Yonder Lies It

Ayer fui a ver a Frida, la pelicula, con Salma Hayek. Aparte de que la artista tiene hermosos senos, su actuación fue casi espectacular. Cuando recien salio, a pesar de que no la vi me puse del lado de los criticones que denunciaron el sacrilegio de tocar el tema Frida Khalo. Me acuerdo de aquellos entonces en California cuando la idea merodeaba los periódicos y el escándalo que provocó la noticia que Madonna querí­a interpretarla. El furor no se hizo esperar, medio mundo se levanto en armas, que no, que tení­a que ser una mexicana, si no, no! Y luego se hizo la idea esa de que la Jennifer Lopez quizá, quezque a lo mejor, más nomás no basto que fuese latinilla. Ya con el tiempecillo se afianzó la Salma, y cuando salió no se hizo esperar La Santa Inquisición. Pero, ¿Cómo se atreve esa igualada? Más o menos se escuchaba por los medios electrónicos. Y yo, afí­n desde hace decada y media atrás de su vida, me puse de su lado, Sellout! Grité por igual, con gusto y amor, y eso sin ver la pelicula.

Pero ayer la ví­. Muy buena pelicula, bien interpretada, pero como siempre, le faltaron escenas, no supieron cupirle la vida en dos horas. Luego le metierón escenas irreales, casi caricaturescas, más el dolor sí­ se hizo sentir, la música casi me hizo llorar y la comida, yo estando en el extranjero pues, no se me hizo esperar el agua en la boca. Se me antojaba. Los vestidos se le miraban muy nuevos y sí­, se enfocaron mucho en el sexo. Casi más en eso que otra cosa, lo intellectual lo dejaron a un lado. Las palabras de Frida casi no se deján escuchar, no sabemos mucho de su mente. Pero en fin, la conclusión que le saque a todo el escandalo que se provocó es que los mexicanos somos muy tradicionalistas, no nos gusta que nos cambien las cosas, respingamos, y es que tenemos una versión muy chica de Frida aún, Salma nos invito, a costa de los gabachos, una muy suya versión, y por eso es de apreciarse esta pelicula, por darle un nuevo tinte a Frida. Muy bien hecho Salma Hayek!

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Went to hear Professor Ann W. Fisher-Wirth (University of Mississippi) Fulbright Scholar and Distinguished Professor of American Studies/ Uppsala today where she gave a lecture entitled ’Still the Question Remains, What Space for the Sacred in This Century?’: Contemporary Environmental Poetry.” and left feeling like a jerk.

I had some many feelings evoked that I lost sight of everything and just let my indignation flow.

For the first, it brought out childhood memories from the local environment in my city (Tijuana) and then I thought how the powers to be are making tomorrow’s rebel. Only to fight again and reclaim our places in this society, that is, nothing changes.

Then I thought how much more Swedish poetry deals with nature, everything is nature for them, about sacredness, as far as poetry and writing goes. Then I began thinking more of this ”new” theory in the English language and its militancy tones, this is where the sorrow goes in, as if propaganda to incite indignation to actively engage itself in this encouragement to denounce the wanton destruction of nature.

Curiously enough she remarked somehow the strange weather we had back in September 2002 as beautiful and wonderful. She gave a decent picture but that only brought out snickers out of me. I remember how the swedes were all alarmed about the strange summer, looking for all kinds of omens, from the greenhouse effects to the ozone holes, all kinds of conspiracies were being swung to explain the strange phenomena.

Somewhere I drifted and wrote:

When we see, hear, smell and speak
and decide to put it in ink
it is akin to putting squares in circles.

This is what outraged me: she spoke of the butterfly Monarch and how ”campesinos” are destroying the habitat for them. I never heard how the supply and demand makes this possible. I lost it. Poor thing, she only dealt with a theoretical approach to a certain form of literature and here I went bezerk with ”demonisation” and all sorts of evil things the ”other side” does. Ugh!

