Bed Time Stories

2011-11-18T10:10:00.000-08:00

Llegue a la ciudad de mexico hace poco menos de 2 días. Afuera hace calor y esta soleado.

Llego a esta ciudad de la misma manera que llegue a londres hace 9 años y medio. Sin dinero, sin trabajo.

Por la ventana del estudio de mi madre, puedo ver la azotea del edificio de enfrente. Es una escuela para adolescentes de necesidades especiales. Se escucha en el altavoz el himno nacional. Se escucha a la maestra dar instrucciones para formarce y tomar distancia. Se escuchan sonidos de una ciudad que reconosco, se escucha español. Se escuchan niños mujeres y hombres, todos, hablando español. Un español sin vales, joderes, molas ni guays. Se escucha un español que me cuesta un poco.

Ayer, acompañe a mi hermana al mercado. Me invito un cafe en su casa, aqui el cafe se sirve ligero, muy ligero. Me quede con ganas de cafe. Hace calor afuera. Estoy adormilada y siento los rayos del sol atravez de la ventana del coche. Aqui todo el mundo viaja en coche, y no puedes bajar las ventanillas demasiado por que hace un par de años se desato una ola de asaltos en los semaforos de quienes eran victimas los que llebaban las ventanillas abiertas. Me pregunto si seguira sucediendo, miro alrededor, todos viajan con las ventanillas cerradas. Aire acondicionado, a mediados de noviembre.

Mi mama me acompaño a comprar una targeta sim para el telefono celular que lleva año y medio metido en una caja. Despues fuimos al centro, huele a cañeria y reconosco las calles pero me siento perdida. Pienso que no tendria idea de como regresar a casa. No tengo un mapa mental de la ubicaion de la casa de mi madre.

Me compre unos tenis para correr. Todavia no me atrevo a salir del departamento.

.........................................

Google Translate:

Arrive in Mexico City a little less than 2 days. Outside it is sunny and hot.

I reach this city in the same way you get to London for 9 years. No money, no job.

For the study window of my mother, I can see the roof of the building opposite. It is a school for adolescents with special needs. The speaker is heard the national anthem. Listening to the teacher to give instructions for formarce and take away. We hear sounds of a city which I acknowledge, hear Spanish. Children are listened to women and men, all speaking Spanish. A Spanish without vouchers, fuck, molas or cool. Spanish is heard it costs me a little.

Yesterday, I accompanied my sister to the market. I buy you a coffee at home, the coffee is served here light, very light. I want to stick with coffee. It's hot outside. I'm sleepy and I feel the sun right through the car window. Here, everyone travels by car, and you can not download the windows too much about that a couple of years sparked a wave of assaults on victims who were semaphores llebaban those open windows. I wonder if it will continue happening, look around, all traveling with the windows closed. Air conditioning in mid-November.

My mother accompanied me to buy a SIM Blast Card for cell phone that takes years and a half in a box. Then we went to downtown smells like pipe and I acknowledge the streets but I feel lost. I think it would have no idea how to return home. I have no mental map ubicaion of my mother's house.

I bought some running shoes. Yet I dare not leave the department.

2011-11-01T14:27:00.001-07:00

I start again.
What is the point?
There is no point.
Turn the page.
It's tomorrow.
I am gone.

2011-09-28T02:15:00.003-07:00

❝ Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.

— The Painted Drum by Louise Erdrich

2011-09-23T15:27:00.000-07:00

me pregunto en que lado de la cama me siento menos incomoda.

te miro a 10 centimetros de distancia y la panza me chilla.

te llamo te llamo te llamo, no te llamo

por cuanto tiempo.

2011-09-12T14:28:00.000-07:00

So they had to come there
both of them,
under the rain
to perform the rite
that would repair the web of time where it had been broken.

He wrote me:
I would spend my life trying to understand the function of remembering
which is not the opposite of forgetting
but rather its lining.
We do not remember
we rewrite memory much as history is rewritten.
How can one remember thirst?

2011-08-30T06:22:00.000-07:00

I want to sleep again.

I wanna switch off and dont be part of anything

i dont wanna talk or hear you talking

I wanna stay in silence and dont watch

I dont want to be part of it
what ever it is

i dont want to sent any apologies
what ever i done that wasnt what you expected

i want everyone to stop expecting

i want everyone to forget that i will not turn up, I will not reply

i want to give it all away

put is all in the same box and give it away

i dont want to understand anything

nor explain

I will read my horoscope and a self-help book, go to my weekly therapy.

And everyday will still look the same.

Square one. is always the same square.

I dont want to reinvent anything. I dont want to start again

I dont want to make the most of anything

Place anything in place

I write in english and it feels empty.

and spanish feels foreign

wordless

I feel wordless. mute.

i dont want to hear again this is just me

shut up

i dont wanna hear myself say it again

2011-08-14T05:49:00.001-07:00

i was looking for a mirror with no reflection.. and i found a reflection with no subject

.you watched as i faded away........

PUBLISHED!!!!!!

2011-08-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

today, i feel a little less shit about being dyslexic.

The very first entry of this blog was a braking up letter... today, I got a copy of a magazine where it has been published... its weird to be happy to have written it... and equally sad. As much as it feels nice to see my name in the index of a beautiful publication. I rather had a coffee in your garden on a tuesday...

2011-08-06T13:06:00.001-07:00

the writing ain’t hard
it’s a joke
the thinking is hard.
people who don’t think
don’t think about writing
fucking is easy…
keeps the thinking down
FUCK…don’t write
rule one of being a writer

RULE ONE, Scott H.Bourne,

2011-07-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

and then you stop.

trying to.

what ever you were trying.

and then you wonder.

who ever was on the other side.

