El Desgermen

Tratar (sin serotonina).

2012-01-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

Estoy tratando de escribir. Hacedemasiado tiempo que solamente trato. El bloqueo es inapaciguable, esincapaz de destituir su trono. Sentada aquí,tratando en vez de pudiendo(insegura de si esta previa palabraexiste), solo trato. Como te he fallado Yoda... tu que tanto dijisteque eso de tratar no existe. Pero heme aquí, tratando sin poder.Lamentablemente, tal vez no llegue a Jedi.

Pero sigo aquí,tratando, que tiene casi tanto mérito como poder. Pues poder no essolo tratar con un poco de impulso, poder es casi como tratar conganas. Poder es esa cosa que es culpable de tantas otras.

En esta oscuridad, yyo con tanto miedo. Me atrevo lo suficiente para llegar a prender labombilla, parpadea pero no ilumina... tendré que volver a golpearla,dicha luz solo funciona cuando se le antoja, igualito que mi ánimoemocional. Funcionando cuando place, sin preguntar a su dueña.

No encuentro ellugar de procedencia de esta falta de inspiración... aunque si hellegado a formular varias teorías. Tal vez sea que ya simplemente nofunciono como escritora, es posible, raro, pero posible. Al final detodo, las cosas siempre tienen un fin y un comienzo. Es tal vez este,el fin hacia uno de mis comienzos.

¿Será posible, quesea por falta de inspiración? Es dificil. Estoy rodeadaconstantemente de millones de pequeñas cosas que son capaces dellevar a la catársis... falta de creatividad, es otra historia.

¿Será el conocer el amor? Ya lo he dudado varias veces, pero no es muy racional. Losmejores escritores al estar enamorados han escrito bellos versos,pero en el desamor han escrito sus obras maestras. ¿Es que lafelicidad y la comodidad no son buenos demiurgos? Si es así, tendréque resignarme a vivir sin talento escrito y renunciar a este sueñoromántizado de la escritora tomando café, humo en la boca y buenacompañía.

Guardo rencor, espalpable y reconocible. Pero tan arraigado al lado izquierdo de mipecho, que temo deshacerme de el, por eso de la constumbre, delrecuerdo, del no terminar en el olvido. Ese perdón, como tan pococristiana que soy, me es como un clavo en la suela del zapato, mohosoy corrosivo, infectándome con furia. Es mi tachuelita en el sillón yyo soy la maestra. Es un turista que por vez primera toca un Nopal...pellizcado.

¿Será el temorante lo incierto... ese trasladar de energía, esa despedida de loconocido? Este desconocer sobre lo conocido, me hace las moléculastemblar del pánico. Ese cambio en energia es una idea agobiante,pero aunque sea átomo, de cierta manera seré. Está escrito, estáhecho ley.

El doctor mediagnosticará con depresión. Me recetará una de esas pastillas queveces anteriores me han tratado de hacer ingerir. Las negaré.Tratarán de hacerme comprender que es normal sentirse así, que sonlos tiempos, que es como tener diabetes, que es solo una condición,que tantos otros estan pisando los mismisimos zapatos que tengopuesto.

Dr., mi diagnósticoestá incorrecto. Su cura es asequible, está encerrada en mis dedos,proveniente desde el hipotálamo, infestada de líquidos pineales;solamente se ha tardado en salir.

Undetectables.

2011-10-24T01:36:00.000-07:00

And then the moon shined down on the rest of the world,
and everyone decided to sleep.
And they slept and dreamed about sleeping.
And they dreamed about working,
and of their everyday affairs.

And once awakened, they thought about dreaming, while working, or while doing
their everyday affairs.
And once, they even decided to share their dreams with each other.
And they shared about their daily labor
and of the constant routine.
And a bit timid and ashamed, they swore to never ever speak again.

For they were each other´s dreamkeepers
and their secrets were not to be said. ever
To everyone else that dreamed of other something elses,
and never about their jobs and their everyday affairs.

They never spoke about that awful day.
They swore to keep them safe and unsaid.
They hid their dreams from the rest of the world.

And the world left them out of it´s shell.
They rode in and out of existence, as if it was a galactic horse corral.
Unacknowledged of their disappearance, the world kept dreaming.

And the moon shined down on the world,
And everyone decided to sleep.

Day Four: The Thicker Stew.

2011-10-11T14:30:00.000-07:00

She is one of theteachers you heard screaming along the hallway. Unintelligible wordsand gibberish. I didn't have much of an expectation, it was stillobligatory to go to class, maybe that is why I hated Hight School. Somuch structure and rules and conduct manuals and obligations anddemerits and discipline... and then again people still consider itone of the key environments to grow as a person. I call bullshit.

She was tough. You had tostudy for this class, unlike so many other teachers that would do ahalf-ass test or class, to make it easier for themselves in themoment of giving out a grade or perhaps reading our tenth grademediocre papers. We had to read Herman Hesse, he was German, yet weread the english version of his novel about Indian culture. We hadto give an oral report on Buddhism. I didnt understand it very wellback then, but I thought it was interesting. I hate oral reports,they make my mouth dry, my stomach churn and my hands shake. I am notmade fo the stage, but she made us stand up on front, to try toexplain to a bunch of 15 year old how life is suffering and aboutvoids and how we achieve Nirvana. Not the band of course, when youthink about it, Nirvana is a crappy name for a band... cliché, onecould say.

She made us read colonialliterature, about the making of America as a nation, the idealsforged by the forfathers. How Columbia was a beautiful woman thatshined her light in the entire continent... we didn't speak aboutimperialism, or coup d tas, but she made us think. We were trying tounderstand that country that stand above us, that country thatcontrols everything, and we were trying to understand ourselves, Iguess.

She made us write a paperabout the true America. I had recently found my love for words andwas a bit excited about it, I had also found out recently, my passionfor politics. I wrote a paper which I was scared to give to her. Aweek or so passed by and one class she gave out our papers, one byone. She didn't call my name, I was petrified. She had one paper inher hand and started reading. I recognized my words coming out of hermouth,she read the entire paper in fron of the class and then handedit out to me. I was embarrased, but deep inside I understood, thatfeeling was the feeling I wanted to have for the rest of my life. SoI decided to be a writer, I decided to study politics. I think I wasright.

Day Three: Let the Rivers Rush: Two true stories about squirrels.

2011-09-28T23:26:00.000-07:00

Spend a few moments thinking about the unforgettable places you've been. They can be close to home or far away, places you've been to recently or long ago.

Choose one. Now freewrite about it for ten full minutes. Stretch your fingers, Ready? Begin writing.

So we finally got there. After hours of circling around obscure mountains, sprinkled with baby violet flowers and strange sounds and tiny roads that lead nowhere. We got there and it seemed worth it. Unusually cold for the caribbean, the 45 degrees that embraced my skin, was all I needed. Around a group of people you barely know, suprises are something of a pretty usual thing. And was I in for a suprise.

We barbecued. The giggles led on by chemicals where our icebreakers and I was happily dressed in all of my worthless autumn clothes. We never get autumn here. Autumn is a myth created by American imperialistic endeavors. Still, I like brown and yellow and orange maple leaves and squirrels. I wonder how come we don't have squirrels. We have mongoose, devilish little fellows brought in by the Spaniards to kill the snakes that inhabited this savage land. Sometimes it may seem like all the snakes survived and moved in into the capitol building, sliding into their shady enterprises and hypnotizing the masses with their vibrating tongues.

I had wine. Lots of it. Cheap and watery, just the way my wallet likes it. I also had a mission, which nobody really knew, just my best pal and accomplice. It was my detox weekend. The mountains would be my sanctuary and the coldness would be my guiding spirit. No more fucking pills, that make my brain shiver and my heart bounce out of my chest. No more idealized states of neutral emotions. Fuck neutrality, there is nothing grand about neutrality.

So I tossed away my last prescription and sat down with a group of mostly uknowns and my trustfull wine companions. After two days of being surprised by the way people enjoy their surroundings; a hammock and a hangover, where my salvation. The mountains spit out rain for hours and the mist was always present. But the foggyness in my brain had subsided and I was perhaps, once again, a little bit more of myself.

The mountains where deep green and the night was the deepest shade of black. Humidity filled the air with heavyness. Zombies attacked the screen that lit the house in the middle of the darkness, and I cooked in the fire, with a roof of stars and planets that shined with their light from the past.

I was given nuts to feed the little squirrels. The cutest little furry rodents I had ever seen. Being born an outsider but being raised as a mix of different caribbean cultures, I was amazed to visit Florida again. The little critters that ran around all of the backyards were amazing and I watched in awe how big the ants where, compared to ours.

I was given nuts to feed them and they would snatch them quickly from my fingers. One of them, perhaps too excited about its treat, bit my tiny finger, scaring me and making me scream to the nice old gringa lady that was hanguing out with me in her backyard, my grandmother's neighbor. I kept on looking at the squirrles jump from tree to tree and then I saw something I had never seen before.

Being born here and fortunate enough to get an outstanding education, my english was almost perfect for my age but the fear totally made me blank. I was suddenly the little puertorrican girl that couldnt scream snake. It was the tiniest snake, now that I think about it,but back then, it was anaconda for all I knew. After a couple of seconds of silence brought on by shock I screamed SERPENT! SERPENT! Because the word snake, escaped my entire priviledged middle-class-girl vocabulary. I was embarrased by my imprecise use of words, but I was not accostumed to thet type of fauna.

Once we had to stop the car and wait for a big land turtle to cross the road. Why did the turtle cross the road? To get to other side? I never got that stupid joke. Turtles are not as slow as they are said to be. One afternoon, laying on a hammock in the front yard, a flock of traveling geese flew by, they were all in a triangle formation, it was amazing. Just like the movies.

My father let me use the grass trimmer and as I cut the weeds and grass from the entire property, a million huge grasshopers started jumping towards the little tractor and on top of my thighs. It was somewhat scary but also very impressive. Now, I am a big fan of insects, their alien aspect is very attractive to me. They are beautiful, like psychedelic creatures that fly and crawl amongst us.

There was wide open spaces everywhere and nobody to be seen on the streets. It was almost a ghost town, I can't remember seeing anyone else but the front door neighbors... maybe we were the only ones there. Maybe that town never existed. But it did, because a little squirrel bit me there. Ive never been back there, but I've seen places like it, and still question myself what people do for fun there or if they even really live there, perhaps it is all but a trick.

Day two: Look at the Flowers

2011-09-25T23:43:00.000-07:00

Think of childhood experiences that left impressions on you, either positive or negative. List five or ten and pick the one that wants to be written about. Set aside ten minutes to sit down somewhere and ¨freewrite" about the experience.

It was that yellow fish. On top of the television. I wanted to have it and play with it. After all, I did love The Little Mermaid. Climbing on that piece of furniture seemed reasonable enough. It seemed accessible. I must make it mine.

In a manner of light speed, the black box was being held by my, then puny, arms and my super-strengh. I called desperately for my grandma. She was like always, in the kitchen. Slowed down by her wheelchair, I held the TV in shock, in awe. It was heavy. I cried afterwards, letting the TV fall on the bed. My grandma called my mom and scared the shit out of her.

