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June 21 An anchor/Un ancla
An anchor
One more time I was standing on that corner. I inhaled very deep, swallowed fear and was prepared to confront the avenue with destiny to the Law Faculty. Normally I don’t do that, and I suppose nobody do, but this time I look around before the green light came. Then I saw her, small, brunette, slim and specially... blind.
I believe all the people happens the same. The temptation to give their arms to help that woman to cross the complicated streets of Santiago is exactly the same about offer our sit in any public bus. Nobody will reproach our behavior if we don’t do that. Nobody except our conscience, our fucking conscience, who will never kill us, but can be so uncomfortable like a splinter in our hand.
Was with that conviction that I came close to her. Nothing of great altruism and a lot of schoolboy manners. I didn’t know what was waiting for me.
As soon as she hold my arm thigtly, she did some observations about my voice. Few seconds after she began to flirt with me, and we were together since... 10 seconds?... 20 seconds? Suddenly she started to recite something. I don’t remember all the details. I was very disturbed and uncomfortable, but I remember some images about lovers and the waves at the sea.
“Is from Pablo Neruda” she said. “Blind people usually don’t like poetry because they never saw some images poets use”. I was very surprised about that woman, but then she continued: “I know the sea, because I’ve felt the salty moist on my face. I listened it, smelled it. Because that I can understand Neruda’s poetry”
After that I couldn’t say anything, because all the words in the world were so empty and swallow. “And you know what? I know what is an anchor. Is what ships use to be safe on the sea”. That was the last thing she said before to take the bus in Santa María avenue and disappear in front of me in the same way she came, casually.
After some seconds... 10?... 20?... and eternity? I lit a ciggy and waited for some will to enter under the stern twelve columns who were waiting for me. But before to go, I closed my eyes for a while, trying to realize if I can understand a poem about some lovers and the sea; to feel the sea on my face. That casual talk, with that casual woman bring me back the sight. June 12 I love you teddy bear
I used to call her my teddy bear because she was little and soft. She was always so good on bed. I was totally crazy about her. I use to deal with guys who don’t have anything heavenly and I’m not also a cute boy, but is my life and is the way I have to pay for my drinks. But I liked to forget all the ugly part of my work entangled in her white little body, while her breath touched my ears. Every agitated sigh was a delicious dessert. “will you love honey? will you love forever?” Her body was a something very adictive, and that was my fault.
In my bussines is very bad if you are with somebody who always have her bed warm and like to talk too much but I didn’t mind anything. In some way I allways believed in her words, or wanted to do. It was like the same kind of faith I have in religion. Something likely, a blind smack, a walk into darkness. Yes, is the same story of the drunk. Everytime the glass invite you to forget all for a while. But then... the hangover.
The fact is she betrayed me. Some idiot told me she did the same questions and also asked if he will love her forever The question is, in this work if you don’t have respect you are death. Call me troglodyte, call me brute, caveman, basic, savage... I don’t care about what the people will say about me. In my bussines only one thing is important and if you losed it, you have to get it back.
It was so easy. I did the same again, the only thing in life I’m good. I was totally prepared to make it very silent, discreet, fast, almost painless. Of course that time was a little different... I’m not a man without blood in his veins. It was my last gift to her.
I felt how the heat was leaving her so slowly while her body was sliding trought my arms like a silk dress. She was turning into something different, a memory, a diffuse figure dancing into the half-light. Something to remember when the night come to sleep with me in my dark and small room.
“Will you love forever honey? You will love forever?” Yes, yes my teddy bear. Now I’m totally sure, I will love you forever May 25 How can I knowEsta es una hermosa cancíon de Parentesis. Aún estoy esperando que Eduardo me preste el CD de Holden para tener lo que me falta.
Acá tenemos a Lucho Gnecco (alias mi doble) haciedo las de Crooner con esta hermosa balada para ti... muñeca!
How can I know
Wherever you walk the way you choose
you can find that person that your dreamed
nobody knows when and how
but I realized that could be true
wherever you walk the way your choose
you can find that person that you dreamed
nobody knows when and how
but I realized that could be true
how can I know if is true?... and
how can I know if you are?... who
I've always loved and waited
Wherever you walk the way you choose
you can find that person that your wanted
nobody knows where and when
but I realized that could be true
how can I know if is true?... and
how can I know if you are?... who
I've always loved and waited
Wherever you walk the way you choose
you can find that person that your dreamed
nobody knows when and how
but I realized that could be true
but I realized that could be true
but I realized that could be true
but I realized that could be true
that could be true... honey! May 17 MorphineAfter eight rums with “Red Bull” I was burning ciggies after ciggies. The shitty 80’s music was over the dance floor. Nothing interesting, nothing to make turn my eyes from the white smoke drawing strange figures betwen the red and blue lights.