Although it did bring about an interesting thought though.

I realized that in poetry some people do only research to evoke feelings of sorrow just to gain favor for one’s view, this might be somewhat naive but I found it interesting.

I hope there isn’t any grudges left … My old Chicano in myself was woken from its lull ….

After incubation I came to more conclusions regarding this text. I realized there is a certain conflict here, she seldoms questions the validity of her emotions yet distrust to a degree as to how to proceed and record, as asuch, said emotions. She has trouble putting it in ink. The fear of going astray is always latent for she chastises other autobiographies for falling short of their aims, she complains that they often leave in the background the very person that they are supposed to be speaking of. She falls into that trap to, and I guess that she tried to circumvent it, this with a minor victory.

I would even venture so far as to say that VW is resistent to the whole idea of writing a Bio. I mean what gives impulse to write this Bio? Alas, it turns out to be just a mere side project for her.

Well, apart that I was proud that I could read the text in 4 hours I derived no more pleasure out of that than that. There a few instances were I found great delight in reading her, and that was when she got into a sort of attrition with her father in a boat, opinions were dished and Victoria took it for what it was. However, at other times I got the sense that she was like a drink that slowly intoxicates. In retrospect, I came to think that much of biographies at times resort to what we nowadays refer to as name dropping, at least that’s the case for this victorian period in which somehow I ended up in.

I have admired Virgina Woolf for a long time now, to the point of having gone to a theater play named Who’s of afraid of Virgina woolf? back in the early 90’s in San Diego, California, without understanding a iota of it and only going there because of the significance of the event. And then there is that line somewhere, I forget where, that has ever since haunted me, ” …you have to read a book twice, at least, to fully understand it …” something I never managed to do fully. Modern fiction was of course one of those text that parts water but at any rate, A Sketch of the Past was to my opinion at times very dull and at times only a few bubbles of joy did pop up now and then.

Hej!

Today, as I was walking to the computer room from my dorm, (sounds kind of childish considering my age) I couldn’t help noticing how Spring had set its foot on the landscape. Although the trees are still bare and snow remains yet unmelted, the ground is wet and the air fresh rather than cold. Then as I was walking through one of the pathways, the university let itself be seen, and all its wondrous Ralph Erskine arquitecture came into view. However, I was distracted from my thoughts by little rocks coming into my shoes as I walked. This type of gravel is strewn in the midst of winter so that people don’t slipp and fall down. By this time of the year there is so much that at times it is hard to notice the square cement blocks that make the walkway. Then it struck me! I had a great idea, I thought of a big vaccum cleaner, one that could easily be adapted to a medium size truck, say a small Toyota or whatever is in fashion and of medium size nowadays. This sort of truck would then vacuum the gravel. Of course, being the premises of the university big, this would indeed be a wise investment, according to me, since its my idea after all. When the premises would be free of the winter gravel then perhaps it could be rented out, so as to get the return of the investment back, whaddaya think? Its a great idea or what?!

Anyways, am doing fine, life here is at times nothing but body problems. I on the other hand couldn’t sleep last night due to a late dinner and woke up several times during the night with a sort of stomach pain, felt like something was stuck. Of course the thoughts that my mother died of stomach cancer didn’t make themselves wait and started to pester me so that now am considering a medical check up of sorts.

Now to Gertrude, which are things of a delicate nature and serious matters, and it should only be, as the french say, entre nous.

