02-05T22:44:00.000-06:00

Unemptying. Filling back. Little by little. With your own beat. With your veins. With your legs. I elevate my structure and I fit it into your song. Beautiful piece of intact future. Of ever growing palpitations that from this moment forth shall rule and stick us together. Rhythms that even without simetry display our symphony and turn us into this which we are after orgasm. Heating calm fire light. That grants and softens our peace...

Spanish version

Espacios

2008-01-27T11:07:00.000-06:00

Jonás was his name and, like everyone or like no one, the whole of him was an enormous cetacean due to all he carried within. Pondering were all of the meaningful figures that wandered inside his stomach. Memories, wounds, recalls, beautiful moments. We can't go on being stuck in here, said all to each other. All of them agreed on this, however none could simply go away. There was a memory of her lost mother that kept clinging there trying to heal his stress-related heartburn. The images of his wedding and his first happy days with his wife smoothed the pain caused by his stomach ulcer. And so on. Jonás himself sometimes talked with his organs and apologized for the work overload or thanked them for their always punctual and efficient duties. His heart seemed particularly praiseworthy to him. Always in a constant struggle with the nervous system. Blood flowing and electricity thundering here and there.

Sometimes, Jonás realized that he -meaning his essence- was not in any of his organs. It was in those moments, as he floated in air without looking back or without allowing any physical sentiment, that he felt truly Jonás. He flew then. Suddenly a whole new series of ethereal appendixes like enormous rows sprouted from within his whale fins and everything turned into simply pure. He forgot nothing, but nor did he remember. His body was at peace: the ulcer, the small clots in his veins, the hereditary inkling from arthritis that would never develop fully just because he was a man, the callus that was turning into stone underneath his left food, the recurrent pain in his ears. The whole of him was a weightless little paper in the shape of a sperm whale.

When Jonás was at one, some of his memories managed to get one-way tickets to oblivion. They raised their tiny little thousand-shaped and varied-smoothed hands as if they were old-fashioned single virgins hopping and jumping to reach for the just-thrown-to-the-air bride's bouquet. They said "me! me!" And in the end some of them went away, leaving empty spaces for the others to fill at will, and others remained there sunk in envies and unevenness. They sent then messages to the brain that said "we're still here!" And the pain started once again. Jonás then went back to his litany of ailments and unprescribed medicine, and peace was then missed, longed for as beauty is needed when it's not there.

Then some day, cancer arrived and all, all of the organs without exception, started to fear a coming invasion. The stomach died and along died the rest of the organs and it was like so that Jonás died. With nothing else to say. Like everyone or like no one. His last thought was in fact a feeling. A moment of communion of his body in which all of the moments, memories, experiences, schemes, feeling and images of his life gathered together just to say " "

Spanish version

insomnia's cure

2008-01-20T14:31:00.000-06:00

Ay no...

Qué hueva traducir éste...

Mejor pásenle pa'llá...

jojo

Insomnia

2008-01-13T09:25:00.000-06:00

He... Here, without being able to sleep. intermittent way of leaving thirds of life without living. But, oh, so necessary. Damn insomnia, says he to himself. He thinks, he squeezes his mind, and his heart vibrates with eruptions within earthquakes. He feels that he still has got the dragon deep within. He knows himself white hot and at the same time rancid. He can feel that his driftings are no longer. Nevertheless he can't yet go back to sleep. One hour or more since he awoke amid thoughts of rebellion, meanness and mistrust. He feels irascible and oh so lame at the same time.

He... Today without having felt what he desired. Today without having carpe diem. TV no longer calls him, it makes him uneasy. He'd like to go out running, driving so as to crash into a car with a family inside. He'd like to destroy something beautiful. He'd like to have done some wrong when he had the chance. So as to delight and be able to say "I deserve such disdain". But he know that his thoughts are not fair. And he'd like them to be. He knows that they're nothing but reflections from his uncontrolled heart that influences his mind bringing images that hurt, that drill in and never stop. God damn words. If he could just slip into people's mind, he could simply make them understand.

He... So distant, but so obsequious. So innocuous, yet so present. Distorted, intramuscular. It's been so easy to pass back to the sub-zero level. He's a lunatic. He's pure love. Animal. Dirty. Spotless feeling of debauchery. He can barely restrain himself. But his chains are his own. His feet and hands long for freedom, but they know they're already free. They've always been. They will always be.

He... Needs direction. Help. Insomnia is killing him now and there's no one in his net. Damn musicless Saturday. Damn early Sunday morning. It's been two hours now. He'd love to know why it is that he can't sleep if in fact he's so tranquil. He'd like to know everything. He'd like to be Hannibal Lecter. He'd like to be a big puppet, a fake, one of those snots that tear your skin when you pull them out because they're so hard. He'd like to give it all and know for sure that he's giving it right. That everything he gives will be required from him. He'd fully like to be a necessity. He'd like to be perfect. He'd like to be God. So as to always understand. So as to always forgive. So as to always love...

