I have so many things to write, I feel like shooting myself, but, well, I don’t have a gun, so that’s out of the question. This thingy was oficially closed but then I guess I’m asphyxiating, don’t know what to do with these things I wanna shout while punching anything (a tree, a wall, whatever). Everything is going wrong, oh, so wrong, and I think I‘m going slowly insane, I’m gonna lose it, sure… but yesterday morning I started composing some lines in my head, (the last time that happened was like four years ago or so)

 

I said it hurt a little,
actually it hurts a lot.
Such pain I had forgotten,
numbing, paralyzing, cold.
'Tis the toll of absence.

Like a child alone at home,
when it begins to rain,
the darkness lurking outside
swallows heart and faith,
I fear I'll shed many a tear
yearning for our wanderings,
diluted in sleep, diluted in dreams.

And in the streets we walk'd together
(it seems we canvassed the whole city)
I like to fancy you're still here,
while the memories descending
destroy the hope they themselves brought.

Nobody would believe
such pain I do live in.
I told you it hurt a little,
actually it aches my blood.
Such pain could make me hate you,
I hope it does it soon.

Almost my birthday. Went to the movies today, I mean, yesterday. Also thinking about erasing this thingy. I don't feel like writing anymore, not even my thoughts, not even my ideas, would be better they just diluted in time. Little by little until they wither away. I will too.

Been walking in front of cars and buses just for the fun of it, feels so nice just to watch the vehicles moving towards me, keep fantasizing one would hit me. What would it feel like? Maybe just looking for new experiences. I don't know...

10 years ago I finished Middle School. What the hell with this obsession…??? Memories and such…

(Watched TASM and, being a romance, it got me thinking, about the need of breaking out of individuality, at least as that concept is understood in this capitalist world... and the moving towards paternalism, help, weakness, social union... don't know... suddenly I feel just idiotic thinking about those things, about analyzing popcult products, no doubt my former professors would laugh at me... )

En attendant…

 

“Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought,
Too well thou lov'st -too soon thou leavest...”
(George Gordon, Lord Byron)

And as far as I'm concerned, since you are fickle, you might as well be false, I wish you were, so it would be easier to shut you off my life... feels so strange not seeing you...

Horas de Ocio

(12 líneas escritas por Lord Byron, traducidas por mí, para un querido amigo que por el momento -y mucho que temo que tal vez para siempre- se encuentra ausente. Espero que las lea y las disfrute ;-), aunque sé que no es precisamente muy benévolo con las mentiras de la poesía... haha)

En ti, ingenuamente esperaba encontrar
un amigo de quien sólo la muerte me separaría,
pero la envidia con su abrazo de maldad
te ha arrancado para siempre de mi vida.

Es verdad, te ha arrebatado de mi pecho,
pero en mi corazón conservas tu lugar;
Ahí, justo ahí, tu imagen se atesorará,
hasta que el corazón ya no lata más.

Y cuando la muerte devuelva a sus muertos,
cuando al polvo se le dé vida otra vez,
mi cabeza recostaré en tu querido pecho,
pues, ¡sin ti! ¿donde quedaría mi Cielo?

Sporadic bursts

Pues bien, ¿qué puedo decir? Oficialmente concluyeron las clases. Extraoficialmente, mi tesina simplemente no va. Está a punto de estallame la cabeza y ni siquiera así me surgen las ideas para escribir. He estado leyendo (libros, ensayos, notas perdidas por ahí, cualquier cosa relacionada con mi investigación) y sin embargo no sé qué es lo que sucede, el punto es que estoy totalmente bloqueada. Recordé una línea que leí en uno de los cursos del OCW del MIT, respecto a no avanzar poco a poco en el trabajo final:

"Sporadic bursts of productivity will automatically compromise your grade, often catastrophically so. Please take this to heart."

So, I guess this means I'm doomed...

There's so many things I can't understand

 

like, why the hell do I miss you so much?
I wish I'd pick up the phone and hear your voice,
I've been thinking about you non-stop
for the last two months...

and, why I can't prefer another "grafted" tongue
if it expresses my thought so well,
why should I be a slave to an accident,
this fucked up coincidence?

Ich glaube ich muss entscheiden.
Entscheide dich!!

or perhaps, it's just that my dreams are crawling into
my reality, giving me headache, making me weak.
I see these open books before my eyes,
the words I cannot read and I believe...

I should stop imagining I can figure you out,
and accept you'll probably end up getting married
to a girl your mother would approve and your father
would dream about sleeping with.

'cause I, never understood why I felt
your father was such a kind man, unlike your mother,
that goddamned bitch, who hated me, by the way.

I wish I could drop by your place just to see her stupid face
disfigured when she sees me again.
I would take your hand, this time, I wouldn't hide,
I wouldn't hide from anyone, not from myself at least,
my feelings, this open book you see before your eyes,
these words you’re reading, don’t you believe...

You should stop doubting and reach out for me?

for example, why the hell did we hurt each other so much,
that we can't even look into each other's eye,
I feel so strange thinking about you, picturing you
lying down on my bed, reading me poetry,
tearing off each other’s clothes and finally…

There are no more secret codes for writing about us.

