martes, diciembre 06, 2011

Lo que se pierde, lo que se extraña.

Cuando extrañas a alguien, ¿será como dice Proust, que no sólo extrañamos a ese alguien, sino a los sentimientos experimentados en relación a esa persona -tanto agradables como dolorosos-?
Últimamente me estoy volviendo afecto a dicha idea. Precisamente por las sensaciones en mí en virtud de los hechos, o, como dirían algunos, de la facticidad en la cuál mi vida parece estar entretejida.

Como escribí hace algunas entradas, el lenguaje parece expandirse hasta sus límites sin lograr por ello aprehender la cuestión. En este caso, el castellano. Por ello he recurrido a una palabra en lengua portuguesa: "saudade": un vago y constante deseo por algo que no existe y probablemente no puede existir. Esos son los hechos.

Pero existe un aspecto rescatable: la nostalgia por lo bueno. Aunque tristemente, la palabra nostalgia implica dolor. Y en ese dolor esta el extrañar, no sólo a la persona, ni a sus sentimientos, cualesquiera que fuere su alcance, por uno mismo; implica también extrañar nuestros propios sentimientos.

Que cosas...

martes, noviembre 22, 2011

El horror de las palabras.

The words represent an unspeakable horror (there were a lot of puns in that phrase). Lately, words don't heed my command. Every thing I try to write or speak becomes gibberish or a horrible mockery of what I sought to express. All my interior world (another phrase that I'm not fond of) remains trapped, as the infidelity of written and spoken language hacks through the very essence of it.

So, a problem of expression ensues. The possibility to communicate in a fluid, concise, and asertive way is hindered. The words simply cannot hold the being of the ideas and the feelings. Their simbolism is getting too limited, at least in my case. Words like despair, anxiety, unrequited, love, confusion, are just provisional labels. But, what could be the definite phase? As i said before, making up words is out of the boundaries of the languagues I supposedly command, and also beyond my intellectual and cultural skills. Nor I am some sort of Tolkien to create a whole language ex nihilo (as you can see, this use of a dead language was just a showy device).

Even if I say something over and over, the words appear mute. The feeling continue trapped. Reality is still there, impassable, behind a barrier that I can only scratch a bit. The words are horror because they cannot hold reality. They just aim at it, with more or less accuracy and success.

And in my present situation. Well, that's just another worry.

sábado, noviembre 19, 2011

Instintos, signos, apariencias.

La pregunta es simple. En un momento dado, una especie de "instinto de conservación" (por llamarle de algún modo) compele o impide la realización de cierta acción. Sin embargo, a medida que la esperanza se desvanece, dicho instinto se reconfigura.

El mismo instinto, o quizás una reflexión ulterior (y digo ulterior en honor a un personaje) a su vez proponen salvaguardar algo: todo lo que pueda ser salvado, dadas las circunstancias.

Por otra parte, surge otra volición, un llamado a mandar todo al cabrón de una vez y para siempre, lo cuál tiene la ventaja de por fin dejar de guardar un sentimiento y un secreto doloroso en el pecho. La desventaja radica en la pérdida total de algo bueno, si bien no lo que las expectativas guardasen, algo provechoso, de suyo virtuoso (¡oh!).

Si, estoy hablando del más oscuro de los tópicos: relaciones humanas. Odio ambos conceptos: relación y humano pero en vista de las limitaciones del lenguaje creo que debo ceñirme. No soy alemán y no puedo inventar términos a diestra y siniestra. Además, estoy agotado. Soportar esta situación, hasta para el más comprensivo y/o estoico de los temperamentos resulta desgastante. Máxime para el de alguien tan susceptible de ser afectado por el pathos como he podido constatar en este último tránsito.

¿Qué queda? Soportar y, tal como dice la canción: sentarme a esperar...que se me pase y ya.

O probablemente ser lo más sincero posible y destruir todo. Tal vez ese sea el destino. Mi destino. Destructor y lastimero. Una disculpa por el talante "emo" de esta entrada. Al menos fue en castellano más o menos legible y hasta cierto punto fluído.

