Yonder Lies It

Se puede argíüir que el/a escritor/a de X blog es sumamente influenciada/o por el impacto que el blog tenga en la comunidad bloggera.

Si ’ X ’ formula de escribir es recompensada por visitas es más probable que esa formula se conserve, con tal de conservar la audiencia que existe al sitio blog.

Note to myself:

Qué te valga madre como escribes wuey … tú escribe como se te pegue en gana … aquí­ no estamos para entretener a la gente y mucho menos for free …

I believe in the USA and its constitution.

It has helped many people and probably will continue to do so.

But right now there is a group of people who have hijacked this ideal and turned it into a venture for their own enterprises.

This sector is bound to foster conflict because they are in the business of conflict and their enterprise is conflict. They manufacture products for the use in conflicts.

What will happen in Irak is that the USA will ‘manage conflict’ I got this idea from years of following the Palestine uprising against the nation of Israel to assert its right to existence. This is another rightful and moral idea that has been hijacked by businesses that have for business the manufacture of products for use in conflicts.

Unfortunately the USA cannot do without this sector since it brings in much needed revenue to sustain its mammoth government.

The influence of this interest group has been going on since the Reagen years. The Right, and its fascist allies, are giving the constitution a false interpretation in as much as radical fundamentalists are giving the Koran a false interpretation or The Zionist menace twisting the Talmud to their own gain.

I believe also that it is unhealthy that there is no real opposition within the USA to withstand the onslaught of radical patriotism which is now embroiling the USA.

We must, for the good of the USA, show opposition to the USA so that it see that they can’t do willy nilly as it pleases.

The recent war, (? : a silly joke in as much Israel is at war with Palestine. How can a superior power be at war with a much more weakling state such as Palestine and Irak?) while I applaud the so-called liberation of its people, it worries me as well since patriotism and business have now colluded with that mysterious faction called the Military Industrial Complex.

However, one mustn’t undervalue this kind of intervention which really was a ’nicer’ model of destruction in that even Washington felt the pressure of the international community.

The Bush term is to be seen as a fiasco in liaison with big business and however moral and preachy and evangelical this man is he is unhealthy for the future of the USA.

Hoy contesté a un comentario que me dejo todo shaken.

Creo que I was taken out of context, or fue just plain revenge? El asunto concernia machismo. I wrote algo que fuera de su context da lugar a una cosa that I never thought I would let myself get into pero lo contesté y más tarde me olió a trap, a filthy trap.

Text can be just as harmful, for a momento I thought of taking los comentarios away y dejar en paz a la people que entra y sale del blog.

Take a peek, lo que ves is what lo que gets. But I restrained myself — ¡ No Julio, don’t lo do it !

Qué p a t h e t i c …

No me considero machista de ninguna manera, tendré bursts de hombrí­a pero what’s a fellow como yo to do?

Lo peor de todo es que ni sé nothing de femenism mexicano. I even wonder if there is such a culture, a feminista culture, y ¿cómo es?, that is the pregunta at large, ¿cómo es?

He leido mucho de gringas femenistas, aquí­ en escandinavia hasta me da miedo de mirar a las mujeres por miedo que crean que las estoy deseando con mis ojos QUE si las desean. Mejor I move my lindos ojos to the next nature thing …

I just odie la pinche idea de que the thought came up at all…

¡ F I u U !

Pero muy valido eso de pedir aclaración, nomás que I didn’t help but feel offended at the mere pensamiento de que fui acusado de machista …

G…..íü……aca…….T……elas!

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De reciente pa’cá me da por comprarlas, a veces hasta de a montón.

Inclusive, el ambiente es parte de la emoción que me encanta vivir cuando lo hago, y como en los mercados de sobreruedas que hay por Tijuana, estos también pegan el grito al cielo con todo el esplendor de sus gargantas que, ‘¡ Acá es más barato !’, así­ que a veces me dejo convencer más por coqueterí­a que por ellas, me encanta que se peleen por mi. Así­ que terminó comprando un buen gíüatito siempre.

