conversaciones

[te hablo] 

La tercera y la séptima me llenaron de ganas de traducir
para que más gente pudiera ver
y quizás entender
lo complicado que es la redención y lo importante que es buscarla
lo importante que son los espacios de reunión y lo poético que puede ser propiciarlos

Vuelvo al principio
vuelvo a leer
y me pregunto 
si la planificación gringa no tendrá que ver con las manos
o si no tendrá función comunicativa
o si sí
pero no poética

Me río al darme cuenta que empecé por lo aprendido, y que acabé con más preguntas que respuestas

Se me ocurre que
si bien 
tantas acciones que no necesariamente son poéticas 
más allá de tener que ver con la poesía 
no bastan
ni redimen
quizás 
aquélla acción que nos deja con más preguntas que respuestas 
nos acerca al bastar
o al menos 
a la redención 

. riesgo, del 23 .

the creak of chain link, too often used by horror films to provoke fear in the hearts of their spectators, rings of happiness, sounding more like squeals of joy singing rhythmically to the beat of my to and fro than anything else. little feet floating above a red mulch with a deep forest smell reveal each perfectly calculated movement. as they push forth side by side and pressed tightly together, arms stretch out, elbows lock, spine tips back, head leans so the face gazes skyward. now knees bend and tuck feet beneath body, toes pointing back, tiny hands pulling with elbows bent and torso pushed forward. my science, this pattern i have long studied. i continue the prescribed movements, repeating one, then the other. i plan my next step, carefully counting each breath, each lean, each dip. legs bend, forward lean, breathe. extend, lean back, breathe. legs bend, forward lean, breathe. extend, lean back, breathe, prepare-- release!

my fingers extend, following my soaring body, frozen midair, breath choked, ecstatic.

three gusts of wind blow past me, and i see my feet plummet.

the red much comes up to meet me, embracing every gasp of my adventure, praising every rejected doubt.

i turn my body and face the sky once more, chest heaving, ankles throbbing, cheeks sore from the smiles that abound.

there's magic in that mulch.

flying is magical, indeed. but it is in landing that my true love is found.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/23/daily-prompt-moon-walking/

. mandatos del diez .

me dices que debo escribir pero

lo único que se me antoja
es tocarte

te empujo contra la pared
hundo mis dedos contra tu carne
     la textura de tu piel siempre me sorprende
tan suave
tan frágil
tibia
veloz

velozmente empujo todo mi cuerpo contra el tuyo

los pocos minutos que nos quedan
van disminuyendo
desapareciendo
velozmente

mis labios se enredan con los tuyos
lenguas envueltas

el reloj nos apura
la prisa te fascina

te siento
tu vello de pie
todo tu cuerpo se eriza

mi calor te envuelve
te siento
tu hermosa presión combate el peso de mi cuerpo que te oprime contra la pintura azul pastel uniformemente aplicada sobre la pared fría que abraza tu espalda mientras me abrasas la espalda

veloz incendio

corazón ardiente

tu deleite humedece la pila de cenizas en la que me he convertido tras vivir en tu velocidad

lentamente me hidrata
tomo
bolígrafo
entre dedos

escribo


dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/10/daily-prompt-heat/

. instrucciones del 2.21 .

i sit in silence and let the calm flow over me. nowhere to be, nothing to do, no expectations, no rules, no limits. free to run wild, and i sit. free to play, and i'm still. free to tear the world to shreds, and i work to put myself together.

(i cannot run from any fear in this silence. perhaps if i am still enough it will not see me.)

(it has never worked before, but it is always worth a try.)

the ticking clock marks the path of today's unscheduled life. each second reminds me of my freedom. i feel the hand slow down, and i fear it might be infinite.

rising from my place of peace, i look around, calmly observe my surroundings, identify the spots that need work. slowly, calmly, i move into action. taking up my tools, i set out to tidy things up. i seek out the sounds that will fill the space around me and accompany me on this journey of cleansing. my environs slowly improve, gradually revealing the effort i put forth.

when i am satisfied with my effort (because i will never be satisfied with the outcome, always finding a fleck that remains, a speck that i missed), i step back. i take a moment of pause to observe the change, the growth, the improvement, the progress. i find joy in this.

stepping slowly, i move to the next room. i move my hand to the spot where i placed your thoughts. i grasp this collection in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it. sitting once more, breathing deep, i scan through the fragments of your voice. the memory of your warmth washes over me, flooding my heart, swelling my soul. i am overwhelmed with happiness. i feel your peace.

