Yonder Lies It

Recontrachijoles …

Pensar que sólo por una demora fui a dar a Tijuana Blog Central, me acuerdo muy bien de ese dí­a. Blogger estaba así­ como congestionado, luego, en un vistazo de esos de reojo me di color de una palabra: Tijuana. Volteé a ver bien, sí­, sin duda, hice click …y zaaz! Di con otra raza de mi rancho. De seguro ellos se sorprenden porque me da curiosidad saber de ellos, y es que la verdad, estar lejos de Tijuana me causado estragos, añoro lo mio, Tijuana, mi gente. Ver a estos blogeros discutir sobre Tijuana es como estar en la Tijuana Virtual que sabí­a existí­a pero no daba con ella. Y mira, ahora visitante, comadre de esos chismes, de esos momentos Tijuanenses que me alegran las mañanas por acá en Estocolmo, órale. Qué bien. Me gusta.

Y sí­, discrimino, sólo gente de TJ, pero es porque quiero saber más de Tijuas que nada, aunque veo que los fronterizos tenemos más en común que un idioma muy particular nuestro. Hí­jole, quién iba a pensar que un atoro internetario me llevaria a mi pueblo, a mi Tijuana y su cultura, si, ¿y qué? soy orgulloso de mi pueblo, so fucking what ….

Thanks to Incultura Tijuana de Tita.

Vera Brittan recounts her fight for her independent self as an uphill battle. We get this, as it seems that she is engaged in a Sisyphus task in order for her to accomplish her education.

Our hero is put to test her belief; the devil is society, her milieu.

I find it amazing how Beauty for these Victorian writers seems to be the highest ideal of all. Edmund Gosse, for example, became offended because zealots in the Christian community destroyed pieces of art in museums. Vera Brittan, p.48, says that ‘…my sexual curiosity was always a bad second to my literary ambition.’ And war is ‘…an infuriating personal interruption …’ to her studies.

The appreciation of a literary education is on a higher pedestal, and a higher social class. There is no higher aspiration than to acquire a profound knowledge of the arts, letters and conversation. Social life is at best a nuisance, an obstacle to that end. Although fine coterie is desired.

Spanish philosopher and novelist writer Miguel de Unamuno comes to mind at times when one is reading this autobiography. He comes to mind so much because this autobiography has what he terms ‘intrahistoria’ that is, the story of the common people, away from the shakers and movers of power.

World events were just in the way for her, hindering progress, her way for an upper education. There is much time spent brooding over how these significant events like war, Edward the seventh’s postponed coronation or the death of the Queen played little importance in the life of Brittan in the early chapters of the novel. (p.98,110)

Our pity is for her, the invocation of pity according to Aristolean principles that leads to catharsis?

This histrionics idea bothers me more and more. I suppose she is bound to histrionics (hysteria?) but only, I believe, in her life, the hurdles she encounters on way to meet her goals. I would prefer to name those acts as acts of indignity. She is indignant at how others react to her femininity, gender. How she developed this acute sense of independence is not told I believe, but her impulse, metered by her patience and temperament, is in the end met. One thing disturbs me here though, inasmuch as men are granted the belief that they are ‘predestined’ for X why isn’t this same belief granted to females? Robert Graves after all did the same, although he expressed it in the name of valour, is this a minimizing of the female voice once again?

Wherein lies the feminine here? In the way her indignant voice comes out? In the display of shock at the behaviour of her surrounding ‘barbarian’ society which fails to include women? I believe this is so since she is battling a society bent in turning down her best desires. She asserts herself as a woman through many emotional perils.

The space keyboard brings insecurity to my typing. It is wobbly, in a fit of misdirected force I became irate and hit it thus making the spacebar wobbly. It’s nearly reflecting my approach to writing. As I always fear the power words have, and ultimately the power the reader has; unto them, I stand needlessly out in the open.

The one because I don’t know how to control them. Ornamentation is hardly my forte, I, like botanist Carl von Linne, care only to classify them, words are pretty in themselves, but it takes a real flowerist to make arrangements with them and draw awe; to offer a sense of beauty and spiritual oneness with nature.