Llegando a casa, me gustan hasta cuando se desvanecen. Las dejo ahí­ por dí­as, dejándolas que me causen alegrí­a y sentimientos de acuerdo a mis sentires del dí­a. Mi mujer las tira en cuanto las mira un poco marchitas. Yo no, las recojo a veces del bote de la basura a espaldas de ella y me las llevo a un lugar donde no pueda verlas. Ahí­, las contemplo como es que se van secando poco a poco y me admiro como es que siguen dando tanta hermosura a pesar de su estado decrépito.

Las flores secas son también bellas.

Comprar casa y ser padre de familia es más que un simple acto de vida.

Más comprarte una casa. No sólo te haces dueño de algo sino que también te haces:

a) Carpintero, uno nunca sabe que pinches demonios le pasó a la madera esa que se miraba tan románticamente antigíüa y que el agente de bienes raices lo realzó a tal grado que te dejó deslumbrado y no viste las termitas a gusto dándole rienda suelta su mero mero.

b) Plomero, ya que si no se está descomponiendo la tuberí­a del baño, tendrás que limpiar la tuberí­a del zinc donde tus hijos se lavarán la boca por el resto del año y donde tu mujer performa sus ritos de bealdad para tu gusto, también tendrás que arrastrarte por huecos de la casa que sólo ratones, insectos, arañas y demás bichos de las oscuridades más húmedas del hogar sabí­an de su existencia.

c) Pintor, pues la pintura que tu jurabas estaba buena para los próximos diez años está ya cacariza y descarapelandose haciendo así­ pues del sol tu más acérrimo enemigo.

d) Sirviente, ya que alguien tendrá que limpiar la casa de los desmadres que tus hijos causarán.

e) Cocinero ya que tendrás que cocinar, no sólo para ti, si no para todo la familia y demás huéspedes que se animen a llegar a tu lindo hogar.

f)Jardinero y conserje. Tendrás que podar el césped, levantar las hojas de los árboles esos que tanto adoras por los veranos pero que odias con ahí­nco en el otoño. Cortar los arbustos, y como si fuera poco también levantar el estiércol de los pinches perros que andan sueltos por ahí­.

ah, hogar dulce hogar.

La Semana Santa por estas tierras nonsanctas del viejo Imperio Romano es un verdadero contraste a la ví­a dolorosa que estamos impuestos a ver nosotros los católicos. Cuando estuve en Madrid del 98 me impresionó mucho ver cada barrio tener su ‘desfile’, por así­ decirlo, donde hombres por lo usual venian caminando vestidos á la kux klux klan, o sea todos encapuchados y de preferencia de color morado. La procesión suele traer a un santo por los hombros y la televisión pasa a la gente adolorida. En Filipinas la cuestión es otra, nunca he estado ahí­ pero por lo que la televisión pasa se mira un poco doloroso en todos los sentidos, los hombres se clavan clavos de a verdad y se crucifican de a verdad. En mi tierra, a lo mucho, nosotros ibamos y le besabamos los pies a una figura del cristo crucificado allá por la Guadalapuna del centro de Tijuana y veiamos a muchos venir por las calles de rodillas cumpliendo un mandato o algo así­ por el estilo, mas adentro del paí­s he visto por fotos como algunos se dan hasta espaldazos con pencas de nopal ( o u c h ! ).

Aquí­ en Suecia no.

La cosa es más tranquila pero a su vez rara. Se vuelve algo así­ como un Halloween. Los niños se disfrazan de brujas y salen a pedir dulces. Lo que usualmente ocurre es que se pintan la cara, algunos con pecas y se ponen un pañuelo en la cabeza, falda y andan con una canastita donde ponen sus caramelos etc. Tocan a la puerta y te dan un dibujillo donde te pintan algo que tenga que ver con la Semana Santa y te desean una feliz Semana Santa.

What the?

Es una combinación a la gringa. Hay huevitos, les da por pintarlos como allá, y hay conejillos pero estos son chocolates, hasta ahí­ las similiridades. Lo demás ya es netamente sueco, o creo que hasta escandinavico se podrí­a decir.