Later on, I would carry that TV to my first apartment to watch Criterion Collection favorites. I still love Little Mermaid, but I liked Aladdin better, it was more mysterious and outlandish. Plus the princess had a tiger as her pet and she ran out of the Sultan's Palace. She was cool. I still think Aladdin is an awesome movie, even if it is not Criterion Collection material.

That TV is now a place to put plants in. I hate TV now, I would rather write. What would had happened if that TV was heavier? Maybe I would had died, a casualty of moder media devices. My grandma looked at me and didn't believe her eyes. I still don't know how I carried that for that amount of many seconds. I bet she was cooking her famous arroz con pollo, with half a Budweiser can in it. It was to die for.

I don't eat chicken now, but I would eat a cauldron full of that witching rice and chicken recipe, in insane and insulting quantities. Maybe that is what happens when you die, if you are good enough you get to eat your favorite meal forever.

Perhaps that is why I hate TV now. Childhood experiences form us as adults, don't they Freud? Well maybe that is why I can't stand watching anything now without heavily criticizing it or maybe that is why I can't have a good night sleep in that specific bedroom.

Maybe my grandma's house still scares me and that is why I didn't move in with the rest of my family. I remember all the shadowy figures, pacing around the bathroom. If one looked fast enough, you could see them at the end of the corridor. Or my obsession with voyeuristic aliens, looking at me through the window. My grandma watched shows about aliens and monsters that ate goats and chickens, drained their blood. I would fall asleep every night thinking that one of those nights, Doña Lula's chickens will all be killed by the Chupacabra. I would hear them clucking and would jump out in terror if one of them did those weird loud clucking noises, thinking they where being attacked. I still can't take a decent shower in that bathroom and I still don't like sleeping near a window or being in the deep dark. The supernatural haunts me, even if I may not believe in it. I is all TV's fault, sensational latin american shows and their folktales. I still believe there are unknown monsters roaming in the dark nights. I just hope they are not waiting for me, to be their next victim. I can't tell my mom this because grownups are not supposed to be scared of ghosts or monsters, but I am.

Eyes that glow in the dark are my biggest fear, except my cat's eye. Which I accept and admire. I once thought of becoming a parapsychologist, but I don't teach that in college, at least not here.

Day One: Hunting Is Not Those Heads on the Wall

2011-09-21T20:37:00.000-07:00

Looking for a cure for Writer's Block, I took out an old book that my mom gave me, which follows a 40 day workshop to help anyone become a better writer. Lets experiment.

Begin writing, starting with the four words below. Write quickly, without thinking too much about what you want to say before you write. Write for ten minutes. Time yourself. When I write, I...

When I write, I speak out meaning. I collect grammatic errors. I laugh at the geniuses of linguistics, because I do not know their rules or care about them. I collect symbols and alphabets and cultures. I can be whoever I want and make everyone do as I please. I can watch the sky speak to higher beings. I can write about writing and make it seem like an epiphany or a spiritual experience, when in reality it is just words talking about other words, speaking about nothing.

I can create journeys of unprecedented lengths and make every dinosaur re-appear in all of our forests. I write as if to say I have something to say and somebody needs to know it. I write because I'm better than most at writing, I write because it's natural. I write because I'm a pretentious hypocrite and I love it. I like to hear my own words being read by my mouth and even more my words being read by other peoples. I write because I am way into myself and perhaps not into most of the others.

Liking to write came with insomnia, and insomnia came with anxiety and anxiety came with thinking. Anxiety is a blessing, because it proves that I still think. I have anxiety, therefor I think. Descartes would had concluded that, if he lived in the I-Pod Era. If all of the geniuses from the past were born in the last decade, there would be no advances in anything, because they would had rather watched reality TV about rich and beautiful people with problems.

I want to see all those bastards chopped into pieces and being fed to Polar Bears or to Pandas or to Tigers. I wish everyone that drives a Hummer to be isolated on a melting iceberg until their death. I hate everyone, that is why I love the world. If we died, the universe would be a better place.

I write because I believe that things can be different. I write because I'm still innocent, apart from the mischief accompanied by my growing up. Writing will not save the world, but then again, nothing will save it. Unless, perhaps, everyone starts writing about it. I write because I know other people cannot. I write because I love it. I write because I still believe I could be a writer, even if books are not being read and the papers are falling into the crisis. I write because I think I have something to say, then again, I may have very little to communicate to the masses. I hate the masses, but I will write to save them if I had the chance.

I write because I like to drift into parallel universes. I write because I was never a good musician or ever will be.

Under Transition

2011-09-02T08:48:00.000-07:00

I am currently under a transition... some people also call it Writer's Block.

I am currently looking for a cure.

The Alien Morality

2011-06-11T02:22:00.000-07:00

A green fireball flashes in the night sky directly in front of my horizon. Driving around the city with my partner in crime and a gram of Northern Lights, come to think of it,the irony of seeing lights in the sky matches very well with this delicious strain. But this is not a weed story, then again a weed story could be anything or any moment, considering our habits.

My heart is pounding and my eyes are watery. The curiosity to know where it fell, excites me. Minutes pass by and I recompose from the experience, UFOs hit you hard.

“So... you think aliens are good or bad?”

...Good question, now that I think about it, I have never really thought about an answer to that question. It is easy to play along with the childhood stereotype of a typical big eyed, grey and lean space being, that watches you, preys on you. Wants to inflict danger, wants to drain the blood out of your dog's body and leave it on the porch. Wants to probe you. But... who says?

The Alien Morality

Alien beings, capable of traveling from their place of origin to Earth and back, being that place unknown but very much inclined to be out of this solar system, have obviously accomplished some type of technology superior to ours. Space travel, possibly at the speed of light, is a sign of an extremely advanced civilization in the disciplines of technology, science and most probably philosophy.

This type of knowledge represents a high level of intelligence.

¿Why has the human civilization not been able to achieve this level of wisdom?

It's morality. Aliens are probably above our paradigm of morality, good and bad, are not options to their mode of existence. Alien morality is not binary, is not religious, it is not based on their imaginary relationships with reality (their ideology), “morality” itself is probably a concept of their past. Consider alien morality to be as influential to them as Greek mythology is to us in the present moment.

Perhaps the key to achieving a higher level of intelligence resides in exorcising morality from the human condition. Sounds machiavellian, but the constraints posed by judging our actions as good or bad, restrain humans from evolving. Perhaps our morality, is a passing phase, towards the evolution of humankind, leaving the good and the bad to be words of the past. Morality could become a recessive gene.

El análisis, sin ataduras, de una gota.

2011-05-08T13:14:00.001-07:00

Se tiende a pensar que la gotas de lluvia son huecas, o por lo menos yo lo entiendo así. Trata de dibujar una. ¡Anda! Trata. ¿Cómo delineas lo que se compone solamente de si mismo? No existe forma alguna de delinear una gota, que no sea con si misma. Las gotas se delinean con agua. Estan repletas de ella. No existe un espacio de una gota, que no esté mojado. Pero se tienden a pensar huecas, por eso de delinearlas, obviando la medida cuadrada que compone el agua que esta dentro de una gota.

Pero, ¿las gotas tienen adentro y afuera? Dirían que no es posible que una gota tenga una afuera, pues el afuera de una gota, no es parte de ella. Es exactamente ese preciso punto entre el último átomo que compone la final molécula de hidrógeno y oxígenos mellizos y el primer rasguño con el aíre, que comienza el afuera. Tampoco tienen una dentro. No existe un lugar a donde entrar, si no se está afuera... y las gotas nunca están en su afuera, pues dejarían de ser gotas o el afuera dejaría de estar seco.

No todas las cosas que estan mojadas son gotas. Las gotas no son las únicas cosas mojadas, pero tienden a ser parte del proceso. Se mojan las cosas que están secas, algunas veces, se mojan también las cosas que estan todavía algo humedas. Se mojan las áreas donde la lluvia cae del cielo. Se mojan los tiestos en los balcones o la gramas más adineradas que se riegan por horario. Se mojan las vaginas si son seducidas de la manera correcta o se le introduce correctamente, con palabras, con la lengua o con el pene (sea este real o simulacreado). Se tiende a olvidar que la punta del miembro masculino también se moja por si solo, pero ellos prefieren olvidaro, para que alguien externo se los moje. Mojar puede ser una acción muy divertida, pero siempre compuesta intrínsicamente, por gotas. Varias se necesitan, suficientes para aplacar la fricción entre dos foráneos.

Los cuerpos se mojan y luego se mojan despues de mojarse para limpiarse. Se limpian los complejos, los frenecís momentáneos, entre los dedos de los pies y la parte posterior de las rodillas. Se bañan de los líquidos previos que humedecieron las áreas que más sucias se consideran. Bañarse debido a estar previamente mojado, es tal vez, la mejor causa para enjabonarse y volverse a mojar. Bañarse, solo cuando estés sucio, solo cuando lo merezca. Apreciar cada gota que desaparece ese momento anterior del cuerpo.

Los líquidos mojan, pero ¿pueden ser mojados? Si se vierte jugo en agua, como vino en sangre, está siendo el agua mojada... tal vez solo se esta agregando, multiplicidad líquida. ¿Está siendo el agua mojada cuando llueve sobre el mar? ¿Se moja una lágrima si cae sobre llanto?

Finalmente, como se delinea una gota, resulta ser una pregunta retórica y no algo que busca una respuesta. Es más bien una manera de comenzar una conversación. Una razón para pensar más alla de lo usual o para dejar de pensar en lo que se piensa demasiado.

Cappricio

2011-03-16T23:07:00.000-07:00

My skin is crawling

I can feel your touch

as you pretend not to look

as if to seem uninterested

Your eyes are screaming

secretly desceiving smiles

a brush of a rush

a smile, a sigh, perhaps

I would too, be scared

I would too, think twice

not give away too much

not wanting it in return

to never receive back

You left your bag at the doorsteps

you left your message with a voice

I thought you were another

I wanted them, all at once

I want way too much.

Greedy specialties

of the human machine

that linger in my toothaches

that wait to be awaken

whenever you come around

I want you

and you

and all

¿Tres?

2011-03-14T20:05:00.000-07:00

No se si fue por temer a que decirte o a tal vez hablarte demasiado, pero callé. Tus susurros en binario se aparecieron en la pantalla y no sabía a que responderle, o cómo. Me dio cosquillas el pensarte dentro de mis costillas. Eras, un aire que jugaba en mis adentros o tal vez un pulgar que aplastaba partes de mi pecho. Fuiste pulsaciones en la cien, rodillas contra mis tobillos, fuiste lágrimas con sabor a miel.

Me enriqueciste la piel. Pero a lo lejos. Sobre el reflejo. Fuiste todo lo que no pudo ser. Fuiste rufianes aislados del rey. Fuiste tu. Fuiste yo. Fuiste todos los que no sabíamos ser. Refugiaste, adoraste, resististe a todo... bien.

Ahorcaste los suspiros, por última vez.

Res.

Diez.

Tez.

Es.

Entre indios en el Río

2011-03-09T10:39:00.000-08:00

Los indios llevaron a Diego Salcedo a su fin. Cuando cruzaron aquel río y el no se quiso mojar las pantorillas, lo cargaron por encima. Los indios desconocian la naturaleza de Salcedo, era blanco, vestimenta rara, tenía armas invencibles. Los indios dejaron caer a Salcedo y mientras este trataba de incorporarse, le hicieron tragar el río hasta la muerte. Los indios mataron a Salcedo para ver si podía morir. Dejaron su cuerpo podrir en las aguas, Salcedo nunca se levantó. Pero estas son leyendas, casi cuentos de hadas y probablemente nada de esto pasó.