A place to start

2011-06-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

Chances are things are not gonna turn out the way I imagine them

I will end up having a job that I did not think I could do
living in a place.. a very different place, wherever that is

chances are I am too early or too late to catch the right train

that i will fall for the wrong person
and he will never fall for me

and vice-versa

chances are in a few years non of that would matter

what ever we argued for

and I will just remember cycling with you at dawn,
just before you asked if you could kiss me

chances are my life will never be perfect

I will never feel ready

and i will never stop feeling scared

chances are i will never stop wondering

if things would have been different if I had been a happy child

and that not all things will be good at the same time

or that they will only seam good a few years after, when i look back

chances are I will never manage to put all of my shit together

so I can finally start

start living the way I want to live

being the person I want to be

chances are a there will never be enough time

or enough money

to do all I ever wanted, which is everything

that there is still so many things to be disappointed by

and so many others to be happy for

so I have no idea

what is right or wrong

2011-06-14T14:55:00.001-07:00

al final, a nadie le importa la vida de los otros

2011-06-08T06:35:00.001-07:00

how long will you lie there,
Oh lazybones?
When will you rise from your sleep?

Good times for change

2011-02-14T12:16:00.000-08:00

Today, I dreamt that my house was in the middle of the jungle.
I needed to get one of those little crowded buses to go around,
and the road went over ponds with wild gigantic salamandras.
It was warm, friendly and colourful, and there were animals
everywhere, the kind of animals that I have never seen.
Pretty much like the ones I got to draw today in my first day at work.

And we grew old, we fall apart

2011-01-21T05:34:00.001-08:00

In time of transition, one leaves some things behind. Many of them you wanted to get rid of, some others were very important, and your heart will stop at the realisation: you left the box.. Perhaps that is a good thing, though. So new important things can come along. We have a box for the important things now vacant. And things can start moving again.

Sydney, (or lesson learned)

2011-01-20T16:23:00.000-08:00

TV is not a place to discuss literature.
... and facebook is not a place to discuss art.

2011-01-12T14:02:00.000-08:00

Maps are very fake things. They tell you that the time has stop. And it hasn't.

when the battle is lost and won

2010-10-22T03:41:00.001-07:00

When I'll get there, to the tip of that mountain,
i'll be strong enough
it will be autumn already, and all the leafs will have felt
I wont remember the smell of the blossom
and with the wind that announces winter's proximity braking my skin
I wont turn back

2010-07-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

'I can't share my life with a fantasy, but most relationships are built on just that.'

2010-06-28T01:45:00.000-07:00

Time to catchup

2010-06-11T05:19:00.001-07:00

There's no more to borrow
There's no more to steal
And no more to feel

no room for memories

2010-06-09T12:26:00.000-07:00

feather pillow fights

2010-05-07T11:45:00.000-07:00

i have a terrible memory...
but safari is got a history button ...
and my sent box and inbox in yahoo are never emptied.

I can track back pictures. mine and yours.
to illustrate my shaded memories.

and i've just been reminded.

little pebbles to not get lost.

2010-05-03T04:56:00.001-07:00

beneath the underdog

come back

2010-04-02T07:40:00.001-07:00

and tell me who you are

eyes on god and oblivion

2010-03-24T13:19:00.000-07:00

because i paint frogs and
moose
my art career is in
tatters
what ever comes befor
me i paint
'thats not clever'
they tell me
'thats not how an artist
climbs the mountain of
cash'

'you paint too many
pictures'
like picaso every move
must be preplanned
the monumental pieces
must shuck off
in season
not arrive like cartloads
of barstard children

remember:
product placement
eyes on the doller
eyes on inmortality
not god and ablivion

but i am glass
see-thru
unmediated
crystaline
rude and lovely
the son of art

billy childish
this are not my orthography fails, they are his, and that is partly
why i love him so much. orthography is just so anal.

2010-03-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

WHAT YOU SEE DEPENDS ON WHERE YOU STAND

The answer is in my head.

2010-03-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

In vain I think of repetition.
With perversion I long for repetition.

Repetition is happiness. And fatalities would need to be repeated to eternity to have any importance.
Two ends of the same rope. And from the middle there is my body hanging. Pulling both sides my body hangs. A dry noise. Piss and blood.

I dream of smells, bright colors. banging noises, bits of music, body parts, chunks of time, borrowed past lives, overlapped. So disgustingly overlapped. I wake up and the saddest bits of them all are real.

In fear for no answer, I wonder in happiness how long will it last, can you stay a little longer? .. I want to get lost in this forest and don't be able to find the way back home.

The answer is in my head. There is a way out to this maze. I need to find the loose brick that will bring down this walls. my hands are bleeding. im tired of digging. I loose some nails. infected flesh. I feel alone. It's dark and damp. I find old graves, and their stones all have the same names. they all have corpses. I dig and bury. again and again.

there is no time. I ran out of repetitions, for good or bad. So the answer is no. I did not just do that.

I used to visit you in dreams, at will. We would make love under the sun. And then we would slit each others throats at once when awake. Now i dream of both. Dig and bury. Semen and Blood.

There is a way out to this maze. I need to find the loose brick that will bring down this walls. my hands are bleeding. im tired of digging. I loose some nails. infected flesh. I feel alone. It's dark and damp. I find old graves, and their stones all have the same names. they all have corpses. I dig and bury. again and again.

tease

2010-03-02T14:25:00.000-08:00

is this a bone I am chewing?

