But none of the above come even a little close to what Chennai was and is.

I don't anything about the geographics of Chennai. I don't know the area over which it is spread out, I don't know the number of people who live in it, I don't know the number of bus stands it has. But Chennai is awesome! The original name of this city is Madras, and was called that until the Indian government decided to Indianize the names of prominent cities. Delhi became Dilli, Calcutta became Kolkata, Bombay became Mumbai, and Madras became Chennai. There is nothing maximum about the city. Chennai is not at all like Mumbai when it comes to early morning traffic jams and the apparent indifference of the people when it comes to going to and getting back from work. Chennai is not at all like Kolkata when it comes to the sense of living in a middle-class dominated cosmopolitan city with all the exotic churches and probably-French area names. Chennai has its own bi-party politics going on but none of which have any large-scale fallouts other than when the local government pulls out of the national majority. But Chennai is Chennai because it is one of the very few cities in India that has as much going on in its present as it did in its past. If a tourist were to land on its footsteps on a warm morning (not cold, mind you [:P]) and wonder as to how the day was to be spent, there wouldn't be a single thought that would spring to mind about where to begin. One look at the auto rickshaw drivers at the Chennai Central Railway Station, referred to as the Central, or even at the airport, would drive you crazy: they clamour around you like vultures that have found a fresh corpse. You lose the wanderlust and the sire to roam around a city inhabited in thousands by such people. But the secret is smiling: a smile goes a long way in Chennai. It tells us that you understand that we mean no harm. And when you understand us for what we are, we will go to any lengths to help you around. You might argue that such practices are taken for granted in any corners of the world, but Chennai is special because it is not the maximum city you will see it to be. Even if the rickshaw drivers are troublesome at the beginning, you will note a clear difference in demeanour when you finally get the ride. A husband setting out for work in the morning by the local metro will not at all be bothered about his work until he steps foot in his office. The excuse is always considered when you say "I helped an old woman on and off the train". Chennai is a city built on simplistic trust. Families come first, and then the people around you. You are now part of a single large family. A Tamilian will always see you as a brother or a sister whomsoever you are. If you come here expecting rich locales and posh eateries and shopping centres, you are at the wrong place. We have none of them. But if you come looking for people who are good at heart simply because of some invisible bond of trust forged at first sight, then your search is ended.

India as a democratic nation will have look at long queues all over the place, be it at the ration shop or at the ticket line at the local movie theatre. And these are osme of the things we revel in. The thrill in getting a ticket for a Rajnikanth movie on the day of its release completely overshadows everything else. People going around looking for money and jobs are looking for joys that will last all your life. But for the long minutes in between your start and your finish, Chennai will give you those little and instantaneous kicks that'll keep you going. You have all the time in the world to think of your future when you walk the crowded streets, but the moment you decide you need something to keep you alive and eager that evening, the city will have done it. We don't have skyscrapers not because we can't have them. We don't have them because we don't need them. We have no need to show ourselves off as being advanced in any fields of the industry. All we are worried about is the well-being of our people, and when that worry is alleviated, we are at peace. Chennai is you and me. I love my Chennai.

Chang Wat Arun '97

Cargado originalmente por jssutt

(variaciones eróticas sobre un poema cinegético de Abu Nuwas)

"-Di que te vas de caza, ocúltate en mis habitaciones..."

Antología de las mil y una noches, Julio Samsó, Alianza Editorial, 1976, p. 24.

¡Ah de la noche que juntos buscamos en la mañana!
Antes de su ocaso se hizo vieja de inmediato
como una espada hace un guiño cerca de las hojas;
Velocidad del viento coge la frase,
y el deseo en la mañana satura la boca,
y el pilar es la columna vertebral,
como el beso es el último invitado.

Los caminos de la espada, después de la parálisis,
la broma de la escucha entre los pliegues de la memoria,
la seducción de la garganta bañada en cuero negro,
la disolución de la ascendencia estratégica,
que impone sus valientes pintadas, saben mucho
de su gran resistencia ante cualquier tipo de fin.

La tristeza se ve en que, no obstante, el corazón
es tan corto como negro. Después, según lo que quede de la naturaleza
es posible que dentro del plazo los dos nos amemos.

El éxito de los tratados de felicidad realiza su caza
envenenada a costa de los poemas escritos antes de hoy
que en la tierra se esconden,
y se asigna luz en polvo a los forasteros,
y se acerca la hora de regresar.

Estrecho es el cuello que miente con disfraces
y la sedición de la lentitud profundamente se oculta
en el código de desapariciones.

Cuando, por último, el dispositivo de coqueteo
se desvela antes de cualquier noche con la tristeza,
se penetra, ya entonces, en otra forma de admirar;
amarga alternativa ante el desbordamiento de la sangre
y queda mucho de la necesidad de permanecer aquí
diciendo: "En la caza, con buen conocimiento".

Meu corpo, um espasmo.

Me arranha as coxas, as costas...

Seu rosto, um orgasmo!

This is a special post to me in more than one way it will come to seem. This is my 100th blog entry, and someone like me would look for a sense of perfection and a wholesomeness, like shrink wrapping over a bowl of strawberries. The droplets below the outer layer that make it look as though they had just been plucked and seasoned to deliver a delicate taste. But that is not what I am looking for today. Today is not special to me. The date is random. The occasion isn't. The feeling is new. The moment isn't. The twitch is unexpected. The want isn't.

Of more than one beginning to the same tale.

