alaiyo

Predictably, my last post of the year will refer to what everyone has been saying for the last few hours: "only X hours left till..."

Until what? Nothing devastatingly Earth shattering is going to happen! In my case anyway, I will be seriously avoiding the possibility, by quietly retiring with a book once my offspring decide they have had enough. Who knows, I may even be a lonely wanderer through the Net...

Just to reinforce how phoney it all is, there are only X hours left till...depending on where you are. I have just over 6 hours left. Someone in London has 7. Someone else in, say, Kentucky, has half a day...

I cannot begin to imagine how it must look to someone watching from Space. Different parts of the world succumbing to mass euphoria for the space of a minute over and over again...

Ils sont fous ces humains!

Much communication in a motion without conversation or a notion...Avalon.

Esta madrugada, aprovechando el insomnio, terminé de leer una novela que me ha poseído desde su primer capítulo. Una novela erudita, densa, colmada de referencias literarias, que te atrapa y te intriga, escrita por una señora, A. S. Byatt, detractora de J.K. Rowling(a quien debo horas de inmenso placer, todo sea dicho). Byatt ha creado polémica en Inglaterra precisamente por lo que algunos denominan "sour grapes", es decir, cochina envidia.
Evidentemente, no tienen nada que ver estas dos señoras. Byatt ha puesto en duda el "valor literario" de Harry Potter. Se ha equivocado,creo, en el enfoque de su crítica, pues dudo que Rowling haya pretendido instruir, sino más bien entretener y divertir. A mí desde luego me ha enganchado el niño ese de la cicatriz en la frente. Cada escritura tiene su valor.
De todos modos, comprendo la rabia de Byatt. La mujer es un genio. POSSESSION es una excelente obra, muy trabajada, y está claro que no ha vendido, (ni venderá), la cuarta parte de lo que ha vendido H.P. a pesar de tener ya una versión cinematográfica con Gwyneth Paltrow de protagonista. Según me cuentan, la película es digna de ver. Como siempre, he preferido perderme en el libro primero.
Pero insisto. Es una obra excepcional y no deja de tener un argumento cautivador. De hecho tiene dos. Dos jóvenes académicos del siglo veinte, investigan,respectivamente, a dos poetas del siglo diecinueve. Cuesta creer que Randolph Ash y Christabel LaMotte sean pura ficción salidos de la mente prodigiosa de Byatt. Al principio me pareció extraño que no me sonasen sus nombres, hasta que caí en la cuenta de que esta autora fusionaba lo verídico con lo ficticio de manera totalmente convincente.
Si os gusta la literatura, disfrutaréis descubriendo con Roland y Maud aspectos desconocidos de la vida de los poetas victorianos que cambiarán el mundillo académico del siglo veinte. Del siglo veinte de Byatt, claro está, entrelazado con el anterior y aderezado con buenas dosis de romance, misterio, intelecto literario, y descubrimientos personales, tratando el tema universal de la posesión en todos sus sentidos.
Buenísima obra. Para pedirla a los Reyes. Ja.

Suelo salir al jardín cuando me sofoca la vida. A veces me acompaña un riojita, si el sofocón ha sido fuerte. Por razones puramente medicinales, claro. Otras veces me hacía compañía un cigarillo. Digo "hacía" porque hace tres meses dejé de fumar. Otra vez. No cuento el lapsus de la noche del domingo. Fue justificado. En esa ocasión me llevé los dos placebos. Pues la asfixia fue de lo más brutal. Y me sumergí en el sabor. Y olí la hierba mojada. Observé como parpadeaban las luces de la ciudad. Y escuché la lluvia, desde mi cobijo, extendiendo el brazo para sentir en mi piel las gotas frías. Me sentí acompañada.

Luego tengo otro jardín. Tiene muy poquita hierba de momento. Pocas flores. Pocos árboles. Pero es mío. Era mío. Desde ahora es de todo aquel que quiera pasear por él, dejando sus huellas. Pero sobre todo es mi parcela en un barrio donde he conocido a unos vecinos muy interesantes que me han tocado la fibra sin siquiera saber quien soy.