2010-03-02T01:50:00.001-08:00

my feet are in the grave

funeral

2010-02-26T14:22:00.000-08:00

I wish i was near the sea, so i could see it always always changing, always always moving, always dying, always reborn...

2010-02-26T00:44:00.003-08:00

y este puto cuarto donde no se mueve el aire

on drawing

2010-02-24T14:31:00.000-08:00

looking at things from the distance, don't always makes them clearer

you gain perspective but you loose detail...

i made this ink stamps of a bite i gave myself on the arm
i like how it looks like a little dark monster..

an the difference between it not making sense at all is a little bit of shading

white paint

chalk

2010-02-24T05:44:00.000-08:00

I have not written so much for a while
also, my projects are not saying much
rusty subjects are coming out of the cupboard,
recycling
but I've lost the train of thought

perhaps I ran out of things to say

I suppose after so many years of having only nasty things to say
I now need to learn how to say not nasty things

I feel numb
like when you crash a finger on a door
after the pain
you just cant feel a thing

things feel unreal

I feel kicked out of the world as I understood it

so I ritually bring myself to old states of mind
I get drunk, so my body remembers how does it feel
although my guts dont

once talking about tattoos, someone said the only thing your body can remember is pain
your brain blocks it out as self defence, pain is only there to warn you of danger, just as fear

and I wonder what is there then for my body to remember

millions of beautiful images
that with out the pain I don't know how to interpret
cos that is the filter I know how to look through

so this is what i got left now
empty pretty pictures

a cigarette is

2010-02-22T02:09:00.000-08:00

the distance between the back door and the skip and back.

the distance between the off-licence and the building's front door.

a great dessert if accompanied by a black coffee.

the best way to get the bus coming.

a reasonable time to wait for someone to arrive.

the best cliche after good sex.

studies for victim and tyrant.

2010-02-20T03:02:00.000-08:00

time destroys all things.

revenge is a human right.

candid masculinity.

Substance

2010-02-14T10:47:00.000-08:00

Too much colour blinds the eye,
Too Too much colour blinds the eye,

Too much music deafens the ear,
Too much taste dulls the palate,
Too much play maddens the mind,
Too much desire tears the heart.

In this manner the sage cares for people:
He provides for the belly, not for the senses;

He ignores abstraction and holds fast to substance. much

TaoDeChing, Lao Tze music deafens the ear,

me gusta que no me entero

2010-02-13T14:46:00.000-08:00

chuparte las tetas

no saber de que hablas

quedarme clavada mirando el frutero

sin decir palabra

escuchar la leche que hierve

moderte las nalgas

el cuello

toda

2010-02-13T11:28:00.000-08:00

i will be writing a new check soon

for all the dreams i touched and broke

2010-02-11T12:40:00.000-08:00

las mujeres sin cabeza no llegan a ningun lado,

se quedan perdidas correteando lentamente

lentamente los sueños

lentamente

para siempre

body and mind

2010-02-11T04:54:00.000-08:00

pff...so i went for a walk, and brought some of my readings, sat in a coffee shop hoping for the change of environment to help, suddenly every single noise got magnified in my head.. the coffee cups touching the saucer across the room, the radio, the steamer, the door's bell, the lady opening the cashier, the conversations in french.. then, i got over that but got really hungry and managed to read a bit while eating my panini, a mom with a baby came and i loose it for a little while again, but when i finally could block all the noises in my head I became super aware of my body and felt horribly horribly cold... so after 2 hrs and a half and 3 pages of my book, im back home...

crap

Headfuck

2010-02-07T14:39:00.000-08:00

Im standing

almost rigid

standing

my fingers are numb and almost purple

but wont let go

the arrow pointing to your chest

is struggling to stop scratching your skin

but wont let go

im still looking nothing but your eyes

covered with what i confuse with rage and pain

your arms are shacking but wont let go

the trigger in my head that would set me off

if your kill me

I'll let go

found letters

2010-02-05T13:11:00.001-08:00

today I found a bunch of old letters I wrote for you....

they were so old my hand writing is completely different now..

yellow pages...

I thrown them away.

making space

2010-01-30T11:39:00.001-08:00

I have collected so much.. so much

i dont know how many different people i could be...

and so this year, is about trying to make one single person of that siamese I have been, to make some space..

chopping.. chopping ...

chopping limbs

im loosing bits of myself...

it is painful

small bed

2010-01-25T16:08:00.000-08:00

last night I dreamt my room had a cloud of flies ..

the light was misty and had sharp edges

my bed is too small for my alarm clock and

so i kept pressing the snooze button

and the dream kept looping

the window, the cloud

the moist of the light

I cant breath

and Im scared of the nightmares

coming back..

this is the smallest bed i slept in years

i think tomorrow, i'll sleep in the sofa-bed

moon

2010-01-21T03:12:00.000-08:00

likes green things

I

2010-01-19T14:11:00.000-08:00

wish
i could
i wont
i cant
i should
i wont
i hope
i will

... you sleep in the bed you make

2010-01-14T14:05:00.000-08:00

my work to exhibit had to be in the studio by 9:30

that gave me about 1 and a half hrs of sleep

since i had to drop it at 7 am at my friends flat so I could

then.. have an 8 hrs shift

and yet with no sleep, i went back to the studio to mount my installation.

i hated my work,

and it looked like some people weren't as nice as i know they are

so exausted. all i needed was my bed.

so after having lost the insomnia that has shared my bed for the past 10 years

I realised, there is some pretty incredible people around me

and that things are not at all that bad

turned out there was nothing wrong with the world

I was just lacking good sleep

.good night me.

