![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
overstudied
Nov. 23rd, 2009 | 02:52 am
Pectet me quiere vender gato romance por liebre latina.
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
La sabiduría de Pappo's Blues
Oct. 2nd, 2009 | 03:28 pm
mood: 
happy
"No puedo evitar
que vengan hacia mí
los sandwiches de miga"
Uno de huevo, otro de tomate. De jamón y queso el tercero.
Otra que chocolate caliente para el alma.
que vengan hacia mí
los sandwiches de miga"
Uno de huevo, otro de tomate. De jamón y queso el tercero.
Otra que chocolate caliente para el alma.
Link | Leave a comment {3} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
just like honey
Sep. 19th, 2009 | 09:45 pm
Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good
Walking back to you
Is the hardest thing that
I can do
That I can do for you
For you
I'll be your plastic toy
I'll be your plastic toy
For you
Eating up the scum
Is the hardest thing for
Me to do
Just like honey
Just like honey
Just like honey...
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good
Walking back to you
Is the hardest thing that
I can do
That I can do for you
For you
I'll be your plastic toy
I'll be your plastic toy
For you
Eating up the scum
Is the hardest thing for
Me to do
Just like honey
Just like honey
Just like honey...
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Sobre Paraguay - Argentina
Sep. 9th, 2009 | 10:27 pm
Argentina puso Papa, pero no puso huevo
Ju
Ju
Link | Leave a comment {1} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
finalmente
Sep. 1st, 2009 | 06:47 am
mood: 
accomplished
LO TERMINÉ
estoy
un
poco
overwhelmed
todavía
estoy
un
poco
overwhelmed
todavía
Link | Leave a comment {3} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
La ciencia del sueño
Aug. 21st, 2009 | 08:19 am
No había dormido nada la noche anterior. Me cuesta conciliar el sueño en Azul. Dormité en el micro todo lo que pude, despertándome varias veces con esa incomodidas y dolor de orejas que conozco de memoria. Casi me derrumbo al llegar a casa, pero la cena me levantó durante un par de horas.... me dormí a las 2 y media. Tuve sueños intensos. Me desperté casi a las cinco por que a una empresa de banda ancha se le ocurrió enviarme spam telefónico en plena madrugada.
Y ya no pude dormir.
No sé qué me sucede, no sé por qué este insomnio que me persigue desde que tengo uso de razón, no sé por qué no puedo mantener cierto patrón de sueño que me ayude a organizarme un poco la vida. Por un lado me gusta adaptarme a distintos horarios, pero tampoco quiero que este desorden me controle a mí.
Aaaanyway, voy a probar yendome a la cama, yet again.
Y ya no pude dormir.
No sé qué me sucede, no sé por qué este insomnio que me persigue desde que tengo uso de razón, no sé por qué no puedo mantener cierto patrón de sueño que me ayude a organizarme un poco la vida. Por un lado me gusta adaptarme a distintos horarios, pero tampoco quiero que este desorden me controle a mí.
Aaaanyway, voy a probar yendome a la cama, yet again.
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Don't speak
Aug. 16th, 2009 | 11:00 am
- Están analizando una resolución para expropiar propiedades que se encuentren desocupadas
- ¿¡Cómo!? ¿Por qué?
- ¡Si son comunistas!
- Si me sacan lo que compré con tantos años de trabajo, voy y los mato, los cago a tiros, te juro.
- Duhalde salvó al país, en esos años.
Mi costado Robespierre (que no tiene ni la mitad de la severidad, ni la mitad de la coherencia del Robespierre histórico) cree que es la gente como ustedes la que permite las peores atrocidades. Díganme que vengo de un repollo, díganme que me encargaron a París, pero no me digan estas cosas que se me retuerce el corazón.
- ¿¡Cómo!? ¿Por qué?
- ¡Si son comunistas!
- Si me sacan lo que compré con tantos años de trabajo, voy y los mato, los cago a tiros, te juro.
- Duhalde salvó al país, en esos años.
Mi costado Robespierre (que no tiene ni la mitad de la severidad, ni la mitad de la coherencia del Robespierre histórico) cree que es la gente como ustedes la que permite las peores atrocidades. Díganme que vengo de un repollo, díganme que me encargaron a París, pero no me digan estas cosas que se me retuerce el corazón.
Link | Leave a comment {5} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
let down, strange, dead
Jun. 29th, 2009 | 10:02 pm
Shell smashed, juices flowing wings twitch, legs are going
Don't get sentimental, it always ends up drivel
One day I'm going to grow wings
A chemical reaction, hysterical and useless hysterical and
Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around let down again
*******
People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
*******
Come on, oh my star is fading
And I see no chance of release
And I know I'm dead on the surface
But I am screaming underneath
Don't get sentimental, it always ends up drivel
One day I'm going to grow wings
A chemical reaction, hysterical and useless hysterical and
Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around let down again
*******
People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
*******
Come on, oh my star is fading
And I see no chance of release
And I know I'm dead on the surface
But I am screaming underneath
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Incomprendidas
Jun. 16th, 2009 | 09:36 pm
Sucede en un colectivo.