Gracias vecinos por la acogida.

The enlightened Thoreau tells us that "the price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it".
The only currency at our disposal is precisely our time. Whatever matters to us can only be acquired by bartering not with material objects but with pieces of ourselves.
I have been fortunate enough to discover that by exchanging portions of life I have dug up priceless valuables

My intention had been to write about how we are taught to live in anticipation from an early age and therefore find it difficult to survive without harbouring the illusion of plans becoming realities.

Then I decided not to bother. We all know that.

What fascinates me is my capacity to hope.It inevitably leads to expectation. It contradicts other aspects of my nature. How can I possibly claim to be a pessimist, a cynic, a sceptic? Surely it makes little sense to believe one's expectations are real, as they are based on conjecture.They do not take into account the many forces at work to thwart the likelihood of their materialisation.

After all, expectations are merely dreams disguised under a veil of unlikely probability.

Nothing more to add.

Me gustaría enlazar unos sitios donde residen unas personas que han enlazado muy bien conmigo. Pero no sé hacerlo. Ni tengo humor para romperme la cabeza como hice hace poquito con el tema de los comments.
(Ni tengo a mi SOS HANS estos días para que me chinche cuando no quiero aceptar su ayuda).
Hans, Marian, Susana, Pedro, he dejado en vuestras casas mi tarjeta de visita. Thanks for the connection.
In all senses.

1. Take a real woman. She must be genuine. No puppets. No rubber dolls.
2. Admix large quantities of Rioja and virulence.

The transmutation of gold into a baser metal.

To dream you while awake allows me to firmly grasp the reins and take you wherever I will go.

For the next fourteen days I shall be standing outside the picture.
Look at it.
Everyone is smiling. The tree is up. There is tinsel everywhere. A few cards on the mantelpiece from people whose names you cannot distinguish properly. Look.
There are presents under the tree. People are dancing.
Listen. You can hear those bells jingling. It does look pretty, doesn't it?
Excuse me while I go outside, with my glass of wine to warm me as I sit in the cold garden and block out the noise. And put the card back in its envelope.

I do NOT want any more people wishing me a happy christmas.
It heightens the fact that they have no idea who I am, and simply adds to my loneliness.
I was saying the other day how I am looking forward to 2003 ending.
Silly me!
As if the first of January 2004 will suddenly put everything in its place!
I know it is more a question of starting TODAY than postponing life until the new year is here. What does the new year mean anyway? It is merely a contrived date.
Still. I find it difficult to concentrate on living when there is so much noisy farce around me.
I need some quiet. To consider where and who I am. Before I can even begin to question where I am going.

Ojalá pudiera apagarme de vez en cuando. Es demasiado esfuerzo sentir todo con tanta intensidad. Y encima tener que reprimirlo.

Reading, listening to music and writing are the three solitary pleasures I indulge in when I need soul nourishing or evasion.
I read for knowledge, but also to travel. A cheaper way of delving into the world's secrets, through space and time. The pauper's choice which ends up enriching the mind, moving the spirit, and touching the heart.
Music warms my soul. Its effect is rather more physical. I still wonder at the power of melodies to induce tears or rapture. If reading relates to the abstract, music adheres to my skin, then penetrates to the core.
Writing is the physical manifestation of my abstraction. The melting pot of sensation, feeling and thought.
At times I find it impossible to derive comfort from one or the other. Reading may prove painful when the subject is close to home. Music becomes a detonator when it pricks repressed feeling. Writing simply does not happen. Too many racing thoughts heading for the white sheet of paper, only to find a barrier half way.
I am reading a novel. A painfully engrossing novel.
I have new music to listen to. It echoes my heartbeats.
I have a lot to write. It is bursting to be written, but my hand will not move. There seems to be a cork somewhere obstructing the flow.
Nothing seems to alleviate the uncertainty or dejection which stifle me. I am incapable of finding an outlet for this restlessness. No warmth to be found. Not even in the bottle of Rioja I had last night, which I am paying for now, in the form of a potential migraine I hope will not materialise.