Knock knock

2010-01-13T05:33:00.000-08:00

Q: who is that?

A: Hysteria

that kind of love...

2010-01-02T18:06:00.000-08:00

.. the one where vampires have reflections, and victims are invisible

.. the one that illuminates the night with artificial light.

I packed a bunch of things,

2010-01-02T14:46:00.000-08:00

but i left my favourite books.
and my cameras
papers
branches
ceramic figurines
woollen thread in many colours
my coffee mug and grinder
my cigarettes
empty limbs
slides projector
acetates
empty sketchbooks

I left myself there

so you could play.

.. playground is empty.

and the funny thing is I don't even miss it either.

last time, I brought my favourite clothes to the new flat

next time, I will bring the cameras

day by day

i will start nesting again

for no-one

I packed a bunch of things
but they say to bring my body only...

Voice and Superpowers

2010-01-01T13:48:00.000-08:00

last night I wished for my silence to take over...

this morning, I woke up and my voice was gone.

I think over night I travelled to a magic place

and got myself superpowers...

The Ways Things Go . 2009.

2009-12-31T14:26:00.000-08:00

There is only one thing I could compare this year with.

A trip in peyote when I was 18. Until then, I had never been so terrified.

I took myself there, wanting to see something, something that would change the way I saw things.The bitterness made me sick, and in a desperate attempt to scare away my own fears I recited a list of things I loved. But one by one fall lost in the vastness on the desert.. such quietness ... have you ever feel the fear for nothing at all, nothing with a name? I felt this fear inside a tent, surrounded by nothing but the solitude of the desert and its infinite silence.... and in the verge of loosing my mind I tried to convince myself that it all was gonna be just fine. In the middle of the Night I awaited for the Sun outside my fragile fortress. Playing denial I opened the door. and there it was. Nothing. there was no sun, nor anything to fear. There was the night, and the moon tinted it all in blue, further that my eyes could see.

I have never yet experience again the same intensity of beauty.

But I am not awaiting for the Sun.

My night itself is got its own many colours.

and the vastness of the silence,

I became all.

This year, I left my fortress fly violently in a sand storm. ... away ... away ... away...

.... and I cant wait for my silence to take over.

Who would have said that the end of hope would be the beginning of freedom?

Wedding Poem

2009-12-22T12:57:00.000-08:00

He shaved her

And married her

That afternoon

After absinthe

And sex

In the dark of the room.

No friends were invited

The priest he went white

All around there was danger And low candlelight.

Then we shared tables

With madness and thieves

I saw perverts in shadows

Pouring drinks on their sleeves.

The marriage

It lasted

A day and a night

For him she was perfect,

But he wasn't right.

Kyle Hugall

I watched as you faded away

2009-12-01T13:07:00.000-08:00

I have a pile of pictures and a pile of paper that don't seam to belong anywhere anymore
It all looks so pointless now.. or precious .. don't fuck with the memories man, you are gonna bring them back...

let them go yellow, throw them away..
remember how you did not like this place?

remember the pills
the nightmares,
the solitude

don't fuck with the memories, let them rot away
their not yours no-more
they belong to the old days..

remember the old days?
so cold

and is getting dark again

i re-read my words and i'm scared to recognise myself..
was i there, was i there?
and all the words that did not make it to the paper or the screen
want to comeback and hunt me

let go let go

i have faded away..

and now?

the universe

2009-11-13T06:04:00.000-08:00

When you left, a window remained opened, and my light was from it licking. All the colours. a vast universe took their place. Here I was, full of that universe. How unbearable, the vastness. Where to start, if I am all?

the old days

2009-10-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

i miss those days, in which you took over my whole mental space..

you were here, you were here, you were always here

always in my head

there is no lack left, it is all down to me

perfect harmony

2009-09-17T13:13:00.001-07:00

you work to eat and then you go shit it in the morning, before going to work

in the beginning

2009-09-15T15:01:00.000-07:00

it is always dark..

Caro

2009-08-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

one day I dreamt I could hear your voice,

and it resonated in that pond across the woods...

green and blue..

I find a white paper wall,

with a soft light coming through...

drops of water..

I know I wont find the way in,

but i can see the colours behind

if I could dream as colourful as you do.

...

I am not sure why caro makes me so curious,

about what lies behind her quietness

perhaps it is this way she moves,

like if she could make her dreams come true

but she would keep the secret ...

in any case benjamin found her,

and he could open that little chamber...

and now, you will never know..

do you ever wonder?

2009-08-13T02:17:00.000-07:00

you jumped to the lake

grabbing my hand on your way

I played no resistance

together we sank

in turquoise darkness

we kissed

deeper and deeper

in muddy love

we slip inside

deeper and deeper

away from the surface

today

2009-08-04T06:08:00.000-07:00

I 'll go to the garden house,

pets are not aloud in the flat,

so i'll buy one of those plants that need lots of water and extra care

cos i'm sick of cactus now

at the end of july

2009-07-30T15:16:00.001-07:00

I get to register in a ruled green book all the expenses for this regurgitated project.. I stick a receipt, draw a little picture of the purchase and write a little explanation of what would I use it for, or what am I expecting to learn from it, what little bit of atmosphere im wishing to gain with it. ..

at the end of the book, it will be filled with numbers, pounds, plus and minus ... little pictures

wonder if at the end, with a pile of books, prints, pictures, broken maquets, slides, little figures, mini trees, fish tanks, projections, built rooms, faulty paintings, broken mirrors, dismantled ideas, writings, so many writings, opened blogs, deleted blogs, draft posts, will I be able to put in a pile the immense lonesome of the end of july...

and with the old recreated memories? will I stop counting Julies?

ps: dont you hate when youtube is only got a really shit version of a song is just perfect and just completely ruins it?

ink and needles

2009-07-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

I would like to stay with you,
touch you with the tip of my fingers.
and my smell to be remembered,

humans are to vanish
in warm steam

let me stay a little longer
make you quiet company

in order to be both,
visible and invisible,
present and absent
I will cut you open
I'm only trying to stay inside

let me be a witness of your journeys
you don't need to remember my name

I will let you go, I promise
in exchange of this one moment

where we become both
victim and tyrant

i have waited so long..