my bare feet inching around, one adjustment after another, i move once more. i open the new room to another set of eyes, another smile, another soul. sitting together, we begin our exchange. the beauty in this sharing, this communion most holy, penetrates skin and bone, seeping into our marrow. we speak of troubles and of celebrations, successes and failures, struggle and surrender. thus, we speak of love, and of joy.

our feet
move
alongside
each other.
with a gentle, steady pace, we travel beyond the walls of our home. we move to see the world outside. we move to change our breath, to grow our hearts, to nourish our souls.
we see nature
sky — with clouds and birds and sunshine;
air — wind, thick breath, swaying branches;
dirt — more growth, wiggling life, and also death that slowly rejoins its origins.

taking a lesson from them, from this last sight, we seek out a space to settle, to rest our weary feet. we have grown so much. we have been wandering for ages. we have encountered many fellows, learned many lessons.

we find a patch of grass that calls our names, whispering in the cool breeze. we stand together. we slowly,
gently
bring ourselves
close to it.
we sit, then lay. facing each other, our eyes lock in a gaze that contains all memories. our lives, in the meeting of pupils. full lives.

with lives so full, now complete, we rest.

we hear the ticking clock once more.
slow,
then faster.

and as you take my hand in yours
it stops.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/21/daily-prompt-good-time/

.strange fruit.

         a tm, qepd

te elijo entre tantos
por tu inocencia
eres el sacrificio que deseo
agito mis ojas hacia ti
para que te vean tus vecinos
para que sepan que eres tú

te me acercan
te miro la cara
joven
piel suave
aun sin vello
en tu aliento, dulce
una leve sombra cae sobre tu ceño
oscurece tus ojos
obfusca el temor que contienen

muevo mis ramas de un lugar a otro
dándote más miedo

rápido y fuerte
te tomo por el cuello
te levanto hacia mí
tus pies se alejan de la grama
tiemblan
tiemblas

de a poco, dejas de temblar
tus fluidos me nutren
permaneceré un día más
hasta recibir el próximo fruto

[sin musa]

te arranco de mis tripas
como las arcadas reflexivas
que expulsan sufrimiento de un cuerpo envenenado

se contrayen mis músculos
y sales de mí, poco a poco
en fragmentos
    calientes aún

caes sobre el piso frío
veo cómo tu temperatura cambia
te veo enfriar

al arrancar algunos fragmentos de ti,
te tiro contra la pared
veo cómo resbalas por la superficie blanca
   manchándola
   marcándola
      como me marcaste a mí
      como me manchaste a mí

te arranco de mis tripas
   a través de la piel de mi abdomen
   a través de mi espalda
  inserto mis dedos por mis cachetes
      hasta mi ombligo
      hasta llegar a ti
  inserto mis dedos por mi segunda boca
          te arranco desde ahí también

me acaricio el pecho,
    como comenzar una masturbación
            y te arranco por ahí también
acabando de arrancarte por fin

[bad homework > bad romance]

Amores Perros

Esta película propone (según indica el trailer y el póster) examinar qué es el amor. Su título nos da la respuesta antes de que empiece: el amor es perro, o, son perros. Se usan tres historias para contar qué es el amor, y por qué es perro. Si el amor es perro, ¿qué podemos decir del amor que nos ha enseñado esta película? El amor sobrevive en el asiento de atrás de un carro, mientras que el mejor amigo se muere en el asiento de pasajero. Quizás es porque le daba demasiada importancia a la cuñada que no lo amaba. El amor sobrevive en el asiento de atrás de un carro (otro carro), mientras que la carrera de uno se parte por la mitad y acaba amputada. Quizás es porque le dimos demasiada importancia a la carrera.  

El amor se esconde debajo del piso cuando uno está en silla de ruedas. Explora la extraña sensación que crea la marginalidad, una vez que uno está consiente de ella. Sabemos que alguien o algo está ahí, pero nunca logramos encontrarlo. Se nos hace imposible entrar en ese lugar, más allá de poder insertar la mirada (y aún así es una mirada limitada, que no nos deja ver lo que estamos buscando). Nos despierta a la mitad de la noche, oímos los ruidos que hace, hacemos ruidos para interactuar con sus habitantes, pero si no rompemos la división física que nos separa, no podremos encontrar lo que se esconde / lo que vive al otro lado (y si pensamos en eso que vive al otro lado -el perro- como el amor, la "moraleja" será que no podremos encontrar el amor hasta no romper las barreras que nos separan de las márgenes (así haciendo que dejen de ser márgenes)). 