Excuse me, while I recover the intimacy I share with my pen and paper.

Due to inflammation of the vocal chords, my VOICE is taking a break.

Où est ta voix?

Elle est cachée depuis longtemps.
Derrière la porte fermée a clé.
On ne sait même pas où se trouve cette clé.

Mais je crois que tu le sais bien.
Je pense que tu dois ouvrir la porte et cacher la clé.
Là où on ne pourra jamais la trouver.

I needed to find the sun. Withered by the constant stormy weather I was exposed to, I went off in search of feathers with which to make wings that would help me evade my dismal reality.
I found one feather here, another there...and stuck them together with very strong sentiment. Once I had fabricated my means of escape I attached them to my arms and stood on the precipice and looked down. Fear of the fall kept me there for a while, deliberating whether to jump.
Then I saw him. Helios, charging across the horizon on his horse of fire. I wanted to gallop too, across that same horizon he was engulfing with his flames. So I jumped and immediately felt my lightness as I moved in his direction.
The sense of freedom which invaded me , blinded me momentarily. Or was it the intensity of the blaze? I moved closer, drawn by the shining light . My feathers were firmly stuck together, yet I felt the wings slowly detaching from my arms. Fool that I was to imagine I could pretend they were mine!
I still had time to turn around and head away from the heat which began to melt the sentiment. The choice was mine. I could return to the cooler regions I had left behind, or risk my stability in Helios' arms.
I stubbornly flew on, straight into the flames and burned, until I became purging ashes, waiting to be renewed.

It feels as if I have the starring role in a set of monologues and the auditorium is empty, except for one spectator. I'm not conscious of the presence except when I hear the boos. I never hear any applause. Not sure I even need it. Just don't want to hear those boos. They deafen me, and what's worse, they silence me, so I'm incapable of continuing with my act. Because that's all it is. An act. I've learnt my lines. I identify with the role. And even if I don't have a full house, I know I have to keep going. For my sake.
Life goes on.
Until the curtain comes down.

Drink me.
Eat me.
Sing me.
Play me.
Envelop me.
Release me.
Abandon me.
Take me.
Express me.

(Epicurus defined his own philosophy of life by placing emphasis on sensual pleasure, much to the displeasure of most of his contemporaries.
He even set up a school whose very aim was to promote happiness, though it produced rather more controversy.
Friends, Freedom, Thought, Food, Shelter and Clothes he deemed natural and necessary.
Though we associate the adjective "epicurean" with the pursuit of pleasure, Epicurus was, in fact, a man of Spartan ways. His frugality was a consequence of his rational analysis. He came to the conclusion that the essential ingredients of happiness were the most inexpensive.
Bearing this in mind, I am epicurean.
I pursue sensual pleasure. I have good friends. I have food, shelter and clothes. I am free, at least to think.
I have the natural and necessary ingredients for happiness.
They all have a price. And whether I am able to pay it or not I have come to the conclusion that I lack the ESSENTIAL ingredient...)
...the ability not to think.

Autumn and I have never been friends. I have said this before.

Once upon a time I smiled at Autumn, but it did not smile back. I stopped insisting after a while. I refuse to beg for friendship.

It got to a point where I decided to accept the fact that we would never be more than passing acquaintances whose paths inevitably cross.

Then, strangely, it happened. Once I had decided to walk right past Autumn, completely ignoring it, head down, not even wanting to look at it anymore, it spoke to me. I heard its colourful voice clearly in the rustle of the fallen leaves. It was nothing more than a simple "hello", but it made me look up, and I saw how beautiful it is. We smiled at each other and continued on our way. Autumn, satisfied by my conversion. Me, touched by its voice at a moment when vulnerability had weakened me.

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

The combination of driving through roads full of autumn colours, jazz on the radio and two little girls smiling and chuckling while you do your worst Nina Simone impersonation, is enough to momentarily transport you away from the sprawling messiness and shaplessness of existence.
Unfortunately, reality is always there, when the bubble bursts.