There is a relatively low well adjacent to my hostel building in the campus, and friends and me usually gather there for a chit-chat session and some 'catching up' with the 'current' affairs. I was unusually awake late into the night (/morning?) today, and while standing on a bench there, I could notice something beyond the wall. There was some construction work in progress about a kilometre away, and a steam tower had been erected as part of the equipments. The night was humid and a dense cloud of mist hung in the still air. It was cold. The steam tower was the most elevated of the whole pile of metal and wood, and there was a floodlight right beside it to illuminate the area.

A cloud of steam was gently rising in the air, becoming less and less particulate by the moment. It blended into the night from a thick billow at the bottom to a wispy cloud to a fading whisper towards the top. The top? To any reach it dared to scale as it was born and dead within moments, lost from concentration amidst millions of its own kind. Typically, the writer's block would have hit me now as I sat in my chair, bereft of ideas, knowing that I have described my experience in a way that seems perfect enough to me. But the writer's block can never hit you as long as you are in clear sight of your goal, not your goal posts even. The mist was lost, yes, but I would like to let it know I hadn't lost my memory of having seen it fly aimlessly. It struck me then that one of the most profound influences on my life, a very good friend of mine and the best teacher I had ever had, had lived a similar life, unbeknownst to those chairing judgments in their halls of power, at the same time moving us all with her simple, straight and heartfelt actions. The attention now belongs to this person whom I am dedicating this post to: Lalitha akka.

My father, in 1996, received a transfer order in the company he was working in to Tumkur, a small town neighbouring Bangalore, Karnataka, towards its south. I was put up in a small school here, the only CBSE school then, called the TVS Academy. It was sponsored by the TVS Group of companies. They handled kids from classes 1 to 10, and classes 11 and 12 had to be taken up elsewhere. The time I spent in that school seems to have passed so quickly that I sit down and actually space out thinking whether I had made the best out of those days. I couldn't really appreciate the little joys I had come to feel then, in the academia, in the classrooms, in the occasional outing, in the weekly social service gatherings, in the moments where I can now realise I was being hardened as if from clay to rock, sculpted as if from a lifeless statue to a human being. I don't remember many of the teachers who handled classes for me, and I don't remember the subjects I undertook.

One other thing that immediately springs to mind is the sprawling campus: I don't remember if it was big enough to be termed 'sprawling', but I'd stick with (like an ant that takes ages to get across my foot). Look in any direction and the one colour that would stand out was green. Trees were everywhere. And it was not just the Asoka tree that adorned those compounds that housed government buildings, it was all kinds. I haven't been to the campus ever since I left it some four years later, but I do hope the tall papaya tree next to the main gate is still standing proud. There was a lot of grass all over the place, and we were warned not to be surprised if we stumbled across a snake! But of course, I know that would sound as if the school was a tad indifferent. Just as much as that statement qualifies for an exaggeration medal, we as students enjoyed those experiences. I remember two such incidents, each one more different that the other in the emotions it brought out in us, and by us, I mean kids aging in at less than ten. The first was where our sports instructor, Mr. Vajrappa (Diamond Man!) found a snake while we were out playing. We all crowded around to see what he was going to do with it, but he shooed us away and dropped the snake into the surrounding wilderness. The second one was where, in our first campus, our classrooms were built of brick and clay and had thatches for a roof. Whenever it rained, the structures used to give off this muddy smell that I really liked. Anyway, one day, I think when we were in class five, a guy found this nestling of rat babies. They were really pink and small, looking so vulnerable that the whole class sprung into action. Some fellows got little lids of water, some emptied their pencil boxes to make room for a new home, and so on and so forth. If I said were living amongst animals, it would be terribly wrong: we were enjoying living in the comforting hold of nature, inescapably melting into being one of the animals and knowing no other joy than to come to school everyday. It could have been that we be trapped in concrete jungles with nothing to look for everyday other than wooden desks that had nothing more interesting than perfectly perpendicular corners, a green board and some white chalks. TVS Tumkur was different, still is, and I know it will be for a lot of kids to come in the future.

Let me recollect some of the times I had with the teachers themselves. Tumkur being a small town then, everyone knew everyone else. If I were to drop by my friend's house and if we were to go out and 'chill' (per se [:P]), we never used to mind going to our teacher's houses. Some of the teachers whom I remember for the only reason that I enjoyed their presence were Lalitha akka, Krishna sir, Veena akka, Vijaylakshmi akka, Basuki sir, Ravish sir, Velu sir, Ravi sir, the unmatchable Rashmi akka, Sheba akka, Sunita akka, Chitra akka, Sugandhini akka (who taught me Kannada in 6 months!), and a very many others. I know I shouldn't be mentioning any names when I can't name all of them, but it's a feeling hard to contain. I don't think there was one teacher on campus who was disliked. I mean, when we all speak of schools as being our second home for a greater part of the day, the alumni and students of TVSA will agree that we actually mean it.

Moving on, we used to have these social service/observation programs once every week, usually on the Fridays, where there were three activities into whose groups all the students from class six and up were separated into. They were (and so I call them; these are not the names of the programs!) The Village School, Garbage Recycling, and The Theatre Workshop.