Ayer la Guadalupe se apareció en Arquitectura. No se llamó a nadie del vaticano, para verificar el milagro. Estaba caminando entre los comunes, olvidando su alto rango. Ayer los estudiantes trataron de ahogar a su Salcedo. Ayer se les pasó la mano. Se hirió a la administración con golpes de insolencia, con aguas estancadas, con cristales efímeros. Ayer no se llegó a nada, tal vez se retrocedió el camino.

Los polizones policías que se recuestan a los portones que aún quedan en la UPR, se hicieron de la vista larga. Todavía no es calculable al comparar las situaciones, como es que una pintata en la calle resulta en más de 20 arrestos, pero cuando se le ataca a la Guadalupe, la policia resiste a intervenir. Aunque tal vez, no se dieron cuenta al estar en fila para esperar que sus botines sean brillados (La uniformada mantiene un limpia botas en sus alrededores, no miento).

¿Qué paso ayer, realmente? Ayer un grupo de estudiantes molestos se desquitaron con un símbolo del poder. Ayer la razón por la cual la policía está rondando el campus riopedrense, dejó de tener credibilidad. Ayer (y probablemente será explotado por el resto de la semana) los medios llevaron al público la peor imagen que se puede establecer del movimiento estudiantil. Nada es blanco y negro, estamos enrredados en grises y ayer fue un día de nubes grises y humaredas.

Ayer los indios quisieron tratar si Salcedo podía ser herido. Probaron su mortalidad y ahora saborean un trago amargo. Los indios y Salcedo se enfrentaron en Río Piedras y ahora nadie sabe cual es el camino a seguir. Los indios ahogaron su imagen en el río y ahora desconocen los rituales para revivirla. Vamos a bailar un areyto, nos hace falta un bohique, a ver si como indios, recuperamos el camino luego de cruzar este Río.

Ataduras

2011-03-05T16:49:00.000-08:00

Recetas de las fieras

arresguñate los huesos
efímero, duro, tieso
fue tu palpitar al venir
tus manons sintieron carne
recuperastes alientos

resistes

Son las madrugadas exquisitas. Las rotundas coliflores de no se ques. Remolachas insatisfechas, somos de la noche fieras, rufianes ante el sentir. Iluminados al fin, por que la luz nos admira. Las superficies realistas de todo porvenir

Remunerados vicios

recalcitrantes horas

del existir.

Semantis

2011-03-05T16:21:00.004-08:00

Escúpeme con tus vocablos

restriégame tus fonemas en la piel

Résame un Padre Nuestro

un ¡ay bendito! y un Amén.

Tócame sin mirarme,

convócame con tu aire,

rompe todo,

recupera,

sorprende a la ligera.

Que nunca pasó.

Que pasó... eternamente.

Résame que me guste

que te exija
prismas.

Visualmente exquisito

fue escucharte pronunciar,

con aquel último aliento.

Uno (1)

2011-03-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

Ayer no hiciste nada de lo que esperé que hicieras.Fue casualidad el encontrarte, aunque no creas en las coincidencias, en los efectos de lo que callas o de lo que miras sin pestañear

¨No esperes nada de mi, tal vez solo espera lo menos esperado¨ - menciones claramente como tratando de no emitir emociones.

¨Si te sigo esperando, el tiempo va a erosionar mis momentos¨ - me alejé del área oscura donde observamos nuestro experimento, nuestra supuesta conversación, como si tuviera una conclusión, donde existen miles de hipótesis por pensar.

Me buscas.

¨Quiero que leas sobre nuestro pasado encuentro. No habla sobre ti, pero eres tú. No habla sobre lo que pasó, pero es exactamente como me sentí. Esa noche no fui yo mismo, esa noche fui algo así, como ese estado que calculan como feliz. Lee esto.¨

Lo leí entre sonrisas y nervios, entrelazando recuerdos de la víspera al nunca volver a hablarnos, al tener miedo de volver a vernos, como nos vimos por primera vez.

¨Vengo ya¨. Encendedor en mano, te alejas. Hueles a humo.

Y aquí me quedo, sentada en este espacio y tiempo, por que regresarás, por lo menos a buscar lo que te pertenece.

Somos

2011-01-27T23:14:00.000-08:00

Esta noche no viniste ni me viste

No bebistes pero me sentiste

me quisiste pero no insististe

fumaste dentro de las rejas

humaredas llenas de arandelas

rodilleras, almas mineras

rezaban por las cordilleras

por sus rocas

pos sus mitos

sus instintos montañescos

rescataban los momentos

y sus ciertos movimientos

campesinos

citadinos

anti modernos riesgos

del eterno cuerpo

del eterno enrredo

somos acertijos fijos

somos pajarracos finos

pececillos listos

atrapados en casas de vidrio

como sacrificio

ilícito

escondido

cruel

somos mixtos

escurridizos por el piso

ratoncillos de domingo

polilla y comején

te queremos saborear la piel

y dejarte querer

por dentro de los pies

todo el atardecer

algún

tal vez

hasta el amanecer

somos los que tu fuiste

somos lo que no fue

aprendimos lentamente

a aprender a enloquecer

somos animalescos

aniquilando la tez

llamando afuera los pelos

haciendo los colmillos diez

somos irreversibles

somos asi otra vez

envueltos en el retorno

el eterno no se qué

de estar y de ser

28 días.

2011-01-18T01:23:00.000-08:00

Todo tiembla,

un terremoto interno.

Se acerca la lunera

como círculo completo.

Me traza como mapa,

acelera movimientos,

no permite que dormite

o que suba por aliento.

Siete días de ansia espera,

iluminarás el cielo

y junto despojandome

de todo pensamiento.

Permite que me duerma,

regalame algún sueño,

un relajado momento,

sin que ataques mis adentros.

Insomniaca mujersuela,

te haces madre

luego viento,

desapareces de día

pero en la noche hay festejo.

Te asomas, maldito espejo,

reflejas mis sufrimientos,

permites que intensifiques,

todos mis sentimientos.

Lunática sin remedio,

solo en tu juramento,

permito que mi locura

la escupas todita al viento.

Luna, eres la Diosa

que aniquila a sus siervos.

Y regresas,

y regresas,

y regresas...

Casi llena.

2011-01-17T02:33:00.000-08:00

La luna casi llena, ha decorado el cielo desde la tarde temprana.

El gallo canta. 6:34 a.m., anuncia un nuevo día. La luna todavía no está llena. No es momento de verte o de que me mires.

No he dormido, pero tampoco había pensado en ti.

La luna creciente, decrece mi apetito y tu sin existir.

Casi llena,
tán vacía,
la ironía,
en mi melena.

Ruboriza
las mejillas
tan cobrizas
como el sol.

Casi llena,
tán vacía,
sin ti,
pero conmigo.
Conmigo,
pero sin fin.

Todavía creciente.

2011-01-15T00:42:00.000-08:00

Hoy la noche se restregó conmigo y me hizo suya. Me restregué con ella a solas y acompañada. Fue y vino así, como vaporizada. Fue y vino y se volvió a largar como para recordarme que no me pertenece. Que ella hoy y siempre, puede hacer lo que le de la gana.

Fue mi preza, por algunos momentos. Pero más en sus garras estuve yo atrapada, sin quejas, encantada con los rasguños. Hoy la noche no me permitió hacerte parte de ella, hoy no quiso olerte. Hoy no te vi ni cerca, pero si toque otros cabellos.Y hoy la noche fue para mi, aunque los demás creen que fue para ellos.

¨Tu animal totémico es el buho. Eras india en otra vida. Está confirmado.¨ Parecería algo raro la coincidencia.

¨No quería vivir con el peso de vivir a las expectativas de poder rasgar aunque sea un poco, la perfección de un buho. Son majestuosos, tan poco humanos.¨ Murmuré y me sacudí las plumas.

Si pero son de la noche y yo también. Eso tal vez, nos hace tener algo en común, además de los ojos grandes y las dificultades para dormir. No puedo mover el cuello completamente, 360 grados de flexibilidad aviar, pero puedo volcar patas arribas a tus deseos. Si solo la noche me lo permite.

Los buhos duermen de día.

Creciente

2011-01-13T21:31:00.000-08:00

Puedo sentir la noche en mi. La siento incómoda, algo apretada. Se sumerje en mí y ahí la siento dar bandazos de olas contra mi espalda. La noche está algo diferente, algo desquiciada. Un poco de demaciada luna creciente para alimentar los hábitos y los sentires chuecos. La noche nos deja con espacios huecos.

¨Si, mira la luna. Se acerca. ¨

¨No me gusta como incrementa la gravedad de la bruma, la densidad de la humedad perpetua. Avanza, es ya muy de noche para estar de noche en las afueras.Temo lo que suceda.¨

La poca noche ha cesado y ahora solo impera la oscura, la real, la auténtica. Causa asperesas en las rodillas, rumores en los oidos, grietas en las copas.

¨He sido encaprichada, debo irme. El peso de estas ansias me dificulta el caminar.¨ Y es así como se aleja ella de la interperie que constringia los bronquios y deshabilitaba el pensamiento crítico. Aquella noche era muy fuerte, muy ruda. Noche bestia que quiere morder. Noche que no sabes como te han hecho tan dificil, pero tan perfecta. Una noche como todas, pero como ninguna de las demás. Se esparció ante la oscuridad.

Desvaneció, para eso de no ser vista. Una noche que no se repite, una noche que no se construye con las mismas piezas. La noche antigua de enrredos y deslices, de la cual ha tenido que huír , pero contra su voluntad.

¨Me pesa el cuerpo, pero más me pesa el recuerdo. Como han sido revividos tus segundos y los mios a la vez. Aquel rasguño inevitable de observar en el reflejo.¨Se murmura a si misma entre dientes y cruje las muelas. La fuerza de la mordida forzada punza la cabeza.

Y él, observa. Estudia el teatro de las relaciones humanas. Trata de comprender, de desligarse, de obviar el previo roce.

{Los dos sujetos juegan estrategias de defensa. Vease arte de la guerra o jugadas de ajedrez.}

Toma notas en su cuaderno para luego. Para formar parte de la obra, para ser el personaje racional. El casi protagonista, que alimenta con misterio a la trama, pero que a su vez teme tanto el llegar al climax.

Possibilities and the possible lights.

2011-01-03T00:07:00.000-08:00

I haven't written in a while... feels like a learned gesture, not free, perhaps unreal. Unknowable, the way we connect symbols into meanings. I haven't flirted with pronunciations, enhance our enunciations, extract syllables with my gestures, I may be hard to come by. I've misplaced my audacity to take such risks and comprehend the metaphoric existence of the letters that let us be. Part of me doesn't really want to know, to understand, your specificity.

How out of all the possibilities, you had to drop into mine.

Eternal, infinite, expanding possibilities each with it's exact uniqueness, all the same, all observed from all the view points in existence. You and me, and them all and each inside a specific factor, an individual part of the equation. How it came to this,

may

never

know.

Mid-way collisions.

