Yonder Lies It

I just tweeted that Sweden needs an ”American Dream” of sorts. Something that says that you can make it here no matter where you come from.

Not because everyone needs to make it but to make sure that there isn’t one race that feels that it’s better above than the rest.

They can think whatever the heck they want to in their own filthy corner but as the nation is concerned there ought to be only one force pulling us all towards the same goals, such as they were not long ago in the USA, such as the pursuit of happiness, liberty and justice for all.

Not that I am above the rest. By far. I fall too in that trap of thinking my kind of way is the only way. I am narrow minded as hell.

I am guilty of thoughts which demean other races because I am too petty to see the humanity which lieth in all of us.

At least inwards, in my gut, in the Freudian subconscious. Otherwise, I try to speak and act otherwise. Damn introvert me. But long live my self-restraint and acts which demonstrate otherwise.

 

 

I guess I can call it a sojourn. My stay in this place of the world. But the more I think of it the more it seems I am not leaving. Where would I go? I am afraid of my economic situation and I ain’t getting younger. On the other hand I also feel the exact opposite of it. I want to be elsewhere. I guess all of us end up elsewhere somehow. Sooner or later.

Life ain’t easy. I shouldn’t complain though. My gripes with life are minimal at best.

So I was out in town doing a couple of mundane errands. And I find myself am surprised how the Swedes are. How they do things and stuff. It’s kind of pleasant to realize these people still manage to exact that out of me. The big event I was surprised to see was a grand reopening of one of the local banks in town. Quite the small fanfare considering the town itself which rather exist in much abundance in these parts of the world. The town itself is no more than a local municipality with about 32 thousand people in it spread in a large geographic area. And yes, I still consider myself a big town boy. I guess I will never get over the small town mentality, mine is damaged in that respect. I think too big. So I tend to look down on people. As if they are unaware a God walks amongst them. Yes, I am of a feeble mind. Not because I am superior in any way, these people have made sure to me in my place more than once. But because I am raised to see beyond the geographical boundaries that make up the landscape of my ens. I have a sociological imagination and that is a nasty virus to be carrying about in these parts of the worlds that holds on tight to tradition as if it were to loose grip on its bearings. I have made a lose monetary wise because I have given in to cultural habits for the sake of adaptation. Though the loses are more like gains in the end. They smooth a path on a class level. In this case the middle class and that at a lower to middle class level.

 

 

Estoy enamorado. Y los Eels son la perfecta banda para ello.

So am in love. Solo falta que ella lo sepa también.

How do you declare love to a goddess? Ever seen that Scrubs episode were guys are like babies because the women are in charge?

That’s me. This woman is, wow to the nth degree. She doesn’t even know I exist. I prolly don’t even register as a bug in her eye.

She says hi every now and then. Boy, what a freaking ride it is every time I see her. You’d think everything was timed just accordingly, that destiny is playing us a trick, or at the very least me which is more likely, I feel like God’s butt joke when it comes to her. God, why her like, you know?

I see her everywhere. And I still think am not good enough for her.

Just today I thought I saw her. Which is to say more than I usually see her.

I always carry her in me. I really don’t understand that. I question that insistence.

Hard to believe that I don’t want to be in love with her. Really.

Entretengamos la noción de que podrí­a aceptar la idea de que serí­a posible estar con ella y que todo serí­a como yo quisiera que todo terminase, o sea, en un él y en un ella y así­, los dos pues.

Pero dejemonos de fantasias.

Why not abandon the whole fucking idea. Like a monk abandoning the flesh.

You know how everything looks better & indie in NY with a little help from Hollywood?

A eso se le llama un culture crash.

Lo peor de todo es que sé que ella no es ni como me la pinto.

– He gritado tu nombre mil veces, aún así­ ni un pelo te he tocado, a pesar de que guardo una camisa que me hace verme gordo y que le tocó ser parte del único abrazo que he recibido de ti.

*** If I could be that guy instead of me I’d never let you down *** by EELS – That Look You Give That Guy – with Padma Lakshmi

If only the past was a console. What a trip that would be. A joystick to move back and forth in time.

Rearrange stuff.

í  la Great Gatsby: a luxury of affordance of time. Were we can afford to go backwards in time.

Question is if she is moving to me or I am to her.

Or Am I just imagining her as I want her to be?

I guess the only way to break the spell is to talk to her.

Of course I will not.

Is she the girl that is to last a thousand years? Or am I drowning in my own thoughts just so I can get away from her?

Smother hope

Me he imaginado mil conversaciones contigo, mil momentos en que tu sonrisa me corresponde y aún así­ persisto, en esta ilusión que se llama tú.

Cada que te miro, tu imagen se queda en mi alma transcurriendo a cuentagotas, en cámara lenta, que me persigue por horas y quema cada membrane en my brain … mil veces he pensado mil encuentros, miles de confesiones et al.

Observo
tu
alba, tu crepúsculo

la noche/
– cubres
de lumbres
para
vislumbrar el amanecer

• – I gotta roll, can’t stand still
• Got a flamin’ heart, can’t get my fill.
• Eyes that shine, burnin’ red
• Dreams of you all through my head

tu sombra
that you cast
over
my life
una shadow – incesante – ardiente, a quemaropa

• Eyes that shine, burnin’ red
• Dreams of you all through my head

un sigilio
que carcome
lo que soy
No creo saber
quién eres
ni me quiero imaginar que sabes quién soy
tu eres un diez que no sabe
que un .01 te admira

Un estómago en brama

Los rí­os de la ira
desembocan
con furia
silenciosamente
con un sigilo
multi
simultaneo
terra atrae el desemboque
string theory what not
y en castellano decimos

• por todos lados

para simplificar
una emoción
a
la
vez
.
terra
hemonos,
todos
¿no?

