hesitant aranta

2008-05-18T22:59:00.001-05:00

:: ::

i'm tired of writing about myself. i suppose i'll be back, one day, but not any day soon.

coming in through my ears::

2008-01-12T11:39:00.000-05:00

:: ::

i'm turning into the kind of person i don't want to be._it gets out of control, sometimes, this terrible tendency to let out the worst possible version of myself._i have to learn to pace myself while judging, to keep my mouth shut until the sudden rage vanishes; i have to stop being so self righteous, it's sickening.

coming in through my ears::

2008-01-05T00:28:00.000-05:00

:: noch mal, Pamuk ::

[...] A un retraimiento parecido recurren los estambulíes para enfrentarse a la pobreza y la opresión. Ese sentimiento, que significa una retirada consciente ante la vida, por un lado se beneficia del prestigio que la palabra ha ganado en la literatura mística y, por otro, les parece a los habitantes de la ciudad una causa orgullosa y conscientemente elegida para su fracaso, su indecisión, su derrota y su pobreza. En este sentido, la amargura no se presenta sólo como el resultado de importantes carencias y pérdidas en la vida, sino, lo que es más importante, como el verdadero motivo [...] La amargura paraliza a Estambul, pero también es una excusa para la parálisis.

Ohran Pamuk, Estambul

coming in through my ears::Sören meowing

2007-12-18T18:26:00.000-05:00

:: vergeben, vertrauen, vergangenheit ::

the thing about taking courses in moral philosophy, the whole appeal of the matter, is the fact that it compromises the central pillar of all belief._such sensible subjects do not very often lend themselves to rigorous analysis without threatening one to face what little intuitions about how things should be, how one should be, and acknowledge how far off from the best possible version of a person one actually is._i have such poor intuitions, such base propensities toward action and passion, such weak character and such little drive towards striving for the best, that every couple of sentences i make a stop and wonder if i should simply write something different, or rather be someone different._whilst the first one is more or less in my hands, i have begun doubting whether the second one is._it's frightening, very much so.

coming in through my ears:: a dog barking next door

2007-11-04T13:50:00.000-05:00

:: [...] ::

i have a huge problem managing time._it seems to me almost impossible to do things at the time they are supposed to be done; it's almost as if i had not yet understood the real meaning of measure-units._this is probably why i am the kind of person that spends her time making up for time lost, the kind that apologizes for faults instead of preventing herself from wrongdoing._my mind takes a while to catch up with my actions._and thought i am very much conscious of this thing being the case and deploring it being so, i seem to be unable to take a step towards the understanding of others within the limits of my own patterns of behaviour._ i judge too harshly mistakes -or what i take to be mistakes- and build up grudges that are not easily diluted, not easily torn apart._i fall prey to the tendency of making stories in my head which cover every possible contingency with some ill intention or planned out scheme of action; i tend to believe the worst in every case, but refuse to attribute to myself such motivations._for a long time i've become used to distorting my own first impressions in order to fit them into a greater picture that i somehow can control and understand._there is no space for loose ends within my made-up version of the world._actions, persons, facts, interpretations, versions, excuses, justifications, words, gestures -and the lack of all of the above- fit into strict categories, sometimes even overlapping to the demise of the very premise that supposes that that is the way to get a hold on what goes about._and so i sit here, writing this thing instead of what i should be writing, utterly unable to focus on the way to explain why feelings are good way of reaching into the character of the agent, and rather thinking about why it bothers me so much that the right solution to whatever brought on this mess was not given at the time it should; about why every single one of us was unable to make time for what was demanded.
i'll summarize what i think is the matter._a)a huge mistake was made when he asked for my essay._the dynamics of the contest itself suppose that organizers and contestants have no such interactions. b) it was a greater mistake on my part to accede to turning in such an essay, while in knowledge of it not being qualified to participate._the fact that i explicitly asked whether or not it was a problem if it was already published and assumed that the answer given made it alright to turn it in was indeed irresponsible on my behalf._i can read, i may not be very clever, but i can understand, at least, the terms and conditions of a contest. c) despite not having any intention of wining the contest, i should have not participated._at least, i should have made it even clearer that i was sending in a paper "for statistical purposes", meaning i expected it to be rejected at once, because of it having been already published.
i have no interest in being awarded a prize i do not deserve, i would want for myself to not be seen as someone that deliberately sought to skip the norm and take advantage of a system that supposes the integrity and honesty of both participants and organizers._but i cannot deny that i am responsible for what has happened and can do no more than take the blame._of course, i will not accept blame for cheating, for, according to the description of the action that includes what i knew of the matter and what i intended when acting, that is not the case._i renounce both to the prize and the mention, for having been less than intelligent in my acting._i regret not having spoken sooner.
there is, still, another side of things; one which i cannot so easily explain or solve -i cannot solve it at all, nor do i intend to, perhaps because i'm sure there is no solution to be reached._much harm was done that cannot be explained easily._ things should have been done and spoken about at the right time and in the proper manner; too much of passionate intervention was allowed into a dialogue that could've dissipated doubts, had it been unbiased by external factors._versions intertwined, making it ever more complicated to see what was really behind all this mess; the worse being the lack of humbleness to accept that mistakes were made and the attack -the preying upon, even- on those undeserving of mistreatment._ i've tried my best to stop my mind from making up stories that would end up in thinking about the people involved either as monsters or second-agenda-driven agents; i've tried to isolate the personal level._but i don't know if that can be done or if it should

be done._i have only partial bits of information; no matter how hard one tries to get to the core of things, one must always trust whatever little information is given by others -i cannot supposed to be lied to all the time, that would not be fair to them, nor to me._the thing is, i cannot hope to be offered an apology, for, strictly speaking, nobody owes me one._i am, nonetheless, disappointed by the fact that the real 'victim' of it all has not been given proper 'compensation'._it makes me think, only, that in the future, "disappointment" will be an inaccurate word to describe it, for i now believe that nothing much is to be expected from him.

coming in through my ears::Medúlla; Vespertine; Volta//Björk

2007-10-20T23:01:00.000-05:00

:: ihr ::

i wonder why, if time is supposed to be the moving image of eternity, it seems to be utterly insufficient regarding my will._ maybe the whole of it can be summarized in saying that eternity is not a real measure of anything._ time could never, ever, be enough.

coming in through my ears::

2007-10-16T23:27:00.000-05:00

:: wertfrei ::

effort is usually overrated._it's too often taken as something to be expected, as some sort of obligated response toward being confronted with whatever it may mean to simply be there._most of the time -most of my time- effort is fruitless, and still i strive to quiet down the voices telling me this urge to keep on expecting a somehow adequate response is useless._no more._i'm done with this._here is the line._shaikai is right, the point is to stop expecting, that's what it took.

coming in through my ears:: Boogie Stop Shuffle//Charles Mingus

2007-09-30T13:41:00.000-05:00

:: pueril ::

what does it really take to let go of things?_is it mere passive forgetfulness?_or rather a conscious decision to struggle to attribute less importance to certain aspects of an action committed -or, for that matter, of an action not committed-?_is it really in one's power to stray away from things definitory of what one is?_are they really so relevant in what that of which i think about when i use the word "me" has come to be?_it pains me terribly to know that i cannot escape my tendency to judge too harshly, too self-centered-ly, too much in absence of many relevant features of the circumstances surrounding what has been._ i am but too negligent towards others, i resent their judgment of my actions in ways i would not accept my own judgements to be resented._i am terribly unjust, the utmost child regarding interpersonal relations._i need not be, i want not to be so._ what does it take to really let go of this way of seeing things?

coming in through my ears:: Comatose (In the Arms of Slumber)//Eagle-Eye Cherry

2007-09-24T22:55:00.000-05:00

:: y ::

While you are away
My heart comes undone
Slowly unravels
In a ball of yarn
The devil collects it
With a grin
Our love
In a ball of yarn
He'll never return it
So when you come back
We'll have to make new love

coming in through my ears:: Unravel//Björk

2007-09-23T19:45:00.000-05:00

:: ::

i've been siting in front of this broken down computer for a greater number of hours than i would've liked._not a single line, not one coherent concatenation of words has been added to that file i am to turn in in less than a couple of months._my feet are now numb and it seems i cannot smoke one more cigarette without getting a headache._i simply cannot concentrate._it's as if i had forgotten what i was about to write exactly as my fingers gently slid from one letter to the next over my keyboard._i've already showered twice today, in hopes of remembering how exactly to write down all i've been thinking the past few days._no good._it's terribly frustrating to acknowledge just to what extent i am unable to do the thing i've been taught to do for the last five years._i'll stay up tonight trying to get something done.

coming in through my ears:: Rock and Roll//Led Zeppelin

2007-08-13T00:03:00.000-05:00

:: noch ein draft ::

just now the night sets upon me._those whispers forever present in my room, those subtle breaths i have for years thought to be the sound of the air circulating from the bottom of this house that has seen me come together and tear apart to the top of the celing of this room where every night i lay with just myself to fall asleep, give me every second an excuse to not vanish between my sheets.

2007-08-11T01:19:00.000-05:00

:: draft ::

if the world had stopped spinning at any given moment, the speed with which my body would have been launched toward the skies could not be compared to the ever increasing acceleration of the beating of this heart._and is it just a muscle wrapped around itself what makes every single one of my greenish veins and arteries suddenly be overflooded, pressing themselves against the nervous terminals and give this distorting feel of not having a big enough body for all that can be at once be felt?

coming in through my ears:: Zentralmassive//2raumwohnung ::

2007-08-07T00:11:00.000-05:00

:: fizz ::

it's like piercing the surface of that ever so still water with the whole palm of my left hand; the way the shift in temperature makes me conscious of just how much of a stranger and at the same time how at home i feel in between two worlds separated by mere tension between molecules._feeling how, from above, the irresistible gravitational force pulls my hand towards the bottom, lower and lower, deeper and deeper and then feeling, from underneath, the gentle resistance that makes all rise to the surface._and in that seldom acknowledged space between my tongue and my eardrums a subtle trickle of ginger comes and goes in waves mimicked only by that swaying of my fingers on the surface, in perpetual balance forever accompanied by the fright of suddenly sinking and losing my last breath to the deafening surroundings._

coming in through my ears::

2007-08-02T22:47:00.000-05:00

:: my head is filled with so many things i can't start to classify them ::

i get scared._really panic, sometimes._but i'm more afraid of being afraid, than of that, which makes me be afraid._the mere possibility of losing myself in fear and becoming the same kind of person, that cannot stand for herself in the world, that by force becomes more of a burden than a person, makes me, for more than an instant, feel as though my feet were welded to the center of the earth._in this apparently unmovable state, my stomach presses against my lungs and that kind of vertigo, at other times so amazingly pleasant, fills my head with that limited range of possibilities from which i am bound to choose, despite my unwillingness to do so between any of them._ that, i believe, is precisely the point._whatever is to be accounted for as a sign of character must be somehow attached to what one would not desire, given a different world._ it is not the choices i make under ideal circumstances, it is not the good i set out to follow, regardless of what can, in fact, be; it is not what i would wish for, but what i must decide upon._the asymmetry between my daydreaming and my day-living manifests itself, at times, with the most horrific of strengths, with the greatest weight imaginable._but it is such asymmetry what ties me to this life, to this way, to this self._i guess feeling scared is a sign of being conscious of just how much is at stake, of just how many things there are out there, still to be lived, of how much i would not want to be situated in another life._after all, happiness is not the result of a process, not something awaiting at the end... again, it sticks to my thoughts "die Lösung fällt mir gar nicht ein, doch scheint die Suche das Besondere dabei".
it's gonna get a lot worse, before it gets any better._or so they say._but, given that "good" can be said meaning so many different things, perhaps i should not be as scared as i am starting-to-stop-being._or something.

coming in through my ears::

2007-07-15T23:49:00.000-05:00

:: verlernt ::

how irrational is it to blame oneself for missing the same mark twice, or thrice, or even one thousand times?_how irrational is it to learn the strong impact that that one not-so-little thing has over it all and then by way of some indescribable act of this mind -or this soul, or what you may- forget what it was, that was supposed to be taken into account?_what sense does it make, in the end, to cling to the same suffering -with the same causes, the same symptoms, the same unreachable answers- over and over again?_and then to take upon me this suffering as a burden that must forever be carried; and then to, out of spite -spite for this never ending irrational way of aproaching it all-, rub my nose so deep into it that i can no longer tell the difference between the stench and the pristine air i once thought there present?_not a minute of silence._there's not enough time to be able to shut the smallest part out, to divide it into those almost irrelevant -but still so real- minuscule particles, to dissolve it, in exchange for resolving it._aliquot by aliquot the unity comes together as the sign of that which i should have long ago learnt, but couldn't.

coming in through my ears:: Keep me on edge//Chin chin

2007-07-05T17:38:00.000-05:00

:: hiatus [draft] ::

it seems to me inevitable to write whenever this particular situation -iterated in precise cycles since the very beginning of my life- takes place._ it may be possible that the first page of the first notebook -that almost journal-like thing i'm so attached to- was filled with words wrung out accompanied by a few tears -now, for mere practical purposes vanished from my life-._ how many more words could be said about this? i've expressed my fright toward it, my rage -that hypnotic state into which i fall every time i see myself as utterly overcome by the power of that which i cannot change or control-, my guilt -unfounded, perhaps; perhaps not at all-, and above all my feeling of being somehow not at all me._ but words have not the strength i wish they had; they do not purge, they do not cure, they most certainly not reassure whatever sense of holding the reins i may have at different times._ i can't help but wonder how it is possible that an ever expanding joy is so abruptly interrupted; and, at the same time, how easily this frightful reality of the ever-present dilutes into the slightest of shadows far behind my eyes when i let myself get lost in those eyes i yearn to see with every awakening._

coming in through my ears:: Guitarra y vos// Jorge Drexler

2007-06-04T13:16:00.000-05:00

:: backlash ::

i'm freaking out, i really am freaking out, i can't breathe right, my hands shake, my heart pounds and my head aches -that rhymes, but it shouldn't, not right now, not today-._i've brought this onto myself, it was all my fault to begin with; sleep deprivation, alcohol and cigarettes, little control over a very little mind, illusions, delusions, dilutions._i'm terrified but i know not what of, i need some comforting and all there is available is this paper i cannot seem to finish writing; i'm waisting my time, while this pulse of mine races... i'm so sick i can't even sit up straight anymore._i must really stop being this self indulgent.

