Yonder Lies It

If every thought were a breath of air

when you ceased to exist

Who is to be my life support?

When all I ever was you

& I chose

you

as a lifestyle

.

Like blood chooses

to run in veins

as a natural

course.

I read Harold Bloom yesterday, in a Paris Review article from the Spring issue of 1991. I was surprised we cherished some of the same authors he stands by. Like Emerson, Plotinus and some other guy. Though you can tell he is strictly monolingual in his approach to English. There isn’t a Borderland with him which he can admit to. He keeps his stuff separate. Hence his love of Shakespeare. I can get into Shakespeare. Sure. But he thrives in it. People like him do. The monolingual English letteraty.

I loved his whole down to earth spectacle. He gave the interviewer what the interviewer wanted to see plus a whiff of Americana. Americana is a distract. A tool to fool the Other in the US. We claim a past we lived as friends and enemies. We claim a common territory which lays claim to a universal understanding & swear to defend its pristine abjection.

His psychology doesn’t allow for free pass between his past, his present. Nor his roots or whatever he wants to come off as in the paper.

I can nearly understand him. Like bouncers at a club, some people are just best let in, show them the show, and allow them the curiosity of thinking they saw what they needed to see.

It’s really a joke. Harold Bloom played a joke on the chap. Antonio was played like a Shakespearean play.

That’s what happens when you’re able to control narrative. You’re able to redirect it. You’re in control of the imagery. At best the illusion.

Yet in the lullaby Bloom allows for some truths about letters to come through. At least for me.

Cause I can identify and claim his observation as mine. He clarifies so many things. Yet what was said then hadn’t happened to me yet.

 

 

I smiled at the child

It was a little she child.

She donned the garments surely her family thought were appropriate for her.

The little female was surely of Somalian hí¤rkomst as they say here, in Sweden.

Her garments could easily pass off as a Raggedy Ann look somehow.

I was back from a jogging round.

Somehow I felt the need to smile. So I directed my smile at her.

She smiled back.

I realized people need to be smiled at.

Then, ensued a million other stuff. Like multi kulti stuff which somehow seems irrelevant now.

This street in this town is the street of immigrants.

But sometimes that doesn’t matter.

He actually looked it up. This idea of a soulmate or a twin flame. Like when he looks up names of potential mates on the net. Online stalking whatnot. He actually looked up her name on the Swedish site Ratsit. He got the freebie info. Her name, her age, her civil status, address. He even went as far as to go by her apartment one crazy night full of inebriated fantasies or tormented feelings and ideas of rejections. He confessed to have screamed her name in the middle of the night.

I wasn’t supposed to be a recipient of his thoughts but I had to ask about it and since then it’s been nothing but Niagara Falls over and over again.

I had caught him looking at her with a curious intensity which made time come to a halt. At least for him because all I saw were those few precious seconds a person has let go of time frames, wondering aloof in some space continuum where time doesn’t exist. I glimpsed at his stare and followed it until she came into view. I know the feeling because I’m an expert empath. I sense these minute things like some people are good at seeing details pass by in slow motion which no one else seems to notice. My little gift was to see things as they happen before they happen in our milieu. I see people’s behavior in such a way I can predict their emotional status with ease and rapidness and say with some certain high level of accuracy what they are presently going through in their lives. Like when I spotted a coworker dying her hair with a flaming color. I knew then there was trouble in paradise.

Normally I wouldn’t pay too much attention to other people’s love interests but this guy caught my attention, rounded it up and tied like a calf at a rodeo. Mostly because I knew this guy as a womanizer i.e. someone to look up to. A guy who could get any chic he’d liked yet this one made him stop in his tracks. He discussed her presence as kryptonite. Yeah, he’s superman alright I had said to myself as I heard him babble about the impotency this female brought upon him. I couldn’t understand that metaphor until I felt it too some months later.  This women I had no idea of made me weak to my knees just by being nearby or feeling her presence before she was even nearby. She managed to suck my very source of energy to the point where all I did was think of her 24/7 365. I realized then that that was what he meant when he used that reference to kryptonite. The worst of it all was his inability to declare his feelings to her which I intuited was love at some level. I did not encourage any course of action. I am not the one to encourage to make life decisions of any sort and least not about love. I just listen. Maybe that’s why am often in situations which I don’t understand why just me has to endure public displays of whining at work . I really didn’t want to listen more but my own experience made me listen even more intently to his own personal experience with this weird concupiscent astral you-name-it out of body experience, inward desire to be with someone I don’t really want to be with but waits exact the right amount of time to be with said being.