Of recently Gertrude has had several setbacks in her family. Her grandmother fell and broke a hip and since she is to be 90 this year those things aren’t taken lightly and they performed an operation on her. She made it quite well, so that we hope that she’ll be back in her old spirits again after a couple of months. That lady seems quite strong, and everybody now and then make comments about how amazing she is for being the age she is. She does a lot, like the booking for the shop Carl has and so on. I say it’s ’cause of all the preservetives that she takes in, she’s fond of cookies and pastries of all sorts I’ll have you know. Another big setback for that family, for I’ll let you know, I certainly don’t consider them my family, the father has been thrown in jail. He got busted buying cheap CD copies from a crooked salesman from one of the big competitors. The thing is that he is to spend two years in the can, although by any standards, jails here are a vacation compared to the harsh ones that exist back home. He will have a sort of leave permisson from jail after doing two months, and so every week we’ll find him home again. You know, it was one of his own who ratted on him, Gertrude’s sister husband. Its all been a terrible emotional ride for my poor Gertrude who now is suddenly been thrusted into the family business and so on.

Lots of hugs and kisses, take care and don’t forget that we miss you too over here.

PS:

Regarding Nick, he has still a lot to learn of family bondage. And am sure there is a lot of him we need to learn too, although am afraid that only time will tell us all.

Yours truly, Richard Dreyfus.

PS: I shall soon be taking a trip to New York, shall we have tea there?

– No es cierto! Perro desgraciado, me las vas a pagar imbécil! ¿Lo oyes? ¡Me las vas a pagar!
Pablo, aún sin comprender el efecto de las noticias, aturdido por los gritos incesantes de Lucrecia, sólo se digno a mirar, pasivamente, causando así­ mayor ira en Lucrecia
– ¿Qué me miras estúpido? Dime algo, dime quién es la babosa que se atrevió a robarte el corazón, anda ¡Dime!
– Pero cálmate mujer, no seas escandalosa, si lo nuestro ya tuvo su fin, ¿cómo es que te pones a pensar que lo nuestro serí­a serio?
– ¿Pero es que no tienes ni una migaja de comprensión en esa testa tuya Pablo?
– Lucrecia, lo nuestro nunca pudo ser, eres muy frí­a, no me tomas en serio y hay veces que siento hablar contra la pared cada vez que discutimos.
– ¿Pero es que no ves que los problemas en mi casa se han aumentado desde que murió mi padre Pablo? ¿Cómo quieres que este a tu lado teniendo estos problemas encima?
– La verdad es que no tengo a nadie, ya no soporto lo nuestro, si apenas llevamos dos meses noviando y mí­ranos, como si fuéramos pareja casada.
Lucrecia lo miro, ¿serí­a verdad eso o seriase otra artimaña de Pablo? Ya se lo habí­a hecho antes, pero esta vez, algo habí­a en Pablo que indicaba que tal vez, sí­, tal vez sí­ decí­a la verdad. Cariñito, no te me pongas así­, ya sabes que me rompes el corazón cuando pones esa cara de perro triste y callejero merodeando las taquerias, ándale, perdóname, ¿sí­? Voy a cambiar, te lo juro. Seré más atenta a lo que dices, pero tú también tienes que tener más paciencia conmigo, anda, di que sí­ ¿sí­?

Lucrecia y Pablo se miraron los unos a los otros, y entre esas miradas, un efecto de amor se produjo, y sin poder resistirse se acercaron, dándose un delicado beso, sellando así­ su amor por cada uno.

Second half of the book.

Incredible, I went through the whole book in expectation of some sort of outrage from part of Graves in regards to the title. He just resolved not to return to England without much ado. What a jester.

It seems that this man’s greatest adventures were mere happenstances of his day. A man whose destiny was shaped by forces outside his power and his only response was to act nearly sangfroid and superstitiously to his surroundings.

His memory prowess baffles the mind. He has great memory for detail and because of that it tends to work up ones jealousy.

Describing life in war trenches, Graves makes it sound like a Sunday walk through the Parks of Hell.

Like I said before, this guy writes with a bellicose passivity that yanks grins out your mouth when you least expect it.

Its just one of those books that teaches to take life as it comes, grudge all you want, this is it. And make the best of it.

What struck me as amazing was the same parallels I drew from the voices of dissent coming out of Graves autobiography with the voices of dissent we here in the eve of the Irak-USA war.

