"Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt"

7 de diciembre de 2015

▪ Pick or Lose

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Path

8 de octubre de 2015

▪ No Longer Anywhere


First rehearse the easy things.
Lose your words in a high wind,
walk in the dark on an unlit road,
observe how other people mislay keys,
their diaries, new umbrellas.
See what it takes to go unnoticed
in a crowded room. Tell lies:
I love you. I'll be back in half an hour.
I'm fine.

The childish things.
Stand very still behind a tree,
become a cowboy, say you have died,
climb into wardrobes, breathe on a mirror
until there's no one there, and practice magic,
tricks with smoke and fire—
a flick of the wrist and the victim's lost
his watch, his wife, his ten pound note. Perfect it.
Hold your breath a little longer every time.

The hardest things.
Eat less, much less, and take a vow of silence.
Learn the point of vanishing, the moment
embers turn to ash, the sun falls down,
the sudden white-out comes.
And when it comes again — it will —
just walk at it. Walk into it, and walk,
until your know that you're no longer

Amanda Dalton


20 de septiembre de 2015

▪ Trying to Get Off

nothing worse than a brain afflicted by love when all signs become ambiguous and everything becomes possible and we start questioning every move like why did they come and talk to us (the interest must be mutual, the roller coaster goes up) but at the same time why are they not talking to us anymore (this must be unrequited love, the roller coaster goes down) or probably they are just shy or perhaps we should forget it all and move on or maybe we should be sensible and find the courage to speak out and risk it all at once although we know that they are most likely not interested (because how could they, how could anybody, the roller coaster goes underwater) and all those laughs are probably just the kind of laughs shared by ordinary friends because how can you tell them apart if no laugh sounds exactly the same but oh weren't those moments special and didn't those fiery eyes pierce inside us as if looking for a nice warm place where they could stay lit forever (the roller coaster goes round and round, it is out of control) and weren't they at times closer to us than they should have been like when their hands touched ours as if replicating and simplifying the complex process of love synapse that takes place between our brains and hearts or as if breaking down this metaphor for connection and communication on a concrete level during those brief contacts or as if saying hey look we can do better if we are together or is it just nonsense that takes over our minds and enjoys making us see all this bullshit because we know this is totally silly and we know we are reading beyond the lines and we know we shouldn't be doing this at all but we also know we can't help it because that's how it works because love has to be a crazy adventure because no love free from insanity is worth the love (the roller coaster cannot slow down, it cannot stop) so in a pointless attempt to get off the ride and knowing that we are already screwed up we still ask ourselves what the hell is going on and why on Earth can't our brains think straight when afflicted by love

14 de septiembre de 2015

▪ When it Comes to Love


Es interesante cómo el amor resulta siempre ingobernable. Un terreno sin leyes ni principios. Nada puede subordinarlo, ya que el subordinado es uno mismo. Solo se puede obedecer al caos. No importa todo lo que estudies, todo lo que aprendas, todo lo que experimentes. Ni las letras ni la inteligencia podrán salvarte. De un momento a otro, todo conocimiento se vuele nulo, toda práctica carece de valor. El cerebro intentará engañarte y hacerte creer que ahora estás más preparado que antes para amar. Que ahora sabés más y entendés mejor cómo relacionarte con los otros. Que ahora tenés más herramientas para controlar lo que (te) pasa. Pero las cuestiones del corazón no se explican mediante ninguna teoría. No hay ninguna ciencia que nos permita entender su funcionamiento ni elaborar pronósticos. Ese calor, que de pronto inunda el pecho, no encuentra justificación ni lógica que lo ampare. Eso que lo enciende, eso que lo despierta, permanecerá por siempre un misterio. No es algo netamente físico ni psicológico. Es una conjunción de factores imposibles de definir (y, claro, cuya definición tampoco tendría ningún sentido). Por eso, el único camino es siempre la entrega. Cuando sentimos ese calor en el pecho, hay que dejarlo arder. Hay que decirle que sí. Hay que resignarse ante esa fuerza que excede nuestro control, que viene y se apodera de todo, que es capaz de alterar la existencia misma en tan solo un momento, como un verdadero acto de magia. Y cuando no sentimos ese calor en el pecho, cuando podemos pensar y cuestionar nuestros sentimientos, todo esto nos parece una reverenda pelotudez.


10 de septiembre de 2015

▪ Don't I?


I swear I do both:
The doing and the not-doing.

I write and I don't.
I read and I don't.
I move and I don't.
I love and I don't.
I hurt and I don't.
I live and I don't.
I succeed and I don't.

As simple and vast and relative as

I do everything
and I don't.

Do you?


16 de abril de 2015

▪ Letters of Humanity


Un hombre del pueblo de Neguá, en la costa de Colombia, pudo subir al alto cielo.

A la vuelta, contó. Dijo que había contemplado, desde allá arriba, la vida humana. Dijo que somos un mar de letritas.

—El mundo es eso —reveló—. Un montón de gente, un mar de letritas.

Cada persona brilla con letras propias entre todas las demás. No hay dos letras iguales. Hay letras mayúsculas y letras minúsculas y letras de todos los colores. Hay gente de letra prolija, que ni se entera del paso del tiempo, y gente de letra loca, que llena los renglones con garabatos a toda prisa. Algunas letras, letras bobas, no dicen nada ni hacen ruido; pero otras resuenan con tanta fuerza que no se puede leerlas sin replicarlas, y quien se acerca, se inspira.