Do you fantasy about her in a sexual way? I had once asked him jokingly. (The female at hand is super gorgeous and a foxy lady). He said not the first year. Which was weird. Not that anything about the whole deal was normal. By far. He mentioned a few sexual positions and what he would do, stuff of the imagination and that never actually happen once one is well at it. The disturbing part was how he fantasied. He talked about how he thought she would come to first contact. A bump, a frontal crash, a laughter. I really thought he was some sort of sissy, I mean, what guy imagines meeting a girl by bumping into her? He did. Not only that he imagined walking with her holding hands. Worst yet. He imagined her having a conversation. He lost it. Surely.

He had also stopped drinking alcohol because he thought the spirits were making him fall into a delusional state. After all, this girl doesn’t even know he exists. I got sad because that’s my drinking buddy we’re talking about. So he stopped downing the brewskies because his infatuation with this woman was getting out of hand according to him. Not that he stalked her or anything. His sole focus on her was limited to the strange burning sensations in his body everytime he thought of her or everytime she passed or happened to glance at her because, like I said, her image or presence burned an image on his cerebral cortex that lasted hours, days and months, years by now if we are to believe him. Which I do.

I warned him of the Feminist Four. This group of females had a theory that men are pigs when it comes to desiring women and that even when they spiritually or unconsciously, unwillingly feel or want a female though no physical contact nor approach has been made was akin to mental groping since unwanted energy was being directed for the purpose of sexual attraction. This group of females had stumbled upon their theory in an obscure tract down in a basement at Wellesley College some years ago and the theory spread like wild fire in the Feminist community. I warned him because I saw in him relish the situation. It was a sick pleasure to entertain the idea of her, the attraction, the possibility of something happening, the hope he kept alive of living a life which only existed in his cerebral cortex. He told me not to joke to a tormented soul. Is that what it is? You are tormented? I retorted. Which curiously brought memories of Gomez from The Family Addams when Morticia commented about Gomez being tormented and Morticia said: ”Don’t torture yourself, Gomez… that’s my job.”. Eitherways, he was nearly insulted that his pristine feelings for the lass were questioned and pitted against a feminist theory which almost never saw the light of day when for all he knew it was her redirecting all that energy towards him. Maybe he was being groped at. Yeah, you keep thinking that I thought. Never been a fan of masculine theory.

I understood his conjecture. Like Japanese youth who reject sex or the new wave of asexuals hitting the streets of New York this millennium, it’s not surprising that people yearn and feel attraction to an Other who they are unwilling to confront or feel the call to be a false call of sorts. I thought he was just fearful of real rejection. These calls of twin flames or soulmates are strange at best. In my innermost thoughts I think it’s just frustrated love. Like Ishiguro’s Remains of the Day. It’s all about principles and love of many things except the call to follow the heart. Steven’s love of attention to detail is in stark contrast to his failure to notice the call of attraction to Miss Kenton with the sole exception that the novel makes it a point to exact a bitter juice of it all if we heed not the call of the soul or the heart or whatever you want to name it.

Writing has been a lot in my mind of late. Messages here and there give impulse to the long dead and buried notion that I can write but I ca never ever seem to get this odd itch of writing again. I can’t even fathom why I insist that I can ever regain the idea of writing with the same intensity, joy and perception of storytelling that I  lost somewhere in my alcoholic binges to stimulate writing. Little did I know I was killing the very thing that gave me joy. I like writing. Period. But I have nothing to write about. I have even come up with the idea of just writing about whatever no matter how bad it is. Failed writings of a failed writer. I am a failed writer because all I have is the intention with an emptiness that resists description at all.