coming in through my ears::blood rushing behind my eyes

2007-05-28T23:05:00.000-05:00

:: gleichgültig ::

we're all just drifting._drifting away._on a raft built on egos and unfounded convictions._and if the boat rocks, stump on it harder; there seems to be no shame in being the cause of one's own demise._the pounding of waves against those rocks, against our ears, is so deafening that there seems to be no sense in simply hearing anymore._and while the fog sets lower, however long that may take, or if such a thing is ever to be the case, we shut our eyes tightly, remembering forever a light we might have merely imagined, embracing whatever sort of delusion we believe to be what's worth the fight, and we drift._we're all just drifting.

coming in through my ears::some icky tv show

2007-05-22T22:07:00.000-05:00

:: richtung ::

the way in which all varies, the way in which the flow ceases, the way in which the rising temperature suddenly drops, the way in which i realize i don't crave as much as i'd thought._the way in which my mind fills in gaps that were not left by any real dynamic, the way in which i picture a possible solution to something that was never to be a problem, the way in which i just stand there, avoiding a void glare._ the way, that way, that one-out-of-two way, my way and the highway, all at the same time._truth be told, it saddens me that it is no more a matter of "diaporein kalós".

coming in through my ears::

2007-05-16T20:23:00.000-05:00

:: red (finger) tips ::

stretch out those fingers that cannot be measured in inches or centimeters; those that crawl slowly up and down my scalp, those that fiercely cling to that light that seldom bathes these damp globes, those more mine that these others with which i write and draw._if only such fingers could be allowed the smallest part of tactile feel, if only they could for once sense somewhat slightly solid, slightly real within their reach; if only those fingers could be properly called fingers._those 'relentlessly restless' fingers of mine yearn each second a mere touch, a subtle stroke given by equally debating between being and ceasing fingers, by dendrites, roots and branches almost intolerably grounded on my outside._they stretch through night and rain and shadows, through walls of glares and stares and glimpses, they curve themselves in the creases of grins and frowns, they follow stubbornly the scent that must remain unknown._ and through that stretching out they bend and break and mend themselves without my knowing, producing shapes within my head, revealing forbidden corners of this already too bent over self._but oh how i thrive in their stretching.

coming in through my ears::something on the Animal Planet

2007-05-15T14:59:00.000-05:00

:: volta!! ::

Wanderlust

I am leaving this harbour
Giving urban a farewell
Its habitants seem to keen on God
I cannot stomach their rights and wrongs
I have lost my origin
And I don't want to find it again
Whether sailing into nature's laws
And be held by ocean's paws
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Lust for comfort
Suffocates the soul
Relentless restlessness
Liberates me (sets me free)
I feel at home
Whenever the unknown surrounds me
I receive its embrace
Aboard my floating house
Wanderlust! relentlessly craving
Wanderlust! peel off the layers
Until we get to the core
Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?
Wanderlust! from island to island
Wanderlust! united in movement
Wonderful! I'm joined with you
Wanderlust!
Can you spot a pattern?
(relentlessly restless)
Can you spot a pattern?
Can you?

how is it possible that this woman does the things she does?
i am in love._very much so.

coming in through my ears:: Wanderlust//Björk

2007-05-08T11:43:00.000-05:00

:: absent ::

the past few nights and most of yesterday afternoon a not easy to describe feeling has come over me._it's as though there were something other than what i can see and directly feel going on; as if there were some urgency to be somewhere other than my bed, somewhere other than my skin._it feels almost as when one is certain of not being yet awoken, when that barrier between dreams and the waking state is entirely blurred by the numbness of the body and the unstoppable rambling of the mind, when the consciousness of the existence of each limb and each part does not imply the sensitive experience of it all._it feels a bit like being, but not quite being my own._as i sat in the dark room of the cinema -something i hadn't done for months- i found images just passing by._it was not at all that my mind was set on some other subject, that i was tired or simply distracted; the world passes me by without leaving much of a mark lately.

coming in through my ears:: Bachelorette//Björk

2007-05-05T21:11:00.000-05:00

:: snob weekend ::

it's just like humming the bass line of a song while everyone else in the room jumps around frantically to a distorted beat; it's like closing my eyes and opening them to the many strands of my already somewhat damp hair and not being able to focus my sight on anything in particular; it's like feeling my lungs expanding with every puff of the cigarette between my second and third finger; like making my arm go that extra distance in order to make 'the finish'; like running backwards with both my eyes set on the rotating yellow sphere headed directly to my face._ yeah, that's something like what i was looking for._and then i become terribly platonic.

coming in through my ears:: Close to me//The Cure

2007-05-03T18:28:00.000-05:00

:: shedding ::

i hold my right hand with my left hand._stretch the fingers back, as far as possible, until the tendon connecting with the elbow shows through the skin, until the bicep and triceps make the arm an almost curved line in a direction opposing the natural position._leave the hand in pain, without much irrigation, feel the lactic acid building up in between oxygen deprived strands of muscle._i hold my left hand with my right hand._bring it forth, watch the depression formed in the space generated by the shift in location of the carpian bones, feel the tips filling up with that scarlet now almost toxic liquid._i arch my back, notice those once evident muscles covering my belly tightening, hear many times over those almost fish-shaped fragments of the central pillar of my body rearranging themselves, my eyes go blank and my breath fades into a misty cloud out my nose and now slightly opened mouth._i place my forehead on my knees and reach out in a rush for those somewhat too long ten toes; a screaming yellow floats over my tongue, i fall into a state of enchantment for a single moment.
the seconds that follow bring a mellow tone to my ears; now, fully awake, i can go back to my daydreaming.

coming in through my ears:: Drive-In Saturday//David Bowie

2007-05-03T00:11:00.000-05:00

:: draft ::

how could i ever deny such a simple fact?_ i do leave the sound on, because silence is harder._these waves disrupt my balance, tread on the nearly verbal content of that which floats beneath my conscience, bend my will, interfere my sight._i can see no more than the unshown movement of those words never uttered, i can hear no more than the thousand radial hues immersed in their own salt; the undulations of my fingers reach out to the tremor of a yielding warmth._but all i have to look forward to is the void of my sleep.

coming in through my ears::

2007-05-01T14:04:00.000-05:00

:: stumble ::

a bomb has been dismantled and in it's place a plague has begun to grow._it hasn't quite yet started infecting the small bulbs and wicks that light up my nights as soon as these eyelids shut out the world._but it will._ pretty soon i'll watch the slow decay and festering of my interstices, of that safe place built for me throughout my life; i'll watch those images so craft fully put together in between waking hours dilute into salted strands dripping down my face._not quite yet, no._the confirmation of the existence of the cause for such fears must be to all lengths put before me to give way to a racing heart and sweated palms and trembling legs and unsteady feet.
one single finger has within it thousands and thousands of interconnected crevices with which to cling to the outside and differentiate the toucher from the touched._a finger throbs with a rhythmic sway, obedient always to a heart._a heart contracts and expands with exceeding rigour to the pace set by millions and millions of webbed structures spitting out the smallest amounts of what i would not know accurate to call existing._and those structures, ruled by some strange force i cannot grasp, i cannot picture, i cannot dive into, make that finger and its counterpart cling making the toucher and the touched one and the same for a little more than a mere second._the pulsing sound surrounds all there present, it crawls inside and makes its nest, it comes and goes without paying heed to the hectic swerving of those hearts and brains and minds and souls._all that's left are aligned crevices in the middle of that day that has never come to me.
the infectious agent must reproduce itself a great number of times in order to cause this slightly feverish state to worsen._it may very well not have anything to do with my will or my strength whether it does so or not._i might just be subjected to whatever speed it decides to give to the decay of delusions._ the copies of it self need not to be exact; mere traces of its essence are enough to flood my veins and cloud my eyes._it has begun.
taking a step not only implies the synchronized tensing and relaxing of numerous muscles and tendons._it also necessarily supposes an impulse directed toward some determinate thing._when the first foot is lifted, as if by magic or divine intervention, the weight of the world is taken from the shoulders and eyes are allowed to simply focus on that object of desire._those pupils enlarge, hiding the coloured strands that compose the eye; capture light, both from outside and in, both from what's not seen and what's wanted to be seen._and then the encompassed movement of that whole makes it clear how that unclear way of touching of two pupils in two eyes in two heads directed by too much of what i don't understand is the motor of it all._and then freckles and pupils and crevices and lips align and my eyes close dry from the fever, wishing to not see what is seen as wished.

coming in through my ears::Liverpool-Chelsea

:: dare ::

if i could, i would._wouldn't you, please?

2007-04-29T14:54:00.000-05:00

:: skin deep ::

my hands are full of scars._ on my right hand, the reminder of a fall separates almost entirely the tip of my thumb from the rest of the hand._i was probably four years old when that piece of glass found it to be not much of an obstacle; i remember -almost too clearly for it to be a true memory- my own dark blood on the hallway floor over which i walk every day._a dozen stitches accomplished what gloves, spices and promises of gifts had not been able to do._it stands there as one of the few things that prevails from those so long gone times._my right palm shows a line that could say nothing about my future; on that occasion, a friend, from whom i've not heard in a while, drove a wire into my tender flesh._not much blood was lost._out of rage, i bit the protruding part -there, where the pencil leans against- of my right middle finger off._it bled so much._my skin is somehow differently coloured there, but nothing even similar to other scars is to be seen._i couldn't draw or write for almost two months; it healed, as most everything does._on my left hand,a pink line, interrupted on the precise spot where a wedding ring were to be put, reminds me of that day, on the grass, smoking like i'd never done before, crying like i hope i'll never do again._it has taken a lot of time to heal; i guess that happens with all self-inflicted pains and sorrows._countless little 'v' shapes are testimony of my attempt to do something of worth on that linoleum; scratches and cuts that never vanished show themselves while in the sun._the rest of my body is likewise covered in scars._some are reminders, most of them are simply there._my skin, as does my heart, holds onto what has been with extreme and constant effort._it may heal, but it allows no forgetting.

coming in through my ears:: Se va, se va, se fue//Jorge Drexler

2007-04-24T19:02:00.000-05:00

:: ablaze ::

twelve hours and twenty four minutes from now i'll be holding the brush in my hand._three minutes later, i will have reconsidered for the first time the lines indicative of some sort of perspective very lightly drawn onto the surface of that grainy piece of whitened out cellulose._eighteen minutes and forty five seconds later i will have made up my mind and decided that the best possible version was the one erased six and two quarters minutes ago._ i'll be again frustrated by my own incapacity and distracted from the whole point in this whole thing._hours later, with eyes glued to the screen of the television set in our little rat hole, i'll remember it was all about learning to learn._ slightly drunk i'll find myself twenty four and a half hours from this moment telling those who'll soon leave how much i will miss them._i won't be able to remember how i got home._sören will curl up between my arms, pressing his arched spine against my chest and i'll finally get a couple of hours of sleep.

coming in through my ears:: Help the Poor//BB King & Eric Clapton

2007-04-23T16:09:00.000-05:00

:: ::

there's a window beside the desk where i write without pause the words to utter this thursday's afternoon._the world goes by at sluggish pace without showing much of itself through the rain stained glass that separates me from it._ i sit and wonder how it is possible that so much dread has gone by without my knowing, without my presence._and as the news come through this other glass that sets me apart from the world of those that have for a while become my own world, i bleed out through my fingertips thinking it would be best to be somewhere else._the pain inflicted will not be taken back, the lacks, the losses, the missed chances will not await to be amended._and i still write, and in my mind it looks as if i were moving forward, as if every letter were a step taken in a yet not known direction._i'm overflowed with fear of what could never come to be.

coming in through my ears:: nothing at all

2007-04-15T22:43:00.000-05:00

:: yawning ::

the little bug inside my head flaps its wings 345 times per second._sometimes the noise and the heat produced by such movement makes my eyeballs dry up and consequently makes my blinking grow more frequent._trying to fall asleep to the dance of the millions of bees indicating the way towards the desired nectar seems, at times, a ludicrous task._these insects behind my eyes know not the difference between daylight and no light; they couldn't care less for the position of the sun, or the moon, for that matter._i feel my muscles tightening up and my bones loosing their power to keep me standing._the acids in my stomach become every day and every night slightly more corrosive, and the immediate connections between my braincells wait for entire milliseconds in line, awaiting their turn to segregate the needed transmitters._i toss and turn to the beat of my insects; i lie belly up, face down, sideways, no ways, i sit, i stand, i make my bed, i take a shower, i drink infusions, i read and write and sing in my head, i cry out of desperation, i took the pill that did not work, i fill my blog thinking it will help me sleep._but it doesn't.

coming in through my ears:: Within earshot//Kenna

2007-04-09T22:48:00.000-05:00

:: gift ::

"Wenn ich doch zeichnen könnte." Diesen Satz höre ich sehr oft un vielleicht habe Sie sich selbst schon dabei ertappt. Die Antwort, die mir darauf sofort einfällt, lautet: "Warum tun Sie es nicht?" [...]Tatsächlich kann man sagen, dass eigentlich jeder zeichnet[...] Im alltäglichen Leben sehen die Menschen Dinge, von denen sie gelernt haben, dass sie einfach da sind. Aber durch den Vorgang des Zeichnens legen wir unsere Erwartungen ab un nehmen Feinheit bei Gestalt un Konstruktion, Skultur und Muster, Licht und Schatten wahr [...]Bevor das eigentliche Zeichnen beginnt, öffnet der Künstler oder die Künstlerin das Skizzenbuch, wählt einen Bleistift aus und spitz ihn. Und dann kommt da ein kurzer Moment der Erwartung, der Aufregung, ja sogar der Angst. Es braucht so etwas wie Courage, um auf einem jungfräulichen Blatt Papier die erste Markierung zu machen, aber sobald diese Markierung gemacht ist, kommen die anderen wie von selbst.

