Writers block

How if writers block come in the worst moment, when writing is not only your hobby, but also your work? Hehehe, nevermind, I am aware that pretty much every writer suffers from such condition. In my case it is quite simply: trying to explain, make an argument and give a proper foundation for an idea. But somehow, when the attempt to write such explanation comes out, the implications came like a snowball, every little problem or issue leads to another. So, procrastination ensues. Might as well be the fear. Fear of failing, anyone? Maybe a good advice, one that has been given to a lot of people is: take the risk, don't be afraid of mistakes, even more if such mistakes can lead you to perfect your work, your art and craft. Anyway, that's pretty much for today.

κάθαρσις

The sun keeps going on its way on the sky, from dawn to sunset. Stars come out. And somehow, inside the persons, strange forces act. Some upon them, some caused by themselves. Others, because an external cause. What happens when the pressure from inside and outsides overwhelms the will -will to live, will to fight, will to resist-. It happens that the barrier is shattered, and every piece drop like a rain of tears, fragments. κάθαρσις that's the word when such a breakdown happens. Purging. It indeed looks like a purge. Things that used to be stagnating and creating a lot of pressure are suddenly released. μετάνοια and should come together, so all the shattered pieces can be rebuilt...or better said, regrown.

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

Otro año más desde que Sauron fue derrotado.

Siete.

Supuestamente 7 es un buen número. De nuevo, es dificil de creer que ya son siete años escribiendo esporádicamente por aquí. Buen Aniversario.

Mend, amend.

Last post was about questions (aren't they all?). Well, the question was about if it was right or wrong to have some feelings about a particular situation. No. I guess it was about the lack of a correlative or counterpart: having some efects with no apparent or plausible cause. Cause, cause, causation. What is the cause of "X"? In that particular post, the goal was to express or figure out the cause of the feelings of loneliness, sorrow, dispair, hopelessness. And, despite of my efforts, I couldn't delve enough in Kierkegaard and his imaginary friends to find out what was going on. And that is how these days have been, tinged with darker shades of gray, and ocasionally a shy green or yellow. So, the world, the people, the weather. It doesn't matter how they are. Even if people always look for objectivity, the most important factor for everyday life is how things appear to people. Somebody with allucinations doesn't worry about the world that is, but of the world that appears. A joyful individual takes his/her problems in such a different way than a depressive one. And no, I'm not talking about the simple concept of "point of view". I am talking about the world as a whole, given to the particular individual. When we can find some common points where it is possible to join and make connection. But nevertheless, the particular way in which the world is presented makes possible, somehow, the lack of comprehension between persons, where the joyful doesn't think even possible to look at the world in the way the melancholic describes it. Clearly a lack of empathy, but not in the common use of the word ("to put oneself in the shoes of the other). As I am trying to learn, empathy is way more than that. And between its characteristics, one of them is the ability or capacity to look the world in the way another does. Well, right now, this has become some sort of digression. Still haven't found why the feelings of loneliness, anger, hopelessness, etc., do exist without an apparent cause. Just reached a path where they can be exemplified and how they are part of that "world that is given" or "world that appears". At least is an advance, isn't it? Not really sure about it, maybe the causes are so evident, and that's because they remain hidden. If you look to much, you are concentrated on the pursuit, instead of on what you're pursuing. So long, until next post.

Do I have the right?

Let's start with a question: Do I have the right to feel alone? Loneliness is a feeling when someone is missing some kind of contact with others. It has a primordial feature: that condition is not voluntary, or maybe desired. On the contrary, solitude is a desired condition. (So sad, spanish doesn't make this distinction).

But, what is the origin of the question? Well, if you have people who you like to spend your life with, share bonds, have affection to them and even in that case you feel alone...Do you have the right to?.

What does it take to have that emptiness filled? Why does it need more than you already have to soothe that feeling?

I don't know, this post promised much at the start. But right now it faded away.

'Til later.

24 de febrero. Seis años

Y parece una vida entera.

Who knows, who cares?

Who knows, who cares. Why to ask these questions? Who cares what happened, even if it was just a tiny bit? If it happened, it belongs to the past. Who cares about the memories I hold, the shattered thoughts of those brief, but blissful instants? I shall tell. I know and I care. By now, I should have been over it. Sadly, that's not the case. Sadly, the longing doesn't go away. Neither the lack of power and will to look and accept what it is. Going for new ways to relate, meet new people. All of it sounds ridiculous and unfeasible. Specially when both things sound too hard, and to relate in a deep and caring way it's like an upway hill. Nevertheless. Life goes on. Or at least so it seems.

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...

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.

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.

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...

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...

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.

Si los sueños se van

El cosmos te guiará...

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.

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.

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".

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.