2009-07-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

and I will have to wait a little longer...

with itchy fingers I can only wait for next time I have some few hrs to write here and play there... pencils, I wish I had a pencil, I find myself thinking so very often...

I have a list of happy desires waiting to be acumplished..

things took so long ... so long...

finding lost meanings... re-create them...

bed time now... aching feet

a sea of images

2009-06-24T13:14:00.000-07:00

when you wake up from a long dream

be aware of drawing in sweet water

throw me a rope

so I can hold tight

with my eyes in the view finder

I will snorkle

and breath out bubbles of colour

London

2009-06-20T16:37:00.000-07:00

in the meantime,

I will go on as if nothing was happening...

I will look forward for next tuesday..

until there is no tuesdays left.

one, two, three .. press the button and is over

2009-05-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

"what you've just seen
is the materalization of the person you think you knew

incidentely you are fortunate..
the woman is part of the past

you think she will comeback?
she will and she wont."

Solyaris (1972)

Dog Love

2009-05-14T18:19:00.000-07:00

Little did I know of the many levels of my cruelty.

I left you fastened to the trees, and walked away indifferent.

It takes many fallings from romanticised clouds to realise the enormity of ones actions...

...winters and falls.

another winter had to happen

for me to understand that honesty means nothing but incurable pain when it arrives too late.

I have little to say in my defence.

other than my blindness.

anniversary

2009-05-14T17:02:00.000-07:00

According to my passport today is the seventh anniversary of my arrival to London... I know, I have been saying I've been here that long for quite a while now… I suppose that's how it feels… a bit timeless and a bit in a hurry.
I hate anniversaries, they unequivocally make you have a look back and make you do an assessment of the years… of you and your situation, what has change and how you have grow… let me see… hmmm... seven years ago

I had no chance for a decent job, no chance to do what I wanted to do, no chance to feel at home. Today .. ehemm.. seams many things are still very similar, like I seam to always be under the survival line.. my nationality still means too many things I can't control (all those broken dreams), and little things like there is still people who seam to not be able to get over the fact that Im not british, and that I will always sound funny.. make a mess of prepositions, measure distance with time, never know when people are being polite or they actually like me.. that I have to be incredibly careful on decision making cos I have to think five years in advance.. everyday, I have to think what do I want to be doing in 5 years time and how will this affect it... always bloody afraid of my actions..

we, the immigrants, those who make the long queue in the airport. we, are like pigeons, you try ignore them, feel compassion. but they fill up with their broken legs, misery and melting dreams platforms, parks and benches, they are in train stations always looking for the smallest chance to find a way to build a nest with the left overs. repugnance. too late now, they've ruin tea at the terrace.

the worse part of the self inflicted exile is, that it seams to mean you are not aloud to disapprove, to have a critical opinion over the place you have chosen as your new home. you are castrated. you are not aloud to hesitate. no matter how long you stay, in fact the longer you do the less you are aloud to...

... what the fuck am i still doing here then? you my ask, well, the other side is that I really love this place, I have done, learn and seen things that would not have been possible back home.. the list of things I love about it is far longer than the ones I don't... if only I did not feel such prisoner inside its freedom... and is it worth all the struggle? well, I have always been very close to something and the illusion is rather cunning you see,… when it had been 3 years I only had to do the right paper work to get an italian passport… absurdity and bureaucracy disintegrated that possibility in a flash that involved lawyers nocking at my front door and very scary phone calls (you have t know a lot about law if you are a pigeon)... but I still had 2 years of residency, certainly an opportunity not to be missed ... so by my fourth year I was enrolled in a foundation degree in art and design… in case anything happened I have never like the idea of being in an illegal position, it is bloody scary as it is, so that would give me the possibility to apply for a student visa if necessary… foundation followed university, and suddenly I was closer to the possibility to apply for a british citizenship... 10 years those are… so, graduating in 2009 and having the extra 2 years after graduation... it would be foolish not to gain for that... on the sixth year, again bureaucracy and absurdity nock at my door… 10 minutes at the british embassy in Mexico. entry clearance that is call, and 10 years magically became 14… so somehow 4 years ago I was very close and now at 7 years Im at the middle of something or nowhere... I have began to believe that for the past 7 years I have thought nowhere was an actual place... and in the pursue of this imaginary oasis I have send my self in a journey on this escalators that go backwards...
I could just get to the 14 years and then times and laws would have change of course, as much as they have change in the past 7 years, and find myself again in this sort of purgatory...

.. but London is a jealous lover, and wont forgive little hesitation... I wish I could go a little while to berlin.. without having to think I must come back before 3 months, not enough to learn the language for example.. but 3 months seam to already disrupt all those little nests... just go! you are thinking of course... 7 years are the middle of nowhere.. but the middle is closer than the beginning .. and new beginnings need to be justified if you are a pigeon.. so you wanna live here? have you got the right papers? where are you gonna stay? what are you gonna do? how long for? why? do you really want to? how? have you got enough money? how much? show me! cos if you are a pigeon you live your life in advance you see, you always work for the day today and the days to come, and you pay in advance.