Spanish version

That good-byes might as well be welcomes...

2008-01-06T15:09:00.000-06:00

That the new year, thought Martha. What's such concept to me? My planning of the year started some months ago, when I decided what I would do for the rest of my days, when I saw myself at last getting new calls from the alternate-dream makers and I told them no more. When my mind was so made and resolved to keep on its verdict.

She realized that she was thinking in Spanish with phrases in another language and remembered Sandra Bullock in Forces of Nature: "How can anyone decide which clothes they're going to wear for the next 25 years?" Well, she stated to herself, I can. Not only can I do it, but I also accept it with pride and devotion. With determination, respect, patience and worship that transmute the anger that was left by an absence that should never have been. Today nothing starts, she kept on thinking: Starting this year, my new years start in November, that's why I'm saying my goals started to take place one month and days ago. The world is beautiful when the appropriate decisions are taken. Unfortunately, it so happened that in order to know what was best, I first chose the wrongest. It hurts, but I'm working within myself so that it won't hurt anymore, so that my memory can be that of a gentleman's before his lady, and nothing may rise above the surface anymore.

Hot water. Lots of sugar. Well, not that much. A muffin. Raspberry jam. Small joys that now had a meaning. A duvet underneath which to lay her feet -and his too- and a light movie for both of them.

Martha rained serenely. Her whole self, with her thoughts and her recalcitrant heart that kept on pulsing with the images from her mind emerging from within the heat with tea smell. She burned. She roared. She flowed like a river at times overflown. Then she eased again. She trembled in tiny orgasms. As in little goosebumps made music by sighs. She let herself be drawn away as if being a desert sandstorm, and the closer she was to her expanded and abysmal goal, the wind that was transforming her into this storm slackened at last and let her lie on the ground she so truly loved and allowed her to be part of a new and humid land that happily permitted her to adhere. For her to turn into fertile soil where the most gracious and beautiful plants were about to sprout.

Spanish version

You and I

2008-01-02T13:43:00.000-06:00

You and I

Light poles that entwine...
I'm a sun...
I shine...
I've faith...
I've got strength and drive...
And all I give to you...
I share...
Easy, without rushes, it's all yours...
In this new start...
Within this original glory...
Within this unedited challenge...
That transports us to eternity...
Both shining...
With a new light...
Clear flash communion...
Displayed upon infinity...

The trees

2007-12-20T19:49:00.000-06:00

There was a time when the trees grew with their boney and crooked branches only and exclusively up. The scientists looked at such wonder with faked awe and said that the Apocalypse was very soon to come. Religious people came close to the trees with peace and study in their faces and gave all kinds of explanations related to botany. It was the fall. The remaining leaves fell and the branches were left completely shelterless as the wild animals ran off the frozen trunks in order to go hide on the other side of the horizon, into the sea. The branches finished then their straightening when the Winter ended. Spring made the insects come back and they all became plague. Harvests were destroyed, animals sacrificed and food was compressed. The youth came out to the streets to announce the end of the world with enormous banners and protest yelling aimed at the Creator. Children and professionals left out pencils and, at seeing themselves disabled at erasing, they wrote with electronic keyboards, without mistakes. Summer came and all the trees were now over two meters high. A year had passed and man still could not understand the why of nature's behaviour. Churches began to give and forgive people's sins on the squares, which were left without plants since they had to cut everything down for everyone to fit in. Scientists started to study the trunks and branches with real eagerness, and they realized that they were more normal than ever. So, every person on Earth that was not linked to science or religion started to lose their faith in evolution and creation when they realized scientists and priests were getting rich at their expense. So, one day, they simply threw them into the void. The following day a true Spring began and people came out into the streets to work and live in peace, without using more than was needed and thinking only about the future with patience and wisdom. From the trees leaves sprouted, branches bloomed and flowers gave abundant fruit. And then said God: it is amazing that these poor men require so much in order to understand that science and religion should consist only of being happy.

Written in 1991

spanish version

You'd never have expected this

2007-12-08T11:07:00.000-06:00

NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

NOTHING...

NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...
NOTHING...

Nothing like re-finding love...

Everything's beautiful...

The greatest gift

2007-11-24T12:09:00.000-06:00

She gave me a smile
in my old and sad face
in my forgotten and dry body

She turned my day into sun
my anxiety into relief
and my cold into goosebumps

She wrapped me in her arms
for a scarcely eternal second
for a moment
my heart at last without hollows

And here I am
after such a long time
knowing that all, all,
everything compiles into a hug:
simple as that...

click here for the original Spanish version

A fable

2007-11-07T10:58:00.000-06:00

Once, there was a simple ant that had desperately fallen lost into love limbo for a beautiful light moth. It came to happen that this ant's almost nightly work schedule allowed it to contemplate dawn while heading towards the huge hole that all of the ants had invented themselves, to the point that one day she saw the small light moth emerging as if bulleted in direction to the sky. What a sublime creature, said the ant. Marry me, it said. But the moth was too focused in her task of reaching the light, all the time insisting and trying to figure out some strategy to reach it.

