Författare: xikano_2

So many things to discuss. That is the nature of the crisis. So much untangling it doesn’t even make any sense otherwise. I am learning a lot of stuff as I let time pass by. As a matter of fact am letting time go me by. I am not rushing stuff anymore, period. Perhaps one of the hardest things with this exercise is to allow room for me to be who I am without pressure from society. Even at the cost of lying to society about the pressures they place or burden the living with. I just want to be me without the guilt of not being me. Or perhaps even more, to allow me to live a life in the now rather than allowing the current of the past or the what is supposed to be or having to deal with the accountant. The accountant, dear reader, is the one that tallies everything that you are not. A bad bastard at that he is.

Am not a beaver type. I don’t build damns to divert shit, I want my water to flow as smoothly as possible. Heck, I am not even listening to the impulses or the signals I receive from my erstwhile chemical unbalance though this chemical unbalance has been persistent in its many manifestations which I call with endearment as Illusions of grandeur.

I don’t seem to understand Scandinavian women to my detriment. I block or am blocked or who knows what I don’t care anymore, when the love happens I want it to be reals. I suppose that I am waiting for miss Right. I sincerely hope so. At times I think that the women I meet want something I am not willing to do anymore. It would seem that they want an animal produce rapture. I suppose am more intellectual in that respect. Intellectual and romantic para acabarla de chingar.

Seriously, there are so many things rushing through my head that it doesn’t make sense to even entertain the idea because in the end these flow of events are doomed to be memory fillers of a day gone and lost with no future at all. Are there going to be memories of my loneliness? Or is it even loneliness when I am fighting with every might in my soul to be tranquil and allow the smooth flow of the present course through me without hinders?

I am fighting to be me by myself, is that the problem? I don’t think so but I am struggling to allow to be myself in a world filled with people which seem hell bent in producing a mold of me other than that which I myself want. Damn struggle it is. But I suppose that the struggle hasn’t won any points, at the end of the day the remains of the fight are all mine.

Yes, surely I am a human and hurt but I don’t let the deep wounds physically alter the reality I live.

As of the future. Will I have company again in my life? I don’t know. At this point I surely don’t care anymore because I can only live the present as it is, and only live the now inasmuch as it allows me to take as much as I can in its purest and truest form without alterations at all.

Period. and here is the supreme tangle. I know what I repress lies in the sediment below the river. And yes, the sediment makes it self present through the thickness and sluggishness of its movements. This sediment then gets tangled with all the muck that runs trough it. The Chinese say many things about rivers, heck, the original humanitarians know what the mean when they say that eventually all your enemies will pass the river.

I suppose that looking upwards as one is untangled in the mucky waters is the only source of good there is for the soul and the flesh that constitutes the flesh because it feels darn good to hope, that tomorrow will be goddamn better and if it ain’t I can always look forward to the day that it will very well goddamn do and until that day gets here I will look at the currents from below the much and sediment as the waters drag me there to make me feel the flow of its existence.

da un paso ligero, de repente ya no hace calor

Ya no nos vestimos ligeros

llega un dí­a en que te sientes un poco melancólico

Un dí­a ancestral que dictan fuerzas instintivas

cubrimos la piel

y el cambio te hace suyo sutilmente y ves

los colores del verano, relucir con fuerza, ojeas

las llamas del sol encender hojas verdes

ruborizas oteando el amarillo

queda al desnudo el campo

el follaje deja caer su fronda

y nos hace ver de nuevo

con asombro

lo que está por verse

y oculto

 

 

 

 

 

Lover’s ode

Poetry by Elba Rosario Sánchez (1999)

Antes se daba que uno podí­a recibir una grata sorpresa al entrar al mercado. El tufo de cilantro era la mera consolación para mi neurosis lejos de mi paí­s y si en mi paí­s no pelaba al cilantro es que se debe a que uno se acostumbra a los olores y no se sabe de ello hasta que ya no están ahí­. Solí­a entrar al mercado solo para darme mis jaladas de olor de cilantro y calmar los nervios de mi terrible soledad en este paí­s frí­o. Así­ que cuando los olores del cilantro llegaron a mi nariz no sé que año, fue un año lleno de alegrí­a para mí­ y un año que aprendí­ a hacer mis propias salsas.