El sueño llama.

----EDICIÓN----

Fluído mis polainas, pero de eso hablo después.

jueves, noviembre 17, 2011

Drag.

You're always ahead of the rest,
When I'm always on time,
You got A's on your algebra test,
I failed and they kept me behind,
I just gotta get off my chest,
That I think you're divine,
You're always ahead of the rest,
While I drag behind..

Lately this song from Placebo has been playing on my head. Besides the other issues that crawl in my mind, when the opportunity to try something new or improve on something comes, that sensation assaults my will and conciousness.

Think about "writer's block" applied to almost every aspect of your life. Or maybe, a negative admiration, a feedback which doesn't feed, but exerts your hopes of progress. Like if it wasn't enough with being a hopeless romantic (you can laugh).

As I wrote before, I attribute this to a disconnection. Or a misconception. Of the self, and the reality. The problem is: how to fix it?

Good grief!

And plain grief...

lunes, noviembre 14, 2011

Just because I'm losing doesn't mean I'm lost.

This is the thought of hope that I would like to believe: just because I'm losing doesn't mean I'm lost. But I just got lost, and every door that I ever tried was locked. I am not going to post the entire song anyway. Just wanted to make a point using the words of someone who writes better than me. As I wrote this I don't know about my immediate future. My neglected obligations (pointless considering how easy they are), but what really pierces my mind are the pulses of my heart, soul or wherever the feelings reside. Sounds indeed strange that something which hasn't happened or going to happen at all can have such weight and power over the general state, the mood and even the body.

I just can look at the material signs of whatever happened inside me and feel a mix of emotions. I don't like it. It is outside of every logic to have an aspiration, a longing for someone who can't feel the same for you. What could be the best strategy: stay away, telling it? Probably there is not a best strategy. Last time chose the second one, and the outcome was desastrous, probably because of my lack of...control, temperance, good will? Don't know. I just remember what happened and it wasn't ideal. Stay away. Seems also equally hurtful. Would be easier if I could run away and stop the perception of that "someone". But I can't. I have to bear with the burden of day-to-day coloquial contact. And besides, I also feel the need of friendship. The problem is: it becomes almost unbearable. The suffering and the longing, just relieved a bit when I recieve a glance, a look, when my hand is hold, at a hug. I just want to forget. But as far as I can see, that is a difficult task. Most of my faculties are revolving around the issue, and even now, I think of the past and still hurts.

Right now, I don't know how to get rid of this. How to manage a productive living when I feel a tearing of the soul or spirit, a pressure in the chest, sharp needles. I really would have prefered to avoid any contact with you. But now it's to late. I'm twined, but it doesn't matter. The feelings I have may shatter against the wall of reality. So, probably that's why I'm considered a closed person. It's hard to care, to love, when that is going to waste...

sábado, noviembre 05, 2011

A story which I know the end.

I am watching, just before my very eyes and being, the unfolding of a story of which I already know the end. And just as a Greek tragedy, I appear incapable to turn the tide or grasp the reins of fate. Destiny looks closer now, more real, not like an absurd concept, but as the reality I must face and to which I turned away. Such naiveness is not, or at least shouldn't be suitable in me.

As days go by, I become aware of the overwhelming waves of feelings inside me. Also noticed what is, what can be, and the possibilities. None of them favor me. And the come back to myself. Questioning the whens, the hows, and above all, the whys. Why again?

I see their orbit gravitating away from my, but the knowledge seems to be useless in this case. No matter how much I repeat to myself the ending of the story, the feeling doesn't go away.

This bloody (in an English jargon way) mixture of need, of longing, of caring. The senseless paradox of having to deal at the same time with the pain of knowing that the brief and simple contact that I have is all that I am going to have; the suffering of having to listen from the beloved one the affections towards someone else, that I'm not going to be the target of that affection ever. And, in spite of all these, yearning for closeness, for a simple touch, a shake of hands, even the smallest crumb of it would bring some relief.