A black figure was in the other corner, dancing with her girlfriend with boring face. She seems to be in that place like a favor, a duty with somedoy. I could notice with all the chains belts, the black and tight clothe, the red and savage hair and some tatoo in her neck she didn’t belong there. Then my eyes went straight to her. A wild animal in a funeral.
I walked very slowly sniffling her freedom aroma, her sex, her space, her fear. Always is the same, heavy metal style, hard style, punk style are defense mechanisms. The hunt is more atractive if the prey is dangerous, or seems to be one.
“The night is still so young and I have a little bag full of fun” I said. She did the most enigmatic smile she had and after some minutes we were dancing a song I didn’t remember, who cares? The only important thing was my body and her body doing the ancient snakes mating ritual.
The rest is the old same story, a bed, her groans, my lust, our wet bodies, death after death, birth after birth. Her sweat was full of alcohol and tobacco. My mouth, my tonghe was full of her sex, her tasty sex. Her nails injuried my back, and I bitten her breast. To enjoy is so similar to the pain.
Then the calm, then the clear eyes, the madness of the sobriety. The resting time , the awfull truth, the awkward moment to say nothing, to stay while the sun is the perfect excuse for run. But...
“The night is still so young” said while I putted the pillow over her face. After all, I had still a little bag to have a lot of fun.
May 08 Flannel timesIt was during the 1992 new years night. I was in my home after a lot of people, and a lot of champagne. I was watching the TV, but suddenly everything changed.
A couple of guys, using the same kind of clothe I used to wear, started to play a song. Sad, acid like the lemmon, angry, funny... rock & roll. It was the beggining of that crazy summer. I wasn't alone. It was smelling like teen spirit.
In some few weeks, a lot of sounds came to my bedrrom from one place called Seattle, a place with lot of rain, woods, coffe, and guys who were using the clothe I used to buy because were cheap, old, dirty. A new word came to my mind... grunge.
In that time I was feeling very lost, a lot of things I believed were just a hollywood movie, lies, more lies, sad lies.. The hippies and punks were death, till their songs started to send me the sounds of new strings, or maybe the same old strings, with shitty guitars, shitty and over saturated sounds, screams, lot of screams, screams about loneliness, about to reject a culture build in the dicotomy betwen loosers and winners, about the lost dreams about the american dream, and about the new human being. Screams of people who all nights were looking in one neddle answers that never came, or maybe the reason for been outside for a while.
Some of them are dead now. Some others are older, like me. Some of them are now succesfull people, and seems they are not angry anymore. World changed a lot, or just a little? We change for be the same? We turned in 360°?
Today I was listening them again. Lot of memories, lot of faces, lot of alcohol and some things to smoke came again to me. My guitar is waiting for me in one corner in my room, the same chords again, the same attitude. But let me tell you now, my flannel shirt doesn't fit me well anymore.
April 01 ParentésisEsta frase no es mía, es de una pleícula chilena llamada Paréntesis, de Francisca Schweitzer y Pablo Solís.
"Hay personas que estan hechas del mismo material de los sueños, y por eso estan con nosotros lo mismo que dura un sueño"
This sentence is not mine, is from a chilean movie called "Parentésis" (Francisca Schwitzer and Pablo Solís)
"There are people made it from the same material dreams are, because of that they are with us the same time that a dream"
Nada más que decir. Nothing more to say. March 28 A riesgo de ser tíldado de cursiEsta es,a mi modesto juicio, una de las más hermosas y potentes canciones de amor de todos los tiempos, y ahora que la tengo, simplemente no puedo dejar de escucharla. Margarita (Ricardo Cocciante)
Yo no puedo estar parado, con las manos tan vacías tantas cosas debo hacer, antes que venga el alba y si ella está durmiendo, yo no puedo descansar haré de forma que al despertar, no me pueda ya olvidar Y para que esta larga noche ya no sea más oscura Y para hacerle cantar la canción que aprendió Y corramos por las calles y bailemos con la gente Recojamos muchas flores que nos dió la primavera Porque Margarita es dulce, porque Margarita vive, Porque Margarita es todo y ella es mi locura Needle in the Hay
A man on tennis clothe is in front of a mirror when the song start. Richie Tenenbaum (Luke Wilson) is cutting his hair and the beard. His eyes and face are full of pain and disappointment. He want to change or dissapear. Suddenly he watch himself on the mirror and say “I’m going to kill myself tomorrow”, then two arms are bleeding in a dirty bathroom sink and Richie fall down while the guitar still play.
That’s maybe one of the best scenes of “The Royal Tenenbaums” movie, from Wes Anderson (yes, I know I talk about his movies a lot). The composition of all is excellent, but one of the best things about Anderson’s movies are the soundtrack. The song chosen for that part was very worrying, and I wanted to get that song and know more about the singer.
