Wednesday, May 4, 2011

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"And that from a distance ...?

answer your question,
gave me to write ...

For some time I think, believe and am convinced
that people are friends,
not so much to see them , to talk,
you are, that hug ....

but because of that interest, your interest in that person,
independent much as you speak or see,
I have people who watch a lot but do not consider them my friends,
unlike no other I have pretty much,
but I consider them my friends ...

Now I wonder what is the distance?

And yes, I love you,
thanks for making every day less gray ...

Without further explanation ends here ...

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Elegy for melancholic desires

I'm not sad, I'm tired

all I ever wanted. Dowson




myself I have the habit of reading to remember a story long before bedtime. Today I remember a story broken by the death of Italo Svevo where he describes a man of a certain age before going to bed wondering what would happen if the devil was present to propose the usual deal. Fatigue inclines him to surrender his soul, but do not know what to ask in return. Do not want to return to youth, land of folly and drives aimlessly, nor desires eternity because life is painful and tiring and monotonous. As others, afraid of death. The man smiles at the irony void that has led her life. At that time his wife wakes up and says, "Blessed are you you still want to laugh at this hour." The phrase seals the drama in a masterly: the smile of a man with no alternative means no insult or resignation, is the gesture of one who faces the big joke in the world, the point of no return where hope is now impossible. Svevo records the demise of desire.


The desire never reaches its true purpose: it leads to oblivion, to the decay and death. You may wish much and always will be too little. But what we want to always have too. I'm about to sleep and I have no desire. From a practical time now a daily ritual of survival: I think that all the past is reduced immediately when I just live and all the future focuses on the next hour I'll still enjoy. Eternity is two hours between two spaces where they drown failures and dreams. Thinking about these things is to me the devil himself, and, abruptly, I proposed a deal. I thought that just around the corner lurks not always what we see and here we are, in my room with my leg half raised for introducing me to the bed and this biblical flooding the room with the smell of sulfur. I propose if you want to be a great writer, be recognized now and for eternity. My friend, I say, the hardest part is finding a hole to get out of the work itself. The devil suddenly disappears. One of these entanglements is saved thanks to the high demand by most active writers who claim their service to sell their souls.



Every writer is born with a vocation to oblivion. In many cases, however, the plural forms of sin are twisting this vocation and adorned with the trappings of fame, glory and even immortality. Almost all writers become traitors to their vocation, which is nothing but to go languishing sleepless nights and early mornings between more or less useless.

Few writers know the goal, as Borges said, is forgotten, the creature that devours everything, that disease that makes us equal and reconciled with the dust from which we came. Who will come before the goal?


find that I have yet ridiculously leg raised with the Striped Pajamas uploaded to the knee.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

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"In a world without sadness the nightingale would burp."

EMCioran


"There are laughs that make you close your eyes." This phrase blunt the poet Luis García Montero attempted to explain the battle that Professor Eric G. Wilson has decided to take against the crown jewel. Everyone wants to embrace. Which employers are bent on selling. The parents want for their children. The politicians include in their speeches: the utopian happiness overrated. "It was the caveman melancholy and withdrawn he stayed back and pondered as his happy hunting and muscular dinner companions, who advanced the culture," says Wilson in his book Against Happiness. In defense of melancholy (Taurus).


"According to a survey recent Pew Research Center, nearly 85% of Americans believe they are very happy or at least happy. " Wilson mentioned the cult of beauty, the obsession with accumulating wealth and happiness pills comfortable and he asks, almost desperately, in the introduction to his essay: "What can we do with this obsession with happiness, an obsession that could lead to sudden extinction of the creative impulse?". citizens can only consider the extent to distance ourselves from that happiness imposed false.


This is not elected to the melancholy of Wilson's speech of Mr. sullen Scrooge, from Dickens, but a rebellious voice against the deliberate imposition of the idea of \u200b\u200bhappiness that American society (and others) has engaged in coining and reaffirmation of melancholy as an engine of creativity. The state of melancholy can be master of your mind, and, above all, settle in uncomfortable territory of individual conscience. Wilson himself admits in his book only when he took seriously his melancholy, " knew my family background and develop a closer relationship."