Yet, once again. The end of the story is already written, even if my sight is too short to notice. Then, how did I become trapped in such a box with no exits, where the situation is: to lose and/or to lose. When no matter the outcome or what I do there will be suffering. Dosed or in a hurtful blast.

I just want to get out. I don't want to cheat myself. I want to extinguish once and for all the hope. And my feelings towards...

Carpe

No soy filólogo. Pero Phoenicoperus insistentemente ha mostrado a mi conciencia una frase: "carpe diem". Muchos han de saber el significado o la consideración coloquial de tal locución latina: una exhortación a aprovechar el presente.

A mi me sorprende precisamente el significado del verbo "Carpe": tomar, agarrar. Cuando se observa esta peculiaridad de la palabra y se ahonda en su significación y sentido, se observa la profundidad de una frase con frecuencia trivializada.

Carpe se dice, por ejemplo, para tomar las flores. Su sentido es de aprehender y en ello deriva la profundidad de la locución "carpe diem".

Carpe diem implica aprovechar el dia en un sentido profundo, tomarlo, apresarlo, hacerlo de cada parte de ese momento presente un momento relevante para tí.

Al menos dentro de mi palurda filología es lo que puedo inferir.

miércoles, noviembre 02, 2011

To protect the realm of dream

The hardest part when your mind is restless and your feelings are upset is to protect the sanctity (or what's left) of the dreams. I just gaze at the faint stars that I can see in this pale sky. Mintaka, Alnitak, Alnilam. Stars are usually related to dreams. I hope stars can bless me with sleep, and protect my dreams.

martes, noviembre 01, 2011

No es agosto de 2007.

(Look Mommy! I can write in Spanish)

No es Agosto de 2007, pero, fuera del escenario y las demás personas, la situación se mira espeluznantemente similar. Ni siquiera se porque me atrevo a hacer una comparación tan directa, considerando la abismal diferencia. La sensación no es igual, pero tiene cierto aire, un deja vú que estremece y sobrecoge. Constantemente me recuerdan la necesidad de identificar y asumir, no negar lo que siento, pero en estos días la única sensación es un indescriptible sobrecogimiento en mi στήθος, cuyo centro siento sostenido apenas por alfileres. Esto en el plano físico. En el plano emocional he perdido la expresión y a mi pesar me veo forzado a utilizar un sólo término que define el estado de las cosas: "restlessness".

Pero heme allí; capturando todo en una consciencia que se niega a actuar racionalmente. No es agosto de 2007. Pero las sensaciones son viejas conocidas. Es de nuevo la confirmación de la inutilidad de la esperanza, a pesar de la reiterada insistencia de una mente pueril y su prosa pueril de engañarse y tratar de disfrazar por medio de letras y retruécanos una situación simple y llana, cuya repetición aplasta la esperanza misma, pero desgraciadamente no acaba con ella.

Necesito un Chimalli. Justo en medio del
στήθος. Más no sé. Poco sentido tendría defender fragmentos.

viernes, octubre 28, 2011

La crisis de identidad del otoño.

Me resulta familiar, sobre todo en el otoño (boreal, puesto que vivo en el hemisferio norte) escuchar cada año acerca de su caracter poético: de como es la estación más bella, la cadencia de las hojas al viento, la lánguida paleta de colores de la flora preparada a dormir; y sobre todo, el fin del calor infernal al que nos tiene sometido el cambio climático. En fin, clichés, clichés. Muchos clichés. Yo pienso en el otoño como una primavera a la inversa, con todo y su equinoccio. Pero tiene una peculiar traza de inestabilidad mental que no encuentro en ninguna otra estación. Si bien la primavera también es cambiante, es relativamente predecible a lo largo de los días (salvo, de nuevo, el horror del daño al ambiente). El otoño guarda en si una confusión. Se sabe camino al invierno, pero posee una mano con muchas cartas de las estaciones restantes y las va jugando como si no le importase demasiado traer a octubre la primavera, la nieve a septiembre o el viento de marzo a los albores de diciembre.