2010-10-26T04:03:00.001-07:00

If there is only one thing, one mere thing that I may be marvelous at, it must be procrastinating. It’s what I’m doing right now, as I write and so easily ignore the many things I should be doing. I wonder still, why is it that the things we should be doing, are never the things we want to do. Sometimes I blame it on being creative, too many ideas for such little time. Yet, time is what we have most of... it runs out as it is born again, dies, re-appears, never ending.

I wonder what you would think of my outstanding ability to focus on everything except what I should be focusing on. I hope it doesnt pester your perception of me, I don’t want to feel ashamed of my delays or my erroneous shortcuts. Trust me enough for me to get us lost and find a way back. I want you to feel this. I want you to see through my looking glass, these are merely brown eyes.

Lets basque in this impermanence, join me for this ride. I have created many routes for us, none of them have an ending. I haven’t gotten there yet... I went to brew some coffee or to have a smoke or to talk to you or a friend or meditate for 3 minutes,3 miserable minutes doing the lotus position seem like eternity. Not as peaceful, yet seen from afar, so serene. Hurts. You can be sure I won’t finish, not now, maybe later. I’m a specialist in leaving right at mid-point, running out right in the middle.

Trust me to not finish this and specially not finish you. I couldn’t, it’s a virtue incapable of my nature. Yet finish isn’t always the same as completing. I can complete things, but I cannot seem to finish. I run backwards from the finish line, I kill my bait before I throw it into the lake. You have seen it, when you come around, taking my hat off... unfinished hair-do´s. I’ll get slightly embarrassed. I will lie about my progress, about my actions, because I can’t seem to admit this, I can’t finish.

But I want you to be here. I want you to help me if not finish, be complete.

Slightly... it’s ok, to mid-way and back, hold my hand.

Schizotypy

2010-09-18T00:56:00.000-07:00

My mind is doing time. It's imprisoned in it's own solitary compartment. It has decided to leave and fled the scene. It didn't leave a replacement or an understudy, not even a thank you note for all of those days it used my body as host. I don't know it's choice of travel but I remember it being scared of flight. It probably took sail and is in the middle of the ocean blue. Minds tend to like sailing and the feeling of the waves when they hit the side of the boat. They are prone to be attracted to chaos and to dangerous situations. A mind will search for the best way to loose itself and have an excuse to never come back. My mind specifically likes to take spontaneous drifts into nothingness. Dementia, some books will call it. But I know it always comes back, it's a faithful mind this mind of mine. Untrustworthy and rarely predictable but it wins me back with it's loyalty. It loves the sea but it lost interest in learning how to swim. It likes to place itself in riddles, puzzles and once in a while, duels. To the death that is... luckily it always wins, it's a fast mind this mind of mine. It minds constantly about it's state and it's constantly checking itself for sanity. So worry-some this mind of mind, searching for the next maybe, never sure, always doubting, this worried mind this mind of mine. Powerful as only it knows it can be yet it's not sure enough about it's strength, if only it knew the truth that lies beneath. It is as powerful as it lets itself to be. And it tightens up and holds air in for days. It breathes every other month, when it remembers it has to, to survive. A mindless mind this mind of mine.

Sudden Epiphanies #2

2010-08-22T01:13:00.001-07:00

TODAS NUESTROS PASOS Y MOVIDAS QUE TOMAMOS COMO ESTRATEGIAS PARA SOBREVIVIR POR EL MAS LARGO TIEMPO POSIBLE EN ESTA DIMENSION, ESPACIO Y TIEMPO ES UNA RELACION POLITICA QUE TIENE COMO FIN LLEGAR A UN ORGASMO. EL ORGASMO ES EL CENTRO DE LA MOTIVACION HUMANA POR VIVIR.

Sudden Epiphanies #1

2010-08-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

I’m eating frozen strawberries. They are succulently red, watery, intensely sweet. These berries have been chemically engineered to have this exact amount of water in its bio-molecular structure. This berries have been submerge in #54 Cadmiun Red or perhaps Cherry Blast #75C. Drenched in corn syrup, the high fructose one, unnaturally sweet, just how we expect them too, how we like them. I’m not eating strawberries. Right now, I have no idea what I just bit into. Grossed out is a bit of an understatement. Fear, could be a way to describe it. Red Balls of fire.

Sudden Epiphanies

2010-08-21T02:01:00.001-07:00

The glass of water stumbled onto the stove and spewing all of it's innards on the floor, it splashed my feet. It was cold. Pieces of ice everywhere, some melting away on the stove-top which had been used minutes before to cook up our mid-night dinners. I'm in another dimension. I'm thirsty, I fucking spilled the damn water.

Everything is vibrating and I can feel the universe's energies flow through me, but I spilled this glass of water, ending perfection for some seconds. And this seconds of imperfection are to horrid to explain. And at the moment a far away pebble falls of a mountain top in Nepal re-structured to be perceived in my body as a certain special sway of my hip or to cause a needle-point poke on my left nostril, I understood everything. Understood that I should be joyful for having been able to spill that water onto my feet, I am blessed to be able to drink water. So I smiled. Next time I spill a glass of water because of my clumsy nature, I shall pray and be thankful. I can feel every vibration of the universe in every pore that clothes my hands with skin. I can hold the universe in one of my curls. I can spill glasses of water and feel it bathe me. I'm in heaven.

The New Earth - Slutty Chimps.

2010-07-27T00:07:00.000-07:00

The big eye in the sky has looked and seen 140 new planets. 140 new Earths. Now we can let this one die in peace, at last. Now we can dress ourselves in black, mourning and dive into the Gulf, taste the crude water. From this moment on, this planet has become dispensable, like a water bottle. The search for the new Earth has begun. A monkey will arrive there first and be greeted by the new life. New Earth will inherit our sins. New Earth will soon be burning too. Now I wonder how that monkey got AIDS in the first place... promiscuous primate. I wonder why he didn't use protection.

I wonder too much...Re-thinking things that have already been re-thought makes for too many doubts in one single brain. Re-thinking makes for night terrors. Re-thinking makes for panic attacks. Re-thinking makes for hypochondria and medications and psychologists and night sweats. Re-thinking is a waste of time yet it's the best hobby. Time-wasting is a great way to pass the time.

Monkeys should had worn condoms... lazy chimps. Slutty primates are not to be eaten or had as lovers. 140 Earths have been found and still we know nothing about this magical place. We are strangers in this land, maybe 2.0 will have a greater rate of success. The New Earth shall inherit us... I pity it.

(http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/home/science/Anybody-out-there-140-Earths-found/articleshow/6216534.cms Click this link for more information about the many new planets in this vast and amazing universe)

La universidad – un Re-mix.

2010-04-28T08:29:00.000-07:00

“I declare mutiny on this ship”-William Elliot Withmore

Un re-mix se entiende como el mezclar partes de una mezcla previa, buscando obtener un producto nuevo. Un re-mix no es al azar, tampoco es desorganizado. Un re-mix es tal vez una manera de confundir un plan pre-meditado, estragégico y cundido de creatividad, difrazandolo como caos. Un re-mix es novedoso, original, ilegal y fácilmente controversial. El re-mix es el perfecto catalítico para el cambio aparejado con la creación. Alerta, la universidad ha sido hackeada.

“It is often left to pirates to chart the wind of change

and plot better courses for the future.” - Matt Mason

El espacio académico perteneciente al Estado ha sido reclamado por piratas bicicliteros urbanos. Una comunidad que convive utilizando estos espacios para crear comunidad, así re-signifificando la definición original que se le atribuye a la UPR. Estos bucaneros del asfalto no navegan al garete (a la deriva) sino que están organizados, de manera digna de asombro.

Se han creado comités de todas las facultades donde se velan los portones y el flujo de entradas y salidas. Estos portones que eran agentes separadores que mantenían la universidad segura y aislada del exterior, ahora son entradas ha santuarios de una cultura juvenil que hemos visto emerger con estruendoso poder organizativo, falta de miedos y con entusiasmos para establecer un no-lugar temporero en el centro de Santa Rita. Esta utopía re-mixeada temporera, zona autónoma, barco donde el timón ha sido arrebatado de las manos del capitán, es en estos momentos una criatura digna de examinar. La iupi en estos momentos no es la misma iupi de siempre. Estos piratas no son los mismos barbudos de siempre. Esta iupi es un navío que no lleva bandera. Quienes la guardan, se han establecido con estratégico movimiento, exaltando y proclamando un intenso vínculo de comunidad, ricos en creatividad y risas. Se expresan por medio del arte, el juego y el arte de jugar.

La Universidad en este momento no existe. Ha sido sustituida por una canción sin derechos de autor. Ha sido arrebatada de sus gobernantes por piratas tecnológicos, piratas pasionales, piratas creadores, armados con nostalgia por un futuro que no se apresura en llegar. Con la mira siempre en un porvenir incierto, bailemos este re-mix hasta que el DJ cese la pista o hasta que ha golpes, hagan de bailar un acto ilegal.

Fishing wasn't made for the weak.

2010-04-27T05:05:00.000-07:00

I can't live like this. How you live feeling the way you feel and not letting yourself feel it? I can't live like that. I need to scream things out loud, brake the barrier of sound if it pleases me. And yet it's beautiful. How my heartbeat raises with distrust, reminding one your alive, breathing, perfect. I sure can't live like this, yet I try. Like a fish that hopes of being able to adapt to oxygen, jumping up and down and sideways, hoping for a chemical miracle. I too can sink without water. I too can drown in mid-air. I too can face living, living like this.

In isles of groceries manufactured into having a different color, each a different hue, making pupils feel special. They put up a show in photons, commercialized molecules of public relations. I can't live eating pre-washed lettuce, I need to feel the dirt still battling to stay attached to every leaf. I can't live knowing everything, that life is not worth living. I too like Ahab would die if I caught my big white majestic beast.

Is this my whale? I've seen it kill before, and it has surely eaten a previous part of myself. I'll travel shore-side, wonder around the squiggles that chart continents and tiny islands; lonely as they are. Big fish, swim towards the heavens, make yourself be seen. I only need but a glimpse to keep on going. Let me know you are real. I can't live like this, wanted non-existence.

Are you my fish? Have you a part of me buried in your stomach wall? Can you digest my skin that crawls, begs, for your touch? Yours alone. You swim uncharted waters, I follow fueled by revenge. And the wind, that carries the sounds of previous lovers, the slam of doors in your face, the trickling of defrosted snowflakes. I never learned how to fish.

I can't live like this. My personality has never been that of a hunter, I can't hurt you, even if you ask for it. I mention too much myself, I am greedy, rampantly so. Forgive me, for it's my nature.

And you are my fish... and I will follow so.

Don't waste your time doing things you hate.

2010-04-10T15:14:00.000-07:00

As if time was manageable, don't lie and say you'll do it later. Later is never real... but now you're sacrificing time towards a failure. Every minute spent hating every minute is a minute that will never re-appear in a lifetime's time. As if time was a given. Yell at time to move forward, as if something out of yourself controls it, like you've forgotten how you created your-self, same as God forgot how he created his self. Cringe at the thought of letting a moment go thinking thoughtless ideas, swallowing the magma that flows and burns and creates fertile sediment for new-ness. When was the first time something was new? Wasn't the creation of the word itself the first idea created by the sapiens? Walking erectile, swinging testicles from side to side, discovering rocks as projectiles that battle the night sky and crack the arid earth. I've come to conclusion that the missing link isn't buried underneath us, it's not a thing but an idea. The idea that is man itself is that link that separates that which wishes to be and that which has always been in need.