This story has no end. It's always the same, and it's made as if a mockery of any lost cause. Because the ant may as well invent herself some wings to fly, but it will surely not fly towards the light anyway. Because, even though in a moment of distraction the moth might turn her gaze to where the ant stares at her with awe, she will never see in its tender love-filled little eyes any other thing than a light even more radiant than any light bulb's, to which she's compeled to go. She'll try to understand it, grab it and almost swallow it, without realizing that what causes that light isn't but a reflection of herself through a stranger's eyes.

click here for the original Spanish version.

The god of porcelain, pt 4

2007-10-28T19:53:00.000-06:00

I didn't want him to be expelled. It was not my intent. I did have to file a report, though. That's all. The kid was making a whole mess of my class. He couldn't sit still, he spoke with yells to his classmates, he just couldn't remain on his seat. The weirdest thing of all is that I do understand him: I know there are people whose nature implies movement. They're machines of a perpetual swinging. I myself went through that in my own time. At least I got to see it: I have always made better friends with people like that. Maybe, I should have been that way but I ended up growing within a not-so-lively environment. However, all of my friends have always been like him: restless, carriers of a natural body language and an added reject due to their not-so-withdrawn-but-somewhat-intense essence. To be perfectly sincere, the kid and his classmates filled my up with vitality. Being with them cheered my day, always listening to their apparently foolish questions, their hopping, their inconsequential attempts at paying attention, their tireless and uncontrollable energy. But that day, he had to make that sign to me in front of everyone, and then, still not seeming to have comprehended after my scolding him, he unplugged the projector off my computer, after which the class went totally unarticulated. I had to take real action so that control wouldn't be perpetually lost.

That's why I keep saying: My intention has never been to bother, much least to punish. All I did was file a report. The decision to expel him was taken by others. What really makes me sad is that, from now, it may all have to be different. For all of us. Because something very intrinsically firm deep inside our soul cores, which was seemingly beautiful but truly fragile in essence, has been shattered at last...

Be well, kid...

Nothing and everything to write about

2007-10-20T23:03:00.000-05:00

Busy.
Loooots of work.
Lots of stress.
Projects.
Headaches.
Porcelain has been broken at last.
But there're always more gods.
Impossible to concentrate when you're not working.
You ran over a donkey the other day just because of your being unfocused.
The following week your car almost rolls over with everything inside, including your friend.
You're still amazed to have come out of it alive.
Your actions do have true consenquences.
However, everything seems so surreal.
Another friend, almost lost.
The future settles itself and there's no other choice above holding it by where it lets itself be grabbed.
And now it seems you don't even know what to do with so much money you're earning.
But, it isn't that much anyway.
You just had gotten used to lacking it.
There are cycles to be closed.
Or you can just keep on rolling over.
September was truly an avalanache of more than memorable proportions.
Fortune's coming.
But the scale always keeps moving.
Always...

click here for original spanish version

The god of porcelain, pt 2 & 3

2007-10-13T19:11:00.000-05:00

I think it's getting out of our control. This computerized turoring system is getting my classmates to keep their distances with me. I feel betrayed. Their parents get all mad at them when they automatically get the bad behaviour reports that the rookie teacher types daily. The first week with the teacher was rather good for us, so nothing happened with my friends' parents, but now everything's changed. The teacher is gaining power and influence over everyone. Now, with only waving up his hand holding the red pen which he takes notes with on the disciplinary report, many keep quiet.

click here for original Spanish version

_________________________________________________________

It wasn't me. Why did he make that report on me? I believe the teacher has something against me. It isn't true that I was making signs on him, I wouldn't even do it to his back, and he says it was right in front of him. What I did was sit down after he raised his voice on me so as to get me appeased at last. Then, since Kako was behind me, I waved a sign to him facing forward because, if I had turned to do it properly, the teacher would've scolded me again. The fact that he was right in front of me was mere chance. And then he says that I'd been unplugging his computer projector. He's nuts! What's wrong with him? I did not disconnect anything. Well, perhaps he refers to the moment when I moved the table with my foot because I needed to ask for a sharpener and I accidentally pushed it, but I did not disconnect it! Specially with my hand! The teacher says that after his having scolded me I still had the nerve to lay my hand over his computer so as to pull the cord. What a lie! I really believe that the teacher has got something against me. Now, I've been called from the disciplinary center office and they just told me that, since my studying here had been conditioned to my well behaving, I might get thrown out for good. They're all crazy!

