Fragmentos del "Testamento de Heiligenstädt"

• (Ludwig van Beethoven: Heiligendstädter Testament, 1802)

"Desde mi niñez, mi corazón y mi mente se han visto inclinados a los tiernos sentimientos de la bondad, aún entonces estaba ya ansioso por conquistar grandes empresas, pero reflexionando ahora, que desde hace seis años soy un caso perdido, agravado por médicos insensatos, engañado año tras año con vanas esperanzas de mejora, finalmente me veo obligado a enfrentarme con la posibilidad de una enfermedad duradera (cuya cura tomará años, o quizá, sea imposible)."

"Un poco más y hubiese puesto fin a mi vida. Sólo el arte me ha mantenido; parecía imposible abandonar el mundo antes de haber producido lo que siento que llevo dentro..., y así, he soportado esta mísera existencia."

Der Originaltext ist hier: http://de.wikisource.org/wiki/Heiligenstädter_Testament

[Aún me falta traducir algunos otros fragmentos... :-)]

sad or angry?

I always thought that sadness and anger
were two completely different emotions,
and when I was younger I got mad all the time
when people around me couldn't tell if I was sad or angry...
Just at this exact moment in my life,
I feel that sadness and anger
are like two sides of the same coin,
the only difference is
the amount of energy you have in your soul,
the amount of blood your heart can pump,
the amount of faith you still have in your spirit,
the amount of clarity you have in your thoughts,
the amount of pain you can resist...

Mood: meh... don't know, don't care

Too much Black Bile

was reading a description of the Melancholic Medieval Personality Type and took some ideas…

the ways of love are stranger
than the strangest ways of God
I cannot dwell in your eyes
and I don't belong here below
earthly delights get me drunk
I just fall down, get no pleasure
earthly delights get me drunk
I ain't free from this pressure

were your lovers strong, vivacious?
did you feel your life quickening?
it affords me real relief
to confide my soul to you
but I get tired all the time
like a wound when too much blood
wants to get out of the heart
awkwardly I keep quiet always
cause I can't stop my mind

a strange longing for something
that's beyond our mortal lives
takes me away from your voice
I'm distracted by my thoughts

if only you knew that all I think about
is ways in which I could show this pain to you
tell me that you want to listen
lie to me if you must
just tell me that you're going to listen
and I swear I will not talk
words won't show myself to you

the ways of love are like those of God's
they are not the ways of human hearts

Aleatorio

So, I've been thinking a lot about someone I shouldn’t be thinking about, but I can’t help it, heading for more pain, I know… but that’s just me, right? Fallling in love with people I shouldn’t fall in love with… It’s almost self-sabotage…

Dime algo aleatorio sobre ti, dímelo bajito
Casi como si no quisieras oírtelo decir.
Dime algo que creas no revela nada sobre ti,
Y dímelo al oído, tal si alguien más pudiese oír.

Llévame en tus labios como esa canción
de infancia que recuerdas hasta hoy
Cada vez que sientas tristeza o dolor,
Que el peso del día a día parezca el hoy.

Y paséate por mis venas en tu soledad
moviéndote en sus calles desoladas.
Tu sonrisa me atormenta como la verdad
que nadie encuentra y nadie deja de buscar.

Bien podría morir en tu indecisión
Si murieses tú en mi desilusión.
Y que el tiempo destruya mis palabras...

In the lover’s ear alone

 

Carry me in your lips just like your favorite song
Everytime you are tired or you are feeling torn
'Cause your smile torments like some spell unnkown
Walk me like the streets you walk whenever you're alone
And never let me go

Strange fits of passion have I known
Strange fits of madness and of love
Strange fits of passion have I known
That you were dead, that I can't wait
That I would love you just the same

I'll tell you all those things I thought
I would never share
I'll tell you all those things I thought
I'd have to forget
I'll tell you all those things I thought
Would inflict me pain
And I guess then you'd share the same

(Working at the moment in this song))

Childlike, Childish or simply Immature?