The second and larger campus of the school was nestled in the outskirts of Tumkur past a village called Kodagenahalli. This was where the TVS motorcycle factory was located, and part of their land had been entrusted to the school authorities. 'Halli' is Kannada for village. In Kodagenahalli, there was a lonely school where all the village kids got their taste of math and science. Our school had struck some sort of an agreement with this village school and every Friday, we spent a few hours in the evening spending time and interacting with a counterpart from the school. These partners were also chosen in an interesting manner; no grade cards and marks-scored-in-the-exam businesses here! We were all blindfolded and let loose into a field populated with kids from the other school. With our hands outstretched and us running around like dragonflies on a rainy night, whomsoever we happened to touch was our partner. Mine was a very soft-spoken girl named Bhavya. The beginnings of such interactions were all limited to the magic of chemistry labs and the incessant mathematical harvests from physics labs, and whatever happened at the level of being two children meeting each other for the first time was completely put aside. At that time, I couldn't speak Kannada so fluently and Bhavya was a girl who always had doubts. As time flew, I for one couldn't keep up with all the things she wanted to know about and finally threw my hands in the air: I need to understand what you're saying, and you need to understand what I'm saying. So I am going to tell you a secret. And you have to promise me that you won't tell it to anyone. Ok? Ok. Henceforth, we don't study. We play. And that is when I realised that however soft-spoken she had been, she had a lot to say for herself. She went on and on, about granaries, about grains, about the farms, about their endless playgrounds, about days that began and ended with the sun, about homes that always had some fragrance around them to lure you in for a treat, about a life that, to me, didn't seem like living with the animals or in the hands of nature. I realised that when we say such things, we think of ourselves as people different, like some disjoint groups who severed themselves from their own roots. The life Bhavya was living was the most natural and simple.

Garbage recycling was another amazing experience. There was this neighbourhood behind the older campus wherein groups of three students each had to go from door to door collecting vegetable and other organic waste, as well as letting the householders know the advantages of recycling such waste. I was in a group where the other two were seniors to me; I remember only one of them, Jyothsna by name. The thing about these outings I liked the most was the interaction with those who lent us their ears. Even though all of them lived in the same neighbourhood, each one of them differed so much from the other. We also had small gatherings, more like military briefings with Krishna sir hollering away at some kid, where each group was given its turn to speak of what they had accomplished that evening. The last of the three activities, the Theatre Workshop, needs no elaboration on its activities. For the four years I was in TVSA, I had met three of the most versatile drama artistes. The first one was Ravi sir, who I think was employed with the school itself. If there was someone who wanted to bring to life the surrealism that came with living the arts, it was Ravi sir. The second person was more eccentric; his name is Velu Saravanan. I once saw him on television after leaving the town when my father was relocated to Bangalore. I had no idea he was famous! His plays were always loud, bright, and so full of song and celebration. The last of the three, and traditionally not the least, was Pralayan. His name itself inspired so much in me that when I actually auditioned for the role of a bereaved priest in one of his plays, he told me that I had nailed it. Me! An Actor!

In this myriad layout of so many colours and so many cultures, there was one person who stood out to me. She was a geography teacher, but I don't really know if she did or did not handle any other subject for us. She was a lean woman, quite tall, and always had a smile to sport, whether it was a teasing one to get you asking about what she was going to do next, or a contented one to tell you that the world would never fail to surprise if only you opened your eyes a little more to the joys around you. Interspersed in these moments of silence, Lalitha akka had this quick way of speaking that I felt always prompted an answer, at least from me. And if I were to stay silent after she had said something, I would feel as though the silence were awkward. And whatever I said in reply, she would always laugh. Lalitha akka also has a twin sister, Latha akka, who taught chemistry in a college in Tumkur. Both of them live in this beautiful little house. When I had gone round to Tumkur a few months back to see her and a few old friends, it was raining. The plants outside their house were all lush green; there was also a tree in the middle of this garden, standing tall and proud like a guardian over the house. The rooms were comfortably cold, with pleasent fragrance that came from I know not where. Maybe it was the house itself. The whole arrangement looked like a picture right out of a greeting card that day. That day also happened to be a festival day, something to do with the goddess Varalakshmi. I'm not really well versed with the traditional routines on these days, but the ladies in the house had a lot to do. Akka had a lot of friends come over, many of whom were older students of TVSA. One among them was a certain Sandeep Makam, whom I had met online only a few weeks before this visit was made. I was also looking forward to meeting Sudeeksha, an old flame, who didn't show up because she had her semester exams then. But the scores of people I met and acquainted myself with on that evening overshadowed any disappointments I could have had. It was night by the time everyone had left for home and since it seemed a little too late to catch a bus back to Bengalooru, where I was put up with my father's cousin, I decided to spend the night with akka. Akka's nephew and his mother were also spending the night with them.

(More tomorrow...)

The perfection in language need not be limited to grammatical errors and their correction, but also the style of writing. Like Emerson said: “A man’s style is his mind’s voice”. The way you dress your words upon their appropriate conception to personify them and enable them to bear down upon the reader with a rain of thoughts and ideas is what constitutes your style. Keeping to a particular style also ensures that your way of writing will earn itself a little professionalism every time you employ it in sensible scripture. This evolution gradually leads to a signature of yours that will have some sort of a patent when it comes to be used. If someone picks up some papers and reads somethings written in a particular style, they’ll be able to identify the author if they know that that particular style is a signature. As regards coherence, the style of writing streamlines the train of thought such that you succumb to your style and let it dictate what you think. If you think it doesn’t suit the style in question, you think of something else.

Though this may seem like an erroneous way to write, that is the way it is. You may have thought of a lot of things, but it is also very probable that you may not have put them down in ink because the ideas did not find compatibility with your style. If this was to be my cloud, the silver linings would be that styles are not governed by any rules as such. Everybody has his or her own styles, and every style is different. This, over a period of time, ensures that the evolution of our thoughts do not overlap completely, thereby enabling everybody to think of everything (collectively). No idea is missed.