Pursue only that which is wanted. Don't create needs and manufacture desire. Attain nothing that isn't real, accept nothing but truth. As if the lie that is a truth didn't blow the fuse of a paradox. A paradox is a type of bird that lives out of the eyes of the un-creative and the un-amazed.

The world is the best place you'll ever know in your life.

It's the only place that will ever accept our existence.

It's the only place that will ever rescue you from the universe.

And yet, it's the saddest place I've ever known.

Imagination will never be as grandiose as reality.

This is the perfect moment to be alive, because it's a moment you can live out.

Kids.

2010-04-07T23:56:00.000-07:00

“Yo no quiero ser grande,

soy un niño Toys-R-Us”

Con tán peculiar jingle que bautizamos nuestra infancia. Años luz de haber extraviado la inocencia y seguimos sin saber crecer, o tal vez pretendiendo nunca haber aprendido. El simulacro del vintage, el afán con la nostalgia y el cliché, nos delatan. Nunca hemos querido dejar de jugar. Jugamos los juegos que nos transportan, los juegos son nuestra máquina del tiempo, propulsada por combustible de etileno y embrujos, yerbas, gofio y hormiguitas pseudo-azucareras.

Nos hemos auto-condenado al infantilismo perpetuo. Bici, Nintendo, tiritapate arrebatao, mímica en ácido, glowsticks extasiados brincando dentro de peregrinas glow in the dark. A mí personalmente, mi preferencia es por los artefactos pre-photoshop e illustrator, los espirográfos. Cómo los giroscopios y las pizarras hechas de crayola… la uña sustituto perfecto para la tiza, luego un sucio imposible de limpiar.

El universo ha sido creado por patrones dibujados por estas contrapciones divertidas... si Dios existiera, sería un niño aburrido que con tanta imaginación cometió el error de inventar la existencia. Una existencia estructurada por patrones y enrredos dibujados con espirografos de $1.99.

Si Dios existe, es un niño que nunca quiso crecer y mi generación decidió adoptar su complejo. Juguemos... es lo único que nos mantiene al borde de no zambullirnos al mar de la rutina o de los cubículos, las oficinas, los “power-suits”. El porvenir es un juego al azar. ¡Que emoción!

Puedo comprar mi infancia en E-bay...o la tuya. Puedo comprar mementos que me mantenga alejada de los momentos del presente. Podemos vivir permanentamente en el pasado, aunque no lo recordemos. Hemos reunciado al presente y así vivimos en un tiempo que no existe, en algo que ya no es. El pasado no existe pero si existe el maquillaje, los green screens y la simulación de los remakes de Hollywood que nunca serán como los originales. Pero compraremos taquillas, para comprar nuestras memorias y tratar de encontrar la identidad que como grupo renunciamos a encontrar. No nos queda otro remedio, estamos obligados a jugar.

Pain: Every womyn's last name.

2010-03-09T21:15:00.001-08:00

I can feel my insides twist and shout. These stabbing pains come to remind me again that March is the month, designated by whoever designates special dates for special occasions, to remember women. Perhaps we've been forgotten for the rest of them remaining months. Inside me rest two generators of life... and like every thing that accompanies life, two generators of pain. This month my right ovary decided to bleed, hemorrhagic cyst, I can feel the little balls of blood coagulating in my belly.

First I thought my fertility had won the battle against contraceptions. The only good sign of blood dripping from the pubis is that I won't have to become a pseudo-murderer, baby-killer, evil-doer,satan-worshipper. But this time it wasn't there... it didn't come with it's agonizing ways. Pee on a cup or a stick, blue lines, double blue lines, negatives, positives... manufactured ways for doubting nature.

Pains, my insides are swelling with anger, with anxiety, stress, swollen female gonads. Blood, that will not shave away from the uterine walls, it wants to paint them red, it wants to dance inside my insides. Blood, come out and play. I've always thought of having children as a point of no return, I will not meet that winding road. Yet somehow if I was told I couldn't bare life... perhaps I would shed tears. It's a paradox... a very crappy one.

This month the establishment celebrates womanhood in all of it's cliché representations... I curse it. I want to tear this egg factories away from myself. I am not a chicken. I refuse to produce omelette's.

I will not lay eggs.

Green.

2010-02-22T22:06:00.001-08:00

I may not be your beautiful, but I have achieved the conquest of living. As if walking wasn't an art, every step more symbolic than the last. I swear words are magical entities contrived to their word condition, letters of alchemy, all knowing alpha and beta of grammar and grammatics. Without the word, there is zero. The word, an utterance of sound is the avalanche of existence, purposely murmured at the other side of the universe, slowly expanding, slowly reaching our time in light-years.

You may not know my curves apart from any others but I can describe every star without watching the night sky and sing it's native song, each one of them, one by one by one. Space-time is curved and light will never be a straight line, unless everything vanishes and there is no mass, no matter, just photons with only potential, what they could had been.

The grass is greener on the other side, only depending on your pupil, your species and specially what you consider green to be. Green could be anything, an incoming truck in traffic, a giraffe that just discovered it's tongue, a whisper or just a plain color. Green could be 4, 8 or 983. You could be green if I loved you enough, I could be green if I wanted to be.

Agua y Sal

2010-01-21T00:08:00.000-08:00

La mar apasionada con la tierra, la acaricia sin cesar esperando ser correspondida. Sus mas gentiles emisarios llegan hasta las orillas, burbujas cándidas, tiernas, que con timidéz tratan de besar cada grano terrestre. Arena ingrata, tanta que eres y tan poca pasión. Rasguñas a quienes se atreven a con su piel agraciar tus tantos espacios. Mojada eres mas maleable, pero siempre serás seca despues del sol del mediodia. Arena eres un cementerio.

Los marineros siempre serán personajes de la nostalgia y la agonía, que día tras día navegan a quienes siempre han amado. La mar recibe a estos en sus navíos que bailan en las puntas de las olas, olas que se aseguran que la mar se mantenga sola. Y solo en los ojos salados de los que han decidido tratar adentrarse en un azúl que no se puede navegar. Un azúl tan específico, robado del cielo, reflejo de espíritu, azulejo de la mar.

He escuchado de cuentecillos, que llegan a la ciudad utilizando por medio a gitanos del más allá, sobre hombres que esprimieron su piel, sus tripas y barbas, para poder ser pura agua y mezclarse con su amor. Pero no hay oceano suficientemente inmenso, para que los hombres vivan en el, sin quereselo apropiar. Las personas no viven de solo agua y sal, dice la que lee las cartas. Agua y sal te llevan a la locura y solo agua y sal serás, pero no mar. Nunca se puede ser mar, sin primero tratar de conquistar a la tierra. La tierra es lo único que veredaderamente la mar puede amar.

Los forasteros hablan de hombres que luego de su ombligo, se han convertido en pez. Las sirenas nunca cantaron, fueron pájaros lo que vio Odiseo. Las sirenas viven junto a los calamares gigantescos, junto a las medusas mas eléctricas, junto a los delfines que mantienen su apariencia alienigena inicial, antes de su evolución terrestre. Las sirenas tienen cerebros, pero no pueden razonar. Tienen sistemas nerviosos, pero no pueden calcular, las millas y millas de salitre que cubren a este planeta. No han visto a las lindas nubes, nunca las podrán mirar. Las sirenas que sobreviven su nacimiento, viven su vida obligandose a no respirar... nacieron sin agallas, herencia humana de pobres y débiles pulmones. No pueden respirar más de 8 veces en su vida. La novena siempre es mortal.

El divertido sentir de no ser nada.

2010-01-14T20:22:00.000-08:00

¿Cuando es que llegaste a comprender?

Por que se que me falta camino, hay semáforos que ni a lo lejos me permiten verse cambiar. Pero su luz no existe, por que no esta aquí. Tu tampoco existes, por que no estas aquí. Yo no existo, por que no quiero estar aquí. Estoy allá… y me he perdido en un tiempo que todavía no es real y un lugar que no puedo pisar en este instante. Pienso luego existo, como nos has mentido Rene! que si yo pienso y pienso y re-pienso todo, imagino, creo con cada inhalación y mientras mas pienso, menos existo. Si no es en el instante; no pasa, no sucede. Solo el instante puede probar que existo. Nada más.

Y si hay neutrinos… yo los lograre ver. Y si hay fotones… yo soy un fotón.

¡Somos moléculas!

Moléculas que se han organizado y desorganizado y re-estructurado de forma caótica, para llevarnos al instante. (Entropy let us be.)

Ayer no sabias escribir estos versos. Ayer nunca fue.

I'll probably never know if it was the reflection from those new glasses, an effect caused by the thick lenses that covered my vision. Everything was elongating... as if every molecule had become rubber. As if a stargate had opened near my blind spot, a portal that would inhale tiny strings of energy, unasumming matter particles, how childish they can be.

E - long - gate. Assimilate the rhythm that has never left you.

Hummingbirds are in perfect tune with the orbits of every planet.

Have you ever noticed the way tears always fall and follow the same canal? Face irrigation system.

Skyfilled Math Equations (Geometrical existence.)

2010-01-13T23:11:00.000-08:00

I’ve tried to write these verses in my mind. I’ve tried over and over and sideways to spit out congruent adjectives to specify the moment, but I’ve failed every time. See it’s harder than one may think to explain images that have only been seen by one set of eyes. It may be strictly egotistical, even excruciatingly offensive, but there is no other way to make the other one understand what can only exist inside the self. (If it exists only there, then it exists everywhere and anywhere.)

Just look for it.

It’s there.

Or is there a crack in the façade, an error in the algorithm? The only step I can take is to make you believe the clouds are made of shapes that are mostly blind to our pitiful eyes. Yes, it is squares, millions of them. Equilateral and acute trillions of triangles make up the smooth cotton candied nimbus. Have you ever seen a sky so blue it made you realize you’ve never seen true blue before? I did. It was the bluest, bluer than the bluest of the crayoned blues. It was light turned into blue, true light manifesting into whatever that is we use to call “blue”. B-l-u-e. Like the sound of a pebble that hits a cemented tranquil almost solid crystal tranquility pond. Like the strangest sound known to man.

The only type of private property, truly private, in the world is the one that only you can understand and even if you wanted to share it, it would be impossible.

Las predicciones mágicas para el nuevo año 2010. (primera edición)

2010-01-06T12:20:00.000-08:00

Los socialistas caminanarán el paro en tennis Nike. Como la linea de piquete, el nuevo opio social... buscando en la embriaguez cervecera de la prole, lo que la religión no pudo llenar. Santa Rita protégeme que ha comenzado un nuevo año solar. Y no vale resolución alguna, ya que nada es posible de solucionar. Este año es la lucha, la revolución se avecina. La veo allá en cuclillas, en el lobby de sociales, esta esperando que alguien se la desenrrede de la barba.