Peter Gray, Zeichnen Lernen

coming in through my ears:: Broken Homes// Tricky feat. PJ Harvey

2007-04-05T22:15:00.000-05:00

:: draft ::

lately my dreams have begun to betray me._they've become a little less out of the ordinary, tempting my waking thoughts into following their elusive unrealities._as soon as i close my eyes, a scent i only once had the chance of capturing through these asymmetrical nostrils of mine invades much more than merely my head._and then i'm gone.

coming in through my ears:: Comfortably Numb//Pink Floyd

2007-04-02T18:03:00.000-05:00

:: this picture ::

through the white creases of the dozens of balls of paper now lying on my floor an insinuation of the shape i dreamt about last night can be somehow seen._but no more than a simple insinuation._my fingers have not been able to depict what so clearly appeared behind my eyelids after those -perhaps too many- glasses of dark beer._it is an image that constantly clouds my brain, that occupies every interstice, every corner, every thought; it's pleasantly invasive, deliciously infectious, but merely an image in my head._as i sit here, trying my best to translate it through these lines that evade any control over them, this image comes and goes and makes of its own self something more of a grin i dare not place onto my face and a flutter somewhere in between my lungs and my stomach._it is the flickering of those candles unknown to me in pupils i wish to portray that ties me down to this graphite and cellulose and what makes these unsuccessful efforts end up crumpled up on the floor as reminders of my lack of ability._it is that shine i cannot describe through the flowing ink that keeps my mind from easing._won't you please teach me to see such an image with my eyes and not merely with my head?

coming in through my ears:: Helden//Mia

2007-03-30T22:07:00.000-05:00

:: streber ::

it will never be enough._ no matter how you strive to make of your own self the best person you can, you will never be the best person you could._and they will haunt you forever -insofar as they, themselves, what they think and how they react, are what you think you should make or yourself._and in your mind there will always be a subterfuge, a little corner where you'll sit and wonder how it is possible that they, who made you who you are, can forever condemn you and take away what they had said would forever be there, when all seems to be, for once, in order._yes, they'll haunt you, and you'll strive._compensation will never be the answer; no matter how good your grades are, no matter how well you get to portraying "the look" of any given thing, no matter how well you behave in public or if you stopped cutting your hair: it will never be enough._for you are no more than an error of nature._and to yourself you will always be the mere aproximation, the lesser of two evils, the less worse thing you could be._and that will never be enough._it ought not to be enough.

coming in through my ears:: my mother, ranting

2007-03-27T02:07:00.000-05:00

:: kam ::

he makes language obsolete by way of his hands._if only words could convey what a single image made by his ten fingers and two forearms and his millions of millions of interacting braincells does, then i would never cease looking for such words._but i know his greatness lies not in what is said, but in what is shown, and in how he mimics every wonderful side of himself with a plaster of colours and an array of shapes._ and how it strikes me with pain and dread to see him lurking in the few dark corners of an ever so luminous mind; and how it contradicts everything i know to be true about his way of being to think of tears and anguish brought to his face; and how i know i'll look up to him for as long as i have the strength to pick up a pencil or a brush._ he makes me want to not leave myself behind, to not trap myself in disquisitions only, to search forever in the realm of the line and the dot and the stain._and i thank him._i will forever thank him.

coming in through my ears::little drops of water crashing against the shower floor

2007-03-26T00:12:00.000-05:00

:: alcibiades ::

what then, socrates, am i to do with myself?_i don't want to be a ruler, i don't want to be a leader._my wishes for my own self are far more humble than those you set out for the 'good' and the 'temperate' to follow._and while you say that learning is like seeing, but then again not quite seeing, my mind stumbles from one thing to another and drifts from the safe path of understanding._how am i to know the difference between what belongs to what belongs to me, what belongs to me and this me when you say nothing much about what this 'looking' is about?_how am i to start searching if i know not what i should search for?_and i think maybe it's not my soul i should dig into, but rather into these hands and what comes from them, maybe into these ears and what comes through them, into these green watery eyes and the piercing light that blinds them and at the same time makes them work to their virtue; maybe i have no access to what my soul may be other than through these things you tell me i should not care for, i should renounce to._what then, socrates, what have i to aspire to, when you've left me on the side of the wretched?_ i am tied to my body and my sight and the product of my hands and i will not believe that it is precisely that what makes my sorrows rise to the surface._i will not accept that the controlled tremor of my fingers is what makes me be mistaken and not the strange ways in which i lose myself in thoughts of that which i do not see._and if your god, socrates, tells you that i'm no more than a slave to this wretchedness you so despise, then i ask you, what am i to do with myself?

coming in through my ears:: Twentysomething//Jaimie Cullum

2007-03-25T13:29:00.000-05:00

:: protege moi ::

the rush, the thrill, the overwhelming noise both out and inside my head._those almost stroboscopic lights, the tiny little figures in the background, the encompassed moving of every tendon, muscle and fiber in my body._the screaming, the jumping, the throwing my arms into the air, the smell, the pause for breath, the pause for tears, the way time slid through my fingers and my eyelids, the way i felt i'd never be again so compelled to screaming my lungs out._and now comes the calm and this smile i cannot seem to get rid of._and as we were there, in entirely different realms of existence, as i was there singing out to my own self, that self from so many years back, and that other self a couple of months back, and this other self a couple of days and hours back, i, and she, and her and all and none; as we were merely there, aligned, i knew i'd known forever._ and now you know, too.

coming in through my ears::Get your way//Jaimie Cullum

2007-03-21T18:15:00.000-05:00

:: transparent, translucent, translated ::

i sat in the sun today for a couple of hours._ what at first appeared to be a conglomerate of shapes started becoming slowly, ever so slowly, a bulk of spots and blurs of indeterminate colours._it's a shame that my eyes hurt so much under bright light, it's a shame that tones start meshing together without asking for permission from my head, without letting me cling to that first impression of how everything looked like to me._it's as if, in the process of translating this ever changing third-dimensional reality into a two-dimensional attempt of capture, my own self -what i make of me and what is around 'it'- shifted uncontrollably between warm greys and gelid browns._and yet, it's surprising to see that there is enough of everything entirely fixed to make it possible to structure a whole in a little piece of paper, with nothing more than these hands and diluted ground._and it may be just 'that' which is in me fixed what makes me not disregard those words today again uttered by a total outsider._yes, that may be what constitutes the basic standing point in this whole thing; i've denied it, i've fought against it, i've abandoned it, i've run from it desperately... it's still there, always._now, however, i feel not frightened by it, not at all coerced by it, for it no longer means a mistake was made, a wrong path was chosen._ i have all the time in the world to stand still on my own ground, i simply do not wish to do so right now._there are many more things awaiting -and being awaited.
i guess i could say that if anatomical drawing has taught me that it is incredibly important to learn to see -really see, not just look at-, my brief -but, as of today pleasant- experience with water colours has left me with something else._one must learn to do things from the beginning._and from then on, to do things in the way they're meant to be done, in the right order, following the right steps._otherwise, blots and blurs are just blots and blurs._i know i don't want my life to be a collection of just blots and blurs.

coming in through my ears:: Pierrot the clown//Placebo

2007-03-19T16:59:00.000-05:00

:: commit ::

it may not be possible to stop us from drifting apart while making our own footsteps vanish into the background._the way in which life sets our boundaries is extremely hard to understand and certainly impossible to handle with our bare hands and our bare souls._there are many things that can forever remain out of focus, while playing a greater role than we would like to acknowledge in how everything shifts from one side to another._and yet we seem to struggle against that every single day, with every single breath._we hold on to the idea of what may have been and what may one day be of us and decide, with eyes tightly shut, with that burning pain in our livers and our lungs, decide all the time, decide what we cannot decide on._ and as we stray alongside our shadows with no more than this collection of misconceptions of what we were and what we'll be, we are bound to ourselves in ways we hardly ever notice.

coming in through my ears:: Post Blue//Placebo

2007-03-13T22:54:00.000-05:00

:: pucker up ::

right before i woke up today, i got the feeling that a pair of lips i have not yet come to know had set themselves upon my own._for a second i wished i would never wake to find myself without them, but then i did._i could no longer recall whose lips they were, or if they were lips at all._it took me quite a long while to make sense of this discomfort i felt throughout the day, but now i know._i want a kiss.

coming in through my ears:: Al otro lado del río//Jorge Drexler

2007-03-11T16:01:00.000-05:00

:: butterscotch ::

two at a time come little lights and set themselves over strange looking objects right in the corner of my eyes._ i can't look at them directly but i know they're there; they've always been there._little creases in my socks tell my toes that there still is life after being forever confined in black boxes with black laces._the little lights and the little creases do a little dance that makes my little head quiver and then i open my eyes so wide that i can no longer see my own eyelashes and i turn my hands 45ºto the right and a little bit downwards and pretend i play the piano to the beat that my head made up but had never put to practice._ i am here standing and with long breaths i start to get the feeling that this world is not as heavy as i thought and smile._my lips are burning and my stomach's turning and i think that everything is set to motion at astounding speed._i feel my lungs trapping my heart and i feel it racing, and my mind floats and falls and rises and swerves, but it no longer bothers me, there's not one thing to think about, not one thing to cling to.

coming in through my ears:: the television set

2007-03-07T11:41:00.000-05:00

:: cough ::

i have this terrible cough._i haven't been able to sleep for days._my mother is urging me to go to a hospital, but i have no health care._she says it sounds just like that other cough i had when i was little and she had to drive me to the doctor's in the middle of the night so that i could breathe again._she hadn't been worried about my health for a very very long time now._but i'm not._i figure it'll pass._ one way or the other.

coming in through my ears::a high pitched sound when i breathe in

2007-03-06T20:18:00.000-05:00

:: ::

there's nothing more to be said._ and still i talk, as though i had something new to hear from myself, aside from all this pointless ranting._it's not your ears i crave; it's my own._whatever did i do with them?

coming in through my ears:: Black eyed//Placebo

2007-03-04T21:34:00.000-05:00

:: hairball ::

and you try to rid yourself of bad thoughts and impressions about others._ and you try to simply understand that people are just people and some just can't be helped._and you try to stay ahead of the game, not being too moved by fakeness or vagueness of words; you simply try to let it slide off your shoulders._but at night, when everything else is silenced by the cold, that's when the little fur you ate throughout so much time starts making itself into a ball and climbing up your throat._that's when all that's been churned and seemingly digested comes back up and then out trough your spiked tongue and chubby hands._that's when you realize that you are, indeed, the terrible person you don't want to be, that horrid monster crawling by your side in your dreams._and then it hits you; no wonder you wake up alone.

coming in through my ears::The Eraser//Thom Yorke

2007-03-02T19:13:00.000-05:00

:: Pamuk ::

Cuento
para que el lector comprenda que los hechos que describo han sido expurgados de esas agradables y entretenidas ficciones preparadas para adular las pasiones y las emociones humanas. Si algún día alguien lee mis páginas, que pesarán mucho más que las seis mil de Evliya Çelebi, verá allí, tal y como es, la masa nebulosa de la historia que hay en mi mente. Todo estará sobre el papel, como lo que escribía Evliya, como cosas naturales, como un árbol, un pájaro o una piedra; y el lector percibirá que detrás de aquello yace un hecho igualmente natural. Y así podré expulsar esos extraños gusanos de la historia qeu pienso que andan paseándose por mis circunvoluciones cerebrales y por fin me libraré de ellos. Y en ese día de mi liberación quizá pueda irme, por fin iré a bañarme al mar. Y el placer que el mar me proporcione será similar al de Evliya en el estanque, y mientras me decía todo aquello me asusté de repente [...]Encendí un cigarrillo, crucé el jardín, salí a la calle y contunué andando. Bien, ¿qué vais a mostrarme ahora, muros, ventanas, coches, terrazas, vidas en las terrazas, pelotas de plástico, chanclas, flotadores, zapatillas de plástico, botes, cremas, cajas, camisas, toallas, bolsos, piernas, faldas, mujeres, hombres, niños, insectos? Mostraos, mostradme vuestas inmóviles caras muertas, mostradme vuestros hombros morenos, vuestros pechos maduros, vuestros brazos delgados e inseguros, vuestras miradas torpes, mostradme, mostradme todos los colores y todas las formas superficiales porque quiero olvidarme de mí mismo golpeándome contra ellas, quiero volar, quiero olvidarme de mí mismo posando la mirada en las luces de neón, en los anuncios de plexiglás, en las pintadas políticas, en los televisores, en las mujeres desnudas colgadas de las paredes en los rincones de las tiendas, en las fotografías de los periódicos, en los carteles vulgares; vamos, mostradme, mostradme...¡Basta!¡He llegado hasta el espigón! Ha sido una excitación vana: ¡me engaño a mí mismo!