I could see more than Orion’s belt. I could see his kneecaps. I could see stars arranged in constellations unknown to me and unseen by me. I could see my life’s story scribed on the heavenly papyrus. I could see my dad, my family, my friends, I could see everyone of them! I could be anyone all of a sudden! I could be that one in the corner, with no one to bother me while I walked around on the terrace with my head cocked up. I could be that star right in the middle with so many people around,as I treated them with food and entertainment as I celebrated a personal victory. I could be that star just accompanied by two others, my mom and dad, reprimanding me as I failed an examination - of course, I wouldn’t want to be THAT star, but it could happen. It was a whole new world. I could bring in politics. I could suddenly remember that these stars were positioned in space at different distances from us, forming different spheres of ‘cosmic understanding’ between themselves. I could cause conflicts to occur between them: I could cause Orion’s belt to tilt away from his hips, as though he were aiming his bows at me. I could suddenly have a loved one come closer to me just so I could speak to her more often. It was my world, but I didn’t want to be the master of puppets. I would just want to see them to work their way through things as I watched in silence, agony, joy, depression, madness, ecstacy - anything, as long as the play continued. And then, I would know what to do because I would’ve see them happen before, and I would know what the consequences of my action would be.

This new world of mine would be my guide, my friend, my teacher, even myself. I would just stand and watch as long as they had something to say, these stars in the sky. And then, when they would just complete what they had to say, I would say my greetings of the day and go to bed. The night is always good for me now.

Brazzaville heure de pointe

Cargado originalmente por Images de Brazzaville Congo

A menudo he llamado al número
he descubierto el collar nepalí
concerté las negociaciones con el cielo
y trato de musicalizar los tipos
los temas y las fórmulas de saludo
A menudo
he felicitado al alba
leo las noticias de tormentas en el corazón
buena suerte para los navegantes de alto amor
y el murmullo del agua como si nada
fuera una persona más
y todas las ilusiones de los universos
mentales, todas las vacilaciones entre pasado
de moda y presente de la historia
se decidieran en esta concesión
tan a menudo
he confundido
la molécula del despertador
y la molécula del telediario
que anuncia tu regreso a Madrid.

Aristóteles

Siempre, hasta cuando vuelvas de reventar la tarjeta de crédito de tu marido...

Fenchihu - Taiwan

Cargado originalmente por jopax_caballero

Cinco partes con un tema triste
en la mayoría de las fómulas
no equivalen a la ciencia
de comunicarse con señales.

La búsqueda de una cinta
reservada para los intrépidos
tira la verdad al terreno malo:
un defecto acaba con preguntas.

Ni tres partes en una sola
repetirán la primera en la boda
de la idea de sufrimiento
con la idea de fragmentación.

La fiebre del adiestramiento
corona el esfuerzo tímido
de aceptar etéreamente
la manipulación de la palabra.

Un silencio lleva a un sueño
de un recuerdo que no ha durado
para nosotros lo mismo
que para el silencio que viene.

Ars Poetica

A poem should be palpable and mute

As a globed fruit,

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--

A poem should be wordless

As the flight of birds.

-

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon doth climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.

Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs.

-

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not mean

But be.

Quien una vez fue coronado como el emisario definitivo del manifiesto de la “Nueva Carne” nipona, hace tiempo que ha dejado atrás el cripticismo industrial y cyberpunk de su célebre díptico fundacional ("Tetsuo" y "Tetsuo 2: The Body Hammer"), en beneficio de nuevas vías expresivas. Siempre fiel a sus constantes temáticas, Shinya Tsukamoto se entrega sin concesiones ahora al elogio de la poética doliente de las cicatrices del alma, en busca de una definitiva vía de escape a modo de expiación corpórea y psicológica. Prolongando el turbio calado emocional de las precedentes "Gemini" (1999) y "Snake of June" (2002), Tsukamoto enfoca en “Vital” (2004) a disección como metáfora perfecta, hiriente y arrebatadora. El resultado es un nuevo triunfo; tal vez, definitivo.

De entrada, pido disculpas si esta pedante introducción puede confundir al espectador a la hora de encarar con la mente limpia de prejuicios el visionado de esta verdadera obra maestra. Pero es que resulta complicado abordar en otros términos una cinta de semejantes características. En "Vital", Tsukamoto escarba hondo, hasta traspasar los límites de la piel, la carne y el cuerpo, desnudando los sentimientos de sus personajes con precisión quirúrgica. Explora el mapa del corazón como si de un libro de bocetos de Leonardo da Vinci se tratara, en una búsqueda de la personalidad individual y artística trazada a golpe de bisturí; adentrándose en los confines más íntimos y secretos de nuestros propios cuerpos para localizar y extraer la esencia misma de nuestra alma.

A riesgo de resultar redundante, siento no poder evitar caer en discursos grandilocuentes y pseudo-poéticos (es más, lo detesto), pero no acierto a encontrar precedentes similares para ejemplificar el impacto que me produjo esta película a nivel personal. El contenido poético y filosófico de sus hipnóticas y sosegadas imágenes acabó desmontando cualquier tipo de expectativa previa a la proyección, dejándome rendido y exhausto ante uno de los desenlaces más elegantes y hermosos del cine contemporáneo.