Aquí­ lo interesante es esto de la tradición de la bruja. Se les llama – Pí¥skkí¤rringar – y la tradición proviene de los tiempos cuando los suecos creian con todo el ser de sus almas en las brujas. Por eso mismo que el Halloween no ha pegado realmente en Suecia pues se les hace una cosa redundante.

Y es que antes los suecos les tenian miedo a las brujas pues se pensaba que por estos dí­as se iban de viaje, a un lugar que le llaman blí¥kulla, para reunirse y así­ alabar al chamuco. De hecho existe una isla afuera de Kalmarsund que se llama Blí¥ Jungfrun (Sirena Azul) que queda entre í–land y Oskarshamn aquí­ por estos lares de on’ soy yo, Smí¥land. Blí¥kulla, se pensaba, quedaba en las orillas de algún lugar lejisimos, donde la gente se imaginaba que quebada en medio de una neblina azulilla. Blí¥kulla también se pensaba que era el mismisimo infierno.

Habí­a un dí­a cuando todo tení­a que estar calladito ya que si hací­as ruido podrí­as llamarle la atención a las brujas que iban en vuelo hací­a la reunión, delatarte y así­ raptarte. No tení­as que cortar madera, coser o herrar. A este dí­a se le llamaba Miércoles del Silencio. (Dymmelonsdagen) Si por estos dí­as dejabas a tus animales afuera era algo así­ como una maldición ya que se pensaba que duendes, gnomos, elfos y geniecillos andaban haciéndole los mandados a las brujas.

No podí­as tampoco tener nada que estuviere rotando en circulos ya que eso podrí­a invocar a las brujas, así­ que la masa para el pan tení­a que estar ya lista desde un dí­a anterior, y tampoco andar en carruaje ya que las ruedas ruedan y así­ pues podrí­as invocar al mal sin querer queriendo. Era tanto el miedo que a las campanas del pueblo se les cambiaba el badajo de metal por uno de madera. El llamado a misa era reemplazado por una corneta de cuerno.

Le tení­an tanto miedo que hasta en Suecia pasó algo similar a lo que pasó en Massachusetts con los Salem Witch trials.

Vaya Semana Santa en Suecia pero así­ es la vida aquí­.

There was only that one chance. The crowds were thick enough to create a diversion and grab it. The moneybag lay idle in the counter, so it would be enough for a fire alarm to cause a small panic, stretch the arm, grab the dough and make a run for the door. The only obstacle would be the guard at the door, a buffy looking security agent who seemed in love with his job. He had the handcuffs in plain view, as well as a can of pepper spray and a mean looking baton, which he caressed with his left hand like a cat owner would his pet. Just then a scanty clad dame popped in distracting the guy who comported himself like a gentleman by pointing her to somewhere and then walking with her a bit. Gary saw his chance and walked towards the book section and stopped near the emergency fire alarm, pulled it and started to walk in a steady pace towards the counter so as not to raise suspicions. At the sound of the alarm everyone became disconcerted and moved quickly to get the heck out of there. Gary grabbed the dough just when the clerk was trying to figure out what was happening and made a dash for the door. He ran as fast as he could and swung the doors wide open with all his might.

Ernest didn’t feel like opening that can of beer, he had enough of the drudge monotony that was beginning to fill his daily evenings. So he picked up his keys, put his jacket on, checked that the radio was off and left his flat. Down the elevator, he came across a neighbor he was pissed at so he just gave him looks that killed, and then proceeded as they wlked out to cheerfully and out loud say hi to the first passerby he met just to piss off the neighbor even more. 9pm and he took a whiff at the city, it smelled like buttered popcorn does at the movies except that it was drizzling. So he kept walking, destination unknown, thinking maybe that it was time to pay a visit to his old girlfriend. A few blocks down the road he found a quarter, still wet he picked it up and started to flip it up in the air as passersby whisked along. Should he walk there and see her or should he take a cab? Should he just drop by or should he announce his visit? He kept a fast pace as he took off the hand from his palm to see how the quarter landed and see what fate had sealed for him.