The debate about the relevance of melancholy as a creative engine is not new. Jorge Luis Borges praised often a monumental book by Robert Burton Anatomy of Melancholy, appeared in 1921, also held at the time Samuel Beckett, Anthony Burgess and John Keats, who also composed the famous Ode to melancholy . Burton said that only immune to the " black bile" fools and the Stoics. Time after the great Gustave Flaubert reformulate the idea with a more incisive phrase " be stupid, selfish and be healthy, here are three conditions needed to be happy. But if you lack the first, you are lost."


In 1932, Aldous Huxley in Brave New World forward a portrait of contemporary society. A society without problems, with the latest technology, mass production, prosperity and peace at the expense of family values, culture and feelings. Something like American society (and other) critical of Wilson and the teacher belongs. Wilson asks "ignorance has to do with happiness, which we created the flat world, without complexities intellectuals?". A question that Ray Bradbury was already in 1953 in Fahrenheit 451, where millions of books were burned because reading the minds confused and was causing concern, therefore prevented people were happy.


No players happy in the literature because the unhappiness generated dramatic conflict. I remember the first lines of Anna Karenina, Tolstoy's "blissful All families are alike, but unhappy ones are each in their own way." With it installed said that the unhappiness is impossible and should enjoy the happy moments, but also embrace the melancholy ecstasy to blow up the creativity.


Wilson closes his essay with a disturbing reflection: "To promote the company absolute happiness is to make a culture of fear." and topped with a warm invitation: " We must find the way, however difficult, to be who we are, sullenness included."

Sunday, May 1, 2011

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The boat ....( My boat) floating dock

"Be still when the sea is a storm, when
sea \u200b\u200bis calm is the time
to make arrangements for our boat ... "
Thanks John D.
"... fix the boat
because you have to keep paddling
and the journey continue ..."
Thanks MM!

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Saturday, April 30, 2011

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What was our Spring Day



"and I wonder if a

memory is something that

have, or something

you've lost. "

Woody Allen


I recently visited the site I was born and raised after a long absence. Despite a mood and a vacuum off boredom, he had felt all day a desososiego indefinable but clear. At the end of the one is little more than a meager residue of the infinite possibilities and unfulfilled in our lives.

First of all, you have to readjust to that place. "Are these places? Are these but I'm not the same," says the poet . And that is only noticed when moving from child to adult, and things have not grown as us so we did not feel the difference. Because it is also necessary to readjust if the separation occurred later. Readjust " what? It's so hard to say. Dimensions are now the same, but everything has gone back in time to provoke astonishment. An aging things in the streets as if they were people. It has disrupted our harmony with them, only that. And our reaction is reflected in silent contemplation, we were ecstatic revelation and wonder. But what surprises us return to those places is the people who inhabit them. Not exactly because it is not as strange, but this relationship, the dark complicity has with these sites. It does cause an appropriation by the people of that place that was ours and kept us an intimate union. A cafe, a place where we stopped to watch, a garden where the footsteps retardábamos, now everything is usufruct of strangers and strange us it is installed with ease in ours. There are a betrayal of what was for us and we had a pact of fidelity. We are intruders, as if we saw that our women have rebuilt their lives with that one.


Walk the streets and squares of what was the place where we live with others who have disappeared and we feel the momentum is back to where we live. Sometimes we find a survivor of the land that was ours. Then that someone greets us warmly, not exactly recall, but because our presence redeems his presence there, where he is now a stranger. However, we realize that someone is bound to rise, people no longer know, but as if it had been adapted and their language and their relationships were different. There was a darkly accommodation and also he feels betrayed. In the brief discussion of the encounter brings us back to the time which was also ours, but only in deference to the protocol. Two steps forward and is talking to someone who does not know and we definitely know what happened. We visit a land that long ago. We can never meet it again. Because life is the present and everything else is fiction. Yes, I felt a sense of unreality: nothing seems to be what it once was. Perhaps that is the only true experience of our past if we go back to visit, he (our memory) has changed. We have so many autobiographies as we remember moments.