El amor (originalmente de otro) le mata al amor propio mientras uno está fuera de la casa. Vuelve a dar la sensación de que la película quiere dar una moraleja, aunque la impresión de la película en general parece no ser eso. Aquí, la moraleja tendría algo que ver con el estar satisfecho con lo que uno tiene. O quizás tenga que ver con hacer las cosas por un sincero deseo de hacerlo, y no para motivos propios (es decir, sanarle al perro por sanarlo, no para añadir uno más a la colección). El extranjero acaba matando lo conocido, el amor antiguo, y simultáneamente reemplazándolo, si bien es sólo porque El Chivo se queda sin los demás perros / el amor antiguo. 

Pero la verdad es que no creo que la película tenga la meta de ser moralista, porque no creo que las películas posmodernas tengan eso en mente. Quizás simplemente quiera mostrar las distintas intersecciones que hay en la vida; las maneras en las que las líneas de clase se cruzan y, en varios casos, se borran; las reglas que se rompen, y cómo puede parecer que se están rompiendo las reglas cuando uno realmente está tratando de reatar lazos soltados antes de que les tocaba. 

[me compré un libro]

. sacudir .

-parte i-
dejar un poco de vómito sobre la página, ensuciarla, para pensar en (y olvidar) el asco del sábado pasado. tirar baba sobre la hoja, mancharla, para no olvidar que existo, que puedo, que aún puedo. que aún puedo convertir las vueltas en mi vientre en vueltas de la punta de mi pluma sobre la página.

-parte ii-
sacudo mi cabeza para dejar caer sobre el papel mis pensamientos como pedacitos de caspa, de cuero cabelludo seco, reseco, porque los pensamientos también pican si se dejan ahí nomás por demasiado tiempo. pican y se acumulan y se ponen sucios, se convierten en asco, en señales de deficiencia, de mala salud. de vez en cuando hay que sacudir los pensamientos de la cabeza, enjuagarse la mente como lavarse el pelo. y esta página y pluma son mi selson blue.

[I watch the pendulum swing from one extreme to the other, never seemingly pausing in the middle ground]

I am a therapist. Some areas of employment involve hourly wages, pay per pound of potatoes picked, a fixed salary. I get paid by the tear. Well, per fluid ounce, really. I push my patients as they sit or lay before me, I poke and prod at their deepest and most painful memories. The further in, the more repressed, the more forgotten these emotions are, the more the tears drop. The more my money flows. 

This one looks like a particularly fruitful goldrush. So strange to see how she folds each tissue, blotting first her right cheek, then her left, carefully, as though not wanting to wrinkle neither her face nor the cheap sandpapery material. Then she rotates the spotted tissue ninety degrees counterclockwise, folds a dry part down, and creases, as though covering, then burying, her tears that moisten the once-dry tissue. She runs her nails across the edge, head cocked awkwardly to the right, staring blankly, intently, passively, as though thinking about her response to my last question, particularly painful. 

"Do you think you are ready to stop these things that are hurting you?" I had vaguely asked, just before her face tightened up, the creases forming across her once-model-like features now squishing her into a play-doh-like figurine. The cartoon face before me accompanies a body that squirms uncomfortably in the office chair (but not because of the seating quality, for I always make sure to select the finest of the options offerred within the small catalog allowed to my colleagues and me). Her chest and shoulders expand with shocking tenseness; at first I think she is inhaling, but now I know she is not. The expanding motion reaches a sudden stop, like a mechanical latch whose gear slowly, repetitively, rotates its position. Sliding, sliding, sliding towards the edge, then clicking back downwards into the original position. 

Not quite squirming, I suppose. 

She carefully piles up the folded, soggy tissues, each forming a small, tight block, set aside only once she determined that the imbued creases couldn't repeat themselves further. She stacks them upon her tiny notebook (a Moleskin, perhaps), as though constructing a wall, a fort to represent the progress towards overcoming whatever it is that happened to her. 