Olga was in the mood for some shopping. She donned a miniskirt, and a shirt that fit like a glove that marked her voluptuous body at every curve. The stiletto high heel shoes put the extra touch in a very nice outfit. Looking outside the window she noticed some small rain drops in her pane. She grabbed an umbrella just in case her hairdo came into danger. Looking one last time in the mirror, she checked her deep red lipstick color in her lips, pursed them inwards and made a loud pop! sound from her mouth. She walked the stairs down to the street, it was busy and the city noise became a second background as a known passerby to her stopped her and a loudmouth crowd passed them by. They exchanged some salutatory greetings and after that she went her way swinging the unneeded umbrella in a circular motion as her hips moved to a salsa song in her head. A few blocks well into the city and ad caught her eye, 35% off on all Calvin Klein products. She went in.

The weather was gray and the city noises were a mishmash of screams, crying and yelling with that of cars passing by and a police car with its siren still on. The ambulances had the siren lights on, resembling a disco death of sorts. To the left of the sidewalk, were curious onlookers stared, were bundles of money and shiny coins scattered across. They stood in wait, like vultures, for a distraction from the only police car to have arrived at the scene of the accident. Some handcuffs lay strewn on the street, and a security guard sat by the sidewalk with a bruised head and what seemed to be blood running from his nose, dripping down to the wet asphalt mixing with the gasoline and oil stained flow of water near a gutter. Medics were attending to three people and one was already being carried inside the ambulance in what seemed to be an unconscious state, it seemed he had suffered a deep concussion to his head. Another man was lying down in the wet street complaining that the back of his legs hurt ‘like a motherfucker’ and that he might also have a fracture to his kneecaps. The other body, a female, had some red lipstick smeared in her face and a miniskirt displaying fine long looking legs and some broken high heel shoes. She was being pumped air and an injection being administered to her in her left arm glared all the lights that the city could reflect on its metal needle at that moment.

A small whisper coming from the crowd fought its way through the noise and the lights, ‘Hey! What happened here?’

El impopular

Muchos se alarman con esto de la guerra que pasó/está en proceso continuo.

Muchos se abanderan con el argumento moral de que no fue correcto hacer lo que se hizo.

Ofrezco cuatro puntos distintos al respecto.

Punto número 1: la guerra es atroz.

Punto número 2: ¿Por qué nadie habla de los beneficios que esta guerra causó?

Yo no soy partidario de Bush pero me asombra que antes de la guerra, por muy arrogante que Bush haya sido, andaba pidiendo permiso para lanzarse en contra de aquel gíüey.

Osea, hubo efecto de presión por parte de la comunidad internacional en no lanzarse nomás porque si y a sus pinches anchas.

Saddam Hussein si era un tirano, tanto y peor que el PRI de los 70’s. ¿Quién no recuerda el tehuacán con chile por las narices en esos antros de tortura llamada la Judicial?

Saddam si gaseo a su gente y causo mucho más dolor que las bombas causaron en Irak.

Punto número 3: La presión internacional tuve una fuerte voz en la conducta de la guerra y causó debate y pensamientos sobre la guerra y el sueño Americano.

A) La comunidad internacional observó como nunca antes esta guerra, los embedds valieron madre, la guerra se estaba reportando por internet y los mandos gabachos andaban con mucho c u i d a d i t o.

B) Hay un fuerte debate filosófico sobre la guerra y sus consecuencias y la terrible realidad que no se puede ser humano y vivir sin ella, cuando se acabe la guerra se acaba la humanidad.

C) En Estados Unidos mucha gente ha perdido el ideal que la Constitución Americana construyó. En 10 años veremos si los Halcones o vuelven más facista al paí­s o el empiezo de una segunda Revolución gabacha esta germinandose ya.

Punto número 4: Los gabacho si traerán (ojalá) cambios democráticos al Oriente, donde las mujeres por tradición no tienen posibilidad de avanzar. Y hasta lo mejor evitan una revolución en Iran.

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Uno de los encuentros más perplejos que me haya encontrado en mi vida, como chicano de Tijuana, es la cuestión del tiempo y la historia que permea mi identidad.