Hiroshi (un soberbio Tadanobu Asano, posiblemente el mejor actor asiático en activo) es un estudiante de medicina que padece un trastorno amnésico como consecuencia de un accidente de tráfico que le costó la vida a su novia, Ryoko (Nami Tsukamoto, un espléndido descubrimiento, sin parentesco alguno con el autor). De vuelta en su apartamento, bajo el atento cuidado de sus padres, Hiroshi se pasa los días deambulando como un fantasma, intentando descifrar las lagunas de sus recuerdos, con la memoria convertida en un folio en blanco.

El descubrimiento de un libro de texto sobre anatomía reavivará en él su interés por sus estudios de medicina, al tiempo que despertará el lento flujo de recuerdos de su novia, evocando diferentes aspectos de su relación. Ante los aparentes progresos de su hijo, los padres de Hiroshi le apoyan en su decisión por retomar la carrera allá donde hubo de abandonarla tras el accidente: en plena clase de anatomía patológica.

Durante sus prácticas, analizando cadáveres anónimos, Hiroshi experimenta la turbadora incertidumbre de que el cuerpo al que se encuentra practicando la autopsia sea el de la propia Ryoko. Llegado este punto de la historia, nuestro protagonista inicia una febril búsqueda de su pasado, alternando reminiscencias de la realidad con una prolongación onírica de su vida junto a Ryoko y los diferentes niveles narrativos comienzan a establecer una hermosa analogía psicológica con el proceso mismo de la disección.

El trabajo de Tsukamoto no siempre ha sido convenientemente interpretado por los ojos occidentales. La concepción habitual de su visionaria estética post-industrial, hermética y futurista ha primado por encima de cualquier otro contenido de clave social y humana presente en su filmografía. Así pues, su cine continúa pendiente de un necesario análisis de su naturaleza existencialista. Incluso en sus más grotescas fábulas, el autor muestra un afán de exploración de los rutinarios rituales cotidianos, la soledad humana y la crisis de identidad. Por ello, "Vital" pasaría por ser la sublimación esencial de sus rasgos autorales, facilitando una nueva vía de estudio de toda su filmografía anterior. Por ejemplo, comienza a resultar cada vez más notoria la obsesión de Tsukamoto por retratar (de un modo más o menos explícito, lírico o brutal) los síntomas de la pérdida de consciencia espiritual individual y consiguiente aflorar de nuevas sensibilidades, siempre tan acordes con la opresiva vida en las grandes metrópolis.

Del mismo modo, el doloroso -y hasta necrófilo- sentido del romanticismo (presente en la dualidad que se establece entre el omnipresente recuerdo de Ryoko y la enfermiza relación del protagonista con su nueva novia) juega un decisivo papel de cara a la brillante conclusión de la historia. Una expiación del dolor y la ausencia magistralmente expuesta en las secuencias que enfrentan a Hiroshi con el padre de Ryoko y que nos revela un nuevo registro de abstracción que hasta ahora solo nos había permitido intuir en sus obras anteriores.

Cualquiera que sea la recepción que uno haga de la película como espectador, lo único verdaderamente incuestionable es su perfecto acabado plástico y el sentido de armonía que impregnan todas y cada una de sus imágenes (especialmente memorable la secuencia de Ryoko danzando en la playa), que la convierten en un verdadero placer estético, acorde con la carga de profundidad emocional de la historia.

En su conciso metraje, Tsukamoto demuestra haber madurado como artista, renovándose por completo y entrando por justicia en el Olimpo de los grandes. Donde antes había rabia cinética y explosiones de violencia pesimista, ahora persiste ese intensísimo sentimiento de amarga belleza. Tanta que de hecho a uno se le hace un nudo en la garganta solo de intentar recordarla.

Absolutamente indispensable.

[POSTDATA BASTARDA: Para todos aquellos que podáis acudir el pase de “¡Maldito Bastardo!” en Sitges, comentaros que la proyectan mañana (día 9) dentro del maratón de Midnight X-Treme, “Spanish Bizarre”. Será a las 01:00 h. en el Casino del Prado. ¡No os la perdáis!.]

Sono "ordito" dalle croci rese vive dal mio tempo, su fuoco di cera, il flettere del grilletto "muove" il colpo,
una sensazione di calore stilla pervasa d’incanto, ammanta l’istante del fuggire distrutto, violento.
Vesti dell’odio incessante tagliano i polsi  di ogni presente, si riflettono, specchio degli anni che separano dall’amata morte.
Il viso attende le carezze di pallide rugiade, all’aurora che il cielo regala, regale si cede.

Amorevolmente, Senza Tempo è stigmate del fervore,
Amorevolmente, muove l’errore il nostro dovere,
Amorevolmente la lotta continua tra il mio odio e il mio ardore.
Amorevolmente, Amorevolmente.

Short Canyon Rock Art 2

Cargado originalmente por Desert Woodrat

Ut pictora poesis (Horacio, Ars Poetica, 1. 361)

Trovo con naturalidad las etiquetas,
las tarjetas más famosas sobre los aciertos
enfatizando la palabra en los episodios
sobre diagramas de próximas reducciones.
Prescribo una equivalencia de posiciones
y una forma a la soberbia menos obstinada.