click here for original Spanish version

The god of porcelain, pt I

2007-09-29T21:07:00.000-05:00

Our teacher is a rookie. It's easily noticeable in the obviousness of the fact that he can't handle us. We laugh. We stand up from our seats. We're gods in his little sad world made of fragile spider gossamer web. I do what I see fit. I'm never in my place, I get up, yell, hit shorty Many, I unplug the image projector that he's supposed to use for his classes. Stupid fool. He can't do anything more than threaten us with filing a report. He can't yell. It's as if it's not in his nature to go mad. He's so dumb that when he gets to class -punctual as if he really wanted to be with us- he even greets us with a void buttery handshake that winds up in a fist crash, like he was our friend. As if he were so cool. He really is deserves to be pitied. He's not above thirty yet, and I already feel sorry for him. Girls talk and talk and they pass paper messages over and over. I'm in paradise and I'm the porcelain god. Anything can I break, even my teacher...

to be continued...

spanish version

August

2007-09-06T08:47:00.000-05:00

This August was good to me. It was a good friend, with its ups and downs, just like all friends. It hasn't been like other months that are quite disagreeable just by looking at them so prodigiously long with their 31 days and nights. I was infinitely impoverished. However, I had a lot more of work. My car was broken 3 times, but I got to remember the routes of all bus lines. I realized that the Torreón-Gómez no longer go all the way downtown. I got 3 new classes that I won't get paid for until November, but it doesn't matter because by then I'll be getting such a huge check that I'd rather not tell you since I might as well spend it all instead. I sent music kits of my band including CDs, DVDs and biography to only 4 record houses that are interested in our concept. I bought the Los Toreros Muertos compilation. My room has gone a true mess because of so many darn willinglessly-piled-up-and-conciously-forgotten papers. I finally was able to be updated as far as all my job reports are involved. Santos is the super-leader of the league. Shamra has elected me once again for their following anthology! That makes me real happy. I got invited to at least 3 completely different job projects. And I think I can do it all. One of my best friends, my brother in fact, is in big trouble and he's got me all worried about him, so much that I haven't slept well. But it's September already. And September is coming along as if it were an avalanche. August, however, has been like an awakening.
Like a reality check. Like once again spreading out my wings. As if, at last, being able to recognize the horizon afar... up from the clouds...

Original Spanish version here

Still life

2007-08-25T13:24:00.000-05:00

"I don't understand why in this house that pineapple is always on top of all, darned conceited fool. She's always there, showing her malformed crest and boasting about her abdominal squares crowned with their little forelocks, more shriveled than myself." That who was talking under the concealment caused by the other fruits was the pear, forgotten at the bottom of the prodigious fruit bowl that the painter used for his still-life paintings.

The other fruits, the pouched mango, the sugar cane, the Chinese cantaloupe, the smelly guava, the exposed peaches with tiny nectar drops, the bananas and the purple grapes, kept silent since the weight that the vain pineapple exerted upon them was too much. Besides, the touch of its shell produced some stinging due to its so many protuberances and dry roots. It seemed better that it remain on top, thought all, because if it were underneath, we'd surely be stung by her hard green gray and marred pompon.

"I love the smell that always comes out of this room" a voice was heard. It was the beautiful woman that in ocassions was with the artist. She was crossing the lintel of the door and she looked ecstatic, as if finding out something that now made her understand. She was light-dressed, with a long white gown in almost transparent layers that seemed to reveal but didn't but for the opening that it had below the crutch. "You hadn't shown me this place" said she without turning back but obviously aware that the painter was listening to her at her back with both his hands strongly fit grasping the upper part of the door frame. It was noticeable that the painter held the aluminum tightly so as to restrain his anxious steps towards the woman and get to her in a violent plead for a lust outburst. To him, in this moment, this room was the least voluptuous place in the universe, simply because it was taking time away from her afternoon and night with her.

"You'll have to explain to me how it is that you get inspired to paint", said she, with her soft hands sliding over the empty canvass of days and days without being able to give expression to what any ideas soever. He kept ironically silent, rocking underneath the horseshoe that was nailed below the irregular wooden ceiling. She, nevertheless and despite the expansion she created in his anxiety, did not await an answer and kept on walking graciously till reaching the thick cedar table in which lay the candles and the fruits cloistered within the measureless glassy-coloured bowl. She lay her hand underneath her chin in a thoughtful attitude with a murmuring moan at the time she observed the whole composition. "This pineapple doesn't seem right in here" said she. "It looks like it's crushing everything else". And, right before the painter's eyes that opened wide like broken piggy banks and before his muscles that tightened as hanging bridge's wires, without anymore talk, she grabbed the huge fruit by its hardened hair with both her hands and dropped it off the table like someone who tosses a ball for it to reach the kitchen bouncing and hopping.