El otoño no abraza la locura, sólo es inestable, una inestabilidad mesurada que en su mesura desmesura todo (pffft).

Tiene muchos "días extraviados":

Porque muchas veces, en tal tiempo del año, se encuentra un día extraviado que pertenece a una estación distinta y que tiene la propiedad de hacernos vivir en esa época, evocando sus placeres, haciéndonoslos desear, y que viene a interrumpir las ilusiones que nos estábamos forjando, colocando fuera de su sitio, más allá o más acá, esa hoja arrancada de otro capítulo en el calendario interpolado de la felicidad

Marcel Proust, En busca del tiempo perdido. Por el Camino de Swann.

Tal vez sea por ello que sea una estación tan socorrida "sentimentalmente".

viernes, octubre 21, 2011

The answer to your paradoxical questions

A very frequent and maybe inconscious ask for forgiveness. How can I deny it to you. But you ask carelessly, without even knowing that there is just one thing that deserves such petition. And the paradox is that it is not your fault. The thought do not appear to your mind, the feeling isn't printed in your soul. Maybe I'm just a captive of my subjetivity, of my reality (if I can call it that way). Trapped temporarily in the way I think about you and feel about you. May it be for the best. Ignorance is bliss.

lunes, octubre 17, 2011

Vorágine.

No puedo recordar si antes había usado este título para alguna entrada y no tengo deseos de revisar en este preciso instante. A pesar de mi intención de llenar este escrito de tropos, metáforas, metonimia y cualquier maquillaje retórico que disimule mi palurdez literaria, se impone mi necesidad de expresión cruda y dura.

¿Vorágine? Vorágine. Voragine, vorágine, vorágine, vorágine, vorágine. Cuando dices mucho una palabra parece perder el sentido por momentos. Así quisiera poder repetir mis sentimientos, una y otra vez, para sumir su sentido en el ojo de esa vorágine, vorágine, vorágine.

Pero no me resulta posible, están atrapados, justo entre el gaznate y el plexo solar (donde quiera que estén ambas partes). Entre un chakra y otro chakra. Aturdiendo los cinco séntidos y fuera del alcance del sexto (y el séptimo).

Y aún así, a pesar de estar atrapado, siento una extraña sensación. Es mejor sentir esto a no sentir nada. Y mientras lo escribo me arrepiento. Y me arrepiento de arrepentirme. Y recuerdo que el arrepentimiento es inadecuado.

Finalizo.

jueves, octubre 13, 2011

I have a little bit of a crush

So, there is no other way to define it. And yes, on the riptide of feelings that accompany this precise one, comes another. At least there is no denial like other times. On the positive side of things, well, it's a reminder that my heart is not hollow or petrified.

But that might be the other issue. As much as I know that my feelings toward the "person" (object sounds horrible) of my affection aren't possible, I still have them. That's a conflict. It is not possible to think clearly (of course hehehehehe). Nothing that can be solved by algorithms or logic. Only time? Only a miracle? What then? Who knows.

Leaving now. It's getting late.

martes, octubre 11, 2011

Holding everything together.

So, maybe in some sense (or even in all sense), a phrase from certain writer thinker (I can't remember the exact words right now) it's true: we have a driving inner force to perseverate in our life. Maybe that's why I feel right now so baffled and tired. I might have neglected or overlooked at it for...what, years, lustrums, maybe a decade or so? Even thinking about it frightens me. And makes me sad about the time. But the same thinker said: "there's no use in regretting". (not the exact words again).

The point is (as I am trying to conclude in a crude manner) that you cannot expect the life to just "go on". Even for issues like feelings, sentiments, and so it is necessary an active participation. Conscious if you want to. Just my two cents. Not a medical or psychological advice. This opinion can even change through the years (or through the lectures). But right now, it seems to be the state of the affairs. Grabbing all the edges of your existence and directing them can be a very hard and demanding activity. And you cannot expect the world, the universe, the others, or God to do it by yourself.

viernes, octubre 07, 2011

Infatuation.

One problem with feelings is that they come at their own will. Somehow learning to identify them gives an advantage but there is always a question: what can you do with them?