When did I lose this tremendous gift I used to have to write? I wait too long to write. Maybe that’s it. There are periods during the day when I get ideas about what to write. Or maybe I just don’t plot what to do and then write about it. Puff. It’s a bitch. I want to create again. So I need to read more. Perhaps that will cure me.

Hay dí­as más importantes que otros.

Hoy es un dí­a de esos. Dí­as en que uno se percata de multitudes de cosas y de lo efí­mero que las cosas son. Se percata uno de la insignificancia que la existencia brinda y que al final todo queda en un sí­mbolo cuya interpretación queda fuera de nuestro alcance.  El más allá tiene una puerta que no permite retorno alguno. Así­ que los que quedamos en este mundo manipulamos los restos de nuestros antepasados y nos imaginamos una verdad imposible de comprobar o verificar. El pasado, notamos hoy, esta sujeto a negociación.

No que eso sea de gran envergadura en sí­. Solo notamos que el destino aka el futuro, también está sujeto a negociación.  Esta era deberí­a ser de la del Hoy. Hoy decimos no a nuestros sentimientos, a esas voces que nos alientan a seguir ciertos caminos, hoy, decimos: yo mando.

Yo mando. Así­ de simple. O Captain, my Captain!

 

The seasons come and go

& the mistakes I make stay

haunting the living daylights

out of me

wheretofore

I know not why

Yet the silver moon

colours the clouds

dark grey chiaroscuro

Eyes

bewildered

stare

seconds pass by

and a yesterday

is and will be indescribable as we speak

For the fuckers to enjoy

a past

whose present brings

like when I see my neighbor’s lips

all red & shit

stepping down the stairs

whilst

I ignore it.

Â

 MEMORIA DE CENIZAS (En papel) EVA DIAZ , FUND. JOSE MANUEL LARA, 2005 ISBN 9788496152380

 Datos del libroNº de páginas: 300 págs. Encuadernación: Tapa blanda Editoral: FUND. JOSE MANUEL LARA Lengua: ESPAí‘OL ISBN: 9788496152380

Durante mi estancia en Sevilla tení­a la intención de ir a Santiponce. Santiponce es un pueblo aledaño a Sevilla camino a Itálica. Itálica era mi destino. Para los que no saben mucho de Sevilla, para ir a Itálica hay muchas maneras de hacerlo, inclusive caminando. Pero yo decidí­ tomar el bus que se encuentra por lo que se conoce como Plaza de Armas. Ya en el bus y en camino, decidí­ observar mis alrededores. Cuál no serí­a mi sorpresa ver un edificio de esos viejos que quisiese uno detener el autobús para poderle tomar unas fotos. Algo de ese viejo aposento demacrado llamó la atención. Era algo importante. De alguna manera seguí­ camino a Itálica arrepentido de no haberme detenido ante el aposento porque algo de ello insistió en su importancia.

Terminaré la anécdota después de la recensión del libro del cual tengo pensado relatar aquí­. Vosotros podréis leer al principio de este post alguna información de mis intenciones. Y sí­, Os he hablado en os sobre Os.

Adquirí­ el tomo en cuestión porque tení­a curiosidad sobre el fenómeno Protestante en Sevilla. La vibra Luterana no se hizo del rogar mucho desde que decidí­ viajar a esa ciudad hispalense. Pero habí­a que esperar a que todo ese escombro católico que pide ser rascado primero tuviere su dí­a en el sol. Así­ que a pesar de haber pasado multitudes de horas por el mal llamado ”Centro Histórico” para satisfacer el hueco del catolicismo latente en mí­, nunca pude dar con el hueco para rellenarlo de curiosidades católicas. Vi, y mucho de esa cultura, pero nunca le viví­. Lo que sí­ viví­ fue la ausencia del protestantismo. Quizá le haga un mal favor al libro, pero quizá, también, algún favor haré. Algo habí­a. Quizá su ausencia visible vibró con el hueco que nunca logré rellenar ahí­.