"Unclear is, indeed, the future. Who knows what will happen? But it is also uncertain past, who knows what happened? ." Antonio Machado, Juan de Mairena.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Something In My Baby's Throat

Burning Heart

@ S friend Possibly these are my latest posts in a few days, I go another season with my mother, who is in need of child, if I can pass up the gift May I wish you all the best now and forever.


Sweet Chocolate Kisses and hugs


♥ ♥ ♥ Yesica


The Love of a Fairy (Fairy)




Click Here To Read This
story




Not long ago a fairy named Anfimia was used by Titania (Fairy Queen) to tend the garden of an old man's nephew who had a handsome boy, dark-haired and very nostalgic. His name was Damien, and went out every afternoon with his book under his arm until late hours at night.

In one of those moments the young man looked up to see the colors that gave the sunset and looking towards the Rose saw a beautiful young woman who strangely shone a light around her body, is trying to hide among the branches not to be seen.
- Who are you? He asked the young ...

surprised that she could see answered
- My name is Anfimia ...

- Anfimia And tell me What were you doing hiding in the garden of my uncle? Anfimia
not know what to say, I could not believe that a mere mortal
as one might
have such exquisite beauty.
- hey I'm a fairy and was intended to protect the garden of your uncle ...

Damian smiled incredulously, it seemed strange that she hid among the roses, and what she was saying but could not believe. Suddenly, in a twist that made the young man, he saw lights that were born on their backs. Smiling she said,
- Now you see that I'm not lying.
- Can you read minds? "Said the surprised young
- receive only "I said smiling.

So every evening spent laughing and talking, walking and playing. Until suddenly Anfimia was called by Titania (Fairy Queen), had something very serious to talk ...


"Elves, Gnomes and Fairies I have been sharing with a human, a nephew of the owner of the Garden which you destiné to care, but there is another thing that bothers me: are you in love with this mortal? "
Anfimia, aware that he could not lie, he said,
- Yes, my mother, it is true, especially when I realized my feelings were too later, and now I can not change.
"My daughter much I love you, I can not allow this, you know us we can not fall in love with a mortal and if this were to happen the punishment has already been written ... "

Anfimia
So was destined to become a ray of moonlight could only pat your love when it came calling:
- My beautiful Anfimia, that has happened, all I have left. Something strange happens to me, that during the day everything is desolate, but when night came with the moonlight I feel you by my side.
And searching among the roses of his uncle and clawing at his chest each rose thorns repeated his call. Titania

seeing the suffering of his daughter and Anfimia great love that this guy was, could only allow one thing
Lovers could only see the first ray of moonlight that illuminates the same spot where he first began the love of these two young lovers.

And every night he sees the lover in the same place in the garden by the rose waiting for the first ray of moonlight. To fill your heart with love with the first look she gives far.

Author Unknown.

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To Tesa, she does know of looks.


There
spring afternoon in this city, sunny, golden, not live, but were torn off. And nothing can beat a terrace cafe, letting our eyes at rest receive and file the images in the world. Only be the lens through which we penetrate intact life. What I see is the feature ridiculously bland in the face of the street and a day. A policeman believed to be the only break in the confusion of events and pillar do not know what regulatory power. Enemy of the street and put there to spy and receiving the proper tribute to his sense of order. I see a girl in the framework of an open window, which is part of the wall and yearns to break free from his embrace, that is their world. A drifter who, confined to the shadows of a sharp rise, takes cardboard and cigarette butts. At the top of the street, as the motto of the same, an advertising medium in a column, above a small vane that changes his mind according to the wind. A large man with a cigar and a clear American, who seems the embodiment of a grease spot on a spring day. The gesture of a waiter on the terrace neighbor who wants to kill a fly is more momentous than the fates of all customers on the terrace. The fly has escaped, and the waiter is disappointed. Why, oh waiter so hostile to a fly? A dog that rushes the ball after some kids blow up and stops at the object that lies inert on the ground, without reaching to understand how a rubber contraption so absurd and ridiculous is capable of boats so funny and lively , is the hero of a drama passenger. Only important the little things in life. In view of microscopic events, all pathos in vain, lost without direction. How small the more impressive parts of the monumentality of the whole. I do not need the bombastic gestures, trying to cover everything, the hero of world theater. I'm just an observer with a ray of spring sunshine.