But today was bad. A close friend of mine has been asking for a long time that I write a book, and since most of my thoughts and posts on this blog dwell on the intricacies of human behaviour, I thought I might begin with a story (of which I had been thinking for quite some time now) that didn't feature a villain of flesh but a villain of thought - equivalent to mentally tormented people in other words. The thing is, thanks to Sherlock Holmes and James Bond, the first thing that comes to mind is a secret agent name Tanya who is moving in a dark alley with a briefcase chained to her left wrist, and the scenes then jump meaninglessly from car chases to cigarette butts to double crossers. Even if you say "story!" now, I'm gonna say "Tanya!" back to you. It's that messed up inside my head. The worst part of that is even if I think I have come up with something phenomenal, there always seems to be a Thomas J. Hanks to let me know he or she has been portrayed before in an Academy Award-winning role. Ideas have been taken up in scores in the past, and they are being taken up just as I write. Thankfully, the morally of this tale as I see it seems to me is that you need a book, then you don't hesitate to think. That's all.

So, getting back. I had spoken in detail about where I see myself as an author every time I pick up my keyboard and start typing out what will hopefully see the light of day as a bound book. But even when I know where my butterfly is, the flap of it's wings sets of a tornado, and I see no ball rolling anywhere. My quantifiability has lost ground. Surrealism takes flight. I need to put pen to paper, but I have lost my signature to Microsoft Word 2007. My fingers itch to dance through a million permutations of twenty six letters while I inch closer to infinity, but all I end up doing is analysing every bit of my creation down to the last cell and shelving them off for use in one of my poems. I can never be a writer. At least, I can never be a writer of stories. Fictions belongs to those who can spin yarns - not to those who are adept at breaking down one's sorrows to a million different reasons. I may be able to plunge Romeo into sorrow by throwing Juliet from over a cliff, but I will also let him know that there is hope in his love if he avenges those who killed her. But that's the extent of it: I fall prey not to the writer's block but to the claws of logical deduction. Let Romeo do what he can, but I will always expect him to do what he should. A condescending smile grips my face, and I expect my readers to figure things out for their own. I am only fair at trying to teach people what it means when you say or do something, not at telling them what can happen. I can show you that a circle is made up of an infinite number of tangents around a finite radius. I cannot show you that the circumference of the circle can be pi times the diameter if it isn't twice pi times the radius. I pride in my understanding and my expressionism. But if you were to place the load of a life on my shoulders, I should be scared to manipulate that poor soul.

But I think you can expect something of a macabre Mephistopheles from me some five years down the line!

I have always sought peace and calm, and that seems to happen only in the absence of everything around me except myself. When I write, I see myself floating in front of me like a ghost. It is no hallucination but only a convincingly elusive conception of the mind. But today, the ghost is not home. And I may have my writer's block. I usually get it when I write about things that hold meaning for me and about which I try desperately to tell others. But today's post is stranger: I seem to have lost my joy in writing, and I feel sapped of all literary endowments. You may notice it as I jump from idea to idea without bothering to lay a bridge between them; it is like a post that has been written to be read by me again, but in the future. Probably trigger some deja vu. Communication has failed. There is a wall (Pink Floyd?) between my fingers and my thoughts, and I don't know whence they come. This disorientation is killing me. Even if I had been trapped in trying to demystify some catch-me-if-you-can intricate logic of a paradox, I would have oriented myself to some sort of hypothesizing, some mathematical assumptions, and moved on to try my luck at it. But I have now realised now that writing is different. Writing is when you create something out of nothing. Can you tell me where adjectives come from? Some imperceptible quantification of feelings that varies from person to person? That is hardly a definition. But that is all I see, and I don't know whether you can understand me or not. I could convey my perception of the objects around me through the usage of words, but they would be lifeless. Merely a suspension of 1s and 0s on some screen in front of you, digital data for you to interpret and quantify on your own. But writing exists because it is inherently involved with the expressive communication of one's perceptions.

This is no writer's block, as I seem to be writing (500+ words now) sans a pause - as yet. But my arms seem flaccid, and my fingers seem to be typing of their own free will. A magical spell, 'abracadabra', the wave of a wand, a rags to riches author, a million dollar movie. I have now even lost track of whatever I started with. (Having scrolled up to read the first paragraph,) I remember now. The gentlemanly text editor who has been kind enough to reconsider the dimensions of his rich (albeit two dimensional) existence now provides solace to a lost writer. He, Mr. TE, when resized to a small box with a shy two-line exposure of my ideas, now seems different.

He now seems to say, "Look! It's only the two of us now, and a fine day it seems as yet. I hope I can be your ghost."

(Approx. fog index: 10.83)

Revista Virtual de Literatura "La Buhardilla": Especial Surrealismo.

Suplemento: "Primer Manifiesto Surrealista", 1924, André Breton.

Heilage Frans
min far
vi siglar i dag!

Kom om bord
seier du
kast loss
opp med alle segl
og gløym ikkje dei små
fokka
klyveren
mesanen
dei hjelper ikkje på farten
men på kursen
på støleiken

lat båten vere lett
himlen og skyene
er vår last
vi flyg avgarde
over eit hav av sol
og når natta kjem
skal stjernene og morelden
lyse for oss

Alleluja!

All is Vohra. What do I mean by this? I mean everything. All is Vohra because he is everywhere, every time, and for every reason. He is the source of everything I (albeit we) do. He is the end of everything I (albeit we) try to finish. He is the content that we have in between, he is the wrapping that gives it a face. His is the voice that is counted because his words are the ultimate. There is no refuting him, there is no denying him, there is no hiding from him. He will get to you no matter what. He will part crowds as though they were composed of air. He will silence crowds as though they were silent to begin with. If he tells you something, you better believe it, and that's because Vohra does not lie. He is the hero. He is the love story you want around, and his is the love story you want to live. He is the villain. He is the death of all meaning you want, and his is the villainy you want to boast of. He is the heroine. He is the theory of everything you want to embrace, and his is the fundamentalism you want to fall down on. He is the tale you see, hear, breathe, and dwell on.