Suecia apenas ha empezado a incorporar comida exótica en su cocina, por lo menos acá en el campo, lo digo así­ porque no hace ni 10 años atrás que los mangos tení­an el privilegio de aparecer una vez al año en una esquina reservada exclusivamente para esas comidas que los suecos no suelen consumir. No era de esperarse que era una esquina inmigrante. Esas frutas y verduras ajenas a la dieta sueca ahora disfrutan otra convivencia, se pueden codear libremente sin ese apartheid que se sufrí­a antes, los mangos se codean con las peras y el cilantro se puede ver con las matas más aceptadas como el eneldo cuya posición en la culinaria sueca goza de una posición bastante importante ya que los suecos se identifican con el eneldo como los mexicanos se identifican con el cilantro.

Ahora ya no puedo oler el cilantro. No es que no este ahí­, lo está, pero le han quitado la propiedad que despide el olor a cilantro. Quisiera imaginarme que lo quitaron porque, a verdad sea dicha, los suecos son muy peculiares a los olores y quizá alguien se quejó o se molestó, quién sabe, pero el caso es que ya no huele a cilantro. A lo mejor me vieron metiendo las narices en las hojas del cilantro y la gente se espantó y nadie compraba el cilantro, que sé yo. O peor, la envidia y los celos del eneldo no dejaron convivir dos olores tan fuertes como lo son solo ellos, el eneldo y el cilantro.

Queda el cascarón del cilantro, las hojas, el color, pero el olor, ese no está ya más ni en la planta ni en la tienda. Ahora solo me queda la esperanza de oler de nuevo el cilantro, y ya tengo rato que no me doy una buena jalada de olor de cilantro y estoy que me muero por olerle.

Este escritor Chino pasará a la historia como el primero en mi lista de aquellos que cuestiono como elegidos de élite, aka fils de prince.

A saber, en inglés se denominan como Princelings. Es una especie de elegidos para el ministerio que habrán de liderar. The annointed ones if you will.

Lejos de las realidades polí­ticas, a mí­ no me molesta quienes obtienen los puestos que adquieren mediante los medios que se utilizan para ello. Lejos de ello, a mí­ me parece que eso serí­a el pecado menor. Lo que no perdono es la impunidad en la que los que eligen viven.

Si bien los elegidos siempre son de diferentes razas y la mayorí­a masculina, para acabarla de chingar, los que eligen no siempre reflejan lo que eligen.

Uno se pregunta, si la SAOB, o la Academia Real Sueca, representa en verdad, el espí­ritu al que aspira ser.

Esta misiva es para tí­. Estas letras mudas sin sentido, sin destino más que el eterno hueco de un acto de cobardí­a. O quizá un acto de incertidumbre. Un acto que lleva tu nombre sin deletrearlo. Un acto sin actuar, que no actuará, ni actúa. Impotente.

Podrí­a imaginar aún más cosas de las que he imaginado, o podrí­a sentir aún más una simple sensación de atracción hací­a tí­. Cosa que ya no soporto habrá de hacerte saber.

¿A qué se deberá sentir atracción no fí­sica sino emocional hací­a una persona de la cual desconocemos todo?

No seré yo quién descifre el misterio pero sí­ que lo vivo. Yo que detesto todo lo que tiene que ver con  emociones y que tiene que ver con ello, se me hace una cuestión tan hispana que le aborrezco. Y sin embargo hemenos aquí­.

¿Cuando cesará esa atracción? Me pregunto qué infierno me espera por no obedecer las leyes del universo. Qué parque de atracciones me tienen las leyes de atracción por mi desobediencia en espera. Será algo que no he vivido aún seguro.