 

"To advertising writers, connotation is a matter of life or death. There isn’t an ad agency in the world that would hire a copywriter who couldn’t tell the difference between “childlike” and “childish”—two words with the same denotation. The difference—connotatively—is huge. “Childlike” implies innocence and naturalness; childlike people are free of cynicism and corruption; in a world marred by vice and vanity and villainy, they’ve managed to remain guileless and trusting. They’re often thought of as “saints.” “Childish” people are something else: they’re arrested adolescents at best, and bigmouthed brats at worst; they make juvenile demands, they throw tantrums, and they know only one pronoun: “me.” Nobody has ever mistaken a childish man or woman for a saint. Two words: one denotation...vastly different connotations."

(Found somewhere online, with no proper attribution)

I guess I’m more of a “bigmouted brat” and some people would even say I’m an “arrested adolescent”, than “free of cynicism and corruption”. Definitely I ain’t trusting… But I know more pronouns other than “me”. (I guess, I mean… oh, wait… Fuck! –That was not a tantrum, and I don’t make juvenile demands, just can someone explain… oh, wait…-)

Hahaha…. XD

5

Y AHORA... OTRA DE NUESTRAS... }}

{{{HISTORIAS DE TERROR}}}

 

 

[Episodio 5: Beachy Head, East Sussex]

(En el aeropuerto, salidas internacionales.)

Yo: Un boleto hacia Londres, por favor.
Persona con gafete detrás del mostrador: ¿Ida y vuelta?
Yo: Sólo ida.
PcGddM: ¡Oh! ¿Beca de estudios? ¿Empleo?
Yo: [silencio, sonrisa estúpida en los labios mientras pienso: "oh, no tiene ni idea..."]

Extreme emotionality??!! Oh, wait, I get it…

 

Y AHORA... OTRA DE NUESTRAS...

{{{HISTORIAS DE TERROR}}}

[Episodio 4: You gotta be fucking kidding me!]

 

Dis-Isolation

 

A man wrote a note:

"If one person smiles at me, I won’t kill myself."

The note was found after he had plunged to his death.--

 

To think that sometimes it is so hard to smile...

How many desperate people have I passed by
that thought I was angry when actually I was about to cry?

To think that sometimes I need others,
to think we are isolated and we are not,
at the same disjointed,
at the same time connected.

To think I've been taught if I need anything
I should be ashamed of my most natural needs.

Freedom, freedom of thought, freedom of feeling.
We are not born with it, we earn it.
Freedom of action, freedom of making decisions.
We’re told to create it, and misused, we waste it.

To think I will die, to think we all will,
but who deserves to die in desperation?

Why do we leave people live in it?

so you want to be a writer?

Actually I like Rilke's way of saying it better, but mmm, this is like, very I don't know visceral ;)

"¿Así que quieres ser escritor?" por Charles Bukowski
(Traducción: Luz Mar Orozco Márquez)

si no sale de ti a borbotones
a pesar de todo,
no lo hagas.
a menos que salga libremente
de tu corazón y de tu mente y de tu boca
y de tus entrañas.
si tienes que sentarte por horas
mirando la pantalla de la computadora
o encorvado sobre tu
máquina de escribir
buscando las palabras,
no lo hagas.
si lo haces por dinero o
fama,
no lo hagas.
si lo haces porque quieres
mujeres en tu cama,
no lo hagas.
si tienes que sentarte ahí y
reescribir una y otra y otra vez,
no lo hagas.
si te cansa el sólo pensar en hacerlo,
no lo hagas.
si estás tratando de escribir como
alguien más,
olvídalo.

si tienes que esperar a que salga rugiendo
de ti,
entonces espera con paciencia.
si nunca sale rugiendo de ti,
haz alguna otra cosa.

si tienes que leérselo primero a tu esposa,
o a tu novia o a tu novio,
o a tus padres o a cualquier persona,
no estás listo.

no seas como tantos otros escritores,
no seas como tantos otros miles de
personas que se autonombran escritores,
no seas soso ni aburrido ni
pretencioso, que no te consuma la
arrogancia.
las bibliotecas del mundo han bostezado,
se han dormido por gente de esa clase.
ya no añadas más.
no lo hagas.
a menos que salga de tu
alma como un cohete,
a menos que no hacerlo te lleve
a la locura o al suicidio,
o al asesinato,
no lo hagas.
a menos que el sol dentro de ti
te queme las entrañas.
no lo hagas.

cuando de veras sea tiempo,
y si has sido elegido,
lo hará por sí solo y lo seguirá haciendo
hasta que mueras, o muera en ti.

no hay otra manera.

y nunca la hubo.