If Varun Vohra is hungry, it will be that you are hungry too. And there is nothing Slartibartfast can do about it. If Vohra is going to sleep, you'd rather sleep too. There is nothing Slartibartfast can do about this as well. When he awakens, it all begins with the flap of a butterfly's wing. It is nothing but a twitch on your toe you can't help. But you'll come to him when the tornado hits your home. You will (and should) know if Vohra is on your floor. If you don't, then you should go see a doctor who has seen Vohra. Oh and, by the way, Vohra does not see doctors. Because if he is ill, then we are all ill. Even the doctors. If he twists his knee, then we all limp. If Vohra sneezes, then we all sneeze. Tell me, would you be able to bear the sight of the walls of your dream home come down in front of you? I assume not. So you'd better sneeze. But don't do any of the above because you have to do it. Do them because you are doing it. Like I said, there is no escaping it.

When I say all is Vohra. you have to think of a world where the walls are painted dark blue, and when the elevator doors slide open, you see Varun Vohra. Only and only Varun Vohra. You have to think of this world because it is your world from now onw. Because, if you have seen Vohra, you have seen everything. And it would always be better to live in a world composed of Varun Vohra because a world without Varun Vohra is nothing. Infinity is lost, and you find yourself trapped in a singularity. Vohra is George W. Bush. Vohra is Osama bin Laden. Vohra is Barrack Obama. Vohra is John McCain. Vohra is Peter Higgs. Vohra is Max Planck. Vohra is V. Vohra is Vendetta. Vohra is totalitarianism. Vohra is independence. And all this is because Vohra is my hidden me, Vohra is your trapped you.

What would you do if the universe were to collapse into a massively miniscule black hole the day after tomorrow? Would you also not collapse into your nearest and dearest ones and ask for forgiveness? What would you do if you knew the universe would never end and there's a lot more space today than there was yesterday? Would you not long to go on an adventure that spanned the 20-something dimensions of everything? What would you if the universe was thirsty and went down for some tea? Would you not feel thirsty too and go down for some tea? And what if the universe glowed with a radiance and aura that told you everything would be fine as soon as it finished having the tea? Would you not raise your tea mug to a toast? Do it. Because it is better for you to know you'll be better in the presence of such infinity. And when all is Vohra, it means you are having tea in the presence of Vohra, wherever you are having it. And I have raised my mug.

Before you finish, let me tell you something about Varun Vohra. He's big, he's fat, and he's proud of it.

(A "thanks machi!" to TheCSSDude)

(The writer wishes to let his readers know that all the information posted above is false, and were not intended to cause harm to Mr. Varun Vohra. This notification is being made after the writer was threatened with Armageddon - in his pelvic region - by some agents donning a black suit and wearing dark shades. The description of these agents is also not a reference to Mr. Varun Vohra.)

Conocía su existencia, ya muchos me hablaron de ella.

Su elegancia, sus sueños, su voz...

Sabía que existía, pero no la presté suficiente atención.

Un día, o una noche, la tuve cerca de mí,

y mi curiosidad perenne me empujó a querer volver a verla,

saber de ella, descubrir sus efectos..

¡Qué exótica!¡Qué bella de tan cerca!.

Sus cantos me embelesaron,

aún no la había probado,

pero en el siguiente sol fue todo claro,

debía probar sus labios,

debía inyectarme de ella,

colocarme junto a ella

y lanzarme de cabeza a su mundo.

¡Dios!¡Qué sensación!

Sus gomas apretaron mi piel,

suave goma de materia nube,

su tacto dibujaba trazos

de mis piernas a mis brazos.

¡Joder!¡Qué paz!¡Qué colocón!

Mi cerebro, con la Heroína, no tenía límite.

Mi imaginación se desbordaba,

mi alegría aumentaba y aumentaba,

cuánto más conocía de ella,

más quería pinchármela.

Cuando la probé tumbada,

fumando de sus poros,

no cabía en mi asombro:

era bella, caída del cielo,

cabello de ángel, suave terciopelo.

No pude desengancharme, tampoco quería.

Buscaba seguir viéndola, quería más encuentros con ella.

Agudizaba mis sentidos,

amoldaba hacia el infinito mi sensibilidad,

cada vez que la rozaba

 me desmayaba en un mundo de flores.

Pero se acabó. Se marchó.

Sabía que había poco suministro,

pero desconocía que el mono fuera a ser tan duro.

Confiaba en que con ella

había abierto mil puertas perceptivas, había crecido,

me había reído, había aprendido,

había sido yo mismo...¡y así ha sido!...

sólo que el mundo se te desploma un poco,

se te desquebraja unos segundos,

cuando tienes mono de tu Heroína.

¡¿Cómo puede una mujer

tener efectos de droga?!

A las victimas de la dictadura brasileña y de Tlatelolco- 68

¡Viva la discrepancia! Rector de la UNAM Javier Barros Sierra. La frase era la más apropiada para describir una era donde, a pesar del desprecio del establishment, los productores culturales optaron por el disenso creativo con una intensidad difícilmente comparable a la de otros sectores de la cultura. Olivier Debroise y Cuauhtémoc Medina.