Porque sufro en carne viva verte pasar por mi lado ya y peor infierno no puede haber, aunque quizá ese sea ya parte de mi hoguera infernal.

Ya no deseo sentirte ni verte ni imaginar lo que nunca podrá jamás ser. Quiero esa persona que te reemplazará, quiero ya a esa mujer que me dé posibilidades de poder querer, tener en mis brazos, y no tú: un deseo inalcanzable, un sueño imposible de existir en este mundo conmigo, hoy, Octubre, mañana, Noviembre. Quiero a ella, esa mujer de Octubre hoy y esa mujer de mañana, Noviembre.

Te pido perdón, tú, innombrable.

Quisiese que me perdonases. No por el pecado de ignorar tu belleza, tu grandeza, la clase o casta a la que perteneces, claramente más allá de lo que mi cerebro me permite ser. Eres una diosa fuera de mi alcance, eso creo, y por ende, no puedo sobrepasar mis propias incertidumbres. Sí­, te considero mucho más mejor que yo. No, quiero que me perdones el pecado de no querer saber más de tí­. La atracción que siento por tí­ me impide verte no ya como la mujer que eres sino como el humano que eres. Y ojalá esté ahí­ el dí­a en que logre superar mis propios miedos.

Perdona lo vil, la escoria y la cobardí­a de mis acciones.

Mientrás tú estás ahí­

Me entretengo la idea de que no eres tú

No sé porqué deseo con todo el fervor de mi vida ignorarte

cuando más deseo verte

me gustarí­a pensar que adivinas mi manera de pensar

pero creo que ni sabes lo que siento por tí­.

Por estos dí­as te veo mucho de lejos. De reojo, de repente, y me alejo.

Ese es mi propósito contigo, alejarme de ti lo más mucho posible.

No se me hace apropiado acercarme

Aunque me gustó verte con anteojos este dí­a.

 

City by Alessandro Baricco. Translated by Ann Goldstein. Publisher: Hamish Hamilton an imprint of Penguin Books ISBN 0-241-14010-x Set in 12/14.75 Monotype Dante.

I’ve read this book since I purchased it earlier this year in Gothemburg, Sweden, at a local second hand store in an area of Gothemburg known as Majorna. The store is called Ebbes Hí¶rna and it supplies rather decent clothing and a myriad of hand-me-downs which include everything from flower bases to good reads like the present book for a rather reasonable price for those in need to make ends meet.

I got a hold of the book because the first time I came across Baricco was at my loca library here in the Swedish Highlands. The other book was as interesting as this one though I can not take credit for having read the whole book. That book was translated to  Spanish. Or maybe it was just the title of the book that snatched my eye, who knows.

I cannot fathom having read City in any other language other than English. At times a translation goes beyond the original and I believe this translation has managed to surpass the original though I cannot with certainty claim a comparison since I haven’t read the original in Italian. Then why do I state such a claim? Well, it’s easy. The language in the translation does a great service to the narrative in such a way that it makes it feel as if it belongs in that language. The language carries a cultural baggage that feels as if it were written in that specific language. Way to go Ann Goldstein. The thing about the book is that you get that sensation about the forties in the USA and smacks like a Bazooka Joe bubble gum wrapper all the fucking way. You can even smell the wrapper and imagine the cartoons being played before your eyes as you feel the wax paper being unfolded. The series opens up and the curiosity to read the cartoon builds up such an ecstasy that the gum, as you chew it, explodes with a super sweet flavor as one reads.

Though City gives a whiff of middle of the II World War in Dodge there is more to it. The scene is set before the Internet hit the scene. Comics ruled and editors got crap.

I like that air of noir and even more the muck in the language that gives way to philosophical observations about Monet’s Lilly’s to the short life of an idea and all its ramifications during its inception. The heteroglossia as described by Bakhtin is quite present though this is moreso in the thought patterns than speech as uttered by the characters in the novel.

