Sometimes

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

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...

Sin título (No title)

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

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

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!

His tears were made of stone

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?

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?

Espacios

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

The trees

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

Nothing and everything to write about

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