Ser chicano es vivir la historia de nuestras naciones, la mitologí­a que ello conlleva, la azteca, la maya, y la cicatriz que nunca sana del 1848.

1848 es un punto de partida para nuestra región y es un puente que une tanto como desune a chicano como mexicano.

Un ejemplo de ello es encontrarse con mexicanos del centro de la nación. Cuando buscamos solidaridad por medio del lenguaje común que tenemos, nos topamos con la crueldad de la frí­a y calcualdaora pared de la a veces fingida ignorancia. Este hecho se les pasa de largo, me dicen, eso ya fue, ya pasó.

Me miran medio extraño sin ver el hueco que las palabras de sus bocas, como el obús deja boquetes, dentro de mis intestinos. Me dejan sin historia, sin existencia, pero ellos no lo saben, como pues recordar algo que ya hace tanto que pasó y que marca el ritmo de mi vida?

Al igual con los españoles, si a caso a lo mucho, unos todaví­a se disculpan, es más, te dicen, esos no fuimos nosotros, los de ahora. Esos son los sensibles, pero el joe average de la calle hasta mordaz se vuelve en contra de la boca que oso sacar de los anales de la historia anécdotas de hace ya 500 años atrás. Lo sé, en Madrid del 98 me encontré a mucho de esos.

Es un trauma en verdad, llegar al paí­s del que tanto se habla en las bocas de la gente, y los libros de las escuelas, se habla de él como un padre ausente y desgraciado pero al que queremos conocer en todos modos.

No saben del dolor que aún corre como corriente eléctrica dentro del idioma ese que nos dejarón hace siglos ya y que es un dolor que se transmite de generación en generación y que resiste la muerte, como si los microbios esos que tanto mataron a gente indí­gena fuera un elixir preparado por un brujo del vodoo que nos dio vida por milenios ….

Queda la autoestima reducida añicos por vivir eventos ya tan viejos.

Es un fenómeno que no logró de explicarme pero algo casi endocentrico de muchos tijjuanenses, se dirí­a, porque no vemos más allá de nuestra región, nuestra querida y amada comarca.

Digo, para aquellos que son experimentos vivos de los sistemas escolares tanto de Baja California como el de California. Porque hay que diferenciar entre una comunidad afluente de Tijuana que se la pasa y tiene medios para flotar entre ambas naciones sin arraigo a más de un paí­s a la vez y aquellos Tijuanenses de escasos medios que crecimos en ambos paí­ses, jurando lealtad, ante ambos banderas, ser Mexicano, ser Americano. Para esos que se les enchina la piel al escuchar el Star Spangled anthem y el Himno Nacional Mexicano.

Ese soy yo.

Linguistics is one of those fields that have no real use for those of us who are natives to the language in question since much of it is already ingrained. It only becomes a useful tool when studying a foreign tongue. Reading Patrick White has given me the opportunity to put into use these tools in a new different way. Had it not been for those studies I think I would not have enjoyed Patrick White’s autobiography Flaws in the Glass as much.

In it you’ll find the usual British English with many instances of articles or conjunction elicitation. At times the nominalization is eye-catching in its use in Australian English such as fossicking and acquaintanceship, I mean, how do you fossick and since when did an acquaintance become a process? As far as I know how to use ‘acquaintance’ it is more of a stage rather than a continuous process.

There is a fondness for compounds too in the first 40 to 60 pages, almost as if the language didn’t, couldn’t do with single words and wasn’t enough to describe the environment. We have examples such as, double-youlker, biscuit-colored, not-so-successful, stage-struck, tea-trays, pansy-shaped, bomb-scarred, green-to-yellow tones and many many more, almost, as I suspect, as a manipulative technique on the part of the writer to emphasize his roots to the land. It is as if there is a need to stretch the language to the maximum; as if it is incessant to unify words to explain a whole.