Ohran Pamuk. La casa del silencio

coming in through my ears::Alarm Call//Björk

2007-02-28T16:19:00.000-05:00

:: ::

let me go._that's all i ask of me._renounce to wanting._that's all that's left._flee this scene of broken glass and ruptured muscles -well, muscle-._don't come back, don't look back, don't think back._don't think at all._just go, let go, let me go._that's all i ask of me.

coming in through my ears::

2007-02-26T14:36:00.000-05:00

:: crossed eyed mary ::

now it's not just the pencil._not merely a pen._not only crayons and coloured pencils._now it's water colours, oiled pigments, tempera, acrylic, blood, sweat and tears, so to speak._i've been spending more and more time locking myself up in this enjoyable prison of in-my-head-images i cannot yet translate into two dimensional blots and blurs._i want to draw a portrait, i have it so clearly pictured in my mind, i know exactly where i want the colours to be, to mesh, to fade away._ i can almost taste it, if i'm allowed to say such a thing about an image._but i lack a lot of experience and talent to actually get to making it._that, and a certain bashfulness i cannot begin to describe here._i think to myself that if everything that crosses the strange frontier built in between being imagined and being made into an image is to be seen, then it might as well be seen by that pair of eyes it was originally intended to -or at least hoped to- be viewed by._ but i'm not sure about how much i really want such a pair of eyes to set themselves upon something specifically made for them._and that's why, maybe, i won't get to making this image into a real object anytime soon._if it's not for them, it's not worth making._there's yet another problem._ most of the times in which i think about an image, specifically in a portrait of some sort, what comes up behind my eyes is something more like a feeling than an actual image._i don't know how to explain it properly._ it's as though i could feel my own face and body as those from the one being portrayed, somehow like transforming into someone else._if i can't feel how a certain gesture feels like -imagining perhaps that there's a strict correspondence between how it feels and how it actually looks-, there's no way i can draw it._it seems, then, that there are a lot of steps i had not accounted for._maybe i'm just too used to thinking that everything that comes out of these little chubby hands is to be in some way a self portrait...

coming in through my ears:: Wolken ziehen vorbei2raumwohnung

2007-02-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

:: blameworthy ignorance ::

i don't know what to do._and i don't say it as a desperate statement in the midst of a terrible depression._as a matter of fact, it has little to do with feeling sad, or even upset._i simply do not know how i should act most of the time._i don't know to what extent what i'm doing is appropriate, if it's something i do by letting my mind slip, or after careful examination of the circumstance._ i don't know if i should stop myself from speaking, or if i should let my tongue lose and turn my brain off or if i should hush and think carefully about every single word._i haven't the slightest idea as to what consequences every gesture and shift of tone of my skin may have, i can't tell between what i would and would not do anymore._and the problem, it seems, concerns not only what i later find out about my own self, but rather that every single waking moment i end up making a mess of things without even noticing it._ i don't want to live my life second questioning insignificant choices -although i definitely hope to do so with those choices that actually have a large influence on the large picture of life-, i don't want to have to worry about not having been perfectly aware of every cause and consequence of every word and look and pause and silence._but it seems i'm stuck._how can i even star to let go of so many things if i'm not even able to lay back and be once more unaware of how terribly difficult it is to make part of an articulate group?_how can i begin to convince myself that everything will, in the end, turn out to be all right when leaving before time seems to me as some sort of infamous thing to do?_ why am i always so certain that the centre of my life cannot and will not be separated from what i had grown so incredibly fond of?
i cannot say how much i'm saddened by the fact that there's nothing i can contribute in someone else's happiness._not in absence, not in presence._ there's simply nothing to be done to aid someone in pain._ i can't take it away, i can't heal it, i can't divert his mind from it, i can't, perhaps, even fully understand it, despite how hard i may try._ and it's terribly frustrating to be in such a situation; i am, in the end, not part of a great whole in which i had once hoped to play a great role._ the thing about how things evolve is that they seldom act in ways i can predict and control; people are always falling out of my range of view, of my field of action._it hurts much more to know that that someone is in pain than it hurts to hurt by my own self._i don't know why i feel guilty, but i do.

coming in through my ears:: Such great heights//The Postal Service

2007-02-22T21:34:00.000-05:00

:: dressierten Affen ::

"wir müssen nur wollen".
i think that's the whole issue here, having to want._but wanting, as i've been told, cannot be void, it is always of a determinate, particular, in time and space located thing._if it weren't for that, all would be much easier._ i could tell myself that the point of it all is that despite the fact of not wanting anything at this particular moment of my life, i still want something in the long run._ but that may not be nearly enough to make me sleep well and keep me from drinking 7 cups of coffee every day._ it may not even be enough to keep my mind at rest when sitting on that bus, or in that classroom, when reading, writing, singing and talking none sense._ i, for some strange reason, have made myself want things i know not for certain if i want right now, just for the sake of wanting something._there are moments in which i clearly can tell the difference between wanting them for their own sake and wanting them merely for wanting; but, then again, there are many many times in which i know not if my desire is genuine or the consequence of a false belief._ i may never find out._and then i wonder if i can truly say that such a difference exists, if there is, within me, something that could begin to shed light upon the matter, or that if even is important that a difference in origin makes the passion -so to speak- be something different, regarding what the desire itself implies or what it may lead to._mh.

coming in through my ears::Müssen nur wollen//Wir sind Helden

2007-02-21T20:26:00.000-05:00

:: shame ::

i can't get over the fact that i am much more out of myself than i ever thought i was._i can't get over the fact that i struggle every day when waking up against memories of what i don't want to dream about._i can't get over the fact that i am no more than this lonely self in the night._but i must get over it._over it all._over myself.

coming in through my ears::

2007-02-19T11:23:00.000-05:00

:: swollen nose ::

i wonder why it is so easy to deceive one self into thinking that there's a simple way of figuring out what goes on behind one's eyes._the more i think about it, the more i know that there is not much to go around when facing the hard truth of being not entirely awoken to what is so clearly going on._ i wish i could tell myself otherwise, i wish i could once again begin believing that i am in control of what this "here" or "now" is; but control is not my strong suit; it has never been._how to stop myself from breaking down into the smallest pieces i can imagine? how to stop giving way to what i want not to be me?_i thought it was a matter of not pausing, of not ceasing to be for any given amount of time; i thought it was just a matter of staying on track, where ever that would lead me, of moving always with one foot in front of the other, eyes fixed on a future i believe to be there, but not in any determinate way._and i walk still, no idea as to where i'm headed, with eyes completely shut, thinking it to be the best, only to know that in my many moments of terrible weakness, i wake up to the truth of not having yet awoken, of being still immersed in a barely conscious state of mind._is it then a small pause what i need, despite not at all what i crave? has it finally become clear that i can't handle what is most definitely out of my reach? should i just stop trying to keep walking?_what can come of stillness?

coming in through my ears::Helter Skelter//The Beatles

2007-02-16T01:20:00.000-05:00

:: run run gingerbread girl ::

i remember hearing someone say "i'm the happiest world in my person"._ to him it was a great discovery, but i could never understand that fully._to think that many worlds were given inside his little head and that such thing as 'happiness' could be said of them was something i could not begin to picture._ i remember him saying a great deal of other things that were to him, and maybe just to him, a great deal._ now i sit and wonder why it is that i can only do small talk when surrounded with certain people with whom i had in another world -perhaps- spoken of bigger and more important matters._ it is not that i have become suddenly void -there's no such thing here implied as not having been void previously-, or that i find it difficult to centre myself on things that would allow me to properly speak._no, i think it's more of a feeling of derangement in what is given by the interaction with them, as though i could not understand the fact that they, indeed, are the same ones as before._and so i talk about my parents -which i do very seldom amongst other people- and day to day things that are not at all relevant._it may be just a question of fear, of admitting once more to be terribly vulnerable to scrutiny, of being a new world to them and they being a new world to me._ the question of how to approach such a complex mixture of things makes me want to bite my own tongue in fear of being my own ridiculous self with my own ridiculous beliefs, of being examined and judged._but then i know and feel and think that running away from something as valuable as speaking with my own voice is an act of cowardliness i cannot afford at these times._again, who is this speaking and to whom is everything addressed?_clearly much more is lost than a single person in this scheme; a lot of worlds have vanished, hopefully not the happiest one of them all.

coming in through my ears::Sören purring on my belly

2007-02-12T15:37:00.000-05:00

:: unfold ::

and then there was that rain again._i could have walked for many miles without caring much for the strands of hair unevenly running down the yellowish pale tone of my skin, or for the small bruises inflicted by these somehow over worn shoes, or for the tremor of my then almost frozen hands, or for the sweat salted water making its way through my eyebrows, straight into my eyes._ i most definitely would have not cared at all for any of that._but to feel the piercing pain that the tiny drops of that water that once crashed against the window of that train in which i was never to be found -but in which i was certainly lost- was too much to make myself walk in that rain._and so i got on that bus, with my wet shoes squishing and creaking and croaking all about, and sat beside an old woman that reminded me of the person i will someday become._she complaint about my shoes, saying that it was not good enough to walk these streets with undone shoelaces and holes in the bottom, that it just didn't cut it to let myself get cold for a little stroll._and when the rain stopped, as it always does, the pain shifted from my skin to my eyes, and the remembrance of times past found its way to this exterior setting, this confusing new here._so i'll walk just a little bit farther, trying to undo the tight knots into which my life has slowly developed._i'll just walk, rain or shine.

coming in through my ears::Pablov's Daqughter//Regina Spektor

2007-02-08T22:47:00.000-05:00

:: preacher man ::

and then there was light._and that hurt my eyes, as it usually does._staring into it i fight my impulses, i struggle against this self-preservation instinct, i burn my own retinas out._but it's nice, it's worth every single second of sight._so many colours invade my head that it becomes ever so hard to concentrate on shapes, rather than shades._so many textures divert me from the borders, so much movement all around, so much of so much...and then there was no other thing to look at, or perhaps there never was any other thing to stare into._i think of the barrier put between my salted self and this salted world and think that maybe i should try and cross it, tear it down, demolish it, trample upon it; or maybe just sidetrack it._'cause i don't want to think things in terms of absence, i don't want to stare vaguely, i don't want to simply hear, i don't want to simply stray._there is certainly more to life than this, but maybe not much more than life... but life is so much, so much._i'm finally willing wanting, despite how little sense that may make.

coming in through my ears::Consequence of Sound//Regina Spektor

2007-02-07T20:05:00.000-05:00

:: fuck ::

turns out there's no job._no money._no chance to get out of here._and just when things started looking up._this world owes me big time._it'd better give me some great love or luck from which i will not be able to look down from._and soon.

coming in through my ears::mi selección trying to even the score

2007-02-06T17:03:00.000-05:00

:: pickles are just pickles ::

i'm frightened to think that all of this is all there is._it can most certainly not be, for i am but a child._new born eyes in a world much older than i can imagine._the existence of many, to whom i relate to merely in terms of the time shared comes into focus as some sign of something greater, incomprehensible just yet._my trust in "so weit ich weiß, teilen wir dieselbe Zeit" may be nothing other than one of my many puerile delusions._i haven't been here long enough to share enough time with, well, anyone, really._and it is when i think of all the time that is to come, and the lack of certainty of my sharing it with anyone, that my stomach ties up in a knot and i think that life is a most astounding thing._there are seconds, hours and years to come; what will come of them? not knowing anything at all is part of the charm of it all, and yet terrifying._ the crossroads that have led me to imagine that i make part of a greater scheme slowly vanish and shift direction; those known become unknown and those that will forever remain absent become slowly shapes and shadows mimicking these illusions behind my eyes._will the conversations i've had with my own self ever come to be, if not exactly as pictured, at least somehow alike?_so much time spent on thinking about how to spend time, so much energy implemented in saving up energy for the best part of this 'whole', so much colour and movement that has not yet come to be... how does one get near someone else? how does one break the necessary barrier built between glares and suggestive looks? is there anyway in which i could start to leave myself to come back to something other than me?_and then i think, after having heard it a lot of times now, that people are just people, just that._and oh how hard it is to understand such a simple arrangement of words; people... not merely the plural of persons, now, is it?._and even if it were, it's still much harder to understand what a single person is in order to understand what the plural of such one thing could be._can one really think in terms of many persons known, unknown, slightly known and merely acquainted?_i sincerely don't know._it all comes out of focus after having spent the last four days trapped in this small room, staring into this monitor in hopes of some cure or answer to my isolation._are those with whom i talk through this pixelated reality really the ones i have had the chance to stare into in several occasions?_am i the same one with whom they spend their time?_is this voice the same for the one that writes and the one that reads, and speaks, and draws and sings? i may be a little to febrile to keep writing...

coming in through my ears::Cucumber Slumber//Weather Report

2007-02-02T14:15:00.000-05:00

:: cry baby, cry ::

i refused myself the possibility of crying for a long time._there were many many years in which i would not allow myself to shed a single tear, no matter what._the impression that gave me of myself was one of strength, courage, and a lot of other things i thought were worthy of having._i found out, not too long ago, that such an impression, aside the fact of being not at all accurate, was detrimental to myself._so i started crying again._ well, i had my reasons, i guess._ i cried for two months, and then again a couple of weeks ago._ the pain does not dilute into the salted water running down my cheeks, nor is it liberated in any way i can -still today- notice._though the pain stuck to my heart, my eyes found it somehow easier to let go of the stiff, tough look i could not stare into in the mirror._last night i cried again._ but not for the reasons i thought to be there present._ i cried for hours, without the least idea as to why something i had seen and heard and thought about before then struck me as one of the most horrid things to put out there, for others to see._in the middle of the night, alone in my bed, with nothing more than the pale light of the television set to save me from the gelid darkness and the remote control in my hands, i cried myself to sleep._that's a bit scary.

coming in through my ears::a dog barking by the window

2007-01-29T22:12:00.000-05:00

:: ::

walking down the staircase, noticing the squeaking of just the left foot, checking both sides, blinking, once, twice, thrice._there's not much left in my pockets, not much left in my head, not much left in this room, but that could not begin to be my problem._ oh no, my problem is of a different nature, something closer to the non-squeaking of the right foot; that was never right, now that i think about it._ but there's no such thing as right, despite my wishes of there being such one thing._ the amber lighting that once struck me as amazing turned today into a silvery blue shade upon buildings i had never seen in such a manner._ very hard it was to believe that it was, once again, my eyes deceiving me... but that would suppose thinking that there is some kind of limit between what's true and what's not... and this is no time to suppose anything._my not-that-much-to-the-left hand is starting to tremble more strongly and frequently, should i worry? should i believe that there is something behind such trembling? should... bad word, bad bad word...

coming in through my ears::