Este año el trabajador tendrá justicia. Este año los hombres se casarán con hombres y las mujeres con mujeres y los mujeres y las hombres bailarán en el palacio de las leyes. Este año se sabrá que le pasó a Rolandito. Este año no matarás a casi mil, este año no habrán balas al aire, se cumplirán las promesas que te prometieron, todas. Ganarás congresistas o tal vez un presidente, pero cesará el limbo colonial. Se reciclará el 75% de todos los desechos y los vertederos los convertirán en más parques, espacio perfecto para entrenar al equipo nacional de Golf para las olimpiadas. Walmart se irá a la quiebra y El Mesón comprará todos los McDonald's en la isla. Culebra y Vieques cesarán de ser islas, incorporandose al 100x35. Los indios taínos se unirán al movimiento Zapatista.

Habrá un ataque de zombies en el cementerio al lado del morro... Albizu se va a levantar, queriendo comerse, como siempre, los cerebros de sus compatriotas. La luna será comprada por General Electric y usada como el primer proyector de anuncios espaciales. La luna esta llena, auspiciada por Microsoft. Obama se quitará la careta y todos nos asombraremos al ver que sigue siendo Bush con un sun tan. No se sabrá si pasará algo en el 2012. No se legalizará el cannabis.

Estoy completamente segura que va a nevar en Aibonito. Se harán piraguas de nieve con crema o anís o frambuesa. La luna menguante, auspiciada por Monsanto. Se registrarán una decena de muertes internacionales debido a desgaste físico por tanto textear. Morirá gente famosa, nacerán muchos bebes y se formarán huracanes en el atlántico o terremotos en California. Los miercoles en el cine serán días de damas. Rusia volverá al soviet. Alguien publicará un libro y lo convertirán en un filme... el libro será mejor. El maíz se utilizará para etanol y popcorn, mientras aprendemos a cogerle cariño al calentamiento global. Unos cuantos proclamarán ser hijos de Dios, profetas, mesías, enviados, descendientes, ángeles o lo que sea... todos usarán gabanes.

La informática sonámbula en la era del post post.

2010-01-05T16:36:00.000-08:00

“También el jugador es prisionero de otro tablero
de negras noches y de blancos días.”  -Jorge Luís Borges

Tratando de encontrar el sueño. Como si este se encontrara en algún rincón del ciberespacio, en algún lugar remoto de la blogosfera, en algún link, de otro link, que se “taggueo” y fue enviado por e-mail, proveniente de los antípodas Wikipedienses. Como si fuera cuestión de encontrarlo. Quiero saber si hay alguna interfaz, donde exista un código de algoritmos que construya un antídoto-no-químico para la sobrepoblación de pensamientos. ¿Donde esta el switch para apagar este procesador?

Cuantos bytes se necesitan para informarle a cual sea el hemisferio cerebral, que ha de cerrar los ojos, que ha de apagarse… por algunas horas solamente, es una plegaria, es casi una súplica. ¿Es necesario el cerrar los ojos para poder dormir? Yo conozco algunos que no. Duermen con los ojos semi-abiertos y uno no sabe si están vivos hasta que los despiertas por el miedo a la duda.

De sinapsis en sinapsis… de bit en bit. Hay algo que no viaja hasta donde tiene que viajar. Mis ojos cerrados crean más imágenes que cuando están siendo utilizados para observar algo que ha visto ya tantas veces o para percibir las ideas de otro. Ideas de otro que nunca podré completamente, enteramente, intrínsicamente percibir, como aquel las ha percibido.

El desparrame de informática no me permite dormir. Siempre hay un enlace, hacia otro enlace, hacia otro enlace, hacia otro enlace… y como fórmula binaria, 10010101010… hay píxeles imaginarios y abstractos que invaden mis ojos, aunque se mantengan cerrados. Son las noches de bit en bit… esas noches aterradoras. Que de momento te sorprende la mañana, estallando el miedo por que te anuncia el regenerado día, que tu no eres presa de las horas, que le has escupido al reloj y el despertador no ha sido utilizado… pues no había de donde despertarse. Google me mantiene sonámbula. Google contiene la dirección exacta donde se encuentra mi capacidad de dormir. Yo no conozco la palabra clave específica, para poder obtener acceso.

La búsqueda es fútil. La resistencia es fútil. La lucha es fútil. Algún tubo conectado con esta isla, debajo, allá abajo, donde viven los calamares gigantes, el Kraken y los Dioses marinos, allá abajo hay tubos. Hay tubos que llevan la información que no me deja cerrar los ojos. Alguno de estos monstruos por favor que reclame su naturaleza y se desquite, como la bestia que es, con estos andamiajes de la era moderna. O la era postmoderna, o lo que sea que estamos viviendo ahora, la post-post-meta-sur-moderna era de la época en donde no se puede dormir. En la época donde no se debe dormir… por no gastar los bits y los bytes y todo 0 y 1 que pueda ser transmitido hasta los momentos en donde no se si es mejor abrir o cerrar o dormir o soñar o mantenerme conectada eternamente… a tanta red. En algún momento, hay que clickear Shutdown.

some thoughts about freedom.

2009-12-21T15:01:00.000-08:00

Versos libres – como el Mercado

Hoy se me rien las horas

por que yo las autorizo,

las dejo desmoronarse en carcajadas

que solo yo me permito escuchar.

Escribo más de lo que leo

por eso de la desconfianza.

No llego a comprender

como es que no llevamos

el calendario, según el ciclo menstrual.

Son 28 exactos días que cambian

según la exposición a los fotones.

No comprendo el afán de preocuparnos

por que nuestros sobacos asemejen el aroma

de un culito de bebe.

O será tal vez que los culos recien nacidos

huelen a desodorante.

Hoy se me rien las horas, por que las dejo pasar,

por que creo que existen.

Por que hasta las horas se han convertido al digito.

Todos estamos enclaustrados en archivos

por ahí en el ciberespacio, combinaciones binarias

billones de ellas.

Hoy es Hoy por que los Mayas lo decidieron.

Porque tenian tiempo, para crear tiempo.

Tenían tiempo para cuantificarlo

por que no conocían las redes sociales.

Las moléculas pasaron de moda.

No me quiero poner la vacuna anti-porcina

por que me gusta caminar y por que

no soy un cerdo.

Mi gato tiene SIDA

pero no es pato ni puta.

No entiendo en que momento

los homosexuales empezaron a nadar

o a emigrar al sur en invierno.

No entiendo por qué la mayoría de las prostitutas

son hombres disfrazados.

Me gustan los acordiones porque

no son Americanos.

En mi carro escucho country

y vivo en el centro del caribe.

Deseo que exista morcilla de soya.

Quisiera probar soylent green.

Ser canibales es el llamado

de los ambientalistas extremos.

Me comería tu muslo

con un poquito de salsa Ranch.

Salvemos el planeta.

Demos de comer a los osos polares

el excedente poblacional.

Paradox.

2009-12-12T16:55:00.001-08:00

Everything I should be doing, stops me from doing what I want to do.

(December 20. The End is always nearer than you think.)

Re-check your bathroom windows. Desgermenization begins soon.

Saint Giving's Day ( De como los indios celebramos.)

2009-11-25T19:36:00.000-08:00

Nunca he visto un pavo caminando por ahí.

Y de la necesidad, nació Guavate.

Maze.

2009-11-17T22:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve been gone.
Into the most uncomfortable positions,
Screwed in with nails.
Breathing isn’t quintessential anymore.
Carbon Monoxide paradise.
A chest filled by bricks, cobblestone lungs,
Narrow corridors of capillary roads.
Spatial in-congruence that slides,
That swifts so gently.
Pointing out the obvious remark.

I’ve been gone.
Have been trying to come back for so long.
Pressure, altitudes and steep falls.
Rouged-out cheeks, clacking hips.
Pulsations that rise towards the tip,
Of a throbbing head that yells at itself.
Ever resting, a thread of unwinding road.
A fickle piece of woodchip, a touch.

I’ve been gone.
Still intertwined with all.
Inescapable symmetry that calls,
Yet I’ve been gone and haven’t answered.
Some day I will pick up.
But I’ve been gone and have lost that,
That which I’ve been looking for.

The April 20th Pioneers present: A Poem.

2009-10-28T13:58:00.001-07:00

I’ve got some green in my pocket

It smells of mischief and toil

I’ll hide my eyes if I taste it

I’ll make sure not to boil

My pocket hides little secrets

It glides away and revolves

Plays with shades and ideas

Swallows mountains and sloth

The circus comes at the distance

Drummers drum the drumming song

And while the Pik-a-Doo whistles

It flies and sings them “hello!”

I’ve got some green in my pocket

It twinkles, desires to be born

It plucks the hairs of its nostril

And calls for thunder and storm

I’ve seen the no-eyed hailing monsters

They wait for sailors to crash

And float their boats on the ocean

Sucking their innards till dry

This people don’t hear the stories

They believe the messengers lie

As green goblins sneak under toasters

And spoon-thieves Lindons give little cries

I’ve got some green in my pocket

And carnivals ride on wind waves

They came from the looking mirror

And now have upside-down heads

They say they’d stay if they let them

They want to feed us jellies and jams

From the one made with cucumber

To the ones made with salty hands.

The sirs put on hats that are ruthless

The ladies sing high octane tunes

The horses talk amongst horses

They think we can’t hear them, fools

I’ve got some green in my pocket

It calls for fire to scourge

I told it not to be nasty

And wait for minutes to burn

And travel far, off the distance

Into somebody else’s throne

It wants to visit magicians

And find the fiddler’s new bow

And wrestle with Swingle-Dwingles

Because their scaly and strong

It wants to walk on the lay-lows

And take the long way back home

Barbie Barbarie.

2009-10-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

Barbie Barbarie

Barbie rabiosa.

Entre la selva, con una lanza.

Casi desnuda, desenplasticada.

Adora la luna y se da a la caza.

Se ha cortado las greñas para el camuflaje.

Se ha limpiado el culo con hojas de yagrumo.

Y ha fumado tanto que a veces come humo.

Come carne cruda para desayuno.

Barbie es shaman de su tribu y come hongos.

Habla con los dioses de la grama.

Le gusta dormir con diferentes mujeres.

Dependiendo de la semana.

No conoce las bodas ni las corvetas.

no es ni esposa ni modelo ni princesa.

no se afeita los sobacos ni come mayonesa.

Nunca tocará un bicho plastiquito con su lengua.

Barbie Barbarian (a literall translation)

Rabid Barbie.

Between the jungle, lance in hand.

Almost naked, unplasticized.

Worships the moon and hunts the land.

Her hair she cut as camouflage.

Her ass has been whipped with dispensed leaves.

And she has smoked to the extent she eats smoke.

Eats raw meat for breakfast.

Barbie is her tribe’s shaman and eats fungus.

Talks to the gods of the grass.

She likes to sleep with different women.

Depending on the week.

She knows nothing about weddings and corvettes.

Not a wife not a model or princess.

No shaving of her arm pits no eating mayonnaise.

Never will a plastic dickling be touched by her tongue.

Clouds: an on-going tale. (2)

2009-10-27T23:05:00.001-07:00

Continuation (from October 12th post).

At headquarters:

Anyhow, the time-card has been punched as if this person is awake doing their job, guiding clouds towards the wind. Picking out which form each unique one will become. Yet they remain there, unmoved. Maybe they just went in a really long coffee break.