I don't need a red passport to love this place as much as I do. is so absurd to think in the paradox, I just would like to be able to leave... for as long as I like... to learn from living in other places, and be able to come back. be able to work my arse and know is gonna mean something.. cos like this is like building someone else's house.

... or anyone like you

2009-05-14T11:31:00.000-07:00

his name is Lanneau (this photograph is by a guy call Ben Aqua).

Lanneau has no idea of the shock he has produce on me by quite accidentally finding his portrait...

how many yous are there around?

hope not to many..

or at least not to find them...

one in a life time is more than enough

.one life with each other.

in any case, I suppose your presence,

real or imaginary,

virtual or tangible,

will always produce on me this initial reaction,

a combination or fear an excitement, restlessly neutralising each other.

in a fraction of a second I feel dangerously tempted to visit all my memories

but is too late now to drag the past out into the light

and my insides are to tired to keep holding you back.

I suppose I can't stop this accidents to happen,

but the memories recalled are slowly fading away,

no texture, no colour, no scent.

onto some insipid image that can't finish to tell me what does it reminds me of.

I hope I never see you again.

in my life.

I hope is already too late.

and that I one day have enough strain to delete all of your letters,

and mine.

yada yada poetry

2009-05-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

i find myself uncapable to write, draw or read...

I tried on all of my clothes
I've straightened my hair

still nothing to say

the taste of colours

2009-05-06T15:16:00.000-07:00

A grain of salt shines on the wooden table
she lowers her head to see it from the side
and thinks it could project a rainbow if the light was right.

she licks her finger
and slowly picks the miniature rock up.

into her mouth.

Still repeating only what others have said

2009-05-05T18:03:00.000-07:00

there is so much information lost in this many drafts... so many things i would like to discuss, this many readings, this many books, this myths and stories, leyends, philosophies.. the many texts i have come across

but now, this all is just so open to interpretation is nauseous,
and there is no one sided comunication

coffee for one

...........

draft

is anyone here, here, here, here?

2009-05-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

You given yourself the priviledge to select what voices to hear/respond,
but becase the only thing worse than someone ignoring your feelings and words,
is to ignore them yourself,

I'll keep on writing this always ignored words,
always lost in this unlimited sky.

and Echo?
there was nothing left of her but her voice

hell is other people

2009-05-04T02:14:00.000-07:00

Self consciousness needs "the Other" to prove (display) its own existence. It has a "masochistic desire" to be limited by the reflective consciousness of another subject.

that is what you see in me. your echoes, your reflections.

and that is why you send me your voices (never responces).. cos I have let you know with my feeling to much that I get affected by what you say and what you do, and I respond to it... and we know is very fucking hard to walk away from the possiblity of having someone available to respond/reflect/echo your many manifestations of excistence.. it reasures you as a human being..
is pure self conciousness. dont worry. is only part of the human condition, the search for mirrors.
of course Im not talking about the narcissus of freud but that of the romans (and red by the french), the narcissus that was atracted by the echo of its own voice, and who at the presence of its real manifestation (echo, the nymph) refrains her worth for consideration or respect, he walks away indiferent to her own manifestation, as for him, she can only excist as a mirror. she is invisible. nothing she says or does finds a reflection on him, he is detached.

"What you seek is nowhere; but turn yourself away, and the object of your love will be no more. That which you behold is but the shadow of a reflected form and has no substance of its own. With you it comes, with you it stays, and it will go with you ..." (Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.433).

the perfect moments

2009-04-30T14:23:00.000-07:00

the situation portraits a postcard like moment, a perfect moment. I can see myself taking that postcard out of my pocket when telling the story again. a friends question:

-and how did you met?

-we met in the airport...

I smile. I smile to the perfect moment. I smile at it. I recognise it. I have seen it before. I smile at it and recognise its blandness. moments have been always there. they, they are everywhere. the amazing similarities. the ridiculous coincidences.

You. You were always good at perfect moments. You always knew what to say. You could read my dreams before they reached my mind. We, we were good at that. We always appeared one second before it was too late. We would not let go. We both performed a synchronised dance.

I. I ran out of perfect moments.
I have not lost the capacity to see their perfection.

but there is no address where to send any more postcards.

faulty language

2009-04-22T09:13:00.000-07:00

sudenly, i am not expected to participate of the conversation,

i do not have to have an opinion,

dont even have to look interested...

the voices keep going on the background...

and Im aloud to ignore them..

completely, with no guilt...

im free

el miedo and the information

2009-04-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

"He isn't an old crackpot: he is frightened, What is he frightened of? When you want to understand something, you stand in front of it, all by yourself, with out any help; all the past history of the world is of no use to you. And then it disappears and what you have understood disappears with it." jps

faulty language

2009-04-18T01:37:00.000-07:00

alt + n = ~ (ñ)
alt + e = ´ (á, é, í, ó, ú)

2009-04-17T18:41:00.000-07:00

Estaba viendo por la ventana y miraba el cielo.
el mismo cielo
el cielo que siempre cambia

Y miro las nubes que se mueven lentamente
y el sol que las enrojece

Miro el sol que se pierde, otra véz
en el mismo cielo

Los árboles no parecen notar mi cuerpo helado,
las hojas indiferentes siguen callendo,

Las casas siguen en pie
con sus tejados

Nada parece notar
que te has marchado

Odio especialmente esa indiferencia
de las hojas y nubes que no se detienen,
que se mueven y caen,
que se secan y cambian,
que no escuchan

Que no sienten los árboles mi corazón secarse,
como las hojas?