2007-01-29T00:47:00.000-05:00

:: hush ::

my heart is wrapped in a slight whisper._ the little creases of thin air exhaled by others cling to the velvet-like walls of this pumping beast a little to the left of the middle of my chest._shapes and tones are now irrelevant, not quite present, but not quite gone._ the resonance of colours once sought through the almost sealed reflective eyelashes ceases not to undermine this faint smile i consider so mine, so properly bestowed upon my face by means i dare not tell here._i am now half asleep, but dare not start to dream; dreams are much too dangerous for those of us that live our lives in doubt of what may be._and then it beats again, if not for the first time, if not for the last._and though my mind would rather have no object, no feel, no more, this little heart of mine listens carefully to the aired voices in this room._if only there were no more than such faint sounds... soon my lashes will once again close my eyes to the world and soon my hands will cease their movement and my mind become numb._soon, soon, everything is always soon, too soon.

coming in through my ears::

2007-01-25T23:40:00.000-05:00

:: 32 still counts ::

sometimes i think that memories are just made up images in my head, that nothing that has happened, to this day, can hold the title of a real thing._ things just change so suddenly that i have no time to think about whether or not they were really a part of my life._ maybe nothing has really been a part of my life, maybe all that happiness belonged to others,for others to see, to touch, to feel, to hear, maybe not for me, maybe not here, not now, just then , just there._ but how can one tell the difference between a real thing and a fake thing? continuity??? that has to be a load of crap... you clearly cannot trust the world to remain the same for two seconds, and if you can't trust the world, surely you can't trust people, and if you can't trust people, you can't trust yourself, and, if you can't trust yourself, then, there's really not much to think about now, is there? thinking may not be the best thing, feeling is clearly the worst thing one could ever imagine doing, trusting is impossible, writing makes no difference, silencing oneself is no different from doing anything else._ it just depends on your mood, and your mood depends on everything... now i'm back again to "what am i to do with all this fire?". CRAP

coming in through my ears::nothing

2007-01-25T22:38:00.000-05:00

:: duduba, dudubaba ::

ich bin ja betrunken._ wenn man betrunken ist, sollte man nicht schreiben._ aber es ist mir ganz egal._ ganz ganz egal._betrunken oder nicht betrunken, es ist immer dieselbe Sache._ there are times in which i think about myself in such a manner, that being completely drunk and dancing and ordering more drinks is something more than a shameful thing._ but not when i'm drunk._ it feels somehow natural, despite the irrepressible feeling of being someone else inside my head, despite of my feet moving to a beat a cannot understand nor feel, i cannot represent inside my head, this tiny little head of mine._but i do it, over and over and over again._ no reason, no purpose, no nothing._ i just lose myself in me, in a me i cannot tell about, i cannot show anything of, i cannot describe, i cannot feel if nor present, i cannot remember clearly, i cannot be -well, if i could only be for a couple more minutes a day, then maybe i would find something interesting to tell, or show, or feel, or know...-._ i think my problem is thinking that there's somebody out there that could really have some kind of interest in these little conversations of mine with me... i think my problem is one of egocentric nature, one of narcissistic interest, one of many i have only to fight with myself._being here, without really being here is mesmerizing... i am not me, i am not anyone, i am not someone, but, i am not no-one._there's still a heart beating in my chest, for no one, but me._ das genügt. [and then i think... thirty two is still a goddamn number, thirty two still counts, gonna make it count, gonna make it count, gonna ah, ah, ah... LONG LIVE THE KING; LONG LIVE THE QUEEN... ]

coming in through my ears::Oedipus//Regina Spektor

2007-01-14T23:20:00.000-05:00

:: better ::

and so my mouth opens and comes out a monster i knew not to be mine, reflecting the gushing blood that my arteries contain, and so this voice so unknown to me rushes out, out, so out, i know not to chase it, i know not to hold it, i know not to tame it._i leave this place for a single moment and come back soon enough to leave again and fail to realize that it is not my thing to lose myself in these short breaths that would have to be deeper and stronger and much more defined._and so i come and go and know again how good it feels to be living this one life that i've been given, this only chance to do and undo myself with my own self as honourer and punisher, as judge and victim, as me with me with i with her with all with none._and now i would say that if you kissed me where it's sore i would feel better, but maybe sores are not to be kissed, anyway._these are good times, and the lack of many things valued seems not to overcome the joy brought by so many things present and so this "bittersusser Schmerz" is clearly much sweeter, the joyfull sweetness of things my own.

coming in through my ears::Better//Regina Spektor

2006-12-23T12:57:00.000-05:00

:: smooth passing of my imagination from one to another ::

i had a dream last night._we were friends, as we used to._we walked around in the building i don't think we've ever been in together, taking several escalators and lifts in order to get to the fifth floor, that turned out to be the fourth._and then i hugged you, from behind, as i used to._it felt warm, nice._then the doors opened and there was a circus, and we parted -"im Zirkus wie in wahrem Leben-._ in dem Rampellicht sieht man meine weiße Schminke, ich steh' dahinter..."

coming in through my ears::

2006-12-18T11:24:00.000-05:00

:: akai ::

let's just say if i was to paint a portrait of myself, i would need no other colours._it just drives me to it._it just pulls me towards it, making me aware of the power to be explored by it._maybe because of that, the mere thought of me portrayed in such tones is somehow inappropriate._maybe i'm something more of a nauseating yellow -colour of cowards, to say the least-, or a mediocre swampy green._but it would have to be red._it could not be any other, if i was to actually take a shot at painting it._but i don't think i'll do it, not any time soon._ i'm way too scared of taking a real long careful look at myself in order to do so._ my self portraits are mere imitations of the way my face feels when i draw; representations of an image i do not see, of a somehow nonexistent object._ at the end that marked the beginning of all this, red was not a relevant part of my perception of self, i usually drew little brown sketches with highlighted purple areas, in remembrance of one such night that is never again to be the lead role in my life._ but lately, red appears in unsuspected places among my drawings, driving my eyes and my hands to the cellulose stretched before me, captivating my attention and sensibility, making it ever so real...

coming in through my ears::

2006-12-17T23:14:00.000-05:00

:: Doppelkopf ::

i remember telling someone, a couple of years back, that i needed something on me to remind me that the consequences of leading a life based on contradiction can never vanish as easily as the consciousness of such consequences./ the funny thing about reminders is that they seldom work the way one expects them to, this little circling ruptured black-inked scar that strangely but proudly stands out over my too pale and prominent belly has not yet begun to make me conscious of what it should./maybe such an odd thing is owed to the fact that the little black snake, swallowing itself shows the power of only one side of a powerful dichotomy./ maybe it even stands for what was meant to be forgotten and not for what was meant to be remembered./ i believe sometimes that putting myself in a situation where two sides of this same self stand forever in conflict is not at all the best thing to do, even though it may seem like the only thing to do -and to have been done- throughout my life./ there are things i cannot know for sure whether i know or i merely believe -or want to believe, for that matter-, but the strength with which they present themselves makes me wonder; and oh how i like to wonder... two heads are always needed; if conflict is to be worth any struggle at all, then one cannot have the prevalence of just one side, even if such prevalence is self-defeating -to use terms different from my own./i've said it many times before, i cannot understand myself through just one of my selves; moreover, i do not want to./ i have no answers for myself, i can only look to strange reminders and things i think to be signs of one of those things i think i believe i know./yet another circling black inked scar is soon to commemorate things to be left unsaid, standing out in the midst of this overgrown white belly of mine.

coming in through my ears::uno más//ruidomadre

2006-11-14T21:05:00.000-05:00

:: "wie lang noch kann ich so taurig sein?" ::

es gibt ja nichts, worüber ich schreiben könnte. ich bin einfach müde, ruhelos und kaum lebendig.ich wollte nicht schreiben, aber schweigen ist genau so dumm wie alles. und,ich kann mich überhaupt nicht mehr beschweren, denn ich habe gar nichts mehr. gab es jemals irgendwas? ich trinke und rauche und mache Sachen, die mir nicht so gut gefallen. alles ist mir aber ganz egal.dann denke ich dran, an solche Zeiten, wann alles so einen Sinn hatte. ich will nie mehr traurig sein, ich will nie mehr diese Person, die jetzt schreibt, sein. nie mehr. "blick nie zurück". schon verstanden.

coming in through my ears::

2006-10-06T17:08:00.000-05:00

:: goodbye::

that's all there is to say about anything

coming in through my ears::

2006-07-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

:: grudges ::

i tend to hold grudges for very long periods of time._ i find it somehow too complicated to simply let go of things i could've once felt as painful or annoying; i know i have a great deal of trouble with the mere concept of forgiveness._ although i know that it is impossible to live without having the ability of forgiving, up till now, i have found it to be a much easier answer to isolate myself, to take distance from all those -and oh they are so many- with whom i would not be comfortable talking about those little impulses behind my eyes that make me at times have to decide between screaming and swallowing my tounge._ the thing is, to say it as simply as i can, i sometimes feel as betraying myself when i utter something like "it's alright", or "don't worry about it"._ i know i've never really meant it; sometimes the rage, or the pain, or the sadness fades away masked by the short lasting feeling of moral satisfaction, but in the end it always comes back to haunt me: in my dreams, in my imaginary conversations, in my drawings, everywhere._the faces of those i dare not look at for fear of thrusting a terrible stare show up everywhere, reminding me of how terrible it was for me not to let myself complain and explode and speak my mind and just tell them i could never ever begin to even forgive and forget the things done to me or someone else._but it is too highly valued, this unpleasant politeness, this almost too incomprehensible way of handling things, for me to be able to once let go and sit quietly, all to my self, without all those terrible ghosts of the past and the past to be._funny enough, i am one to beg for forgiveness all the time._ i somehow manage to get everything wrong, every single moment i screw up something, i hurt someone, i let my lack of attention and contemplation arise and show, i let myself be me, this horrid me._is it possible that there be someone really capable of forgiving? is it really really possible for someone to let go of rage and hate and pain and struggle? is it possilbe to become somehow become free through it? could i for once stop running?

coming in through my ears::Björk //Our Hands

2006-06-26T10:46:00.000-05:00

:: recalcitrating fears ::

every two hours, or so, i take a deep breath and divert my mind from those little voices in my head; yes, those that tell me that there's no greater lie than the one that states that it is all, in the end, going to end up well. i slowly close my eyes and build up conversations in german that could persuade me into believing that there is nothing to fear, that here, as everywhere -and for that matter, anywhere- things seem to flow, as they should, without caring much for my fears._ but, there are times, when the simple act of breathing-closing eyes-imaginig friends i do not have, is not enough._ to my mind come a thousand images of times already past, in which i had found myself absolutely terrified by the smallest of things; a million tears wasted on unimportant matters, the belief that a very loud scream could bring some kind of security to 'my here'._i don't scream anymore, or bash my head into the walls of my room -that would imply that i would have to wash off the stains of blood before i left, something i am by no means willing to do-, but the same kind of stomach-turning self inflicted wounds are today present, as they were thousand times before.
i'm thinking about staying here; well, more accurately, i think from time to time about the possibility of not going back as soon as i should._ the thought doesn't seem to stick for long, not long enough to actually become an intention, something i would do something about._ last night i had a dream in which i was completely devastated for having returned home without having done anything of worth._ i woke up immersed in a most disturbing state of emotions, not knowing if the words i uttered in my dreams -"i don't want to live here"- reffered to this here, or the past and future here._anyway, it hasn't turned out to be a good day; maybe i'm letting myself get overinvolved with what i think._ the lack of friends with whom i could spend my time has made me too much self-aware to tell the difference between what i want and what i once thought i wanted._ perhaps i'll even go mad; who am i to know that?.
i spoke to my mother recently, and what she had to say left me worried, frustrated and feeling a bit as a traitor._ after all, i'm here, in part, running away from all -well, all except him- i left behind._things are messed up back home._and i'm not doing anything about it; i'm not doing anything about anything._ i think i've lost a couple of months of my life.

coming in through my ears::Penumbra //Spinetta

2006-06-08T11:34:00.000-05:00

:: on a thursday afternoon ::

and then she found herself, just sitting there, as she had done so many times before. the smoke from that already stinking cigarrette crawled up her fingertips, making its way to her head, to her nostrils, once so small, once so frail. the image of the fire itself, consuming the small tobacco strands that minutes back she had carefully rolled up in a little cillinder was something that would forever prevail in her memory. there was something mesmerizing about it all, something strangely seductive; as if the possibility of being reactive to the non-existent -or merely not evident- flame in the same fashion as that with which she poisoned herself were enough to make her believe that all would, in the end, be in order. she turned her head and smiled at that absent self, whispering a couple of words of such incalculable importance that they should remain unsaid. fixing her eyes upon that nothing she so valued, she made herself confess the greater sectrets of her soul, in a foreign languaje, so that not even herself could begin to understand what was here being said. but the truth was, and is still, that there were no ears present in that room filled with great white clouds of recently exhaled smoke to hear what she had for so long wanted to say. for years she had dreamt of a moment of great communion, of the realization of the high hopes all -including one of her many selves- had posited in her future. yet, the one thing about the future, the essential quality of it, so to speak, is that it is necessarily not present. and so she dreamt still, but just that, she just dreamt. one thousand billion conversations that were never to take place in her 'real' life invaded her little head; one, or two, or three pairs of eyes occupied her mind, as she kept on smiling and speaking for herself, but obviously not to herself. she could only think about that special something in those special kinds of eyes she had recently had the oportunity to give a name to; such a provisional name that had once been her own, but that there, so far from all she had known and dared to call hers, stuck to her mind with amazing strength. what was there to be said about those eyes she had fallen for way back as she was still the little creature filled with fear that with hard headedness had stayed unfaithful to what was always the way she knew she was to take. not much. no, not that much, aside from the testimony of that terrible pain, that in the form of a burning knot kept corroding through her stomach every single second that passed without those eyes filled with so much beauty one could never even begin to describe them. she focused once more on her cigarrette, now merely a couple of centimeters long, but still slowly vanishing due to the tiny flames she could not tell appart from the smoke. she was, after all, alone in that new home she had made for herself, still hoping she would once be heard, but letting herself not do much in favour of such a wish. her hands were already somewhat yellow, her skin had dried up and she had forgotten again to clip her fingernails. they appeared to be somehow more femenin in that almost decadent state; she wasn't really sure she liked that.