Cloud runners are always unpredictable, they are said to possess the highest creativity level permitted, this makes them dangerous but exciting to predict. Cloud-runners and Fractalians are the only ones permitted, if everyone was like them, there would be chaos. Well that’s what I’ve come to believe. If this world was run like clouds, nothing would ever get done.

I always thought clouds could be controlled by a bot-program. Will anyone really notice if they are a series of repeating patterns? People have more important things to do than look at the sky, we make sure of that. It’s our job.

The construction of everyday live has been our pride and joy ever since the conglomerate converged into one. We have designed every detail with our most talented and innovative personnel. Reality has never looked better. Even I surprise myself of our low error counts. Some days pass by without one single error! Those are our holidays.
Today was not one of those days. Since the Cloud-running department seems to have instituted a coup.

The sky surrogate was up and running as soon as we noticed the mishap; I only hope the damage is minimal.

Maybe someone noticed, maybe someone had time to breathe and look up. This someone will be put on notice. If there is a someone like this someone, we’ll make sure to get them busier. But that isn't my job, the memo is circulating around already, someone will get punished for the mistake, someone will work overtime without pay. That’s how it works. Slavery was a great idea; I still cringe when I hear the emancipation proclamation. I would have been good colleagues with Aristotle. Some people are just born to be leaders and others born to be whipped.

My job today, like every Wednesday is to create the monthly layout for the stock market. Dow goes up! GE goes down! Gold will be the ¨hot buy¨ for the first week of May. Simultaneously we are creating an underground cavern complex near Washington state, filled with the precious metal. A lucky archeologist will find it; he will die in a freak accident in a dig in Oaxaca in 2 years, 3 months and 17 days at exactly 9:57 a.m. eastern time. He will have no heirs. A monument will be created in his name at the base of the gold mine. Nobody will care or remember. The Boston Red Sox will win the world series that day and 298 fights will happen between New York and Boston fans during 11:07 p.m. to 5:46 a.m. Most of them will occur on Manhattan.

This is how we make our special associates rich. We raise gold, we create gold for them, play along in the game. They subsidy our ventures. My business is perfection. It’s every detail, constant control, every second is planned ahead. Always plan ahead, that’s the company’s motto.

Clouds: an on-going tale. (1)

2009-10-12T00:19:00.001-07:00

She wrote.

Time is a series of binary codes, digit by digit, small pulses of energy that construct information. Time was measured in gold in 1944. Time is money. Time is what has passed and what will. Time is never enough. Time is an illusion. You are an illusion. We all are.

The world will end up without oxygen and nothing will ever rust again. Perhaps one day we will miss the rusty edges of a kitchen cabinet. Someday we may even miss tetanus.

I see the edges rust with glee. The microscopic war between molecules, I wonder what side I am on. I suggest we start embracing mosquitoes as a sign that there is still blood circulating in our vessels. There are explosions everywhere; we are the aftermath of an explosion… the most special kind of debris. I want to know if you’ve ever felt something burst inside you. But I refrain, you must have had an orgasm at your age, well it’s expected of you. I hope you have.

Prefer not to ask, in fear of an unexpected response; I turn my cheek towards the saints. Statues clothed in every color available to the eye to catch. And the beautiful sound of those 4 amazing seconds in a song.

Candlesticks burn away the sadness of mourners, yet the sun still shines. Electromagnetic fields make the sky look blue and clouds that once surf the wind are now static. They stopped progressing on into the next latitudes; they are no longer unicorns that transform into hats or elephants or any-thing reflected upon ever-changing nimbus. Somebody forgot to run the program. I wonder why.

Maybe she slept in or he’s late because of a doctor’s appointment that he clumsily forgot to call-in.

“Jajajaaa jum…”- laughing out quietly. “It must be the wind”. The day is still amazingly beautiful looking at it from this hill. I smile alone and listen.

TODAY

2009-09-21T01:55:00.000-07:00

TODAY. The only day that has ever existed, since it’s now and only now exists; we battle entropy. Or should we decide to run its course? Today I will drink more water, to not be taken by its current, to avoid the accident of drowning in my existence. The glass is half fool, half empty, half-and-half, half drunk. Today is the only reason to be alive. Today is God. God is today. Today is everything and nothing and all that has passed and will pass, but it doesn’t matter, because that which will or has passed, is not today. Today has five letters, the only letters you need to write the book of a thousand truths. The only sounds you’ll need to spew from the pressure of your lips and your tongue, the only explosion of sound you’ll need to create to communicate everything there is, and was and will be. Today I will think twice or not think at all. Living in the grey area is quite chaotic; my thoughts fight their way into little anxious balls of digested information. This little contraptions are like mind mines, waiting for an out-of-place thought to make them go KAPOW! And bombard some minute space inside me. Today, I will not push forward my death date. Today I will appreciate today for being today and not what could have been today or what it should. Today I will stop believing there was anything else possible BUT today. Today is the best day of our lives.

Mere patterns.

2009-09-11T00:50:00.000-07:00

After witnessing the beauty of patterns, I too, am left without words.

What can I say greater than what can be watched, observed with these humble eyes. I believe now, we all resonate. We all resonate, we all breathe at once. We all resonate and this is how we should stand. Resonating. The vibrancy of existence. If God exists… it is in the form of a scream. A scream heard to none. A scream that ignited the symphony that plays today. A scream, the scream of creation, the birth cry of the universe. We are mere waves. We all resonate and we forget it. We all resonate and yet we pursue to find a new beat, another drum, a change of rhythm. Music is our birth mother. Music creates and destroys us. Music is vibration, waves, resonance. We all resonate. Today, almost certain that we are all immersed in a cosmic symphony, I find myself and my thoughts so weak, so nothing, simply unworthy. Our selfishness, our desires, our human emotions. So small, so insignificant. We all resonate. That is our answer and it cannot be encountered in any book or class, any mind that dares to call itself genius. If we don’t comprehend THIS, our simplest truths… we are nothing but mere particles that vibrate without knowing the frequency of our reality.

The French Revolution (Breakfast edition)

2009-09-08T23:06:00.000-07:00

As seen here... the French way ahead of Americans(specially in booby freedom)... they believe in the equality of men and women to show their breast when they please. Burn the Bras! Shirtless equality!

As proud as I am of the fact that I’m keeping this blog project updated, I haven’t done as much food-talk as I should/want. The opportunity to post some nice recipes came forward today from a conversation in today’s class break… yeah you know, we have 3 hour long classes… (Run away if you’re planning to do a Master’s Degree) at about 8 P.M. all we can think and talk about is to feed our hungry stomachs.

Spending a week in the woods cooking vegetarian/vegan awesomely delicious food, dilemmas aroused about creating different vegan alternatives to already restrictive vegetarian menus. But oh, don’t fear, we came up with some stuff that will blow your taste buds away into black holes of culinary existence and taste oh yes, vegan nirvana.

It is bliss… in the form of a French toast and tofu scramble.

Ovary-free scramble

What you’ll need:

Peppers (Every color is accepted! Hooray for diversity!)

Onion

Tomato

Garlic (if you must)

Mushrooms (The non-magical kind. Booo!)

Any veggie you desire, FREEDOM! IT'S VEGGIE FREEDOM!

Firm Tofu

Vegan butter or olive oil

Some cooking device, preferably a pan.

Seasoning or Adobo ( Adobo, you must!)

What to do:

1. Chop all the veggies until they are remotely similar in size.

2. Add butter or oil to the pan in high heat.

3. Add the veggies and sauté until soft/tender.

4. Break down tofu in little pieces with your fingers. (FUN!)

5. Mix veggies and tofu until equally distributed ( Egalitarianism people! Liberté, fraternité, égalité!)

6. Season till palate satisfaction.

The scramble should look and taste good enough to trick anyone into thinking its real eggs, but without the whole exploiting chickens for their unborn children part. It’s called having your scramble and eating it too! The pursuit of happiness of vegans and non-vegans alike.

Now… how must we accompany this delicious Republican ( in the FRENCH REVOLUTION SENSE) egalitarian, democratic, for the people, creation?

Guillotine-worthy Toast! (french toast, duh!)

Now, here we affront a problem… a vegan French toast implies it will have no eggs. How is that possible you say? Oh the dilemma! The people want their sweet toast! They have a guillotine…

Substitution! Yup… it’s a pretty awesome thing. And this experiment came out MARVELOUSLY GREAT. It was better than I expected. The taste of the bourgeoisie. Yum, Yum, exploitation!

What you’ll need:

Vegan bread

Vanilla extract

Cinnamon

Sugar

Bananas

Soy Milk (regular or vanilla, or chocolate if you want to be adventorous, any type of milk will do, except, obviously, any animal by-product)

Butter

Maple syrup

Blender

The same pan you made the scramble in (clean it first,please!)

What you have to do:

1. Add bananas and soy milk in the blender until pudding-like consistency

2. Add vanilla extract, cinnamon and sugar to taste

3. Spread the mixture in some sliced bread. ( Go heavy on it and both sides!)

4. Add butter to pan and wait till is sizzling.

5. Fry the bread in the pan until golden-brown. ( Don’t leave and forget, they burn easily. FIRE!)

6. Add syrup to finish perfection.

This breakfast will have you speaking French in no time and believing again, in the dream of what once was democracy. (Yeah, right.)

The French kinda did it right… for a while. (NAPOLEON…oops.)

Enjoy this totally-random-found-in-youtube video:

People.

2009-09-06T21:52:00.000-07:00

Drink up, baby
Stay up all night
Things you could do
You won't but you might
The potential you'll be
You'll never see
Promises you'll only make
-Elliot Smith

(Meant to be read with the rythm of this here beautiful song)

Entra y ven. Mira otra vez… vuelve a decirme un tal vez. Oblígate a bailar con tu duda sinfín. Pero…hazlo bien, al ritmo y de pie, que todo puede cambiar. Vuelve a decirte un tal vez. Y hoy que pensé… que no te escuché, me gritas con tu callar. Dale, otra vez, ve y al volver… dime que no, dime que no piense más. Dime que no imagine cosas que no serán. Dime que si, dime que ya… dime lo que yo quiero escuchar. Y no pretenderé, no lo tengo que hacer. No tengo que esconder. No me verás, nunca sabrás, jamás te voy a contar. Pero al escuchar, siempre tendrás, la duda que aquí te entregué. Mira. Es lo único que puedes hacer. Sientes… ¿tal vez? Tendré que creer, que de eso si eres capaz. Solo, tal vez. Junto, tal vez. No sabes donde estarás. Pierde, la oportunidad otra vez y siente el vaivén, de noches y enredos, que no sucedieron, por tu decirme un tal vez. Aprende a contar, lo que no va a pasar. Aprende a retroceder. Aprende a rebanar los segundos. Aprende a considerar un rumbo y si quieres romper con las redecillas que te inhiben de ser. Y así tal vez, solo tal vez, encuentres a donde volver. O a donde ir, o donde estar o si perteneces en el. Y si tal vez, no sabes volver, recoge las migajas de ti, que están ahí, esparcidas, ahí, obligadas a solo mirar, a solo es...pe...cu...lar ,sobre un tal vez o sobre un no sé, pero nunca, di que nunca, un jamás.