As she did so, an even more intense scent than the whole room's came out from the bottom of the bowl. It was a pear that had been buried under red apples even with its very smell inside its grave. And the smell had been concentrating down till creating this aphrodisiac compound of taste-without-inspiration days. So, still ever flabbergasted as moments passed by, the painter watched how the beautiful woman dismounted the heap of fruits that still didn't seem to satisfy him in order for him to start painting, until she could reach where the pear was free at last and exposed to the light that showed its reality: it was stale.

"You'll have to use fresh fruits for your paintings, beauty", said she gesturing some graceful sarcasm with the spoiled fruit's stem between her fingers. She kept on walking now more slender in her posture up to reaching the corner where the waste basket was. She threw the pear with an accurate basketball-player pass and went on towards the kitchen making her way under his right armpit and arm. "I'm hungry", she said. "Have you got anything to eat?"

Original Spanish version here

Musical intermission about the egg-and-the-chicken conundrum (free will vs "everything's written")

2007-08-15T20:26:00.000-05:00

God is music. God is all of our feelings. God results from everything that comes off from our instincts.

Or it might be that our instincts are directly granted by him to us. So that we understand. So that we go back to our most basic moment of feeling. So that we also know. So that we could be aware of how needy he is of us and vicerversa. So violently. So precariously linked to us. But linked in the end. Because it is supposed to be that he gives us freedom of choices, isn't it? But, hey. "Everything's written" say those who know "but you've got the power to choose". And I say(at least I used to say at the time I wrote this text three years ago, when I was still happy): Well, yeah, that's right.

It's like music: Like when you start imagining some tune, chorus or a piece made of some series of chords. Nothing's written, but you might very likely have an idea of where it is you want to get to, because at the very time you commenced writing or devising you just went on following your inspiration that was but molded by no other thing than your environment, your feelings at the moment and a whole series of events that led you to start, and that now do nothing but let themselves be driven off by a song that's writing itself without your hand's being able of avoiding the happenings of your mind that are being embodied onto silence, with such luck that the song was practically written since the moment it was conceived but in fact wrote itself...

Click here for the original Spanish version

Super-kor, the beginning (pt II)

2007-08-09T07:04:00.000-05:00

Everything was cloudy. His vision, the sky, his lucidity. Someone was saying things as if from behind a very thick and steamed up glass, and he did not know how to take his hands to where he could scrub his eyes in order to unbog what he was seeing. For a moment he even felt how a huge tear drop emerged from his left eye leaving its wet vertical wake over his cheek. He sensed it all above every other thing that surrounded him since, awake as he was, the tiny water spot made in his ears such an extreme noise as would a sudden flooding flow of a dry river at Summer start. He was about to yell from desperation, but then the feeling started to fade.

At last, he realized where he was and what it was that had occurred.

- What happened? - He was able to say. He wanted to say something else, but his mind was well too stuck.

- Cats are gone. - Said the voice.

Niko moved as though he wanted to sit up, but a remain of pain in his articulations didn't allow it, so he only turned his head so as to see the person owning that voice.

- Wait down there, don't get up. - She warned. - Relax for a while.

Although for some reason it seemed strange to him, Niko didn't feel surprised to know he was obeying a perfect stranger. He leaned his head over the little bench's cement and let himself be drawn off by exhaustion. However, a few seconds later he noticed that something was climbing up his spine: Some sort of spark that was burning all of his nervous center in an unthinkable way and then spread all along his body giving him an energy and a discernment that he had never experienced before. He sat up fast till being fully straight on the bench.

- You are a very good person. - Said he.

He said it with such tone of voice and such conviction that she went all scare-blue with cold as she realized he did not refer only to the fact that she had helped him some moments ago, but he had also made, in that sole phrase, a summary of all of her attitudes, actions, failures and experiences with a degree of compasion that was more than overwhelming. For a moment she felt completely bound to fate, as if naked, without being at all concious of what it was that was going on, a thousand images paraded right in front of her eyes just as that boy told a too-well-known story. So familiar, that it always hurt.

- You've lost something. - Said he. - Someone. Someone that suddenly was gone. Someone with whom you shared a whole list of dreams and projects. Someone that one day just left. You've wondered thousands of times what it was that you did wrong for such thing to have happened. You have cried and haven't gotten any comfort. You've wanted to share your misfortune, but nobody listens, nobody would understand anyway. You've sought for this person's arms. You've wanted to hear his voice amid the crowds or to see his face while you walk on the street, but you know he's not coming back. You've lost him and you think it is your fault. You think you don't deserve any more chances, so you'd rather not look for them. You've surrendered. You've given up getting what used to be granted to you and it is because of this that you prefer to help. Just like you helped me.