coming in through my ears:: hunter//Björk

2006-05-16T13:44:00.000-05:00

:: linkshändig ::

i'm beginning to fear that my english is going away slowly. all these new german words are taking over my brain, at astounding speed, without asking for my permission to invade that little side of my brain that is reserved for this other language. it's becoming hard to utter complete sentences when there's the need of speaking in english, the grammatical structure seems to get mixed up, revolve around a verb that in other circumstances would have no way of being at the end. i suppose it's normal, but nonethelesss frightening. it makes me think that i have not the capacity of learning more than one thing, that everything that's new necessarily pushes something known out of the reach of consciousness. deswegen (see what i mean?), i must try, at least, to write as much in english as i possibly can, while speaking, hearing and writing in german during these three months.
i'm beginning to write with my left hand again. the handwriting, of course, is that of a three year old -age at which i stopped using my left hand for writing-, but the possibility of it becoming better or somehow more fluent or elegant is not what drives me to writing once more through it. i discovered yesterday that it takes so much effort to get a messagacrossss with such weak pulse and blurry letters, that a new perspective of things reopens, so to say. as i was writing a small letter, i found myself feeling exactly how i did on a friday morning when i was five. i remember it perfectly, for it was an incredible sensation of empowerment that overflowed on that occasion. i was sitting on my desk, at school, filling in with orange anochrere a littlstenciled out bee. i had been trying for a very long time to get the colours to fit exactly the shape, to get it to look as though i was already in control of everything over the paper spread in front of me. i remember being in the kindergarten and feeling frustrated for not being allowed to use my left hand to colour, frustrated for not being able to do the same things i knew i could do on a daily basis with this wrong hand -now a bit stronger and more precise when it comes to certain tasks-, frustrated to know that right was not the right hand at all. then, one day, it seemed to me that all difficulties vanished into thin air; i could colour the bee with sucprecisionon that no left hand was to be needed. and so i became a right-handed person. nowadays, it seems that despite the development of so many new capacities and dispositions in this right-hand of mine, mi sinister left keeps struggling to gain once more control over my life. perhaps it was not enough to let her brush my teeth and comb my hair, hold the wine glass and the beer bottle and roll up thcigaretteses; she still wants to write. and so, i as a hold the pen on the hand with the little freckle on the finger and the unbruised thumb, i see the world in the same fashion i did when i was five and sitting on my desk. and i like it. the lines, despite not being so clear and decided are certainly more voluble and voluptuous, somehow delicately delicious. there's something almost erotic to it all. i guess that's why they call it sinister.

coming in through my ears:: what i say//Miles Davis

2006-05-05T05:24:00.000-05:00

:: ::

it takes a lot of me to write here. although i have so many things to talk about and so manny matters to adress, it seems as though it makes no difference whether i decide to do it here or not; well, a little difference. i´ve become somehow more aware of the way i´m used to viewing things, this solitude in which i am most of the time to be found has somehow brought forth into the light many new sides of previous thoughts i had long considered as fixed in only one direction. today, for example, i find it ever so difficult to keep my mind away from political and religious issues -well, maybe "religious" is not at all the correct word, perhaps i should limit myself to saying "matters of belief"- and the ever changing dynamics of interpersonal contact. i suppose that´s what happens when one drifts away from all things known and is forced to survive -and moreover live- only with what oneself can provide. so many questions rise, so little hope for real answers, so little hope for ways in which answers could one day be found.
it is indeed an overwhelming experience, all of it.

coming in through my ears::the S-bahn passing by

2006-04-23T06:09:00.000-05:00

:: ... ::

and then there are times when you just feel lonely.

2006-02-12T16:12:00.000-05:00

:: distorted ::

this kind of uncertainty is quite astonishing; i find myself being scared most of the time, of a great number of different things. while i try to discover exactly where it all ought to begin and end, a shiver keeps going up and down my spine, as if i were about to collapse into the ground, as i've done a couple of times in the past. it may be just too much to handle at once; then again, there may not be anything to handle at all.
i'm afraid my grandfather will die soon, while i am away. the one man i've praised and adored and refused to see as a mere mortal is soon to leave this place. i had tried so hard to evade thoughts of such an event for so long, that i can no longer remember the last time i was truly afraid of it happening. but now the terrible confirmation of how easily life can turn into its opposite makes me wonder if i was right to run away from considering it as it is, as it has always been and how it will always be
we all drift away with such ease that it seems difficult to remember times when all was different, when we all shared something i cannot now sense or describe. people just fade out into the background of my life; it has been so for ever. S is going away for good, i do not know why he chose to keep me away from his side, i don't know where i took a wrong turn, what i could've done to hurt him, to make him despise me. it's funny how it happens not only with him, but with most everyone. i hope he'll be happy, or at least well. i know now i don't have to think about all those that have left without leaving something behind of them for me; perhaps it is and was better that way. i'll leave too; and as they did, i'll chose with whom to leave a bit of myself behind.

coming in through my ears:: Disturbed synapses//Badmarsh & Shri

2006-01-01T19:34:00.000-05:00

:: ::

recent theological discussions have brought back memories of a time when i trusted all to be in order, all to be set out in ways that, despite my lack of understanding of them, were entirely planned out and controlled along the way. this trust in how things are supposed to be made life somehow easier -while not at all less painful. i've lost my trust; i've lost the certainty and the feeling of security that it once brought. now i stand almost by myself forced to face this incredible chance of being something entirely different from what i've always knew me to be, facing it with somewhat of a contradictory impulse towards it. i don?t exactly know why i refuse to let myself dive head first into this; it is as though i was too scared to rest assured that all things will be for the best. i am so very scared; and yet, so exhilarated i cannot tell today from tomorrow.

coming in through my ears:: I want my baby back//Stevie Wonder

2005-11-08T20:40:00.000-05:00

:: long enough ::

perhaps it has been long enough. although, there's no way of actually knowing if that is the case. sometimes i wonder how long it would take me to realize that all of this could be nothing more than a lie or nothing less than a sweet desire for something different. all the same i keep going on, trying to try to do things which i know not if i do wish for. time just seems to catch up with me, and with its particular way of standing still and sprinting, shows me how terribly futile all efforts may be. as soon as i begin to let loose a little bit of hope, a little bit of pride, comfort and lust, the moment vanishes into thin air, what i longed for appears as an ever so distant mere possible something, and i fall back to my now usual mistrust of what i may -or may not- want.
i've writen long enough about what drove me to stop drawing, but now, it seems, it makes no sense to continue believing in the reasons once given. once again i find my self in the situation where i have to make a stop and decide which me is to prevail. and i haven't the least idea.

coming in through my ears:: Sie kann fliegen//2raumwohnung

2005-10-11T19:29:00.000-05:00

:: in press ::

i've never been one to write much. all my life i've been told that what was set out for me was something by all means different, at all aside. and still, as with most things, i found it hard to stay on just one side of a dicotomy, to choose one path over another. i opened a blog one day, for i could no longer understand myself through only one tool, through only one me. a green, pixelated space recieved with no special grace a clumsily organized set of characters supposedly meant to mean something. but, by then, i knew that such a way of being -and being shown-, allthough necessarilly mine, was neither entirely mine, nor entirely me; that neither all that is 'me' nor all that there lay could honestly conclude with my name. and so i found that having this other name and writing in this other languaje were just means of making the strange my own, and my own, strange. but yet another burden was to be found along the way, despite the aparent conciliation between two paths that were never to cross, for my nimious little self struggled still to make its way through the swarm of serious accusations against 'me' that almost on a daily basis saw the light. this new linguistic me gave no way for the stubborn clown-like thing always behind my eyes. since i cannot hold myself down, and it is not entirely the same self that speaks at all times, i opened yet another blog, yet another me. and while i'm just as often one and the other, for those who read, it seems, that there is just one or the other. they may not be necessarily wrong.

coming in through my ears:: Pro-test// Mia

2005-09-29T21:24:00.000-05:00

:: one such not so important matter ::

reading Aristotle always brings a smile to my face. despite however complicated and obscure it may be, there's a certain sense of comfort in those words therein written. i know not how or when i grew fond of such a kind of philosophy, all i know is that with every day past i become more drawn to it. it is as though i was submerged in an everchanging sea of marvels without being able to really get a grasp of what makes it so appealing. perhaps it is just that i find an amazing amount of beauty in what, for so many others, appears to be an account of a cold and calculating way of facing philosophical matters. but what i read there seems to be so much more of a confession of amazement and passion for sharing what has come to be seen as a fact that i can do nothing different from simply enjoying.
Miguel said that the kind of work that an author as Aristotle demands seems to be at times too arid, that it becomes difficult to think of what's being studied in terms of actual things in life, actual ways of seeing or living one's life. i beg to differ. i've come to realize that many things that were -and may still remain- unsettled in respect to my way of living have become in many ways shaped by what i read, by what i discuss, by what i want to believe is found in certain words. and it doesn't really matter whether or not what i believe to be the cause of this shaping lies, in fact, within the text, for what i wish is not only to know, but to be able to know how to know. and in that sense, going back to the first elements of any given text, no matter how far it may seem to be from the way i 'decide' to live my life, is a way of starting to shape these things i don't know yet to be 'what is important' to life. and so, the grin stays fixed throughout time.

coming in through my ears:: Komm her//Mia

2005-08-29T12:44:00.000-05:00

:: 23rd ::

twenty three years ago HE came into this world.

coming in through my ears:: cars on the 26th

2005-08-25T11:38:00.000-05:00

:: II ::

this blog is, as of today, two years old.

2005-08-13T17:56:00.000-05:00

:: artistic anatomy july 12 ::

i have now enough courage to understand that i am not, by any means, the best at what i do. a while back, such an acknowledgment would have certainly devastated my self-trust, and along with it, my self-esteem. now it doesn't matter quite as much that i cannot draw better or as good as my classmates, it doesn't really make a difference whether or not i'll be known for any skills i might have. for now, it seems only important that i am learning, that my pulse is becoming a little more controlled, that my line will someday be somehow more fluid and elegant and that i now do what i do, simply because i do it.
i had only once drawn a living model; i was stuck copying images derived from my own head, believing that they came from a kind of knowledge of how things were supposed to look like. the truth is that, despite the amount of knowledge that one may have of how things should look like, the way things actually are and how they actually appear before one, is a whole different deal. now, it seems, i must learn how to look, how to see, observe, watch or whatever other verb might be thought of for expressing the act of capturing light through -or with- the eyes and giving it form. i have to learn to see what is seen.
the first class was a little odd. we were introduced to the model and asked to draw her in the pose that she held, caring for details of composition and a general coherence of the drawing. while some have it in them to draw very easily, to translate into lines what their brain has already translated into forms, some of us have to struggle with graphite and whitened cellulose in order to make something necessarily different from the model into a similarity, we find it hard to play demiurges. the teacher, who everyone calls "master" said that we had built our drawings as cheap architects do: we start detail by detail and then move on from one part to the next without caring for connection. the next exercise was then to build a picture starting from the structure, the external structure, the frame of the figure. we took measurements and established proportion, angle and position and proceeded to draw. i found it hard, so very hard to get it right. as i watched what was coming into existence by means of my hands my heart became heavy and i became filled with a sorrow i cannot yet explain. i expected more of myself; but, then again, i now know that not much is to be expected, not quite yet.

2005-08-05T10:44:00.000-05:00

:: ü ::

i'm living the happiest of my possible lives.

coming in through my ears::cars on the 26th avenue

2005-07-19T18:00:00.000-05:00

:: glasses ::

my -new- glasses have a kind of curvature that brings a delightful effect to what is seen through them. right on the corner of the eye, the blurred out images of the outside world start clearing up parallel to the movement of the head; it's as though the world starts being a solid cluster of things in the moment that my eyes set themselves on it. sometimes it looks as if a wave of clarity were flowing over things and infecting them with clear shapes and colours. i get dizzy sometimes, since my eyes are not yet used to the accuracy of everything around them; i take my glasses off and, with a slight disappointment, realize that the world i've known is no more that a poor image that my brain -in collaboration with my eyes- struggled to form.
even though i know that what i see through these glasses is what i am supposed to see -or at least that's what the eye-doctor thinks-, i get the feeling that, despite the clarity of it all, there is something that i am bound to miss. it's happened before; glasses are a means of letting the world in, aswell as a means of leaving some of the world 'out there'. a few years ago, having the other glasses, i went to an art exhibition; everything seemed to come into focus, the lines became solid and defined, the colours brighter and the details seemed to come to life under my sight. but, as i pulled my glasses up, letting my eyes, bare naked, explore what was there to be seen, i found that there was something different, aside from the definition and brightness, it now was my painting, the one i was seeing, not just the one that was to be seen.
although my visual defect is not very large, the world seen just through my eyes is somehow different from the world seen through my glasses, and that, i must say, is rather exciting. i get to decide when to see what i see, and when to see what is meant to be seen. i only have left to hope that this applies not only to my eyes.

coming in through my ears:: ein Elephant für dich//Wir sind Helden

2005-07-13T23:06:00.000-05:00

:: Artistic Anatomy and Great Masters of Modern Art ::

born between months she struggled to find a small space for her piece -and peace- of mind. all those years spent before a blank paper took their toll; what she understood to be a line could not be read nor spoken, not felt nor understood. but a line is a line and forever it will remain as such; it will stand there, imprinted in her white skin curling and straightening in unison with her breathing. she thought it would all be lost once she had found a way to make ends meet, to keep to herself what was meant to herself; that, in the end, the desired balance would make her definitive quality perish. but that need not be so.