The song “Needle in the Hay” was from an american musician called Elliot Smith. By means of that song I started to know him, but a little bit later, because he died some years ago (2003), two years after the premiere of the movie. Officially he committed suicide. That’s the most remarkable paradox in that story, because Anderson used that dark song to create the perfect atmosphere for a suicide attempt. Unfortunately the circumstances about his death are not totally clear. Smith had a lot of problems about drugs abuse and depression during his life, but some facts suggest that maybe he could have been killed by his own girlfriend.
Smith had a close relationship with movies, because he gave some of his music for some films like “Good Will Hunting” and American Beauty. Even, he was nominated for best song by Academy Award in 1998 for his song “Miss Misery” (saddly that year won Celine Dion... saddly)
Some people like Elliot Smith had very short and intense lives, with a lot of sorrow and pain. That evolved in some creative way to show us some little parts about that side of life. Because of that I want to share that new gift with all the people who can value it.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elliott_Smith
March 20 About nothingThe first thing in my mind when I see a white page is to think about the different ways. To have a single and clear idea and start to develop that, or just let my fingers dance in the keyboard (second is easy if you are listening some music at the same time).
Now I'm listening and dancing. I don't have any idea how to finish that... the story of my life.
Maybe I can write something about chilean policy, but this can be very boring (even if you are chilean). Maybe I can write something about international policy, but I don't want to be so arrogant to do that... come on! a poor sudaka talking about so far away problems, very snob, the perfect talk with some friends drinking wine.
Maybe I have to write about how hard is to try to write in another language, but I talk very often about that with my foreigners friends, all in some kind of cage made it of words.
So... what about I have to write? some people will think "you have to write? you HAVE?" Why I write?
Some people have different way to express themselves. I don't want to express myself being a terrorist, asking for the eyes of the world killing people. I don't have enough talent to be a writer, poet, musician, actor... etc.
I don't want to wait for the next beer to start to talk about something interesting only for me. Because of that I write, and I have to warning you, I have a keyboard and I will use. Be prepared.
March 15 Crónicas SudakasTry to imagine you are living near the center of your city, very close but not in the center, maybe in some part with nothing interesting, a little bit poor, but not so. Now you are a little exotic, be case you were part of another town, maybe you were part of 2 different towns. Now you belong to another, but you have the past in your soul, because the past is part of your roots.
Now, the rest of the people, the people who live in the most important part of the city will consider you as a member of the community, but at the the same time... not.
Some people will have strange ideas about your costumes, and will put you together with all the strange and exotic people from everywhere. You will eat dogs, monkeys, snakes. You will have more brown, black, white aspects. Your house will be the same house near you.
Imagine you have to speak a strange language to be able to talk with people. Even, you have to write in that language. And then, you feel like an idiot trying to say something intelligent, but you can't. So, a lot of people will start to thing you and your family are idiots.
Then somebody will think your house need some rules, even a new goverment because in your home all are very stupids, ignorants, inmatures for rule yourself.
Of course, you will try to live in another part, but the fact is, never you'll be part of nothing. You will never feel part of nothing because you are made of parts of everything, some kind of cultural Frankenstein, belonging and not. Near and faraway.
Wellcome to Southamerica. Wellcome to Chile... Mamitas! March 11 Puntapié inicialNada, que ahora creo que es tiempo de acabar con los pendientes, y uno de ellos era comenzar esto. Entre lo torpe que soy para escribir y la lata posterior que me produce el revisar mis errores (que penca debe ser la pega del corrector), había puesto en algún oscuro rincón del alma o del cerebro (elija según su creencia... o la falta de ella) la necesidad de "empelotarme" virtualmente de nuevo.
Alguna vez atrás, en la prehistoria de mi exibicionismo computacional, mantuve un blog que me produjo más de una satisfacción, modesta satisfacción. Hoy el deafío es tratar de llevar ese problema siquiátrico a nuevos niveles de estupidez y autoreferencia, porque claro, a nadie más le importa mi jodida, y a veces podridamente fome existencia salvo a mi y a mis valientes contactos, que no son muchos tampoco (a veces ni yo me aguanto).
Una de las cosas a las que le estuve dando vueltas era la posibilidad de hacer de este espacio uno bilingüe... las guevadas que se me pasan por la cabeza! con qué ropa? si nadié sabe hablar sumerio hoy en día! Asi que, encadenado a mis escuálidos balbuceos en la lengua de Shakespeare, y más bien pareciendo cantante de reggaeton (you know mamita, I'm your papi tonight), trataré de involucrarme de vez en cuando en la posibilidad de hacer de esto algo entendible para el resto del mundo, cause we are the world, we are the children...
Eso sería, bienvenidos. podrán encontrar mascaras y audífones, fell free to use. |
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