lunes, julio 24, 2017






I am not your Ophelia II

Hamlet era un hombre singular en su tiempo. Con sus flaquezas, Shakespeare predijo al hombre ordinario de un futuro que dudo que haya imaginado. Ahora estamos rodeados de tantos Hamlets. Y  son tan molestos. Puedo verdaderamente entender por qué Ofelia enloqueció. 



martes, julio 18, 2017

JAY-Z - The Story of O.J.


Live all you can; it's a mistake not to. It doesn't so much matter what you do in particular, so long as you have your life. If you haven't had that what have you had? This place and these impressions — mild as you may find them to wind a man up so; all my impressions of Chad and of people I've seen at his place — well, have had their abundant message for me, have just dropped that into my mind. I see it now. I haven't done so enough before — and now I'm old; too old at any rate for what I see. Oh I do see, at least; and more than you'd believe or I can express. It's too late. And it's as if the train had fairly waited at the station for me without my having had the gumption to know it was there. Now I hear its faint receding whistle miles and miles down the line. What one loses one loses; make no mistake about that. The affair — I mean the affair of life — couldn't, no doubt, have been different for me; for it's at the best a tin mould, either fluted and embossed, with ornamental excrescences, or else smooth and dreadfully plain, into which, a helpless jelly, one's consciousness is poured — so that one 'takes' the form as the great cook says, and is more or less compactly held by it: one lives in fine as one can. Still, one has the illusion of freedom; therefore don't be, like me, without the memory of that illusion. I was either, at the right time, too stupid or too intelligent to have it; I don't quite know which.

Henry James, The Ambassadors


viernes, julio 14, 2017



"There is no authentic live. My life is never my life, is my life for the others, is always other’s life. Is always my image in the eyes of the others. To be alive means to be exposed to the eyes of the others. “

Boris Groys



jueves, julio 13, 2017



SONNET (silenced)

Olena Kalytiak Davis, 

with her unearned admixable beauty
she sat up on the porch and asked for (f)light;
answerable only to poetry—
and love—to make it thru the greyblue night


blew smoke into words and even whiter ghosts
that could see what others in this broad dark
could not: she set to make of nothing most,
better: an everenlightening mark:


ghost gave her this: a piece of flint: that if
you rubbed the right way,
the lightlessness would come down, give up, lift—
and then there would be nothing left to say.


o sterilize the lyricism of
my sentence: make me plain again my love


(my ghost)
(and dumb)

Why I Don’t Mention Flowers When Conversations with My Brother Reach Uncomfortable Silences

Natalie Diaz 

Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing
flowers home.
         —
Wisława Szymborska

In the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,
dyed white desert sand crimson.
What is there to say to a man
who has traversed such a world,
whose hands and eyes have
betrayed him?
Were there flowers there? I asked.
This is what he told me:
In a village, many men
wrapped a woman in a sheet.
She didn’t struggle.
Her bare feet dragged in the dirt.
They laid her in the road
and stoned her.
The first man was her father.
He threw two stones in a row.
Her brother had filled his pockets
with stones on the way there.
The crowd was a hive
of disturbed bees. The volley
of stones against her body
drowned out her moans.
Blood burst through the sheet
like a patch of violets,
a hundred roses in bloom.