domingo, agosto 20, 2017


martes, agosto 08, 2017

Time to close your ears and eyes and open your heart

domingo, julio 30, 2017

All the branches of the the tree lead to the infinitive. The same way as words do. 

martes, julio 25, 2017

I love the smell of dead mosquitoes in the morning. (I hate their noisy living presence during the night time, though.)

Gustavo Cerati - Corazón Delator

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 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.

miércoles, junio 28, 2017

The house of the liar

The liar will never openly confess him or herself as a liar. It would be a contradiction, will always deny it. 

The liar will sometimes indeed believe in him or herself to be truthful, to be honest. 

I have visited the house of the liar. I have been invited to stay in. Everything looks ordinary except for the walls and everything on them. They are made of thin paper which will fall once you close the door fiercely.

NYC Subway Performers II. M train Williamsburg ride - BEST VIDEO

I miss New York*

(*If by New York we understand a great amount of expectations, a void hoped to be filled,  being 10 years younger, having a brand new heart, being willing to see what future will bring and the energy of the dancers in the subway)

jueves, junio 22, 2017

viernes, junio 16, 2017

Hoy en la clase de Tai Chi hacemos el movimiento de la grulla. Movemos nuestros brazos en círculos, como alas que se despliegan. No es un movimiento sencillo. Hay que tener mucha coordinación. P se enoja y sale del salón. Luego vuelve y dice que está molesta, que antes ella podía hacer el movimiento con facilidad y ahora no le sale. Para ella esto es un retroceso.   

El maestro le dice que es lo mismo para todos. Que no debe ser tan severa con ella misma. Que cada cuerpo tiene sus propios tiempos. Pero a P ese comentario la exhibe aún más vulnerable y dice  "No. No es lo mismo. Ellos están jóvenes".
P está enojada. No se perdona envejecer.

Su cuerpo es, cada día más, un rastro de aquel lleno de poder, con el que se paraba en escenarios cautivando públicos alrededor del mundo. 

El maestro le dice que no hay nada de malo  en ganar años, que es normal que pase el tiempo. Pero ella, después de mucho argumentar, como niña cansada pero sin aceptar una derrota, dice "es que quien envejece es quien está más cerca de irse y yo tengo miedo". 

If I were Poe today, my own raven would repeat endlessly "never enough."

jueves, junio 15, 2017

martes, junio 13, 2017

caras vemos, mecanismos de defensa no sabemos