Al
advertising medium in which it announces in large characters, things like, for example, a brand of underwear, as if an ultimatum or a memento mori it were, I lose all respect . Somehow, I think, the illusory value of an ultimatum and underpants is revealed here in the way in which both find expression. What was announced in letters so large is low in importance and content. And I think that at this time there is nothing that is not announced with great characters. Therein lies his greatness. Nothing in this world who evade our thinking. We move: everything enters our eyes. Look further than the estimate a vast expanse where a slow computer world photo reveals. I see the sway unexpected, sudden, without any foundation, a swarm of mosquitoes around a tree trunk. Figure delicate jasmine branch resting on the wall of the garden. The vibration of a child's voice, unknown, lost in the air. Inaudible melody, sleeper, a life far away, perhaps even unreal.


said Antoine de Saint-Exupéry what is essential is invisible to the eyes, there is clearly only with the heart. The worst of our times is the lack of attention, dispersion, going from one place to another without seeing anything. Does no one look and see? The hardest thing to do is what we have around. No sleep under so many eyelids, which is nothing in the universe.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

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Mi ...

appears:
a ship set (or will you leave?)
is goodbye (or Biévène?)
is an expectation (or abandonment?)

So many emotions,
meet and change the hue
of the same photograph.

I love my dock, because
happy if you or you left,
if you leave the port or wait for your arrival,
it was and never has been ,
If you are or just a dream.
it the dawn here is a dark,
see if my hopes were not wanting to let you go ...

Without further explanation ends here ...

Friday, April 22, 2011

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Almería 66, Francisco Ortiz




Francisco Ortiz strikes again after his great novel Last night in Granada. I say surprising because Almería 66, Ortiz has found through the 44 stories that make up the work, the perfect embodiment of his own biased and disturbing of the daily life of rootless beings, characters who, in some cases try to understand why they have responded like a curse. They are unable to ask themselves their own misery or their own confusions. Consequently, these stories arouse nostalgia for a certain moral certainty and clarity of perspective compared to a culture that has become unreadable and unthinkable. That desire to talk about certain innocence even in the midst of depravity. In the bottom of the hole, there is nothing to make you feel. We are unable to measure the consequences of our actions. The climate of hopelessness and failure, ignorance and prejudices. Beings are used to solve problems with violence they face, lacking of cultural support and lack of human and mental maturity that allowed a civilized solution, their reaction to the difficulties is primitive, but consistent with his approach to life. People who have lost the north, which are confused, they are deceived and are not able to fit their problems.


popular models and charm quickly fade to reveal something more somber, ignoble and unfathomable. In the process, Francisco Ortiz, said that the cliché of contemporary society, that communal land of benevolence requires a review. Throughout the 44 stories we turn to violence can not necessarily explain or rationalized. Is the sign of the ability to Ortiz, our identification with their stories, inspired by his story. In some of his stories are lurid and disturbing scenes of domestic violence almost never reflected in the literature in a manner so subtle exempt from any Manichean to which we are so used. Ortiz is not satisfied with easy explanations. Many of his characters are not simply crazy, the "disease" that push them to a murderous rage are a complex family histories. Hence also the great strength of his stories, achieving unparalleled master of suspense with every page, and even in each of its lines. Ortiz knows embody his characters, and does so frequently, parents, wives and girlfriends, children. And the reactions of his characters are so real and human, only a penetration and a very similar experience can be captured and managed to express. The violence is so delicately woven into the texture of contemporary life is no longer possible to detect it or describe it, or know where it ends and begins capitalism brutalization. Ortiz suggested that the disease of many of its characters is a manifestation of a dysfunction, but the evils of our society. The extreme violence, and so indifferent to describe it, writing gives a strange and ethereal dimension, that is the closest thing to an ethics or aesthetics, which can afford these stories.