La lectura es una aburrición total al principio. La imaginación de la autora es un tanto austera pero como está basada en un siglo de que solo se puede conjurar malas imágenes no tengo la menor duda que la autora luchó mucho para poder acercarse lo más posible a una realidad que solo puede darse en la imaginación colectiva del hispano en general. Y como la autora es hispalense me imagino también que mucho tení­a en juego en esa ciudad en que el honor y la dignidad. Pero si la primera mitad del libro es una constante descripción de lo que se puede imaginar llevo acabo una de las obras de la Reforma mejor conocidas en Español, o sea, la Biblia del Oso, pues la segunda mitad es todo un entretenimiento visual de torturas y esperanzas. La novela pinta unos personajes tristes, llenos de miedo y con deseos de esperanzas, sueños de libertad y añoranzas que los hace humanos y los trae a un presente para que podamos comprender el proceso emocional de ser perseguido por ideas, pensamientos, ajenos a los intereses del Poder, o las supersticiones del Poder.

Este libro es un libro llamado Novela Histórica lo que a mí­ no me del nada porque lo considero un poco mocho ya que la labor que se le brinda a un tomo como el presente no es tomado en cuenta o si lo es pasa desapercibido al lector menor instruido en estos menesteres de letras. En lo personal, aprecio estos tomos más como tomos académicos ya que es por ello que suelen llamarme la atención. A mí­ me gusta la lectura que lleva labor investigativa, eso es lo que a mis libros le da sabor.

I realize a thing or two these days. Like the void left or the void I try to refill. As if one could go back and change stuff.

Intento rellenar huecos estos dí­as. Como si pudiere alcanzar un pasado que nunca fue.

O lo es. El pasado es. Así­ lo pinto de harina y huevo.
Estrellado, batido y con consistencia.

Pienso en tí­. Etilicamente.
Eres un espiritú
Imposible
Una quimera de mi imaginación
un deseo imposible
una mujer ideal
de esas que solo el alcohol
sabe conjurar
y si logro besar tus labios
tropezar contigo
verte en los ojos
o verme en ellos
serí­a
la mentira
que compartiésemos
juntos
y vivirí­amos
el paraí­so
que Dios olvido
me tienes
de mis guts girl
y
mañana
retornaré

a decirte mil cosas de cómo es imposible dejarte de amar
a pesar de que solo te he soñado una vez.

Amanece hoy. Hace sol. Tecleo con el fin de sacarle una historia a la nada. Quezque no hay que esperar a la musa. Tengo mucho tiempo esperando. Hay muchos conflictos en mi.

Uno. Deberí­a de hacer más ejercicio.
Dos. Deberí­a de acabar el maldito ensayo.
Tres. Deberí­a quién sabe qué más hacer.
Cuatro. Deberí­a ir a fotografiar más.
Cinco. Hoy tendré que ir con mi hija a ayudarle a limpiar su departamento.
Seis. Mañana es dí­a de labores.
Siete. No deberí­a de vivir por semanas.
Ocho. Estoy feliz porque dentro de seis semanas tendré mi nuevo sofá.
Nueve. El silencio trae consigo muchos ruidos pero el que más me molesta es creer escuchar música.
Diez. A lo mejor solo es el ventilador de la computadora.
Once. Tantas cosas que comprar.
Doce. Tengo que comprar un aparato de televisión nuevo y arreglar todos los cables y asegurarme de ponerla en la pared, sí­, será una de esas grandes.
Trece. Odio que las cosas me funcionen a medias.
Catorce. ¿Porqué no leo más?
Quince. ¿Será buena idea seguir poniéndome aceite de oliva caliente en las puntas de mis pelos?
Dieciséis. Tengo que prepararme otra taza de café.
Diecisiete. Dejaré de pensar en ella y dejaré de sentir por ella y dejaré de evitarle. Es pregunta sin signos interrogativos.
Dieciocho. Se acerca la hora de Dinamarca.
Diecinueve. Se acerca la hora de Roma.
Veinte. Se acerca la hora de México.
Veintiún. NSA:18,19 & 20 is just my itinerary about future travel plans. By the way, I think you’re assholes, putos!