Y en algún sitio se puede enojarse sin quebrar un plato

The greatest urgency lies in letting life zip by
feeling a million ants all over the body
crawling, one foot at a time
on urges
to do something
what it is unbeknownst
yet the squeak in the chair distracts
the impulse of the urges
as if life was being wasted
the uncontrollable push forward is brought to a halt
a simple preoccupation
stamps it out
leaving inadequacy and insufficiency a wide open field to operate
yet
as I move hands
my brain busy, insistent I kill this noise that comes from my chair, I find comfort
and secureness that I will beat the squeak in the chair
as my emotional instigators go
those are still there
before it is known
urging, urging

Ever wonder why?

People don’t approach,

the stench of death

scares them off

I believe.

I wonder, how I survived to this day

Alone, even before birth or death

in a bar

drinking alone

in a room full of people

scared to approach

they smell, I think, the stench of death.

Or maybe am repeating myself.

Does my flesh dispel a rotten smell?

Or is it that I emanate an otherness

so alien

am back in that game

nor I am from here nor there

in this wasteland.

So is it ever April, I wonder.

 

I understand my compatriots abroad, the ones who can’t even sum up a good word for mexicanos en el exterior in English so as to sound exotic or romantic, at least half way decent and unbureaucratic, nope, they call themselves, expats, like gringos do. I suppose the whole ethos of the Hispanic is always rooted to a specific place that does not allow existence beyond the territorial boundaries from whence it originated. Take Hadrian, he though a great Roman emperor, still is referred as Spanish. These mexicans miss our homeland, México. Not the ground they were born in but the traditions and the people. The ground, that is for others to worry about. And therein lies the problem.

We love México, or rather its ways. Whatever else happens to be México it doesn’t matter. If it were up to us and México was a river in the Amazons full of piranhas, so long as waters flow we’d be happy. Whatever the piranhas devour, besides what matters to us, is fair game. In other words, so long there is plenty of guacamole, mole, mariachis, tequila and everything else that accompanies those vittels, say music, clothing and manners, and it’s left untouched by the piranhas, well, alls good. When it comes to the properties of the water of the riverbed, well, it’s all game, like I said.

I have opted to worry about the latter. Which puts me in really serious company if one has understood the mechanisms of how nations are built.

So as the day of Independence fastly approaches, I wonder if am the only one having the idea in its head that there isn’t really much to be independent about nor there is much independence to celebrate, in reality, if one wills, it’s all a matter of perspective.

I experience what the French call chagrin. You should read the etymology to understand what I mean because it is more or less that which I mean. In essence, I guess I’m deeply disappointed at the people that make up México. I expect a lot more of us than perhaps one is expected to expect.

We barely know each other and the Aztec colonialism of the 31 states blurs out ethnic lines no matter how much we allow the expression of other cultures in our ethos. The cohesion of the fabric is all Aztec. Underneath it, we others.

So we celebrate, a banner in the air, a green, a red a white and vivas here and there in a haze of utter confusion with no direction for the masses, the raging bulls, the pamplona with only one arena to end up in, a bottle of tequila with different prices and different results in different classes. The gaiety, the drunkenness, the permission to celebrate in unison, as in a day of raya, haunts us to this day.

 

I feel comfortable to say am a trilingual. Having said that I can proceed with a phenomenon that I have experienced as a trilingual, newly at that if one wills.

I get stuck at times.

Allow me to expand. I suppose imagery ought to come handy in these sort of explanations.

Imagine three people trying to get through the same door, this door is really, like for one person to get through.

Imagine now an object, say a table. In Swedish it is bord, in English it is table, and in Spanish it is mesa.

A simple word, you will agree with me, as that,  are plentiful.

These words compete with each other at one point or another in the everyday of an ordinary trilingual.

No longer is there an option but suddenly there is a clash of options.

These clashes produce a hesitance of sorts.

A hesitance that causes an uncomfortable lapse of sorts. Which in turn presents a critical rupture of sorts.

Normal speaking people or monolinguals probably don’t experience this as often. I can imagine. It is possible that it may occur when competing synonym vys for a place or a choice of word for suitability arises.

El extranjero. La muerte. Sus costumbres; aquí­, allá. Qué más da.

Tiempos de sentir – así­ ese alguien fuese tu madre quien feneció.

Ahora morir es un mero proceso protocolario. Una serie de procesiones documentadas.

Siempre sorprende la reacción Luterana. Esa reacción Utilitarania irresistible. En sueco dicen que alguien har gí¥tt ur tiden, es decir, que alguien se ha salido del transcurso del tiempo. Para una persona como yo, ese tipo de expresión me parece un tanto insensible.

¿qué es lo irresistible?

Esa idea de que todo caduca. Aceptación ante ello. Esa inclinación de rodillas ante lo inminente.

Creo que los Luteranos se rí­en de la idea de que hay una vida más allá de la que los católicos creen, en un aquí­ incomprensible para un católico enfrascado en un ayer y sus rituales, letaní­as y quimeras.

Sea de lo de cada quien es impresionante, siempre. Ver la reacción de un buen luterano ante la muerte, ese proceso de aceptación de que todo tiene un propósito y un fin inevitable de que todo uso caduca, es inquietante por la cruda verdad y realidad que presenta en su interpretación de hechos.

Así­ pues las relaciones entre los familiares nórdicos. El tiempo lleva su curso y el curso su tiempo.