The other because it is he or she that will ultimately cast judgment, draw conclusions and offer words that will reflect its reaction to that which as been read. The reader, I fear, is an unwelcome gardener that pulls weeds and prune trees. It plants seeds where none perhaps are needed. It comes and disturbs the peace of the bed where I toil the soil. Although more and more I come to see this stranger as a welcome part of the ecosystem. Like bee’s and other insects who bring pollen to my lot, I am amused at how flowers I thought I never sowed suddenly sprout adding color and delight to my otherwise green collection.

I have come to realize that it is good to be cultivated.

Being trilingual has caused interesting activities in my brain.

Although I’ve never had any problems with Spanish and English sharing the same mass of grey matter, it seems that English and Swedish are just being too concomitant with each other, like lost cousins they intermingle. They’ve cozied up too much producing a dissonance in my phonological sphere. Words just sound too familiar with one another and what I think is right and makes perfectly good grammatical sense turns to be later a hybrid of sorts, specially in the preposition (a closed area) areas. I am glad that I have a high metalinguistic awareness, because I hate to go through life speaking Spanwednglish.

For example, yesterday I confused until with unto, (the Swedish negation word inte, could it also be somehow involved here?). The discrepancy in sound is very limited although I would assume that monolinguals would have no problems in identifying this word no pro. However, and not to digress but to expound, there is also a possible phonetic sway. The dark l, I’m gringo American, easily can be confused by what phoneticians call a minimal pair with the sound of the vowel o. Until – unto [inte ?]. Just a small difference, nonetheless, It troubles me to make this discovery in my head.

Further commenting on this issue shall be duly noted. It must happen when am the most taxed, hence, the reason mornings are best for me.

Veo las pelí­culas latinas; en español, italiano, francés, portugés y miro con admiración como es que la pasión es lo que causa vida. Las manos en el aire, los gritos, los momentos entre un hombre y una mujer, llenos de pasión; se besan, se gritan, se enaltecen, se aman. Los miro y me da risa a veces como yo controlo mis emociones. Ya no reaccionó así­, rara vez, y si lo hago me hace bicho raro por estos entornos. Dicen que le doy un sabor mediterraneo a mis emociones y sus alrededores, de seguro pensando en los griegos. Casi ni me muevo, no sé si por adaptarme o porque ya no sé reaccionar de otra manera o quizá, de seguro también, porque me da vergíüenza que me vean exaltado. Pero cada vez que miro esas peliculas me alegran porque me recuerdan a viejos episodios, a viejas relaciones con mis novias de mi juventud. Me hacen sentirme orgulloso de mi, de mi sangre, caliente como yo.

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Hay veces que me pregunto, cuál sera la última palabra que escriba, en qué idioma, si acaso eso ocurre? Mil veces maldeceria si no fuese castellano. Pero de seguro dirí­a eso también de mis otros idiomas. Escribo en tres idiomas porque estoy incapacitado para escribir en uno sólo. Pero no cabe la menor duda que el español lo llevo cerca del corazón. Y si me muero, con anticipio, escribire, mis últimas palabras, para que la calaca no me agarre así­ na’más porque si, ¿será ese un buen plan? ¿o será mejor comprarme una aseguranza, dejar de ser católico y pensar en el futuro?

Pen-sought: ¿Qué tan raro es usar la misma licuadora para la salsa como para los licuados?

Watch out for that word, licuado, coming soon to Californian english.

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Dear diary, not!

I reached a point of observation, on top of the lighthouse I saw with the aid of the ramp light a common scene, the sea. I saw millions of sparkles in its water, all very amazing in varying degrees, yet I saw a struggle there too, namely, the need for uniqueness.

Half of what of I written has been modified by the WP, am I being too complacent in allowing the WP to dictate to me what’s right or what’s wrong?

As a writer, if any cuneiform of writing makes me a writer, then I shall be one, in accord to the fact that I am writing, there isn’t much left to indulge our heads. The writing system is exhausted, a well dried out. Nothing is new under the sun sayeth the book of Ecclesiastes yet we tinker along. I fear though we seek in vain. No new forms of writing within our present writing system is allowed, we have stretched it out to its limit. The letter is dead!