 

Read the original here

Uneasy

 

I have taken good care of my pains
'cause they are all I have;
sometimes I can't take care of myself.

Between the mountains of love and hate
lies the valley of deception,
and once again I’ve dwelled on it,
treading paths of misunderstanding.

De improviso, De súbito, De repente…

 

Traducción de un poema Pre-Rafaelita muy “cabalístico"… Porque como diría A.C. Swinburne “todos los que han encontrado al amor lo han perdido, pero todos lo hallaron muy hermoso…” (oh my, what the hell does that mean anyway, Mr. Swinburne?)

 

LUZ REPENTINA
(Sudden Light by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

He estado aquí antes ya,
mas cuando o cómo no lo sé,
conozco el prado que crece afuera,
el aroma intenso y dulce,
el suspirante sonido, las luces de la playa.

Has sido mía antes ya;
mas hace cuánto no podría decir;
y justo cuando al vuelo de esa golondrina
tu cuello volteó así,
algún velo cayó; supe todo lo pasado.

Entonces, ahora; ¡quizás otra vez...!
¡Frente a  mis ojos tiemblan tus cabellos!
¿No yaceremos como hemos yacido
así, en nombre del Amor,
y dormir, y despertar, y nunca romper la cadena?

 

Traducción: mía, por supuesto!!! (qué no se diga que los licenciados en Letras Modernas no hacemos nada… XD)

 

Addenda: (Oh, hace tanto que no escribía esa palabra… sí que me motiva tener muchísimas cosas que hacer… me encanta perder el tiempo con la poesía cuando tengo otras ocupaciones… por alguna razón la poesía no sabe tan bien en tiempos de ocio…)

• Me encanta esa línea final “y nunca romper la cadena”, porque (I guess) no tiene nada que ver con amor eterno y todas esas mentiras, sino más bien con el primer verso (damn, I wrote “línea”) de la última estrofa… “Entonces, ahora…”  y “nunca romper la cadena”, que equivaldría a decir “Entonces, ahora, después…”
• ¿Amor? ¿Quién habló de Amor?, dije “en nombre del Amor…” lo que equivale a decir “pero qué buena excusa me acabo de encontrar para el gozo…” jajaja XD
• Por cierto, este poema se resume en cuatro líneas:

He estado aquí antes ya...
Has sido mía antes ya...
Entonces, ahora; ¡quizás otra vez...!
Y dormir, y despertar, y nunca romper la cadena...

flyleaves

I dreamed I started writing songs again
and some of those were about you, me,
and my broken heart still thudding
whenever I think of you;
and when you listen to my voice you'd hear
it goes on beating even harder 'till it dies.

Shunned

 

--been writing a lot!, well, not “a lot”, but at all…--

I'm such a bastard:
shunned you out and now been shunned.
Years and years passed
and I always knew I was haunted
by the unbalance I'd created,
and chaos... pure?
and chaos... perfect?
and love... or the absence of it?

I'm such a bastard and I wish I could turn back time,
and sometimes I think things could not have been otherwise,
and others I believe I could have made you mine without hurting.
I should have made you mine doubtlessly, and I'm sure
you were half-mine already and you will always be... because
I'll always be more than half-yours in this life and the next.

I'm such a bastard
cause those halves mean nothing, a-ny-thing!
I'm such a bastard
cause I never thought of how idiotic execution was
of my decision right, 'til someone played
the same trick on me...

The balance of the universe restored I noticed
how fucked up my mind really was and scared.
And I think of you
when I walk through the city, up and down, when alone, and
in company seems my memory is just gathering facts
to spit on my face when most weak...

Such a bastard, I know.
Did you ever suspect when you were
touching my hair that morning in town,
that I was such a bastard?

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...

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".