Como restandole importancia al dolor de tu auscencia.

Diciembre 2005

Nothing New

2009-04-17T11:55:00.000-07:00

"If I am not mistaken, and if all the signs which are piling up are indications of fresh upheaval in my life, well then, I am frightened. It isn't that my life is rich or weighty or precious, but I'm afraid of what is going to be born and take hold and carry me off - I wonder where? Shall I have to go away again, leaving everything behind - my research, to go away again, leaving everything behind .. Shall I awake in a few months, a few years, exhausted, disappointed, in the mist of the fresh ruins? I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late. " JPS

yet always ever yet... somehow .. never ...

horror politics magic realism philosophy architecture .. so far, they all tell me the same.

I must refrain myself from reading my name in every text (they appear so clearly directed to me)

I have made this mistake before.

I wish doubt was not as foggy

I submerge my feet in the lake of possibility..

then, I remember, if fact, every time I done it, it has been a mistake

confusion

scroll down

look for clues

reality looks back at me

then I understand.

and since one is supossed to learn from ones mistakes,

I grin to my stupidity

I almost did it again

and as I learn that there is no-one watching/responding, and it never was

I shall remember to forget the temptation of the social being

in which the personality of each individual is affirmed by what others see in him

and stop seeking for my reflections

plausibility disappears at the same time as friends

I should like to understand myself properly before it is too late

el miedo

2009-04-12T08:35:00.000-07:00

yo no entiendo esa frase: paralizado por miedo,

cuando yo he sentido miedo, me he hechado a correr hacia el. con la boca seca, sudando, es cierto, con las lagrimas listas, me le acerco, y con un pie adentro y otro afuera, lo dejo que me lleve, casi arrastras, hacia la realidad, y alli, alli si que me quedo quietita, sin aliento.

Fear

I do not understand this phrase: paralyzed by fear,

when I feel fear, I have walk towards it. with a dry mouth, sweating, it is true, with tears ready to come out, I get close to it, and with a foot inside and the other one out, I let it lead me, almost drag me, towards reality, and there, only there I stand motionless, without a breath.

faulty language

2009-04-12T04:38:00.000-07:00

I think in english
feel in spanish
and write their terrible translations

little mirror little mirror ...

2009-04-11T05:08:00.000-07:00

what happens when peoples boundaries are completely erased and eradicated, what happens when our sense of dignity is completely violated by others peoples projections onto us?

I have reached my own vanishing point,

I set up this scenario. A parallel world that look just like this one where I could test disaster. But I was not prepared to see myself die in my own war, to loose in my own resession. I though, I was in a safe place, that i could hid in the public space under health and safety regulations. I got caught in the crossfire of my own words. I took it too far. It got out of hand.

I know now is to late.

invisibility

2009-04-10T10:44:00.000-07:00

it is total emptiness

where you can not reflect

you don't exist

.

the end and the beginning of all cruelty.

Warning

2009-04-10T09:58:00.000-07:00

If you, by chance, find yourself reading this lines, there is a big chance you will just find a bunch of emotional crap, and you will be right in thinking so.

If on the contrary, you are reading them because you know me, or you think you know me, be aware you will find yourself in them. Particularly, in the most rotten ones.

So, I warn you, if there is still a little bit of your like for me, you might finally wash it all away.

And if you wanna keep some of what of it is left, i would recommend not to visit this site that very often. Having say that, I'm conscious of the terrible curiosity that misbehaving and jumping fences, might awake; so I kindly ask you to remember this, is a zone where no humans are suppose to enter, where my demons play, where they play pranks at me and watch me screaming. they, they will make you pull out my limbs and watch me bleeding. and there is no pleasure on that. they, they will make you my cruelest torturer, but they, unlike the crows, they never take my eyes out, so I can see you walking away, for ever.

victim and tyrant.

2009-04-08T18:15:00.000-07:00

"They have the same name, the same surname. Inhabit the same house and wear the same shoes. Sleep over the same pillow, beside the same woman. Every morning, the mirror returns them the same reflection. But him and him are not the same person:

-And me, what has that to do with me?- he says, talking about him, while raising the shoulders.

-I just follow orders- he says, or:

-That's what I get paid for.

Or he says:

-If I don't do it, someone else will.

Which is like saying:

-I am someone else.

Before the victims hate, the tyrant feels stupor, and even some sort of injustice: at the end of the day, he is a civil servant, a humble civil servant who accomplishes his schedule and duty. At the end of a tiring shift at work, the tyrant washes his hands.

Ahmadou Gherab, who fought for the Armenian Independence , told me so. Ahmadou was tortured by a french officer for many years. And each day, at 6 pm, the tormentor will wipe away the sweat from his forehead, plug off the electrical prod and put the rest of the working tools away. Then, he would take a sit next to the tortured and tell him about his family issues and the wages rise that would never come and how expensive was life getting. The torturer talked about his unbearable woman and his just born son, who would not let him sleep at night; he would talk against Oran, this fucking city, and against the son of a bitch of the colonel who...

Ahmadou, covered on blood, shaking from the pain, burning of fever, did not say a word."

La Vida Profesional, Eduardo Galeano (sorry, lousy translation)

Eduardo Galeano is a writer obsessed with remembering, with remembering the past of Latin America, intimate land condemned to amnesia.... and I came across with him first time in my fathers house, in between politics and history books, I found his writings..

so perhaps is my fathers fault I learned to read love letters in politics statements.. or is just a continents condition.. either way.