This is a good read and merits all the time and care in it and I don’t say that lightly. Baricco is found of onomatopoeia. He sprinkles his language with synaesthetic symbolism. An example of such a use in the reading of the book occurs during a boxing match and the reader is made to imagine photographers taking pictures left and right. To produce this image, Baricco uses the word FLASH profusely. Furthermore, he has a way with language rules that render the reading a bit chaotic at times but this technique allows the reader to think beyond the letters on the page as imagination is triggered to visualize the actions at hand.

 

 

Te miro de lejos

cerca de mí­

Sueño ser parte de tu vida

en otra vida que no es ésta

Para mí­ eres tú un sueño

De esos de princesas en cuentas de hadas

Cosas que nunca sucederán

Y aún así­ aguarda con esperanza, con fe, que seas mí­a.

Y al fin del dí­a, regreso a este teclado

a fantasiar

lo que podemos ser

Así­ nos brinda la vida

lo que nos da

en un vaso llamado destino:

Unas hijas que no conozco ni conocí­

Un amor imposible que se llama ..

y la soledad como premio

Eso es la vida hoy en dí­a.

Y entretengo ese dar, con paciencia, en espera a que mis hijas me conozcan, en que mi amor imposible quiza note mi presencia, y que la soledad siga ahí­ porque no quiero separarme jamás de la humanidad.

The truth of the matter is that sometimes being a coward is a choice. I have been a coward many times and the most damaging part of that is that I got the darn disease of free willing it implanted by a cherished person who insisted that the valiant only lives so long as the coward wants although it sounds better in Spanish cause that’s how I heard it first. Honor cultures always have more sayings about bravery than Anglo-saxon based cultures, thinketh me then again there is always Shakespeare ”Cowards die many times before their deaths, The valiant never taste of death but once.” Julius Caesar (II, ii, 32-37). You’d think that after so many years that would have hit home but it really hasn’t. One thing is understanding the mechanisms of syntax but another implanting the behavior. Am sure there is a hell for things where the crux and the defining juncture for trails to blaze are so patently clear that a wrong choice just damn ruins every other step until hell in its nicer pavement arrives just there laughing at the effort of good intentions. Besides, if the syntax is correct, then dying only once for bravery while alive means more than a certain death of dreams, hopes and desires.

Love is my crux, the juncture filled with good intentions. It’s painfully obvious that I have made many a mistake and every time I choose wrong it certainly feels that my ticket to happiness just got out of dodge. Ever wonder why people get crushes that never seem to actualize? What the heck is that all about anyways? I come from a culture where belief in predetermination is the answer and cure for just about any mysticism that engulfs our daily chores so a crush is a major thing. A crush is like the Call of the Wild except that it is for life. A crush is the beginning of an end, a life long fulfillment filled with accomplishments. Who knows how many crushes I’ve had but certainly, there have been a few for every decade of my life. Right now am struggling with one, and she is a major one, as are all of the other ones. She is perfect in the sense that it is pure emotion and not carnal, if you will. Am not attracted to her because of her looks or so I think, it would be a plus if you will, but it is beyond that.

The problem is that I know the futility of the enterprise by heart. The roller-coaster of emotions involved  is a myriad of mental illusions that I call with endearment Illusions of Grandeur. Girls. Whether married or single always drive one more nuts than they can handle. Easy for them to ignore. Hard for us let go.

My medicine to this peculiar problem is to ignore and desist. It’s a nice cowardly act were no one gets hurt. Good intention of course. The inferno that follows is a series of mental attrition with no respite at all. The juncture becomes a Medusa and the snakes all the possible paths that could of have been. This isn’t made any easier since life with all its mysticism likes to joke with humanity at all levels. Messages are discerned in every act, ad or image.

Letting go of a crush amounts to giving up. A dream, a desire, a hope goes back to that black hole it originated from and left is the wait for the next mystic appearance of that magic being that will turn us head over heals and crash galaxies of destinies in a big bang of sorts.