'A Day of One's Own'

'Twas on a Thursday morning 

When I beheld my darling 

She looked so neat and charming 

In every high degree 

She looked so neat and nimble, 

O A-washing of her linen, O

Dashing away with the smoothing iron 

Dashing away with the smoothing iron 

She stole my heart away.'

****

Because the idea is that the written word has the potential of just dying on you. An so even when Socrates dies, he says, if you're sorry for me, if your crying about my dying, cry about me only if the word dies on us.

You will never die on me. I promise.

Today again

Thank you for everything.
Always.

Love,

xxx

"Color my mind with the chaos of trouble"

****

"These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought. It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled in vain."

(Narrative of the Live of Frederick Douglass an American Slave, Written by Himself)

'Fate goes ever as fate must' (Beowulf)

"These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought. It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled in vain."
(Narrative of the Live of Frederick Douglass an American Slave, Written by Himself)

To read, to read, and to read again.

Read, read, read.





Mama told me not to come ;).

"In these stones horizons sing"

Dear Santa,

[…] No. I’m afraid this is not another usual Christmas letter.

Well, what can I say? It’s tough when you spend a great amount of your life studying a language, reading an unspeakable quantity of books and information. When you start watching all films, listening to music and being completely overturned working in a specific language with so few inducements, only for a kind of stealthy passion. Nevertheless I can’t find the words for that sort of things, letters… who can?

If you ask me maybe I can’t say a hundred per cent a sure answer for why I am here or why I study English, because since a year ago I never thought about the possibility of being abroad so far from home. But I realised that as they say, home is where the heart is and moreover I always thought that my country are my friends. On the end, I think home can also be an ascetic ground floor in an unpronounceable residence. Our dusty, noisy and delightful mess –and you love it-.
On the other hand, I’m not writing this letter in order to flatter you or tell you empty words because they will be gone with the wind and, besides, you know I hate flattery, I’m not hypocrite, sorry ;), and in fact I am a kind of teasing you, in order that you react. But still, I think I’m so glad to met you, I like your passion and dedication in your commitments, although at the same time you love continuous changes. You are an eccentric and spicy person, difficult to find and impossible to define.

Regarding me, I’ve been spending so much time trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Not even for myself, I think I should improve, but I also find it hard to always know that all can I do is improve myself rather than enjoy what I achieved. Nothing comes for free (as a song sais). Or maybe as you say, I think “too much”, but you know, I’m not a simple person.

Our lives are so different; plenty of times I just don’t understand you although I try hard; as the Irish boy could say, “don’t worries”, nobody understands at least a seventy per cent of me. Maybe did you decide it wasn’t worth it, I would never tried to know, but perhaps you are not the person you say you strive to be. I only hope you can achieve it some day :). I’m not angry, possibly hurt, and kind of empty but I really want to be someone important, as we used to. Moreover I want you to consider the importance of those words.

And at this point I’m just kind of writing this because I can.

In short, when you buy a coffee you are not only paying for that drink very dark-brown, sometimes of dubious origin and “additives” or “preservatives”, nor paying only a small dose of stimulant drug that is so good on cold sleepy mornings. It is not the intense bitter taste what you want, or maybe yes, but not just that. What you really buy with a coffee, but you never noticed, it is a time of peace, tranquillity and relaxation. You are buying difficult decisions and bad shots, or maybe the while that you owed to an old friend. You might be paying for an excuse to be with that person, or you want a dose of inspiration, motivation and desire to work. There are people who really are buying a weapon, a very hot shower upon the enemy, or maybe the power to say something silly to the person that you love.

Or maybe it means nothing, and I am being silly narrating that stuff. Who actually cares?

I don’t know if I am satisfied with my work, I don’t know many things which seem to be in order in my life, but if they weren’t it definitively would not be my life. It would be someone else’s life, but not mine. And probably I wouldn’t be here, and my work would not fulfil me as it currently does. So, I think I cannot complain, thank you very much for the great part that includes you, flatties. And as a friend says: “Let the good times roll”.

Love,

xx

***

"Bilbo Baggins: You can promise that I will come back?Gandalf: No. And if you do, you will not be the same."

(The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey)


You know what they say. Cold hands, warm heart.