i've always thought that drawing is a means of living without thinking, that pure shape and form and texture and light and shadow and absolute darkness are a most encouraging combination of absentminded tools to keep breathing and stop stopping at the mere sight of a contradiction. distancing myself from many people i know, i believe and will probably keep doing so for some time, that in paper not all is possible. a blank piece of paper is not absolute potentiality, every thread of cellulose carries with it a path that will have to be taken by the graphite; in a sense, every sheet carries with it it's own drawing, it's own lines. and so, every time i sit in front of that pure white almost mystic plane, i surrender to the power of it will and strength, that drains whatever residue of mind i may have and submits me to it's eternal flowing and yet static nature. i am the least free while drawing, the least me and yet all there can be of me. how can anyone endure such a struggle between herself and her necessary lack of freedom without perishing in the process? i don't love drawing, perhaps i don't even like it, but oh how i need it. it is as though i was bound to each strand of the paper, to each line of graphite, to each smudge and stain. and because i need it so i will no longer refuse it, i will no longer fight it. i'm as scared as i ever was, i have not the training nor the habit, but i refuse to let go of this.

coming in through my ears::news on television

2005-07-12T23:23:00.000-05:00

:: chitter-chatter ::

i talked to Norma last night, after not knowing what was going on in her life for a while._ it's comforting, i must say; after having written not long ago about distance between friends, it's nice to "hear" from her, know that she's ok.
i'm planning on taking a couple of courses in art this next semester; if all goes well, i'll take 'artistic anatomy'-which is exciting to an incredible extent- and 'great masters of modern art' -which seems absolutely necessary, given my ignorance of current and not so current affairs in the 'artistic world'._aside from those two, i'm planning on taking a seminar on Nietzsche and a course on Husserl as well as attending to a seminar on Aristotle's Physics._ if i manage to do such thing, i will be only three semesters away from graduating: two semesters of seminars and 'electives' and a semester for writing my monography._it seems as though i will be able to prove Amanda wrong, and everyone else who thought that this was not the right choice to make along with her._ i must say, with everyday past, i grow more passionate about what i'm doing, more interested in what is implied by following this path._i guess i'm finally starting to get a notion of what it means to acquire the ever so desired balance between what for so long seemed to be in conflict._if not that, i am, at least, starting to get a taste of the intention of doing so.
you're right, j.,i should just stop dwelling in my fears and take a good look around, to see that those that are here are in fact here, even it if it is just for now._but you must remember that fears are, primarily, haunting, and so, not easy to evade, no, not at all.
i'm getting glasses, on friday._i'm finally going to be protected from that evil light that lurks -yes, funny enough- around every corner._Marta said once that i would look terribly geek-ish with glasses; she's right, i look like a nerd, geek, dork or whatever other name can be thought of._but i'll be a nerd that can see that she's being made fun of, and that's a lot more than what i can say for now.
my mother brought me several books from her trip to spain; Aristotle's Physics , Reproduction of Animals, a manual on medieval philosophy and a book by Montesquieu, which are now of my 'to read' list._ i've read a couple of very interesting articles on Plato's Parmenides and Aristotle's critique to his arguments that are seemingly useful for my monography.

2005-07-08T13:20:00.000-05:00

:: What is shown ::

i've never been to London, but oh how i wish i had._i've never been to Madrid either, nor Tokyo, nor Berlin, nor Regensburg, nor Frankfurt._i've never been to New York, Boston nor Chicago._i've never been anywhere but here, just here, a dynamic here, true, but still, just here._what seems to happen, seems to do so in another location, manifesting itself through a different mattress of time-space.
perhaps it is not really as bad as i would hate hoping it was, but all those things happening outside of my reach can so easily vanish without my knowing or necessary hurting, that it seems frustrating -to say the least- to simply be here, being me, not another, not there._ j. was writing recently about deaths, those one cannot see if they're not shown; it scares me terribly to have to acknowledge the incredible amount of truth -whatever that may mean- in his words._while the world dies, while those far away live their lives, or end them, or turn them around, i am here, merely here, sitting here, complaining about my being here._and while those unknown deaths, un-important deaths for that, may represent the extreme case in which the lack of connection between us here, or just me here, and those there, they are not what worries me most.
for my german course i had to write a little something about friendship; with my ever so limited vocabulary and scarce notions of what is grammatically correct i managed to scrabble a couple of pages._friendship is a hard thing to talk about, namely because those i consider to be my friends

have a tendency to not be here._i have few friends of my own; i have several problems with letting people in, those that do not disappoint me are disappointed by me, and, those that manage to get in and stay don't really stay for long._the brief text was about how my friends are far away; they're not really so far away, we talk, or whatever comes closest to doing so, but still, i miss out on a big part of what it means for them to be them._i wonder if it is not me who is far, seeing that all of them have their lives in their places, without me in them._just thinking that all i have of them is what is showed saddens me, a whole lot.

2005-06-30T20:45:00.000-05:00

:: ::

there's no way to know when, exactly, one will be left just with one's self. there's really no way of predicting how the turn of events will, well, turn. life seems perfecly unpredictable in it's own peculiar regularity of cause-consecuence driven events. it's like water in one's hands. as soon as one thinks a strong grip is the case, all that was held vanishes, simply drips out of control and conscience. people are equally unpredictable, or perhaps more. it seems really really hard to know whether someone exists activelly in one's life or not; all we may have is this instant, with these representations of happenings and of persons. blink and it changes, breathe and it vanishes. but it is just as usless to hold one's breath, to keep one's eyes wide open, or even shut, for there is no reason being followed by the presence of happenings and persons in the succesion of instants. things endure as easilly as they perish, or is it the other way around?
maybe it is too little precise to speak of myself as "being here always", as being the one constant 'thing' here; he stays aswell, and he is him, not me, not i; at least not in the same sense as in which i am me. i'm confused. maybe i'll finish this a bit later.

coming in through my ears:: Sweet Head//David Bowie

2005-06-20T12:54:00.000-05:00

:: diaporein kalos ::

it does make me happy. no matter the struggle or the pain or the anguish. it does. it simply does. for i have found that the joy lies precisely in such pain and such struggle; i'll hate myself later for admitting to this, but Socrates was right, there is nothing more to this than labor. whether i'll be able to give birth to a great idea or not is not really the case. i'll keep breathing, slowly, as softly as i can, i'll keep doing this. this is the great life they all talked about, the coming to my senses in this ever so confusing path i've chosen -and yes, i can now say without guilt or shame that it is my choice- to take.

coming in through my ears:: Sweet Thing// David Bowie

2005-06-02T22:12:00.000-05:00

i am here.

2005-05-25T21:34:00.000-05:00

:: oppositions ::

i was born a gemini. born a contradiction, raised a contradiction. i decided to study philosophy as a way of understanding why the one thing i was recognized as 'good at' presented me with an irresoluble conflict. i'll leave my home soon awaiting a solution. maybe too platonically, i view this world as an opposition between two existing things ; i view myself as two things stuck in one temporary existence. it marvels me to think of how many options there are to be taken, and how few are, in fact, opted for. for there is no thing as hard as the recognition of one's self as a duplicity of desires and constrictions. i blame myself for not being what i had once desired to be, but then i realize i am here, now, doing, acting, suffering, taking pleasure, diverting, focusing, repenting, willing. and so i ask myself if i should acknowledge these two sides to myself as such: as two sides of just one me. the answer is as clear as it is unexplainable, this is me, all i know to be myself is contradictory and yet consistent. it may be philosophically inaccurate to think of this matter in such a simplistic way, but i cannot expect to reach a point where a rational explanation for this feeling in my 'gut' is brought forth. nevertheless, many, many attempts have been made. the identity of self, the platonic Model as a way of erasing the line between intelligible and sensible, the everlasting conflict between the forces of nature and freedom, rigor and beauty, a graphic line and a linguistic line, love and distance, myself and all other.
Porfirio says he can prove that there underlies no dualism to platonic philosophy. i hope he cannot show such a thing. i believe that the beauty in it all lies in the fact that it so gracefully portrays the constant struggle with which the world and ourselves understand what goes on. Unity between two conflicting sides cannot be reached in a peaceful manner; that would certainly imply a dissolution of one or both, an end to the gracefulness and the grandess of the proposed view. Then again, i'll probably end up making efforts beyond my capacity to show that such dual perspective is inadmissible.

coming in through my ears:: miguelito on the phone

2005-05-04T22:37:00.000-05:00

:: tyranny III ::

The worst part of it all is not knowing what's going on. I haven't been able to eat solid foods or speak for a long time now; I'm worried these digitally created letters are all that's left for me. The doctors say it would be healthy to write a journal, to keep track of what goes on in my head, they think it's better not to refuse communication entirely. But what do they know? What could they know? They know nothing; they've known nothing since the start. But I figure it's better to put to rest all these demons in my head, to scream, as strange as it may appear, through this keyboard and this screen.
I woke up one morning with a slight pain in the back of my mouth, I took it for a cold, at most a problem with my tonsils, nothing to be too worried about. I got in the shower, had a big cup of dark coffee and took my bus to class. I hadn't read, so I felt I didn't have to speak, three hours went by in complete silence. By the time I was out of class, rang the phone. While I was trying to utter the word "hello", a sudden, striking, awfully painful contraction took hold of me; my heart pounded so hard it could be heard from the other side of the line. I was scared, I still am, when I think of it. A kind of rusty taste developed in my mouth, and flooding blood came out slowly, then faster, then frighteningly unstoppable. My white striped blue shirt began to turn deep purple; the warm, sticky texture warned me of the graveness of the matter. I had to find help, but there was no one around. I swallowed it, with disgust, then walked to the building where people usually meet. The pain grew stronger, now it wasn't only the burning feel to a mere cut, there was also a sort of pressure and friction, as if there was something trying to make its way through my throat. The phone rang once more and I gathered my strength in order to answer, I knew that simply saying "hello" would be a waste, so I said, rushing, "I love you". That’s the last thing I recall. Someone took me to a hospital, where, as they told me, three different surgeries were performed.
It seems there was massive trauma to the vocal chords and the windpipe, that the esophagus and palate were lacerated in an unexplainable manner. I woke up a few days later, disoriented and pained, in a bed with white bed sheets and a mint-green robe. There were bandages all around my head, neck and part of my chest. My mouth was closed shut by means of four pairs of wires attached to my jaw; I remember my lips burning because of dehydration. A tall, sturdy, white haired doctor approached the bed, and in the tenderest of tones explained to me what they thought had happened. He said I was attacked, for they had found a blood stained dagger next to where I was found, that my aggressors were still on the loose, but that the police were trying very hard to catch them. He said that the recovery was to be very slow, for the cuts and bruises were very deep, but that it was very important that I write a description of what had happened to speed up the police's investigation. So I wrote. They didn't believe a word of it. They thought it was post-traumatic stress. That I was trying to protect someone.
Two awful months went by until my jaw was re-opened. It still hurt very much, but they said that was normal, that I shouldn't try to rush the healing process. I was taught sign language. And got a lap top, and a bell to call whoever was needed. He was always there, feeding me soup through a straw, believing that "I love you" was not the last thing to ever come out of my mouth. Sadly, he was right.
it was a good day, I was feeling rather good, my throat no longer hurt and I was able to breathe almost normally. A big smile was set upon my face, the contraction of the muscles felt strange, but very very good. And as I prepared myself to speak once more, a silver blade stuck out as if reaching for the fresh air after a storm. I almost died this second time, too much blood was lost, too much life was spent. I went back to the hospital and stayed there a month and a half connected to several tubes and monitors. The iterating sound still haunts me in my dreams, where I scream my lungs out, where I scream until my ears hurt. The doctors said that the "aggression theory" was rebutted, and that they now thought a tumor of some kind was to be held responsible. Tens of tests were made, no results were found to be decisive.
I don't know what to do. Everyday a little bit of hope is lost. I may never be heard -of- again.
tyranny III is being published before tyranny II, while the latter is still being conceived.

coming in through my ears:: Von hier an Blind// Wir sind Helden

2005-04-30T21:19:00.000-05:00

:: tyranny 1. ::