Maybe just cope with them. But infatuation is a misleading one. You may feel excited about it, but you know it pushes your will towards someone that won't share your enthusiasm.

Anyway, this was just a quick post. I didnt' want to go to sleep with this in my chest.

miércoles, octubre 05, 2011

Torrent.

Leaves aren't falling yet, but autumn is here now. But this new month has some strayed days from spring and summer, where you can be bathed by the bliss of the sun at noon and washed by cold rain drops at the evening.

Seasons are changing. Everything keeps changing. People changes, I guess. Even if it's a common idea to negate it, nothing is, nor can be permanent. Everyday I convince myself of that. Not even feelings, mind, or even some apparently stable mode of being.

Is this change slow paced or fast? Depends. But if I write about it now, is because I felt something different. A torrent. Or a stream. Flowing upon me. Somehow, I now I am the same, but at the same time, paradoxically, I have changed. Translocation might have helped to operate this changed. To isolate me in a pocket of reality and time, away from petty and big issues, bracketing the time while time were still flowing and meanwhile giving a chance to be. To open up. Could it be? Or is it just an illusion? If so, it feels so authentic, vivid as reality, even more.

If the mind and or spirit were conformed of gears and such mechanisms, some sort of adjustment would have been made. A slight variation, a difference that consolidates reality in such a different way. The mighty stream of feelings, with its overwhelming impact creates a new notion in my consciousness.

More than a week of contemplation of art, of giving some little pleasures, was a week of feeling. And to feel is always a challenge. A challenge to the stability of mental issues, to the stagnation and the fear, and to the denial of feeling itself. Feeling and being became a coherent duality to function: impossible to close one's eyes and negate its existence.

An unfolding of possibilities comes up with the recognition of the fact of feeling. It brings up the capacity to act. But, even if it is tautological, the capacity to feel in a broader sense, instead of holding back the sensation. This might be just a rambling, but sometimes, the right time, space, circumstance, recognition and, most important, the right connections may bring a change: of mind, of spirit, of heart. In my person, that change could be the possibility to let other to enter my life. Scary. Don't know if that is really what happened. Don't know it's permanent. Neither if it's real. Just that I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same.

End of rambling. Start of hope (don't care if hope is rejected by some thinkers).

sábado, agosto 20, 2011

Disconnection

A disconnection is defined as breaking the connection of or between. A connection is a relationship in which a person , thing or idea is linked or associated with something else (just for clarifying the obviousness of dictionaries). So... Things are connected and disconnected. Even thoughts and feelings. And probably that's the cause of many discomforts. Perceptions that lead to thoughts. And these thoughts or mental representations lead to feelings. But the connection doesn't seem logical. Somehow I know that my feelings aren't...right. And that brings me to the recent past, when I was complaining (yet again) about my inhability to make a choice. To choose the people I like, or whom I feel attracted to.

An so on, this maze of connections and disconnections becomes even more twisted. When I thought that I got rid of the burden of what I call "evil feelings" or thoughts. some conversation, or situation, bring it back to the surface. And suddenly I look at my past...make comparisons, and let the grudge grow. And I cannot change my past, nor obtain another one.

So confusion ensues. And resentment.

'Til next one, even if no one reads. Next one probably won't have nothing to do with this one. Maybe will be related. We'll see.

miércoles, marzo 30, 2011

Una probada

Un buen zapatero hace el mejor calzado con el cuero que se le da
Aristóteles - Ética Nicomáquea.

viernes, marzo 25, 2011

25 de marzo de 3019 de la tercera edad del sol.


Otro aniversario, esta vez de la caída de Sauron.

jueves, marzo 24, 2011

Jueves 24 de marzo de 2005 - Jueves 24 de marzo de 2011.

Apenas hoy reparo en que hace 6 años estos días fueron el mismo (jueves). Hace demasiado que no escribia. Tengo mis razones para hacer esta pausa, pero no podía dejar pasar este aniversario mas. Un aniversario y una peculiar casualidad. Que cosas.