Tired of living, because living is so much effort. If you try to be whole in a world where you are expected to be a part, then you inevitably feel drained. You consume your energy dedicating it to truth, only to find it wasted on those who would never recognise it if it spat at them.
Weary from the exertion of being yourself among those who misjudge you from their inability to judge themselves.
Fatigued by the fear of others which stops them from understanding or appreciating your light.
So you end up feeling dispirited. Worn out by your pathetic attempts to reach those who place obstacles in your way.
And too exhausted to just go it alone.

Everyone is strong and in control.

Everyone says and does what they SHOULD.

Everyone follows the tried and tested formula for living and living with others.

Everyone smiles at you when what they want to do is spit in your face.

Everyone believes in false deities and hides behind them, and uses them to justify their ignorance.

Everyone would rather wear the uniform than go naked.

Everyone hides behind doors instead of opening them.

Sick. Everyone is sick,false and blind.

Nobody lets go. Nobody feels. Nobody lives. Nobody is.

I am NOBODY.

Padre: "¿Qué número es éste?"
Nena: "El doooos"
Padre: "¿Y éste?"
Nena: "El cincoooo"
Padre: "¿Y, qué hacen el dos y el cinco juntos?"
Nena: "Juegan".

Vamos a jugar nena.

As I lay on the grass, raindrops fell on my mouth, but it was your moist mouth against mine and my body instinctively pressed against yours.
I licked them and met your tongue parting my lips.
I lay there while the rain soaked my clothes and wet my body, but it was your hands exploring my burning skin. Or was it mine?

I pretended to read the newspaper, while in fact, I was watching them, sitting at a small table in the corner, facing each other, engrossed in conversation.
Actually, she was speaking, in a low subdued voice. Her hand was resting on his arm. Her other hand trembled under the table. Her face flushed whenever he interrupted her by putting his hand on hers. He occasionally nodded, but never took his eyes off her hand on his arm.
All of a sudden, she stopped speaking, took her hand off his arm and said something which made him turn around to face the door.
A pretty woman walked in and headed for the counter. I heard her order a coffee. I looked back at the couple in the corner. She was simply looking at him, while he nodded.
He got up, kissed her on both cheeks and walked towards the counter. He stood beside the pretty woman.
She picked up her jacket and rucksack and quickly walked outside without looking back. She did not see his eyes following her until she disappeared round the corner. She did not see him go back to the table, alone. Nor did she see him sit there for ten minutes staring at his arm before getting up and walking out of the café, quickly and without looking back, as she had done.

How can I explain myself to anyone with a logical, cynical, sceptical mind?
I claim to be all of the above.
Then I dream.
I have visions of running through golden fields with a friendly playmate,(without dropping my ice-cream!).
I dream of wandering through silent moonlit forests, hearing nothing but the crackle of twigs, the ripple of a river, and the hooting of a sage owl, sitting in his tree, watching over us, as we play hide-and-seek with moonbeams.
What sense does that make?
I ask myself how I can claim to have a logical, healthy mind and then indulge in such fanciful nonsense...
The answer varies, depending on who answers.

Magic is much needed, whether it's the wand-waving kind, which unfortunately we can only read about(or watch on video...!), or whether it's the warm glow which impregnates the soul when someone you care about touches it.
Let me cling onto my magic. I need it to be able to raise my head high enough not to see the ashes around me.
Thank you for not breaking the spell "under my skin"...

Fragments of different colours
Pieces of varied materials
Sewn together make a whole.
Never the same you
Always the same me.
Each square in its place
Every one a different face
Each have value in the whole
Sometimes stitches come undone
Often losing part of One
Grab a needle
Sew it on
Or the patchwork will be gone.

Maybe the problem is exactly that it has not all been said. You are right.
It has been a very long sentence, with plenty of subordinate clauses, but there are ... at the end. Indeed, the fullstop cannot be placed at the end because we have not reached the end...yet...

How useless they can be, when they are all you have and you want to put your heart into them.How frustrating.
How unnecessary when all is understood without them, anyway.
Forgive me for the excess in my words which I have to smother in my actions.