Miami, May 1st, 2005. Thousands of people gathered today in front of the resting place of two of the greatest musical geniuses to ever cross the Rio Grande. Coming from all over the world, the followers of the "Paz, amor y mucho Ron" [peace, love and lots of rum] movement sang in mass unforgettable songs of the once unbeatable group "Los Bicharacheros" throughout the night. A mattress of exotic flowers and folkloric traditional Guatemalan dresses decorated the tombs of Juan Lésmez and Pablo Martínez who once claimed to be "more popular than the Sacred Heart of Jesus". Leidy Pérez, a sixty year old Peruvian fan, stated "You can really feel the love here, there is no other place in the world where you can feel so proud to be Latin American. Los Bicharacheros are proof of the potential of the people that are a product of interratial mixture. I heard them for the first time while being in a barbecue [pollada] and knew that i would never stop dancing to their beautiful music".
It all started in Huehuetenángo, northeast of Guatemala city,where a young unemployed Juan Lésmez replied to a flyer requesting entertainers for the yearly carnival. Amongst other talented Guatemalan singers, Juan entered the stage dressed in a blue striped suit with nothing else but his guitar and with his mellow hypnotic voice. He started uttering the lyrics of the later top of British and American charts "Por favor, favoréceme". The public didn't respond quite as well as he expected to this new beat, and Juan, with a devastated self-esteem was booed off the stage. Later that day, Pablo Martínez on bass and his friend Iván Vásquez on box [a traditional Latin American percussion instrument] performed successfully and began their race towards fame. Rumors say that backstage Pablo approached Juan and saluted him for his courage and musical vision. After a few months, Pablo's fiend, Iván, was sent abroad for musical training leaving Juan and Pablo without a band. They then met Jorge Enríquez, son of a renowned trumpeter whose musical training brought to the group the melodic diversity and support that was later recognized as one of the basic elements of the success of the group. The percussionist Ricardo Estrella, fourth and last member of Los Bicharacheros, met Juan in a tavern and got into a fight with him over who was the ugliest woman to ever sing in a band. Juan once stated that the reason for bringing Ricardo into the band was the rhythmical manner with which he had "beaten the crap out of me after saying that Celia Cruz was not that bad-looking".
Once the group was together, the pace of the creative process sped up on a daily basis. Having written over 40 songs in just one year, but not yet having a recording company or manager, the fame of the group became too big for the small city of Huehuetenángo. They moved to Guatemala city and recorded a demo with two songs: "Agárrame la manita" and "Por favor, favoréceme". Both songs started circulating in local radio stations and gained the group enormous fame and a contract for an EP containing six new songs. Los Bicharacheros' music spread like a bush fire throughout the Southamerican continent and an intensive touring schedule was proposed. By then, they were the biggest band to ever travel South America, legions of raging fans -both female and male- awaited them in airports and bus stations hoping to get a glance of Los Cuatro Sabrosos [the flavoury four].
1964 was the year that marked the turn of events for the four; while giving a concert in Buenos Aires, a vacationing American entrepreneur came across the band and instantly recognized their potential for grandness. They were invited to take part in the most popular television show in America; for the first time, a group of Latin American musicians were to participate in the massification of entertainment. On February 9 1964, four youngsters dressed in colorful huipils [a kind of tunic] stepped onto the stage of the Ed Sullivan show and set a new pattern for music in the twentieth century. Acoustic guitars, trumpets, bass and box became the standard in popular music, young people all over the world thrived to dance to the up-beat tropical sounds that with simple, easy to relate to lyrics, represented the change of a generation. The greatness of the four began to create friction among them, they were, by now, known as the four greatest musical talents of the century. Driven by the abuse of alcohol and psychoactive teas,they began to write music that was in every sense revolutionary. All around the world, young people started to learn spanish and huge congregations of tourists swarmed the small streets of both Huehuetenángo and Guatemala city. To this day, the childhood homes of the flavoury four are a site for pilgrimage and love. Guatemala began growing economically and by the recognition of its peoples value advanced from the "Third World" to a political, and cultural potency. For this, the four were condecorated with the "Orden del Quetzal en el Grado de Gran Cruz" the highest honour a Guatemalan citizen can receive.
Because of their humble origins, Los Bicharacheros were constantly preoccupied by political assets; rejecting war and all kinds of "imperialist" impositions on the "Third World", Juan, Pablo, Jorge and Richi, took a stand and proclaimed their selves as the ambassadors of peace. Their search for ways to understand the possibility of a world without war led them to the Vatican where they found a broadening of their minds through Gregorian chants and penitence. Nevertheless, the habits of the road-life took a toll upon them and almost forced them to separate. Jorge found that life was meant to be lived abiding the word of the Lord and became a member of the Opus Dei. Juan and Pablo, claiming to have "unreconciliable differences" went their separate ways. Juan settled in Miami and opened a karaoke bar that to this day serves traditional Guatemalan dishes. Pablo became a record producer, also in Miami, and was responsible for the discovery of other great Latin talents such as Marc Antony, Jerry Rivera and Salserin. As for Richi, the feeling of abandonment that the break up bestowed upon him made him reconsider his role in society returning to Huehuetenángo to become a school district teacher.
The 1980 Bicharacheros reunion had a tragic end. After performing legendary songs like "Déjalo sano", "La gira de la Sabrosura Mágica", "Oye Judith", "Amame, si?", "Qué hubo, Chaolas", a group of fans, overwhelmed by the situation accidentally set the stage on fire. A witness, who prefers to stay unnamed states: "It was horrible, no one could control themselves, all the lighters in the room, that swayed gracefully with the music, suddenly formed a great ball of fire that landed between Juan and Pablo, whose wooden instruments were consumed almost instantly... [sobs]... i couldn't believe that it was happening, everyone was screaming and running around, Richi and Jorge ran for help, but by the time they got back it was all over..."
In a gesture of gratefulness, fans from all over the world buried Pablo and Juan side by side and engraved on the tombstones the words: "Paz, Amor y mucho Ron. Con ustedes siempre."

2005-04-25T23:14:00.000-05:00

:: tyranny ::

Portnoy began something that i believe to be amazing. i wish to be a part of it. but i cannot do it by myself. i ask of whoever may be reading this to leave a comment in which a subject for something to be written is proposed. i will answer.

coming in through my ears:: Sie liebt dich//The Beatles

2005-04-21T22:47:00.000-05:00

:: lubdub::

sometimes it beats so hard, it hurts; sometimes it races as if it were trying to run from me to someone else laid beside me; sometimes it pushes against my lungs and keeps me from breathing. tonight it just moves rhythmically, in what i don't know whether to call calm or resignation.

coming in through my ears::not much

2005-04-14T21:07:00.000-05:00

:: Tsutsukimashou ::

i've started playing again, it makes me glad to realize i can still get sound to come out of the beautiful contraption given to me some years ago. i can't say exactly why i stopped playing. it's one of those things. i suppose it can be explained with the same arguments that are valid for my having stopped drawing. but i haven't found those either. perhaps i'm driven to leave everything i feel i can become good at, perhaps it frightens me to know that something so simple can take me away from all else. and i cannot afford to be away, i never could.
my fingers are not yet accustomed to the positions, a certain lack of aim makes it difficult to follow the melody. and i can still hear my breath along with the humidity it supposes, those high pitched notes still represent a struggle, in general, it doesn't sound quite right. but it sounds. with that hypnotic vibration it reminds me of the first thing i ever ventured to do by myself and for myself. and that is able to bring a smile to my pained face.
it feels weird to know that there exists, at least potentially, a beautiful extension of my breath.

coming in through my ears::Happy session blues//Benny Goodman

2005-04-12T21:01:00.000-05:00

:: 0176 29411708 ::

sudden panic attack.
ring, kling, ring.
i was beginning to write, just yet, and on a little sketch pad, written in red, were those numbers i had longed to forget with tremendous effort.__ for such a long time it seemed as though those numbers were the only thing -if in fact they are to be called "things" in a proper way- really existing here.__now those numbers mean no more than the little blue piece of plastic stored safely in my wallet.__

coming in through my ears::You only live twice//Björk

2005-04-10T22:57:00.000-05:00

:: Zatoichi ::

lately it has become difficult to generate sympathy towards what gets projected on the screen, i'm saddened by the recognition of my lack of capacity for appreciation of the beauty (on an almost uniquely subjective--- personal/emotive level) of a story made out simply to be told. the last few trips to the cinema begot a certain deception; while knowing of the grandness of the emotive potential of what was seen, no real connection between the silent voids outside and my screaming hollow were made. so many things have taken me by surprise that the numbness spread in an almost protective manner, i became less than a spectator, less than a viewer, less than a watcher.
but when all turned not so strangely worse, i found my self incapable to stay out of the amazing dynamics of contrast. my stubborn decision to focus on that particular screen on that particular day washed away much of the built up sorrow.
i sat there expecting an almost silent film with traces of the japanese theatrical tradition that supposes an enormous distance between my un-transcendental view of life and the mystical grace of the incomprehensible. and such a distance was found, but not only between myself and what was being portrayed.
a blind man walks in silent calm, gripping tightly what is later known to be the key to his wandering. all other, colorful characters, walk through life in a melodical pitter-patter creating illusions of complete oblivion of what has been wrongly made. but all are blind to the eternal struggle between the innermost pain and the projected cheerfulness of a perfectly white mask.
the day to day happenings create an atmosphere of comforting content toward all, but the way all happens reveals a certainly distressing truth, above and bellow all that can be seen lay the terrible scars of past events. what has been cannot cease to be, but compensation is to be acquired. only in silence, in invisible existence, can what has been lost begin to be gained; what cannot be seen even with eyes wide open must stay apart from this rhythmic succession of instants.
it is within this contrast that i found the way to relieve myself of i all. two stories in one second. a sentence not told nor shown. the unavoidable ignorance of what lay behind closed eyes and disguised natures. and a true grin that proceeds of my defeat.
i closed my eyes for a moment and found no distinction between the battle and the joyous dancing. i would have hoped that a clear evidence of change in those few seconds that passed by came forth and granted me the glory of intuitive recongition of a whole. but i am not at all like that; i depend entirely on the sameness of the inner fire of my eyes and those minuscule particles spread within the visible.
maybe my cane is no more than that. i cannot fight against anything as long as my eyes are still fixed on a spot, i cannot release myself of the constant surveilling and the need for visibility while i depend on this piercing light.
and while all may dance in forgetful celebration, a faint suspicion of the all powerful pain still clouds my sight. and so it seems that it is precisely what i cannot see that frees me from what i so painfully keep hidden from all.

coming in through my ears::Citizen erased//Muse

2005-04-06T00:09:00.000-05:00

:: Schwiegerkeit II::

and now i must face my guilt for having been so terribly unjust -ifyable-with her. i was planning on writing a letter, to someone, just anyone, preferably an unknown one, but that doesn't work, i cannot pretend i'll send it all away in a little envelope with a flowered stamp.

Dear Whomever,
i've been trying to pretend to speak in this language only to get to you, this cluster of lines may not be in possession of any actual meaning, but that, perhaps, is not at all important. i've begun to understand, just lately, that this silence is proof in favor of the unavoidable. you see, i'm tiring of this cyclic way of the world, i know that there is at least one way in which i could stand the happening of it all, but i've simply refused to do so in order to maintain coherence in what has become a stubborn stance towards things. believe me i try, but hard as i may do so, no answer comes of it, no glimpse of a way out, of a comforting dissolution of the problem. and the thing is, i'm beginning to get tired of simply asking. there's no marvel in this, no unsatisfyable desire for knowing. there's just frustration and anguish and a violent wrath building up against my lack of understanding. can you relate to that?
i take it out all on her. as if i were demanding a proof of infallible rationality in the midst of what is recognized simply by the loss of it. i demand her to be strong, in control, to behave as i would want to, to face it all and relieve me of the burden of having to be responsible. but that cannot happen. that responsibility has been bestowed upon me, i cannot refuse it, no matter how hard i want to. it simply is hard not being able to see her as a superior being, as someone with power over my life. then again, she does have power over me, but not the kind that is to be praised, it's mere entrapment.
i have disappointed whomever has bestowed on me such responsibility. i am not strong, nor rational, nor still. i am full of fear for my own sanity and succumb to the violent impulse of suppression, mistaking the suppression of her with the suppression of what is wrong. i've taken so many wrong turns in this i know not where to begin dismantling this time bomb. and i can seek no help for i have recluded myself willingly in this aggressive bubble. so i ask not help of you but rather simple silence, for i fear, or simply recognize, that you are not capable of any other.
Please forgive my intrusion absent stranger, i wish not to disturb your peace. i know not if i am able to change my ways, or if i am able to ask forgiveness of her, but i am not able to mute myself any longer.

so i can't write such a letter, i cannot say a single word. it makes me weak. and begging. and right now i can't afford that. but still i find it so important to keep in mind the things that make me believe that not all is lost, i'm afraid i will never be able to behave in a fair manner. it seems i'm simply making way for a life-long guilt i could be by now getting rid of. i don't know if i'm sorry.

coming in through my ears:: comforting silence of the sleepers.

2005-04-05T20:40:00.000-05:00

:: Schwiegerkeit ::

you would think it becomes easier with time [well it doesn't] it never ceases to be a horrible pain you cannot get away from.__you take a pencil and a piece of paper and think of letting it all go in a few lines that could convey all this rage that now floods your head [you're tricking yourself once more, you're making believe that there's an answer, a way out, that this really is not at all aporetic] and free you from it.__run run as you may, as you have and as you will [she is there to make sure your wounded back keeps bleeding] what has been given stays forever given.__you've become impossible to numb and impossible to move, you are now withdrawn from the realm of sympathy [how can you not hate her, how can you not hate this? how can you not hate this?]quietly sobbing.
one must be resistant, right? there would be no tragic value otherwise... but therein lies the thing i have never been able to understand, is there sense to it all? is there supposed to be?.__you've been taught to think of this as something bound to make you stronger, or so they say [it hasn't killed you, but certainly it hasn't let you be either] that the christian virtue is above all the abandon of one's self.
i can't cope with this anymore.
there's just too much that escapes my will.

coming in through my ears::crazytalk

2005-04-03T22:20:00.000-05:00

:: kaonashi ::

sen ga hoshii desu. he said. sabishii. he said. but there was no expression, there could be none. offer me what you may, i am in no need of anything you can hold in your hands.__stay unseen for as long as you desire, i'll leave this door open. i remember seeing a few tears, for the first time, after watching the tunnel fade away into the dark screen. now, watching her, with a bright violet ribbon, walk through the silent dark, i cannot help myself from crying as well.__miyazaki has always had that effect on me, it's in a way, like a beautiful torture, like a tender reminder of the omnipresence of pain.__ tonari no totoro broke my heart into a million pieces, i can still see the enormous animal merely staring out into the world with a silent innocence that crawls up beneath my skin and makes my every hair stand up in reverence of the magnificence of the simplest of gestures.__the amazing effects of light among the pastures, as if this was not an imitation, as if living could be achieved just -and justly- through the eyes; those raindrops make me think that what is poorly imaged is what goes on outside this window of mine.__ nausicaa showed me the way through japanese, the simplest "ah, mushidarou" excited beyond belief the yearning implanted one day of february, the possibility of all ending in a second and coming back to what it was once supposed to be marveled me and marvels me still.__but i never saw the whole movie, not at least on a conscious level; although i know large parts of the dialogues, i cannot say for certain what it is about.__mononoke hime took me by surprise; instead of the sweet sorrows hidden by the cuddly appearance of characters, herein lay the most violent approach to humanity i could have related to.__ it showed me the way to justify my fear and loathing of what i was born being, for, when something so frightful can be portrayed in such a beautiful manner, there is no more struggle for comprehension: all else must be left unsaid.__and now i meet again with chihiro, again i have to face the threat of not being able to take a single step towards this side of the tunnel, again having tears run up to my eyes begging to be released in a world not as bitter as that one being showed.__for only with these tears can the river be made and the journey start.

coming in through my ears:: For no one//The Beatles