The girl snapped out of her image download as she somehow knew herself as being the very close target of the most sincerely thankful smile. She realized that she was too very near that man, but never felt frightened, since, although her face was flooded in tears, nothing could shame her anymore. She felt fearless even when his hand rose from his lap to lay on her chest so as to withdraw, as if being a light magnet, a small diamond that simply came off through her skin without pain or feeling whatsoever.

That was the best part: She felt nothing. And that was the best moment of her life until then. Since now -as she saw in frank acceptance, although without fully understanding, the little diamond vaporizing into thin air- she was finally free. Free to smile...

Click here for the original Spanish version

Super-kor, the beginning

2007-08-01T16:12:00.000-05:00

On the day that Niko realized about his superpower, he also noticed his weakness.

It was a rainless and sunless day. A nothing day. Empty and without soul. Niko was walking with a slouch amid the bushes of some lost park within the anonimity of the suburbs. Flowers stood as if sad, waiting for some dew drops to fall down from the sky. Everything around looked as if in a frankly dry and chapped desperation. Some cats were playing paddling with their paws lying as though waiting over the various cannal shore edges of the artificial woods. A girl was seeing them without watching, as if lost and ecstatic at the same time. Niko could guess without thinking about it, just with opening his senses before her posture and attitude, that she was needy of something to fill certain gaps and certain crevices. Nevertheless, at that precise moment, facing the image that was being showed to his fearless eyes, Niko had some sort of epiphanic sensory revelation: Suddenly all of the environment turned into an enormous transparent heart that shrank and dilated in a hectic and whimsical fashion. It was as if Niko had the capability to contemplate the balance of everything that surrounded him.

He thought he was going to faint from such overwhelming feeling. The girl noticed him too and stood up from where she was, the more because of the shock of seeing him stumbling all around than because of will to help him. In fact, for a moment, she was quite skeptical of what was happening: It could pretty well occur that this guy was some abuser that showed himself to his victims feeding pity into them. So, by the time Niko finally collapsed on the bench where she had been sitting, the girl had already walked backwards with a rejecting gesture. A little while afterwards, however, she noticed that his face was more than pale. She approached him to clear his forehead from hair and ask him what was wrong.

- It's the cats. - Said he. - They thirst for killing.

Not a very long time after that, when Niko had already accepted his superhero condition, he had to admit a fact that wouldn't favour him at all: Super-kor must not have enemies ever. As a matter of fact, the best thing for him would be to become an anonymous superhero, since his weakness flowed mercilessly from within the smallest nooks where lay the worst intentions of all life forms: Super-kor couldn not defeat evil. Only sadness and pain...

Click here for Spanish version

Super-kor

2007-07-22T12:39:00.000-05:00

Super-kor was a hero. He knew it and everyone else did too. Nevertheless, Super-kor always had in mind that the not-so-redeeming thing about being loved and appreciated is that the boundaries that divide humility and vanity might as well be broken by anyone at any time.

His chief power was meant for the hurting hearts of people. No other superhero could grant the joy that Super-kor did. Because there's no greater feeling of pleasure in the world than the absence of pain, most of all if it happens immediately after pain.

Suicidals were who got the most aid from Super-kor. There wasn't gratitude in this world that could be compared at all to what they felt. And it all was such an easy thing for him: Just a matter of placing his hand on the person's chest in order for their heart to be healed, after the most intense ten seconds of their lives. As if being virtual ointments, stitches, massages and rehab-sessions from the most instrinsic depths of his very soul. Super-kor then knew the person entirely, understood and empathized with him or her and then loved them unmercilessly while being within a searing embrace. By the time the process was over, the person had already experienced the catharsis that would've taken them years of efforts and more pain towards a whole new type of freedom back to their soul's innocence. In the end, the feeling of relief was such that everyone, without exception, exploded in a beautiful laughter.

That was Super-kor's power. For many, a hero. Even though he knew that quite frequently it isn't so great to be one...

(to be continued...)

Click here for Spanish version

WELL, WHAT DO YOU KNOW? My dear friend Blanca, whose blog I really love, got her nephew to draw the first Super-kor comic sketches. Check them out! I really loved them, specially when Super-kor lays his hand over the girl's heart while he's closing his eyes. Thanks, Blanca!

Three things about me

2007-07-21T12:31:00.000-05:00

TRES COSAS SOBRE MÍ:

Three things that scare me:
1. Being able to hurt anyone I love.
2. My not caring.
3. I've been chaste for over a year and a half.

Three people that make me laugh:
1. My friend Rulas.
2. Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar
3. Jokes that my bro Danny Boy and I only understand since they're the musical type.

Three things that I like:
1. Honesty in my work.
2. My eyes.
3. My bass-guitar.