[gallery]

La sociedad y el medio cultural son victimas de la manipulación engañosa esterilizadora del marketing. El artista es el producto del marketing cultural más importante que la propia obra. Algunos señales indican que la política y la cultura marchan mal y pueden empeorar sí no son socorridas a tiempo. ¿Cuáles son los factores que estarían creando un vacio cultural en el Continente? El año de 1968 es incitante en el escenario mundial. En Brasil el presidente Costa e Silva al editar el "Ato Institucional número 5" dijo: "Yo confieso que es con verdadera violencia a mis principios e ideas que adopto una actitud como esta" hundiendo el alma y la carne de toda una generación.

Los artistas plásticos en 1968 no fueron omisos a la realidad. Los contenidos de su obra eran una protesta contra la violencia de la dictadura y otras formas de represión. La obra de arte marca la oposición del artista a la violencia militar instaurada en Brasil y en el mundo a partir 02 de octubre de 1968.

El crítico de arte Frederico Morais declaró que los movimientos artísticos son arte-guerrilla. Según Morais "el artista es una especie de guerrillero. El arte es una forma de emboscada porque actúa imprevisiblemente donde y cuando es menos esperado. El artista crea un estado de tensión constante".

En abril de 1970 las aguas negras del río Arrudas que cruzan Belo Horizonte fueron escenario de la exposición "Del Cuerpo a la Tierra", organizado por Frederico Morales. En la orilla izquierda y derecha del río emergían objetos raros remitiendo al espectador a los cuerpos ensangrentados y asesinados que se encentraban en las cárceles clandestinas de la dictadura. Lo que fluctuaba en las aguas del río eran bultos construidos, amarrados y cortados a golpes de cuchillo, donde el artista insertaba pigmentos rojos. El espectador confundía estos objetos con los cuerpos ensangrentados, mutilados, asesinados y abandonados por la policía. Cualquier brasileño tenía miedo a la policía además de miedo de hablar y pensar.

El narcotráfico con una estructura global se sirve de estrategias militares semejantes a las dela dictadura de Brasil, en 1968. Los cuerpos mutilados en las orillas de los ríos, en los parques y carretera son íconos del miedo. El horror que nos provocan estos cuerpos mutilados nos impiden de creer en la dignidad de la victima y en la indignidad de los ejecutores. ¿Por qué hay un intento de reducir la responsabilidad del político en las ejecuciones del narcotráfico del mundo globalizado? Considero equivalentes las acciones del narcotráfico al asesinar personas con las propias manos con las de los políticos que dejan esparcidos en el aire el olor al miedo. Para los artistas de los años 60 y 70, arte, cultura, política y ética eran elementos de cuestión política. Las obras son testimonios de la perversidad del ser humano en un determinado momento histórico. En realidad lo que el artista buscaba era un proceso de comunicación cuyo el objetivo era una intervención en la realidad. En México, en la Era de la Discrepancia, los grabados fueron respuestas a la necesidad de articular la producción cultural en términos de inconformidad y desmitificación. Los grabados significaban vincular el lenguaje visual a la posibilidad de una arte participativa.

Empleando los hechos de 1968 al contexto de la globalización de los años 90 queda claro que el lenguaje visual entró en crisis pues los artistas dejan sus países no como exilados políticos, sino para participar de los espectáculos en los centros hegemónicos. No creo en la hipótesis de que fue el imperio del terror en el gobierno Medice (1969-1974) contribuyera a la decadencia del lenguaje poética visual y sí en la capacidad especulativa del mercado de arte para deteriorar el proceso creativo.

La metáfora aún es más importante que las imágenes que nos proveen los periódicos para la comprensión de nuestro momento histórico. La violencia que heredamos de los sistemas políticos está ahora en manos de los narcotraficantes que nos intimidan y nos confunden y sólo puede ser enfrentada si es conocida. Quizá no podamos esperar de los artistas contemporáneos metáforas y una acción política como ocurrió en 1968. Hoy toca a los espectadores y a los medios comprender los rasgos de nuestro entorno. Así contribuiremos con la desintoxicación del debate. No sé qué es lo que quiere enseñar esta fotografía de la Revista Proceso semejante a los bultos flotantes del río Arrudas en que el espectador comprende la muerte negando, sin embargo, la violencia, la tortura y la amputación de los cuerpos humanos. Cuando el artista emplea la fotografía ésta significa exactamente lo que el artista quiere que ella signifique. La cuestión está en saber la diferencia entre la tortura y la muerte. El narcotraficante y el torturador de 1968 hacen que los cuerpos mutilados tengan un significado para la sociedad - el miedo y el terror. Sin embargo, el artista hace que la imagen tenga significados diferentes - La cuestión está en saber quién es el que manda en el proceso de creación.

En el poema "Congreso internacional del miedo", Carlos Drummond supo captar la atmosfera vivida por Brasil en la época de la dictadura de Vargas:

"Provisionalmente no cantaremos al amor / que se refugió debajo de los subterráneos, / cantaremos al miedo, que esteriliza los abrazos, / no cantaremos al odio porque ese no existe, / existe apenas el miedo, nuestro padre y nuestro compañero / el miedo a los grandes sertones, de los mares, a los desiertos, / el miedo a los soldados, el miedo de las madres, el / miedo a las iglesias, / Cantaremos el miedo a los dictadores, el miedo a los demócratas, / Cantaremos el miedo a la muerte y el miedo después de la muerte, después moriremos de miedo / Y sobre nuestras tumbas nacerán flores amarillas y medrosas".

Embrenhado em intemperan�a
caducou terreno improdutivo
na margem da mis�ria l�quida
soterrou em atitudes viscerais.

Desgovernado em �bvio
do real que escapa
e consome pra onde?