It’s ridiculous. Watching the war on the news in so many possible channels with so many perspectives. All the same, in English. Tone varies though if you suddenly choose other languages, but the truth is that the only ones having a ball here are the capitalists. Markets are soaring. They seem happier, yet we lesser beings, left with qualms, are made to partake in this carnage through propaganda filters and newspeak. We fear.

I heard some US lawmakers are finally questioning the patriotism that led to this assault. A little too late; I suppose they didn’t want to be seen less democratic than the Brits. The question is then, what am I doing to lessen this war, this life pilfering? I can refuse to purchase American objects in as much as I refused to buy French wine because they conducted nuclear testing in spite of world protest. This war also means the death of the belief that by boycott we damage through economic means others. Globalisation is so deeply rooted that if I were to boycott American products I’d only be hurting or threatening jobs here in this country.

What to do?

Refuse to believe. I will no longer believe in the idea that America is the beacon of light and freedom it purported to be. The foundations upon which this so called democratic country has been laid stand now to rot. Power, raw power, has taken over the ideal of a true free world. What good does it do to live in a free country when patriots take over and start to persecute those with different ideas? We have all heard how in the name of National Interest people are persecuted for having a difference of opinion, this in the USA. The American Dream is in its last phase. People there, my kin, have become agnostics. It isn’t a regime change we are witnessing, it is a dream change. Who will carry the dream of equality in the next thousand years? Who will dare live in a world of peace whereby humanity can live in real peace, real development? Capitalism is thriving, just about the only ones. The USA has allied itself with the very same forces it purports to abhor.

If the US has set on a course to free the Iraqi people who is to free us from the black and white patriotism of the US?

It’s just a question…

Por estos dí­as los tambores de guerra se escuchan por todo el mundo, Estados Unidos esta perdido, el idealismo por el cual el mundo entero creia en él, han perecido.

Esta de luto el mundo.

La verdad, no se deja ver aun, el humo esta espeso. La verdad es que el patriotismo, a base de fuerza bruta, le ha ganado a las fuerzas esas con las que yo creia, con las que yo mi fe le pusé mi alma. Pero unos bribones, capitalistas, avorazados ponen en peligro el avance de la humanidad. Un fundamentalista trás de otro. El ideal ese del cual los Mexicanos envidiabamos se derrumba. EEUU no es más que un patriota enloquecido, ha perdido su rumbo. ¿Qué haremos los Mexicanos, con nuestra frágil democracia, ganada a base de presión por parte de cual creiamos nuestro ejemplo? Seguirán los dictadores en México? ¿O hizo bien Fox, defendiendo nuestros ppequeños pasos de libertad, marcando, como se dice, la raya? Lo que sé es que el ideal de la democracia esta moribunda, tardaran otros 200 años más para recuperarse, ¡América! ¡O América! ¿En que manos sangrientas fuiste a caer? El poder te ha desquiciado ….

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Then that same night he told her he couldn’t lie, they drank beer, lying right there on the spot to each other. He had that flash, that flash that’s like a chain and ball, heard the chin-cling loud and clear and wanted freedom. He felt high as ever, didn’t really want part of her, he wanted to run, he didn’t like her, liked her; he wanted no part, wanted all her parts.

Then it took him 24 hours just to get her out of his system, to stop feeling any good about her and the time they spent together talking about the theater and how she was the way she was, while he just sat there listening, listening to her voice, melodious, almost like Ulysses being strapped to the mast, listening to the sirens, calling him, only he wasn’t strapped, he was there, willing, he wanted her, I was intoxicated. Me and my little voice struggling there, here in this piece of paper, trying to sort this out, and I can’t, I can to a certain extent. Me and my little voice, counseling me, do it; don’t it. Lie, don’t lie; tell her, how much you want her, tell her the truth, maybe she’ll buy it. Stop thinking about her, I can’t stop, I want to say so much, then reality sets in, I can’t, I must abide me, it be wrong to hurt someone else this way, lying …. All’s fair in love and war?