Three things that I don't like:
1. My hair
2. My belly
3. My face

Three things I don't understand:
1. How everything winds up in an end.
2. blogspot (but here I am)
3. My gambling adiction.

Three things on my desk:
1. My PC
2. CDs (no piracy at all)
3. A thousand papers in the drawer

Three things I'm doing now:
1. Typing this
2. Listening to and smelling my mom's cooking
3. Thinking all and nothing

Three things that I'd love to do before dying:
1. Tour the US
2. Lose all inhibitions
3. See Soda Stereo live again.

Three things that I can do:
1. Lose
2. Fear
3. Feel

Three ways to describe my personality:
1. Withdrawn when talking
2. Extremely dedicated
3. Arrogant as hell

Three things I can't do:
1. Talk to people I don't know
2. Go back
3. Leave all to fate or to the divine

Three things I think you should listen to:
1. My band(www.myspace.com/trescoyotes)
2. Me, when I was a rocker(www.myspace.com/elbajodelhuge)
3.Magos Herrera (www.myspace.com/magosherrera)

Three things I think you should not listen to:
1. don't know
2. I think you'd better listen to everything so you can tell me
3.

Three things I alwasy say:
1. Very gúd
2. Come oooon!!
3. feather mucker.

Three things I'd love to learn:
1. To be eloquent when I speak
2. To record my music with my computer
3. To get crowds into my mood

Three beverages I drink frequently:
1. Coffee
2. Delaware punch
3. Water

Three thins I used to watch as a kid:
1. Robotech
2. Soccer world cups
3. Remi

Three thins I recommed:
1. Fight club
2. Irreversible
3. Pi

Three places I've had sex at:
1. In a club
2. In my running car
3. In the street

Three favorite hobbies:
1. Sudoku
2. "Mr. Do"
3. Biliards

Three songs that get me in the mood:
1. Chaparra de mi amor
2. "Stupify" from disturbed
3. Ojalá que te mueras

Three sins:
1. Watching porn
2. Lying to be alone
3. Saying the truth

Three achievements:
1. my friends
2. A beautiful and starlighted city night of June.
3. 2 records and 1 anthology

Three weird habits:
1. Pulling out my ear-hairs
2. Scratching my back all the way down
3. pulling out my eyebrows

Three scents I enjoy:
1. guavva
2. the mall
3. morning coffee

Three titles for the novel about my life:
1. truly bad decisions
2. chronicles of the inevitable
3. a infidel's journal

¿Wanna join the test?

it's just me!!! (part 3)