I take turns to be spectator, victim and tyrant.

good manners

2009-04-08T16:58:00.000-07:00

que no bailara le decian los ingleses a la señora gorda, que aqui no se permite, pero la gorda que no entendia nada, la muy lationoamericana, que no sea mal educada que no ve que es un concierto? le recordaba la mujer de a lado.

you should not dance here said the english man to missis fat woman, that here is not allowed, but the fat woman would not understand a thing, such a latinoamerican; would you mind not being so rude? can't you see this is a concert? reminded her angrily the woman beside her.

parfum

2009-04-08T03:18:00.000-07:00

Tas moved to london, he is going to stay in with us for a
three months period while he settles down..

When I was making him a shelf space in the bathroom I
found many things that belonged to Cat, xed's exwife.
I moved in after a week she left. xed never went through
the stuff she left behind. During the last year I have
slowly clear the last evidences of their life together. I
have learn alot about her in this process, like we had the
same shoe size and that she would hid loving notes behind
doors and inside draws and muesly jars for him to find....
today I found a shampoo for dry hair, a sun protection body
lotion, a paste for whitening the tooth and an almost
empty bottle of her perfume...

This is the last thing xed smelled when they kissed good bye.

21st April 2007

algun dia

2009-04-08T01:26:00.000-07:00

I went to a hostel to pick up a friend visiting london. in there I saw a journal that seam to have been there for years, like the rest of the furniture -we found it here- they say...

when I opened it I recognized the hand writing instantly, and with a swollen heart and shaky hands I started reading, every corner of each page had been used, I wanted to flick through all and stop on each page for ever, they were covered with pictures, colour paint and tales and love letters written inside drawings, drawings over letters.. drawn letters..

it was dated 2002, I most had been back home I thought, and it had been read so many times the pages were now covered with finger prints, and graffitied with telephone numbers and addresses that tourist wrote in careless manner

I wanted to read it all because your love and my name was all over it, but I kept on waking up

favorite word

2009-04-07T16:25:00.000-07:00

unbelievable

names

2009-04-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

one day when she remembered the meaning of her name, she choose juana instead, cos she could not think in any other

and cos giovanna with out the romanticism is just that, juana, innit? ... and she instantely cheered up

and the whole thing just made juana laugh

the truth

2009-04-07T15:33:00.000-07:00

the truth is a lie told by juana. and it always sounds more real when she tells it to herself. in a whisper.

la loca

2009-04-07T15:11:00.000-07:00

when finally juana loose her mind, everybody expected her to become and artist.. instead, she would walk the streets all naked telling stories about happenings that never happened, running after cats, feeding them marshmallow and making the children giggle behind their scandalized mothers .

la loca

2009-04-07T14:49:00.000-07:00

a todos les parecio perfectamente normal cuando juana perdio la razon, siempre tan distraida, se le caia a pedazos por las calles cuando caminaba muy deprisa hacia al mercado.

a celebration of words

2009-04-07T14:06:00.000-07:00

the tricky side of inviting people to the room in between, is that they leave their words behind floating around like colour helium balloons.

I know someone who would spend hrs jumping around trying to catch the ones with the shiny colours, and tightening them
together around her wrist, sometimes, exhausted from all the jumping, she would let go and they would pierce with the edges of the window before they could escape.. releasing random sentences, telling her the most absurd stories.

the ironic inversions of post-colonialism

2009-04-06T20:14:00.000-07:00

according to my history , conquistadores are those who bring down the walls of the temples and build new walls with the remains...

I wonder the psychological consequences of using the same word for the conqueror and the seducer...

and if is actually my fault the immediate association or a consequence of faulty language...

what is given first, the name or the demolitions? ..

I guess in my head they coexist...

history lessons (time is never lineal)

2009-04-06T17:36:00.000-07:00

and so I think in baroque, and

the ultimate landmark of baroque architecture in the american continent is Mexico City's Cathedral; and it stands majestically at the crossing of the avenues which, from the four cardinal points, lead to the spiritual centre of the Aztec capital. It was built using the stones that had once been part of the Templo Mayor of the Great Tenochtitlán and its first stone was placed by Hernán Cortes in 1524. for some, those who write the history of the world, the XVIII century was the age of reason, but it took 300 years to silence the echoes of the last warriors.. and the facade of this Cathedral wasn’t finished until 1813.

this, this is where they dance, the nostalgic of a past I never knew...

my family tree says i'm one of them, and my features remind me so, but my memories were built over the remains of an identity I never knew. then again I grew up with my grandmother, an indian who as a child saw her father work the chinampas and who does not speak a word of nauatl. she, this catholic indian, she wont be able to explain me what belongs where, what came from whom, and even if I don't share this nostalgia, at times it makes me feel like one of those mud figurines, all sprouted by little mud people.

they dance to the dead ones, to the buried ones alive, a celebration to their voices and their echoes.. always bringing the dead back... will they ever let go?

why would they?

and me?

American Romantic Movement

2009-04-05T14:56:00.000-07:00

"For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not -- and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I would burden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of more household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified me -have tortured me- have destroy me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but horror -to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will be reduce my phantasm to the commonplace -some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects. ..."

the black cat, E.A.P.

random book, random story, first paragraph..

is it me, or everything I come across seams to be talking about the same thing?
or have I developed an incredible filter that would only let that sort of information pass.. an amazing skill in reading what ever I choose in what ever text I read..

are you also doing the same?

and so I think in baroque