Ch. I

Abordo del subterráneo metropolitano o a través de los pasillos cubiertos de pancartas socialistas en la universidad no puedo evitar pensar con tristeza, suspicacia y sardónica ironía que Freire tenía razón. Y que hay incluso que llevar sus observaciones y postulados teóricos más lejos, o al menos lo que veo me obliga a hacerlo. No sólo los sectarios o dominadores y la relación vertical que establecían con los oprimidos eran necrófilos, todos lo éramos. Todos lo somos. Nadie ama el cambio, al contrario, lo suplican y lo odian al mismo tiempo. Rezan un rato y luego despotrican que tarda demasiado en suceder y no trabajan para traerlo, anhelando entre murmullos que jamás llegue. Cómo amamos "lo constante", lo inmutable, lo eterno, ese Absoluto inalcanzable que nos condena a odiar el hoy, recordar el ayer con nostalgia y ser incapaces de siquiera imaginar un futuro cualquiera.

Los encabezados me dicen que estamos todos enamorados de la muerte, macabra y explícita, de la muerte "que todo lo iguala", y que convierte nuestra transitoriedad imperfecta en un algo perenne y vaporoso que permanece. ¿Dónde? Eso es lo de menos. Y a mi garganta llega un asco intenso cuando recuerdo escenas de muerte y destrucción mientras mastico trozos de cadáveres durante la comida; o mientras escribo alguna falsedad en los ensayos de la escuela, escondiendo la verdad: no hay respuestas y aún si las hubiera a nadie le importaría. ¿Por qué estamos tan infatuados creyendo que sabemos hacer las preguntas correctas?

Incluso yo, que puedo racionalizar e intelectualizar cualquier cosa, sin importar cuán trivial o cuán profunda, padezco la parálisis espiritual de la modernidad y la necrofilia idealizadora de la postmodernidad. Hay los que se arrastran descalzos por un día más y yo me sorprendo de que los autos conducidos por quienes son más jóvenes que yo pasen raudos a mi lado y ni siquiera me despeinen. Yo también estoy enamorada de la muerte, sobretodo de la mía, que no dejo de imaginar, planear, esperar, soñar. La versión más pervertida del amor propio y la necrofilia "imperante de nuestros tiempos".

This Room

 

La puerta del frente me llama pero Abril
aún me tiene en su polvo.
Su voz es más fría que sus palabras
y no me puedo ir.
Me dijo, "¿no te parece curioso el tratar
siempre de escapar?,
como él, me dijo que jamás volvería
y hoy duerme atrapado
en aquel jarrón,
en este cuarto, en esta casa,
en esta ciudad, en este mundo,
tal y como yo
tal y como yo estoy."

La puerta del frente me llama pero el miedo
me ha dejado inmóvil.
Su voz se vuelve más tibia, supongo
que sus recuerdos la envuelven.
Me dijo, "nunca estoy sola, ya él jamás
tratará de escapar otra vez,
le dije, que estamos atrapados en esta caja,
y ahora él tiene una propia,
en este cuarto, en esta casa,
en esta ciudad, en este mundo,
tal y como nosotros,
tal y como nosotros estamos."

En este cuarto, en esta casa,
donde la verdad bien puede ser una mentira.
Aunque tú creas e intentes nunca sabrás
cuál es la respuesta que dices buscar.
Y la verdad bien puede mentir
en esta ciudad, en este mundo en el que estoy,
tal y como tú estás, pero en el que dudo
que estemos tú y yo.

If you were to write to me tonight
doubt not that I would answer,
Yes, I would reply right away.
Sure, I say it cause I know
that you won't write tonight.

My friends have left me now,
and all my house is quiet.
The winds are breathing low,
and the stars are shining bright.
The moon has now been up
for more than I can care,
and if I could look at you
no doubt I would feel weak.

I remember what I've read,
and what I made you read. It's true,
tonight melancholy has trapped me.
And I took up the book
that once I talked about,
it's entwined hopelessly now
to everything you are.

So if you had written to me tonight,
if you would have written to me last night,
doubt now I would have answered,
but maybe something in my throat
would break and leave me speechless.
Thanks whatever gods may be
that you won't write tonight,
and I pray to all my dreams
that you don't write tomorrow.

Liquid Persuasion

 

A text I wrote in 2004 (with a shocking title: Immolation Project, I like the new title better) and just re-read last night. Strange, it still feels so honest and energetic, I do love this poem, lives so close to my heart. Even if I wrote it almost eight years ago is accurate in expressing what I feel.

 

I. Morning At School

Here's the song my fellows sing:
"it's very undesirable to be
eager for something deep,
something but just poetic".
Conceited thing comprising reality,
that part of life taking you away
from a painful unreal death.
I do not care what the world says
to set consciences free.
I do not care.
My mind won't take it.

 

II. That Afternoon Itself

Only empty words remain:
"something deep, but just poetic".
My recklessness could not be drank
like their cup of health.
In silence, the ground walks
its southern way, when north is lost.
Water dissolves the quietness
in a foreign whisper synthetized.

 

III. Saturday, Very Early Morning

My liquid red persuasion goes outside in visit,
my room's walls sell the tickets to a perfect ideal world.
It relaxes me while kissing my lips,
it captivates my foolish affection,
and overflows me with despair.
It does make me lose myself
inside this dark eagerness for time.
It brings a painful,
an almost idle passion beating fast.

I do bruise ideals, perfection,
and then become what I can’t deny,
time turning me into what I can't hide.
Both these boughs are bleeding
slashed by moon's burning dagger.
This new breath blurs the windows...
(Tomorrow, when they come in,
they better go find someone
who could clean the red out of the pane.)

 

IV. Monday Seen Through Dreams

Dust hangs around the fog
inside this house built
like a graveyard of life
between two naked trees.

Looks rain from everywhere,
watching summers and repeated beats.
Heaven promises.

Horizon, my fearless friend,
goes cheating rocks sharp and  cold,
and finds a sincere new reason
to justify my deep passion,
this sick admiration
for fighting weathervanes
shaking against the wind.