She has only ever spoken to me in metaphors, and often answers my questions with more questions. This time she does both: "What if it's something that still happens?" She pauses, click-breathing for a moment, blotting and folding tears away, before answering in a small child's voice: "Like, when you're little and you're learning to tie your shoes, and someone in your class throws mud in your hair while you're half-squatted, half-kneeling in the playground. You don't get mud in your hair every time you tie your shoes for the rest of your life, but a lot of those times .... you think about that time that kid you thought was your friend was mean to you in front of the whole class, and then the embarrassment is back .... or you worry that someone else, someone new, might come and throw mud in your hair .... or you think that, even though everything tells you that this person really is your friend, you worry that they might have stuck something in your hair while you weren't looking, and then everyone else knows that they're making fun of you... everyone knows but you."

She was probably raped as a child. Or maybe the captain of the football team slept with her, told her they were going to be together forever, and then laughed about it at practice. And she recently found out the truth. 

I am certain that my college professors would all tell me that the human psyche is not so simple, not so straightforward. I am also certain that this fort of soggy tissue-bricks means that I will be able to buy myself a cool new pair of sneakers this weekend. Though a part of me worries that I will think back on her sadness, her internal battle, each time I kneel down to tie them. 

I pause, laces in hand, lift my head slowly, and look around. Even though nobody is in sight, I rush to finish tying them, and run a hand through my hair as I walk out of the shoe store. 

[morningtime poetics]

she tossed
   and turned
as the
        world turned
and hands turned
marking
    every new second, her
sleepless
           seconds

til the fourth hour came
    and passed-
half-passed and
half-dropped her
half-fallen
half-asleeped her

til
the
hands half-blurred and the
worlds half-blurred and the
eyes half-stopped their half-reading

and the morning half-began

[deleuze y guattari on kafka]

hacia una literatura menor

p 16: "A minor literature doesn't come from a minor language; it is rather that which a minority constructs within a major language.  But the first characteristic of minor literature in any case is that in it language is affected with a high coefficient of deterritorialization."

p 17: "The second characteristic of minor literatures is that everything in them is political.  In major literatures, in contrast, the individual concern (familial, marital, and so on) joins with other no less individual concerns, the social milieu serving as a mere environment or a background... Minor literature is completely different; its cramped space forces each individual intrigue to connect immediately to politics.  The individual concern thus becomes all the more necessary, indispensable, magnified, because a whole other story is vibrating within it." ... "The third characteristic of minor literature is that in it everything takes on a collective value.  ... what each author says individually already constitutes a common action, and what he or she says or does is necessarily political, even if others aren't in agreement.  The political domain is contained in every statement (énoncé).  ... [I]f the writer is in the margins or completely outside his or her fragile community, this situation allows the writer all the more the possibility to express another possible community and to forge the means for another consciousness and another sensibility."

p 17-18: "The literary machine thus becomes the relay for a revolutionary machine-to-come, not at all for ideological reasons but because the literary machine alone is determined to fill the conditions of a collective enunciation that is lacking elsewhere in this milieu: literature is the people's concern. ... There isn't a subject; there are only collective assemblages of enunciation, and literature expresses these acts insofar as they're not imposed from without and insofar as they exist only as diabolical powers to come or revolutionary forces to be constructed."

p 18: "The three characteristics of minor literature are the deterritorialization of language, the connection of the individual to a political immediacy, and the collective assemblage of enunciation."

[from someone's facebook, stolen]

about me:

yeah, you know
or i guess you don't
considering you're reading this
is it weird that i start a new line instead of putting periods, or commas, or semicolons, or dashes, etc.
to represent natural breathing places?
i think it might make it seem like i don't care for grammar
or anything of the sort
i do i've just adopted this way of typing
i'm enjoying writing this
even though i'm not really giving much info about me
or maybe my random rambling (sorry if that's redundant)
is giving you insight on my life
hey you
what's up
that's right i'm talking to you
whoever you are
i hope you're enjoying reading this as much as i'm enjoying writing it
damn,
i'm excited for tomoro
it's gonna be a great day
good things are gonna happen
hey, sorry if my "gonna" bugs you
it's my guilty pleasure
that and almost NEVER capitalizing "i"
oh and never spelling tomoro the right way
i've given up
i've spelled it wrong too many times
alright
i'm done typing in this box

peace =]

(just became a fan of hers- after the backslash: profile.php?id=705600130&ref=ts)

.memoria.

si no cambio de posición pronto
tendré el perfil de mi mano izquierda
marcado en mi cachete

permanentemente quizás

y taparía los demás perfiles previamente escondidos junto a mi perfil
      (on second thought, scratch that)

¿taparía los demás perfiles previamente escondidos junto a mi perfil?

espero nunca conocer una pesadilla real.