"Life is an adventure and throw balls", says one of the characters in the play. Write as does Francisco Ortiz, too.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

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unexpected lights




no longer feel I have much to write. I feel that my ideas are exhausted and I'm here, late at night without knowing what to say. Frankly I get bored writing books and films reviews. I was so bored. Let me return to the pleasure of the text. I am tired of writing seems increasingly to do their homework. Simply return the solitary pleasure of reading without compromise. Why read books? There's something missing in the lives of people who read, and this is what we seek in a book. The meaning is clear, the meaning of life, life that for all the world is badly made, badly lived, exploited, alienated, betrayed, mystified, but about which, at the same time, those who live it know it could something else. Read gives us satisfaction that nothing can replace but no less enduring limitations. A real reader is a happy cripple. And here I am in my little cell briquetting books. Books are the wall of shame we are raising and thickening against foreign investment, against ollajes of life. I no longer meets the cool pictures today, unexpected lights now, which should be more important than all the books. I can imagine no longer exists on another level, once, sharp and distant, as in a dream.



No, I'm not sure of anything. I can not say, for example, that the issue of God is more important than the issue of an electrician, or that death deserves more consideration than a tune, or that the afterlife is far from underpants, or that psychoanalysis can be seen while the salad, or that ... ie I can not say anything. That's all I can say. I'm making time to try to write, to "update" this blog and do not repeat myself. I am reminded of what I learned long ago the old Woody Allen, who at the big issues, there is only silence or its equivalent: the humorous paraphrase. In this respect, I think Woody is one of the great thinkers of postmodernity, which anticipates and accompanies. Thinker who thinks to say that nothing can be thought or said, in terms which cast certainty or belief of any kind, neither religious nor political nor moral, nor of any kind. And if we can not say just anything, what can we do? Everything is connected. In Memories (1980), a character says: "Do you really want to help humanity? Make jokes better." I think this approach has dramatically connected with the mood and the universe of values \u200b\u200band ideas of humanity after the fall of Marxism and sustained collapse of religions, with the crossroads of man the last third of the twentieth century. Hence, at least one, or more or less, of the reasons for the success of Woody, the prophet and one of the architects, after the surreal and the absurd, the end of the beliefs and faiths, regardless of these were, of right or left, religious or secular. Since Freud, has not no better psychiatrist Woody. He is who psychoanalyzes.


Woody reflects at the statue of Rodin's Thinker: "They have written millions of books on all conceivable topics for all the great geniuses and the end, none of them know more than me on the momentous issues life. " Also at the end of one of his monologues said in all the bitter irony that often hide behind their words, the following: "In sum, I would have some kind of positive message to leave. But I have not. Would you accept two negative messages? ". But to go against Woody and to demonstrate that how could it be otherwise, Woody also leads the anti-Woody.


long time ago, when I saw Hannah and Her Sisters (1986) felt, at the same time, a great happiness and gratitude. It's the scene near the end, where Mickey, his character, after having suffered so much with cancer and their woes of love, enters into a cinema and see Duck Soup (1933). The Marx Brothers shot beautifully on the screen in a wild frenzy primary and irrefutable joy. As he contemplates and we contemplate the images that inundate us to live, says Michey off as follows:


"... And I began to think. How can you think about killing yourself? Come on, do not you stupid? Come on, look at all those out there on the screen. We have very much, and if the worst is true, so what? And if God exists and you only live once and it's over, so what? Come on, do not want to go through this experience? Come on, not everything is crap, what the hell. And I thinking about myself, heck, no more bitter life asking me questions that I can never answer, I enjoy it while it lasts. Y. .. well ... after all, who knows, I mean, come on, perhaps there is something. Nobody knows for sure. I know, I know that the word, perhaps, is a very weak peg to hang it your whole life, but it is the best we have ... And then I got comfortable in the chair, and started really fun ".