Syntax error

El Old English es un amante caprichoso, pero de vez en cuando también es agradecido:

"Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað."

"Mind must be the firmer, heart the braver, courage must be the greater, as our strength diminishes"

(The Battle of Maldon)

"La mente debe ser más firme, el corazón más valiente, el valor debe ser mayor, ya que nuestra fuerza disminuye" 

Pandora's box is opened

Cheers.

xxx

All things that happen in such a short time...

Flattie's Facts...

"Da Rules for Secret Santa
1. Salary cap of between 15-20 pounds (this may be exceeded if you really like the person who you happened to draw… just remember however that your Secret Santa mightn't be as generous).
2. Presents to be exchanged on Thursday 13th December, if anyone fails to present a gift at this time will be punished by having to sleep in Ed's room for the night, with Ed sleeping in the perpetrators room.
If Ed is said person (the perpetrator), we may each have one cut of his hair (using only kitchen scissors, (cos demz da rules)).
3. If you genuinely have no clue what to purchase for your person, Booze is always welcomed with open arms (whoever has ME, something german wouldn't go amiss!)
And finally,
4. Selection boxes and chocolate coins may only be used to bolster the amount spent on your Secret Santa gift, with your main gift having to exceed 10 pounds.
In other words, don't be a lazy cock face and buy 5 selection boxes as a gift.
DEMZ DA RULES!
Thanks chaps,
Merry Christmas!
Love from,
Chief Director and chair of the Secret Santa Comitee,
Luke
xo"

"El cuento terminaba diciendo que quien lee nunca muere. Miré al mar y me llevé el revolver a la boca y apreté el gatillo. Se borró hasta el planeta extrasolar gemelo de la Tierra. Pero seguí oyendo a John Lennon en la radio y confirmé que, más allá de la muerte , continuamos viviendo al menos por momentos. Porque continuaba allí, leyendo. Y el cuento parecía diferente, sin final".

"The Immortal Bard" by Isaac Asimov

"Oh, yes," said Dr. Phineas Welch, "I can bring back the spirits of the illustrious dead."
He was a little drunk, or maybe he wouldn't have said it. Of course, it was perfectly all right to get a little drunk at the annual Christmas party.
Scott Robertson, the school's young English instructor, adjusted his glasses and looked to right and left to see if they were overheard. "Really, Dr. Welch."
"I mean it. And not just the spirits. I bring back the bodies, too."
"I wouldn't have said it were possible," said Robertson primly.
"Why not? A simple matter of temporal transference."
"You mean time travel? But that's quite-uh-unusual."
"Not if you know how."
"Well, how, Dr. Welch?"
"Think I'm going to tell you?" asked the physicist gravely. He looked vaguely about for another drink and didn't find any. He said, "I brought quite a few back. Archimedes, Newton, Galileo. Poor fellows."
"Didn't they like it here? I should think they'd have been fascinated by our modern science," said Robertson. He was beginning to enjoy the coversation.
"Oh, they were. They were. Especially Archimedes. I thought he'd go mad with joy at first after I explained a little of it in some Greek I'd boned up on, but no-no-"
"What was wrong?"
"Just a different culture. They couldn't get used to our way of life. They got terribly lonely and frightened. I had to send them back."
"That's too bad."
"Yes. Great minds, but not flexible minds. Not universal. So I tried Shakespeare."
"What?" yelled Robertson. This was getting closer to home.
"Don't yell, my boy," said Welch. "It's bad manners."
"Did you say you brought back Shakespeare?"
"I did. I needed someone with a universal mind; someone who knew people well enough to be able to live with them centuries way from his own time. Shakespeare was the man. I've got his signature. As a memento, you know."
"On you?" asked Robertson, eyes bugging.
"Right here." Welch fumbled in one vest pocket after another. "Ah, here it is."
A little piece of pasteboard was passed to the instructor. On one side it said: "L. Klein & Sons, Wholesale Hardware." On the other side, in straggly script, was written, "Will^m Shakesper."
A wild surmise filled Robertson. "What did he look like?"
"Not like his pictures. Bald and an ugly mustache. He spoke in a thick brogue. Of course, I did my best to please him with our times. I told him we thought highly of his plays and still put them on the boards. In fact, I said we thought they were the greatest pieces of literature in the English language, maybe in any language."
"Good. Good," said Robertson breathlessly.
"I said people had written volumes of commentaries on his plays. Naturally he wanted to see one and I got one for him from the library."
"And?"
"Oh, he was fascinated. Of course, he had trouble with the current idioms and references to events since 1600, but I helped out. Poor fellow. I don't think he ever expected such treatment. He kept saying, 'God ha' mercy! What cannot be racked from words in five centuries? One could wring, methinks, a flood from a damp clout!'"
"He wouldn't say that."
"Why not? He wrote his plays as quickly as he could. He said he had to on account of the deadlines. He wrote Hamlet in less than six months. The plot was an old one. He just polished it up."
"That's all they do to a telescope mirror. Just polish it up," said the English instructor indignantly.
The physicist disregarded him. He made out an untouched cocktail on the bar some feet away and sidled toward it. "I told the immortal bard that we even gave college courses in Shakespeare."
"I give one."
"I know. I enrolled him in your evening extension course. I never saw a man so eager to find out what posterity thought of him as poor Bill was. He worked hard at it."
"You enrolled William Shakespeare in my course?" mumbled Robertson. Even as an alcholic fantasy, the thought staggered him. And was it an alcoholic fantasy? He was beginning to recall a bald man with a queer way of talking....
"Not under his real name, of course," said Dr. Welch. "Never mind what he went under. It was a mistake, that's all. A big mistake. Poor fellow." He had the cocktail now and shook his head at it.
"Why was it a mistake? What happened?"
"I had to send him back to 1600," roared Welch indignantly. "How much humiliation do you think a man can stand?"
"What humiliation are you talking about?"
Dr. Welch tossed off the cocktail. "Why, you poor simpleton, you flunked him."