Furthermore, you’ll find in the text that nouns enjoy some of the most wonderful modifiers like the following ones I loved so much that I underlined them and kept them for myself: the odd recce, those ochreus houses, a packet of foolscap, grubby at the edges, an etiolated beauty, the maker’s fretsaw and smiling treacly smiles. Possessive noun modifiers also gave a new twist to the tongue such as: a welter of adenoidal sighs … nosegay of pink oxalis. Some of the biggest noun modifiers ever brought uncountless giggles to my face, just take a peek at this:

It is also why an unlikely relationship between an Orthodox Greek and a lapsed Anglican egotist agnostic pantheist occultist existentialist would-be though failed Christian Australian has lasted forty years. p.102 (my italics) or

Language is indeed what makes this text so fresh and new despite the fact that it has been on the shelves a long time, I was rather thrilled in finding so many new words and phrasal verbs that I have never seen before, it refreshed my language. New phrasal verbs such as junk up and bawl out and even a few idioms like odd and sods sparked a curiosity that I hadn’t seen in ages.

I also increased my vocabulary immensely with new words that my CD ROM Macmillan (American) English dictionary lacked a definition for such as, saltpetre, planchette, latticed, caryatid, pinchbeck, gunyah, tittuping, thick fug, flibbertigibbets, archimandrites, sabras, a revenant, doxie and a slew of other vocabulary that the book indicates with an asterisks as if the language wasn’t foreign enough already.

Although there is a knack to hold in high esteem the mother country, the UK, the local language is used to de-colonize the mentality as the list of words above indicate, there is a preference for the local and new as opposed to the old and known.

Just as well because I somehow have an underlying belief that he uses/manipulates language to suit his aim, purpose, to convey his roots. There is a sense that he enjoys language so much that even when he breaks off from a relationship like the one with Sir William Dobell when they were ‘…belting out obscenities as hard as [they] could.’ He says, ‘I believe the chandelier tinkled a bit …’ this is giving language more power than one would expect.

On another plane, Patrick White, born in London, raised in Australia, is one of those expats who are more citizens of the world than the country they profess to belong to. Like Robert Graves, he just went through a minefield unscathed while serving in the army during WWII where he became a well-traveled man and during much of his stints abroad he picked up on the romantification that writers tend to exploit once in a foreign land. I often wondered as to the significance of geography in autobiographies and pondered what do we want to rub in or what kind of statements are we making when we do so? I mulled this as I went along reading getting the sense that the writer wanted to pull us into a glitzy glamor that we are suppose to know of and thereby cause some sort of envy.

Much of the autobiography is a retelling of uneventful nights made pleasurable by the uncanny eye of the narrator. He has dexterity to describe psychological states, like when he describes Baron Charles de Menasce smile, he says the following: ‘Round the corners of his mouth clung that faint webbing which cynicism leaves on those too tender to have faith in others and, worse still themselves.’

Homosexuality plays a significant role in identification but it is not the whole of the story here, while it is part of the telling, it is a part as much as in any other person when he or she says they are Catholic. There is much self-retrospection or reflexive thinking going on here as far as autobiographical interests go, so that at times you’ll read that what he is reliving all this, to tell you, the reader, he’ll say he is doing nothing more than ‘recycle shit’ yet for the same token you’ll here that what he is doing is ‘painting this self-portrait’. More oft than not, one gets the sense that more things are being said than what it is written.

Patrick White focuses much in the habits of others which begs the question, what does he want to say by making note of the habits of others? From my point of view, I think we have a case, if not an inkling, of an author wanting us to get closer to him.

The issue of influence is also a recurrent one, which necessarily raises the question: Why give a historical account of others and their fate in an autobiography? Worse yet, inevitable, as a writer, one becomes aware of one’s place, which is nearly God-like since one is retelling the fate of others as one sees fit, and according to one’s agenda. I say this because the juxtaposition with the fate of others, to that of ones own, can be used to justify ones being and is very much present in this autobiography. At times Flaws of Glass just plainly resorts to vignette biography to justify ones judgment of others. I find theses vignette biographies interesting though because they serve to reinforce how the author thought and gives great insight into the ontological and epistemological value system of the subject.

All in all this autobiography gives much into the account of the writer in question, the only flaw I saw was that of relying so much on the lives of others but in the end I guess we are all nothing but the product of our surroundings.