I do not know if this post makes sense, but saved my life tonight, which is already much. Tomorrow we'll see

Goodnight.




Wednesday, April 20, 2011

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Absalom! Absalom! Weather Cattle




I love the complexity of the technique of William Faulkner that is paired with a subtle psychology full of symbols, they give their stories an atmosphere of intense pessimism, bitterness and tragedy, the writer does not shrink from the description of any scene, and is distinguished by its tendency toward the macabre and the horrible, and traits of a universe insanely horrible, cruel and absurd, chaired by fate.


Absalom! Absalom! is told five times between 1835 and 1910 (while Sutpen rest of his persecution of French architect fled with a group of slaves) is the life of Thomas Sutpen, farmer-to-planter, of planting (Called "Hundred") and Bon, possible child might be black and, if it is and Sutpon recognize it, would make it all falls down.

gaps and contradictions that multiple narrative exposes us to raise the epistemological question of how we know what we know about historical events. But since in Absalom! Absalom! questions arise from a workplace issue-specific to a region of a black body refused, within the target, which forced labor gives substance to the face, skin, sex and class land-owning white these questions change. "What do you know what and how do you know?" is formulated as "How, knowing that his face, skin, sex and earth are made by the African American labor (well within the property), may continue to deny what they know?". Faulkner's answer would seem to acknowledge what they know (or in the case of Bon Sutpen face as his son) would cease to be themselves. That Absalom! Absalom! Faulkner started to have these ideas, even when his region continued to depend for support of black workers (required to be debt peonage rather than slavery) can explain the structure of this narrative, one of the most important modern novels.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

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is true ...! ─ ═ ☆

Being with you,
the world changes color

By looking at your eyes,
see more clearly

Al talk,
confirm worth

Listening to you,
I can discover another reality

Al see you smile,
my day happy.


And if
worthwhile
waiting without despair,
believe the truth without fatigue,
trust that light always arrives .. .

To my precious,
each day I love you much more

Without further explanation here concluded ...


Monday, April 18, 2011

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The Dreamcatcher Legend (Leyenda)




Click Here To Read This Story




long time ago when the world was young, an old Lakota spiritual leader was on a high mountain and had a vision.

Iktomi In this view, the great master prankster of wisdom came in the form of a spider.

I talk

Iktomi in a sacred language that only the spiritual leaders of the Lakota could understand. As he spoke

Iktomi, the spider took a willow hoop, the oldest, also had feathers, horsehair, beads and offerings and began to weave a web.

He talks to the elder about the cycles of life, as we begin life as babies and grow in childhood and later adulthood, finally we go to old age where we should be careful as when we were babies completing the circle.

But Iktomi said as he continued to spin his web, in every time of life there are many forces, some good some bad, if you are in good forces them guide you in the right direction.

But if you listen to the bad forces, they hurt you and guide you in the wrong direction.



He continued, there are many forces and different directions and may help interfere with the harmony of nature.
also with great spirit and his wonderful teachings. While the spider spoke
continued to weave his web starting from the outside and working toward the center.


Iktomi
When finished speaking, he gave the Lakota elder the web and said, see the web is a perfect circle, but in the middle is a hole, use the web to help yourself and your people to achieve your goals and make good use of people's ideas, dreams and visions.

If you believe in the great spirit, the web will catch your good ideas and bad will go down the hole.
The old Lakota, he spent his vision to his people and now the Sioux Indians use the dream catcher as the web of life.



This hangs above his bed at home to sift their dreams and visions.
The beauty of their dreams is captured in the web of life and sent them the evil of their dreams escapes through the hole in the center of the network and will no longer be part of them. They

believe that the dream catcher holds the destiny of their future.


Author Unknown.

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