The toy's God used to play with

2009-09-03T10:21:00.000-07:00

If the universe was created by some type of God… I hereby swear that is was drawn up using Spirographs ®. You remember those little toys? They were sometimes found in the drugstore, wrapped in polyethylene and cardboard. $2.00 and you can draw up the fabric that is space-time. I swear it’s true! Have you ever dismantled a piece of matter? I’m not talking particle colliders, I’m talking real deconstruction of the “here”. Of what you are made of… inside ourselves, in the most intrinsic space know to mankind… strings have managed to create unique snowflakes and spirals that are endless and math without numbers, trees that are made up by tiny whimsical geometric acquaintances.

And, Oh! Do not dare forget the clouds. There isn’t one that is like the other. And it’s only air… beautiful gas that has managed to portray everything that is and was, perfection.Have you ever witnessed what lies behind each puzzle piece? There are ways to catch a glimpse. Only in certain occasions, only when the light from one specific sunbeam has decided to unclothe reality, only when I’ve been able to blink twice in the moment where one is supposed to only be capable to blink once. Blinking at the speed of light.

The heights that make us human

2009-08-30T22:52:00.000-07:00

“ Not much, heaven knows, in comparison with the reality, but enough to delight generation after generation of beholders, enough to make them understand at least a little of the true significance of what, in our pathetic imbecility, we call “mere things” and disregard in favor of television ”
– Aldous Huxley, The Doors Of Perception, p. 34.

Every object has a complexity of its own. It has a history and a meaning, a tiny social revolution, perhaps. Every object here is a time capsule from the past; it’s a reminder of the human condition, reminding us of the day the tire was born. Every object that is now came from a now that will never be now again. Objects have become almost part of the human flesh, we stopped being purely human (if there was ever such a notion) a long time ago. We are a species of cyborgs, we can’t live with just our own bodies anymore. (Lords of Kobol hear our prayers!)
Today I invite you to immerse yourselves into the history of an object that has been there since the beginnings of the world’s most thriving civilizations and that has made mankind (and after that womankind) stand tall and strong:
Oh yes… I will now lead you through the story of the historical High Heel shoe. (Yes, I’m not kidding)

You want me to climb where with THESE shoes?

The utility for a higher stature brought upon by rising oneself with the aid of an external object has been documented as being thought of for the first time a around the year 3,500 B.C. in Egypt. The use of these artifacts was engraved in murals, which suggests that their importance was sufficient for future generations to know their existence and different uses. Heels were used as a sign of nobility or higher social standing. They were also used for certain religious rituals. But their snobbish attitude ended there; they were also used by butchers to keep from constantly walking on blood and guts from the animals they murdered.

Philosophy way up high

The Greeks and Romans also had uses for high heels. They would be usually used by actors to indicate the importance or the social status of the characters they played, sort of like the modern stilt. Also, prostitutes could be identified by the use of these type of specific shoe… they started the trend. Smart, smart, toga wearing sluts (sorry if I have offended any of the great sex workers around the world, I have only but respect for your career.)

Trampling on shit

“Heels“(basically just pieces of wood) were attached to shoes, used by men and women, so they would not have to trample away their feet in the provincial streets flooded by mud and shit. Yes… human excrement and puddles of pee… I still can’t understand the irrationality of the middle ages. How does one go from creating a civilization built upon the sewage system, philosophers and politicians that would mold the thoughts of the west for eternity, in exchange of mass religious fanaticism and walking around in pools of shit? Some high heels were so ridiculously high to reach 30 inches! These were called Chopines since the 1400s and created in Turkey. This became very popular, especially among women. Heels were also attached to shoes to make horse-riding easier, since they would hold to the stirrups better.

We shall bring God, civilization and high heels to those savages , my Queen!

But how did standing on top of wood add-ons escaping from human putrid doo doo become an international symbol for high fashion, style and womanhood? In pursue for the attention of a male patriarch! Yes, it was Catherine de Medici, who made heels “in”. She was jealous of her husband’s attraction to a taller mistress, so she would wear 2 inch heels to make her look like she had a “more towering physique and an alluring sway when she walked.” Oh, the search for acceptance, the fight for recognition, we’ve haven’t evolved that much after all. Some baboons go for the redder ass… and we wear heels as an illusion of a higher stature. If baboons had factories, probably some baboon mogul would had thought of selling red balm to make their asses look the reddest they can be… maybe she’s born with it… maybe it’s ass-beeline

Off with their heads… and heels

Heels became a symbol for aristocracy. Louis XVI wore 5 inch heels that were depicted with scenes of battles and wars, he also decreed that red heels could only be worn by nobility and no one could wear shoes higher than his. I wonder why he was beheaded… His wife walked her way to the guillotine in a pair of 2 inchers. The French Revolution ended the monarchy and the 3-estates system, this meant the high heel shoe, representing nobility and aristocracy was frowned upon and was obliterated by the raging mobs of the bourgeoisie… for a while. Not even Napoleon (who probably could had used to gain some inches) brought back the trend. He thought it promoted classism and made egalitarianism quiver.

My heels are mine to see… but my boobs, well here they are! Corsettes and heels.

Heels went back in style in the 1860’s. They were catapulted by the invention of the sewing machine, it now enabled for the making of better and more “comfortable” shoes. The Victorian aesthetic was that of a soft, doll-like and delicate woman. High heel shoes made women’s feet look smaller, reminiscent of the Lotus shoe (torture) used in China for centuries. But about this use of heels we’ll discuss later on. Heels also emphasize the curve of the foot; this was an allusion to the curve of the woman’s body and hence objectifying women as sexual objects to be desired. Talk about a shoe fetish!

Because walking is too comfortable…

Heels came back in style during the 20th century during those fun fun years of the “roaring 20s”. Charleston, whisky and HEELS! Later on the 1950’s made a heel-tastic revolution, the Stiletto was created and ten years later it met its best friend the miniskirt. “Stilettos were often banned from public buildings because they caused physical damage to the floors” Have you ever walked a mile in stiletto shoes and a miniskirt? I haven’t but I wonder what goes on in the mind of every girl that wears that special clubbing outfit. That combo! The one that is a must to attract a husband or at least a one night stand or a roofie… whichever comes first. It’s hard to be sexy and walk at the same time, still don’t know how they do it.
Cheers to those girls that have decided to sacrifice in the name of fashion and unknowingly make homage, every night as they give out the ID to the bouncer, to those prostitutes in Greece, those butchers in Egypt and the millions of people that were saved in the middle ages from getting their feet filled with shit.

I salute you.

Parallel universes

2009-08-11T01:28:00.000-07:00

That (sort of greenish) spot that is almost impossible to decipher in the midst of possibly the most entangled map of the different metro tracks… is you.

You (and I and all of us that have subscribed to this massive information web we call the “internet”) are right there in the middle, very easily forgotten and lost. The chaos that surrounds You is the non-material dimension we loose hours and hours and days and relationships and lovers and marriages and friends and jobs and minds to. Oh cyberspace, we’re not worthy!

This entangled metro line is a diagram of the major web places we visit, and this is from two years ago! (Imagine the space Facebook and Twitter have gained, now that they are the new web-trend) We live in a world we have forgotten and yet we barely understand and have created a new one. This is our new space with no final frontier, where everything and everyone is possible, our surrogate societal uterus. It’s truly overwhelming to see this pixel conglomerate and not be astounded. It’s almost beautiful; the complexity of it all and how it somehow seems to work and exist like it’s non-existent.

We have created a world. We must use it wisely, unlike the one we inherited.

* I’ve started my master’s degree on Journalism today. This picture was shown to me by my professor and it blew my mind and gave me chills and jitters and all of those tingly feelings. I have decided I will study the internet until I can finally understand it. To me this other place where we live, is as or maybe even more unknown than where I stand and where I sleep. It’s like a fairytale, there IS a parallel universe and I want to understand its mechanics. This is now, one of my new goals: I will understand how it all works.

Rice or Delicious Pillows of Love

2009-08-09T04:14:00.001-07:00

Arroz Con Gandules!!*vegan version*(Rice with Pigeon Peas!)

This dish is a typical puertorrican staple wich I enjoy to make and better yet, eat! A friend asked me for the recipe and I promised I will write it up. After battling procrastination, my will won the quarrel (hooray!) and here it is!
( I hope it comes out great Valeria!)

Ingredients:
½ -1 bell peppers (it depends how “peppery” you want it! Also, be creative in the colors, pick your fav!)
1 big onion
2-3 cloves of garlic (Depends on how much you love your garlic, I fucking LOVE garlic)
1 veggie Bullion cube
1 can of tomato sauce
1 can of Pigeon Peas
2-3 cups of Rice (medium grain recommended!)
Vegetable Oil
Salt (or if you have ADOBO available, get some ADOBO, you will love it forever dear in your heart)
Big Pot and Lid

Extras (garnishes, so it looks pretty awesome!):
Bijol (it’s a natural spice used for color) or yellow/orange colorant
Roasted red peppers
Cilantro

Steps for cooking!
1. Shop the pepper, onion and garlic into tiny pieces.
2. Cover the bottom of the pot with a thin layer of oil.
3. When hot enough (NOT SUPER HOT!) add the shopped veggies and a bit of salt or ADOBO. Let them sweat away until translucent.
4. Add Bullion cube and tomato sauce. Stir together.
5. When all is nicely mixed and you have already tasted its goodness and know and that it’s perfectly seasoned, add the Pigeon Peas (you can add the whole can, including the water). Stir and mix.
6. Add rice. You must add the same amount of water. (ex. 3 cups of rice = 3 cups of water)If you have colorant or bijol, now will be the time to add it and stir it in. A little goes a long way!
7. Check for seasoning and add if needed. You may also add a little splash of oil.
8. Cook in medium-high heat for 10-15 minutes or until most of the liquid has evaporated.
9. Cover with lid and cook for 15 minutes more in low-medium heat or until rice is soft like little pillows of love.
10. Garnish with strips of roasted red peppers and sprinkles of Cilantro!
11. Enjoy!!!

*Tips*

*If it’s your first time or you’re not very experiences with cooking rice, try not stepping away for more than 5 minutes since it can easily burn and the entire pot of rice will taste like charcoal.

* Some people may use beer or a splash of dry white whine for flavor. (Or better yet, drink the beer while eating the rice)

* Drinking beer always makes food taste better.

Desgermen revolution

2009-08-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

A Minor Introduction.
(Desgermen Revolution)

It was it that stood there, behind the silver blinds of the bathroom window. It was it. There. Announcing it-self and authorizing its existence with every metallic knock. Shaped only as the mere shadow of a young man, bowl-cut hair, slender figure. Insistently there with no message but his name; no means and no end. Was it only there to “be”?

It has been there forever since that day. And it will always be, for centuries and centuries (por los siglos de los siglos, amen!)

It came to this plain via dreams. It used my neurons as a phone; it bathed itself in dimethyltryptamine tubs. It was knocking on my pineal gland.

And from its world of black and grays, it couldn’t grasp the existence of such a thing as colors. It came to haunt me, but I was never scared. It came to introduce it-self. It was successful.

I now, introduce you, to it.

Desgermen.

A paradigm shift in your brain,

A faceless figure in the terrace.

An anti-bacterial brain bath.

It wants to knock on every bathroom window; it wants to feel its knuckles on your metal blinds.

Today it has been released, unto thyself.

Close your bathroom windows…