2007-07-18T15:44:00.000-05:00

I love few things, but there are lots of things I am mad about. I've never fallen off stage. Women talk too much. I always listen, but there comes a moment when my surroundings take over and overwhelm me. I've lost my payroll card 4 times in a year and some months. I just bought a new wallet after a year of losing the last one. I'm always craving for dessert after a pretty abundant meal, but I always regret after having eaten it. I've two cows. I went to all of Santos(our beloved local soccer team) games last season. I may be able to tell I was the only follower of the team that had faithg in Lorito Jimenez since the beginning ('cause nobody else did). I'm always pulling out the tiny hairs that grow out from my ears and the buggers from my nose too. Most of my shoes are very old. Sometimes, when I write, I have splendid starts, with great environment and dynamic and entertaining character descriptions. I can never shake off the first impression my own scribblings provoke in me. That's why I always write short stories. I practice with my bass guitar a lot less that I should. I love traveling, but I seldom do it. I always go to Monterrey. I'm a quite weird type of leader: always letting others do whatever it is they want to do. Lately, I've left reading aside since I've got this acquired craze for Sudoku. I drive slow, but when I'm in a rush (generally because of someone else's hurry) I'm really scary. When I played rock, lots of people thought I was the best bass player in town, but I never believed it. I never wanted to be free: I've always been. I'm not a Mexican macho. You're free. I don't need people to feel identified with me at first impressions. I don't need admirers or fans. I just need work. Would anyone hire me knowing what I can do? I think not. I love teachng English. I live very intense moments with my students during each session. I've no discipline. Specially to sit down and work, leaving out excessive eating or doing exercise. The only things that would be unarranged in my bedroom would be my bed and my shoes. The rest is in perfect orderly state within anarchy. Radio is an anarchy made of encountered powers. I hate everything that was established but that I did not establish. I never did homework in elementary, junior or high school, however I always did pretty good. I get real mad when running into my old schoolmates and they start asking when I'm getting married or having children. I hate that to be all of our lives' goals. Did anyone ever consulted that with me before sending me here? I love family fellowship, but I always run away just after the reunion's started. When I drive by myself I'm always making gestures because I'm always arguing with someone in my mind. I've hard times reading since my head starts wandering if what I'm reading is not that appealing to me. Once, I escaped from school just to see a soccer game of Real Madrid in the Champion's League when Hugo Sánches still played. I'm a prett good friend, but not as good as my friends think I am. I just bought myself a laptop. I can't work at home. Home is for resting. When I fall in love, I forget everyone: friends and family. I'm gathering all my will power in order not to ever do it again. Try at least. I love self road trips. I love math. I never let strange people in my house, I never drink at home and I never use it to make parties. I love meeting intelligent and authentic women. I'm annoyed by women who are always defining themselves. I believe in my previous life I was Jewish. I can't sustain a decent talk with people I don't know. I hate touchy people. Kinesthetic. I always keep my distance with others and with cars. I don't want my hair to fall off. I don't like poetry. I need visual contact with people so as to remember commitments and promises. I'm slow at deciding. I'm clumsy at talking. I'm pretty stupid at living. I'm a procrastinator. Today I stepped on dog shit. I love 2D videogames. 3D's make me dizzy. Few people feel comfortable with the way I look at them. They say I'm creepy. I no longer tear my bass strings as I used to do when I played rock pop. I like casual porn. Once we ran over a bunny. The other day I was driving and I almost crash into a lamppost in order not to dismantle a squirrel that was coming out of an empty lot. As a child I was afraid of all dogs. And I didn't eat meat. I always lock my bedroom door when I'm inside. My little nephew Nicolas gives me a lot of peace. I'm a lousy businessman. I'm a terrible dresser. I'd love to work for a magazine or a newspaper. I love cheering hated teams (Améeerica!) just to bother people. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. I believe in death and in human ability to spoil fate by means of appropriate stupid decisions. I believe, nevertheless, that what's written has no hope of change. I'd love to have a lot of money just to attend concerts of Pink Floyd, U2, Rush and Soda Stereo before they die or split. Or better yet: in their farewell concerts at the most strangely energy-charged places for them. Everything is love. I used to love Britney Spears before she ever was friends with Paris Hilton. I love Druuna comics. I hate glam rock, even though most of my best teenager memories are linked to that time songs. As a child I used to steal things from the supermarket and from my neighbor's house. I sometimes stole my school friends' toys. I don't like drinking. But I do drink. Yesterday I had a pretty odd dream. I'd rather melt in afternoon's heat than stand the noise made by any air conditioning system when I'm watching TV. I feel how my belly grows. The bass I have is the one I always wanted to have. What is it that one does when one gets what one always wanted? I mean: What next? Two options: either you lose it, or you drop it. What if you take care of it? I just hope my bass will last till I can afford another one without it hurting my pockets. Or better yet: till I feel like getting another one, if I ever do (not!). I'm reading Jane Eyre and Alvin Maker I (Seventh son of a seventh son). Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I don't. Because it hurts. My link with God is made within a notebook's pages that have my thought on them. They're the only thing that's not transcribed in my hard drive. I want to help. Every 3 or 4 months some local-pop-bar band calls me to invite me play with them. I always tell them to fuck off (smoothly). Everything becomes weird and surreal as I grow older, maybe because mentally I'm still like 23. Thought I might have turned 25 last year. The world is round. I love my city. Every place brings me beautiful memories. The universe is divided in two. My favorite planet is Jupiter because it is huge and colorful. Saturn is a freaking vain with its huge farty rings. I don't like seeing comedies at the movie theater. If the solar systems were mine I'd take off its rings to spread the debris upon the asteroid belt or to bomb Venus. I've no car. My favorite animated movie is Lilo & Stitch. My favorite movie is Fight Club. I've lots of books, cassettes, CD's and DVD's. I've finally gotten and read "Palabras sin Piel". I'm speechless with the story of the kid who hangs himself with barbed wire in order to show his performance on internet. The best of Soda Stereo's record is the one nobody liked: dynamo. Fucking printer of mine: I can't make it work. As time goes by, I shave less and less, however I don't like having a goatie. I'm lazy about it. It's 4:40pm and I'm in a hurry. I hate people to have prejudices, whether foundless or based on their own experiences, and then I hate it when they express them as if they were absolute truths. I love seeing documentaries about the most famous constructions in the world. I no longer eat breakfast. I'm fobic of people who are super well defined and can define themselves with concrete and bounding words. Generally they're the most confused when reality attacks them, because, when action is recquired, they're still defining themselves. I almost never curse. Though, I almost never speak. Someone, invite me to Italianni's. I want a caper pizza. I've never been unfaithful in practice. Though I shouldn't say I'll never be. How could I know? This stopped being a dream long ago. Now it's only projects. It's uglier to lose a dream than a project. It's better not to love anything than be mad about everything. Isn't it? This is a sarcasm...

Oops... I think Soda Stereo split a long time ago. And I'm 32 now...

(note: the following weekend after this text was posted, Soda Stereo announced that they would come back to make a Latin American Tour)