“You Should Date an Illiterate Girl”

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

(Charles Warnke)

La lluna té dos cares.

"De repente, nos encontramos viviendo en una especie de Año Cero, [...].
Norteamérica se había convertido en una tabla rasa, una verdadera "página en blanco" sobre la cual se podían "escribir las palabras más nuevas y más hermosas", como Mao le decía a su pueblo. Un nuevo ejército de especialistas se materializó rápidamente para escribir nuevas y hermosas palabras sobre el tapiz receptivo de nuestra conciencia postraumática [...]."
(Naomi Klein, La Doctrina del Shock)

****

Después de un verano de extremos toca empezar nuevas aventuras. Porque aunque hayamos puesto nombres diferentes al océano, el agua sigue siendo la misma... y sin embargo no lo es.

Me alegra haber tenido muchas nuevas experiencias este verano, aunque algo me dice que esto solo acaba de empezar. De momento, he agradecerlo a aquellas personitas que lo han hecho posible :).

Un beso!

Au revoir provence française, Guten Tag Berlin.

Marseille, ✓
Ampus, ✓
Aups, ✓
Draguignan, ✓
Lac de Saint Croix, ✓
.
.
.
Berlin. 

La noche nos pesa...

"-Así que los osos pueden fabricarse su propia alma... -dijo Lyra.

Había tantas cosas en el mundo que ignoraba."

(Philip Pullman, La Materia Oscura)

Me voy, me llamas; vuelvo, te olvidas; te vas, me voy.

Y al final, tanta pena que tratas de destilar con tus palabras, se va por el retrete y yo me quedo aquí tirada, como siempre, observando desde el suelo -que está frío-, que te marchas, que sonríes con otra gente y que olvidas invitarme, por lo menos, a intercambiar algunas miradas, para poder sentirme integrada en alguna parte, entre gente que no sean la pantalla del ordenador a las 5 de la mañana, con el sueño y el dolor en las pestañas...

Y otra vez vuelve a empezar.

Me creáis ilusiones para después romperlas con un solo golpe.

Porque sabéis que sigo siendo ingenua, que volveré a caer en la misma vieja historia, la misma vieja historia...

Porque, por encima de todas las cosas, está ese sentimiento abrasador.

****

"Two years he walks the earth. No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild."
(Alexander Supertramp May 1992 - True Story "Into The Wild")

Duermo poco, sueño mucho.

"Que demani un desitg! Que demani un desitg!"

Ojalá todo esto tenga un buen final. 

Aventuras nos esperan 

y nuevos horizontes.