I guess what I call homosexual writing is really nothing more than what the British call sensibility. He cares. There is a level of manly emotion that I never seen expressed, nearly feminine, to it. These days there is a look that is much praised amongst those in artistic circles, and which is an outward androgyny. I believe that Graves managed quite well to paint an inward androgyny that exist/ed/s within his writing.

No hay nada más horrible que no tener algo que escribir. Me ganan los impulsos. Me cae gordo, como deciamos nosotros los jóvenes de la calle Mutualismo, entre 2nda y 3ra allá por los años de los 80. Y es que me siento vacio, decir nada, tendré que hacerla pues, mi especialidad, porque en realidad eso de escribir sin decir nada es todo un merito, palabra trás palabra y sin llegar a un sólo punto o tema ya es un prodigio en sí­, so heme aquí­, sin discusión alguna a impartir.

Bueno, los climas están cambiando ya por Suecia, por estos dí­as esta el tiempo verdaderamente insoportable. O hace mucho calor o hace mucho frí­o y ni idea alguna de bajarle al calentador porque luego luego se pone muy frí­o. Joder, como dicen los españoles por acá. Mis manos están ya sufriendo los efectos del taller de escritura al que tengo aquí­ en la universidad esta de Estocolmo. Hoy me amanecieron casi entumidas. Y es que me la pasé escribiendo practicamente toda la semana pasada. Con eso de que tengo computadora en en casa se me hace sumamente fácil estár sentado frente a la pantalla casi todo el dí­a. Las niñas se van a clase y í…sa se va a trabajar, como yo soy estudiante de tiempo completo pues a’i me tienen, dandole duro a las teclas, que hasta las letras pintadas en ellas están ya perdiendo color!

Bueno, a’i les dejo pues’n …

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Running Bit Mark Amerika

”… I sort of decided to let quality take care of itself – because how do you decide on the quality of something you don’t understand? …”

– Ronald Sukenick

This is the kind of conciousness in a text that I would like to explore more, mainly, the altercation between ego and superego.

First half of the book.

Language is difficult and almost alien to me. It depicts life in England as I never seen it pictured before. Rare names pop up now and then. The military traditions are all told in a manner that makes them look nearly silly. These traditions are built upon feuds between individuals and a hierarchy of bureaucrats who oppose them. Their successful efforts then become traditions.

The same goes for the time he spent in school, traditions are poked fun at and the whole system is made to look supercilious, except him of course. The relationships between boys are almost as if he had in mind homosexual relationships like those in ancient
Greece and Rome, this goes too for when he is in the trenches. Boys fall in love with each other.

There is a lot of research done in this text. Military history at its best.

If there ever was a homosexual voice in this writing I think I have found one. He has a manner of coming to conclusions that borders a flair of nonchalance. Almost light humor if you will. Although I like to think that his writing has a definite boxing style to it. One, two, and Pang! You get number three. He has a way of making witty remarks; by building up the narration with seriousness only to kill it off with charismatic wit. Quite enjoyable indeed.

For example: “… Although they could see we were officers, they [Welsch soldiers] did not jump to their feet and salute. I thought that this must be a convention of the trenches; and indeed it is laid down somewhere in the military text-books that the courtesy of the salute must be dispensed with in battle. But, no, it was just slackness.”

Bullying seems to be a central theme throughout. At times it felt as if I was in some Harry Potter dungeon.

The text runs with an amusing bellicose passivity.

For example: “Two young miners, in another company, disliked their sergeant who had a down on them and gave them all the most dirty and dangerous jobs. When they were in billets he crimed them for things they hadn’t done; so they decided to kill him.”

Yet another example: “Sergeant Dickens was a different case: a born fighter, and one of the best N.C.O.s in either batallion of the regiment. He had won the Distinguished Conduct Medal and Bar, the Military Medal, and the French Médaille Militaire; been two or three times promoted to sergeant’s rank, and each time reduced for drunkenness.” Ch 16