The longer we live, the less there is to look forward to.

My wings may have been clipped.
My feet may be shackled.
My hands may be tied.
But my imagination knows no bounds.
I will fly.
Even if I have to come back to my gaol.
I will fly.
To be with you.
I will soar.

I'm feeling soppy today and want to thank you for being there for me this year, helping me come to terms with the vertigo of my rollercoaster life. You have no idea how much you've helped me fill the gaps which stop me from walking on, wounded.
Like the deserts miss the rain, eh?
As kids you always were that brother I never had and always wanted.
Good to know you still are.
Biquiño, Neno.

Hello...
It's all been said.

The irony of "this" is that, even though the only way we have of communicating is via the written word, I know we don't need words to communicate.
Meet me at the fountain.Good knight.
Kindred soul.

Gracias por estar ahí.
No sólo por tu ayuda con computer problems, ok?
Aunque creo que no hace ni dos meses, parece bastante más.
Aunque tú seas guitarra acústica y yo piano de cola(¿o será al revés...? (;>)) parece que existe una buena sintonía.
Que sea por mucho tiempo.
My coffee's stone cold I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all...
Thank you.

To say I am awake, may be a bit too ambitious. Let us just say I have recovered my senses!

The most important of all human qualities is a sense of humour.
It is the only quality which distinguishes us biologically from animals: the ability to laugh.
We enjoy, or should enjoy this supreme luxury in a universe which appears to be completely devoid of humour. And it IS a luxury. Laughter, after all, apparently serves no biologically useful purpose...
In a divided world, laughter is a unifying force, regardless of politics, religion or ideals.And laughter depends on the most complex and subtle of all human qualities, a sense of humour, which may take various forms, and may be expressed by different types of laughter. But the effect is always the same.
The ancient Greeks knew that tragedy is not really far removed from comedy.
Human pain and suffering are so grim, political and personal realities are usually enough to plunge us into total despair. In such circumstances, humour is much needed to redress the balance. Humour, satire, irony, whatever the form.
Make me laugh and you have my unconditional, devoted attention.

She sensed the rain penetrating her skin as the cold wind slapped her face. And yet, she did not move.
Transfixed by inertia and hopeless despair, she stared ahead, seeing nothing.
Then she heard his voice.
"Why aren't you moving?" he asked, "Don't you see you're getting drenched?"
"Because I don't know which way to turn", she replied.
"Do you have a pen?"
"A what?"
"A pen! A pen! Do you have a pen?"
"Er...no, I don't think...wait a minute",she noticed something heavy in her pocket. She put her hand inside and found a big, multicoloured pen!
"Well, take the lid off, then!" He urged.
"What on Earth for?"
"Are you comfortable in the rain?" he asked in a gentle voice.
"I'm comfortable nowhere", was her reply.
"Do you enjoy getting soaked?"
"No, but wherever I go, it's raining..."
"Then, take the lid off that pen, draw yourself a sun, draw yourself a dry path and follow it"
"Er...what? What the hell does "draw a sun" mean? Are you mad?"
"Well, excuse me but who's standing in the rain, getting wet? Who's crazy here?"
She looked at the pen in her hand, and with a loud, sarcastic laugh, said
"Oh magic pen, magic pen, let's draw a beautiful yellow sun together".
Then, when the answer she expected did not come, she raised her hand, and with a flamboyant gesture, and a scornful smile, she drew a sun in the air.
And the rain stopped.
So she drew herself a multicoloured path and started walking...and while she walked she heard his voice.
She was POSITIVE it was his voice.

Excuse-moi si je ne dis pas tout ce que je pense.
Ce n'est pas si simple.
Ou peut-être c'est justement là où il y existe le problème, dans la simplicité avec laquelle je peux te parler. Sans connaître qui tu es. Sans savoir qui tu es. C'est simple et étonnant, quand même.
Permette-moi que je prenne mon temps pour me délecter du plaisir de savoir qu'on se comprend, pendant que je dors un petit peu, sur mon vieux coussin égratigné, a côté du feu.

ni carpe ni nada.