En todos ellos.
Una y otra vez, a pesar de su escaso éxito, las señoras intentan refutar la impenetrabilidad de la materia.
En todos ellos.
Una y otra vez, a pesar de su escaso éxito, las señoras intentan refutar la impenetrabilidad de la materia.
Link | Leave a comment {4} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
queen of the meadow
Jun. 14th, 2009 | 03:08 am
Queen of the Meadow
Elysian Fields
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
I bring her storms to feed her thirst
I bring her seed to swallow
She rides bareback through it all
And whispers by the willow
The queen of the meadow
With her widow's heart she sings her song
To the stars she carries on
And it's peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
Peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
And as the sun I rise upon
The pastures of her charms
Riveted to her mystery beds
Drawn to her fragrant sorrow
The queen of the meadow
With her widow's heart she sings her song
To the stars she carries on
And it's peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
Peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
And I'm burning in her fiery fields
And I'm sleeping in the meadow
And i'm burning in her loving arms
The queen of the meadow
Elysian Fields
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
I bring her storms to feed her thirst
I bring her seed to swallow
She rides bareback through it all
And whispers by the willow
The queen of the meadow
With her widow's heart she sings her song
To the stars she carries on
And it's peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
Peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
I'm in league
With the queen of the meadow
And as the sun I rise upon
The pastures of her charms
Riveted to her mystery beds
Drawn to her fragrant sorrow
The queen of the meadow
With her widow's heart she sings her song
To the stars she carries on
And it's peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
Peaceful in her loving arms
Peaceful in the meadow
And I'm burning in her fiery fields
And I'm sleeping in the meadow
And i'm burning in her loving arms
The queen of the meadow
Link | Leave a comment {2} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Los días de la canícula
Jun. 12th, 2009 | 05:55 am
music: silence
No había razón para que cruzaras todas las líneas que te separaban de mí. O sí: porque podías. El resto se lo debo a mi curiosidad necia, a que dejo mis huellas fantasmales donde no me importa, a que te rige tu estrella de sabueso.
Es temporada de perros en el bosque del venado, es hora de que te quedes quieto y me dejes devorarte, es hora de que suene el cuerno de marfil y te estremezcas.
Es temporada de perros en el bosque del venado, es hora de que te quedes quieto y me dejes devorarte, es hora de que suene el cuerno de marfil y te estremezcas.
Link | Leave a comment {1} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Pie-throwing
Jun. 2nd, 2009 | 03:21 am
"If we're going outside, I'll rather catch a scarf than a cold."
Gerald whistled over my voice, seemingly unamused at my faulty exhibit of gritty, whitie wit.
The jacket had to be grabbed in seconds, before Gerald -who had just been blessed with sudden acceleration- went out of sight. The extra centisecond was employed in getting hold of the pocket-telescope my sister had given me for revenge. As I was undertaking the running state, a vision developed from the thin air before me. It was a man, a quicker runner, keeping a distance from me as he spoke:
"Hark, human!
Do not underestimate the power of the Topoi.
Beware, beware!"
His being non-human had a remarkable appeal for my twisted taste. So did his use of poetic parody. I ran after him faster than I was running after the rat, even though it was but the same action. [A cheeky move for someone THAT foreign, countrygirl, huh.]
He turned his head back, unfurling his moustached-smile like a peacock.
Then I remembered, just after I remembered Gerald, too. I hadn't taken it out of the jacket's secret pocket since childhood (yes it runs short yes it is beautiful). [Too unrealistic. You can do it better, jellyhead] (Come on, give me a little changüí.) [Hrmm. Alright.], since the summer of 1997, when I last put my pea-thrower... my pie-thrower [Yeees!] to practical use. As soon as I divised the Ministry of Internal Affairs building, I counted thirty marathon steps to the next bakery. In the meantime, I called the shop, ordered a double-crust, double-cream pie, paid with my credit card, consulted my online horoscope, and gasped. I dived into the bakery, monosyllably explained I was in a hurry, ignored the queue and helped myself with the hearty tart I had so recently acquired.
One bloke hid his face behind The Paris Match and winked. The others didn't even take a wink, even though they felt a compelling, savage bolt of insane rage deep inside. The bloke with the magazine had successfully expelled the bolt through his winking eyes, which were pointing to a picture of Sofia Loren. Beautiful, boltstruck Sofia winked. [Nods.] (Stop commenting, making gestures, even breathing as I write, please, I get too easily distracted) [No lie!]
I get too easily distracted, yes, but I knew what I had to do. The very art all my ancestors excelled at: pie-throwing!
Somehow I managed to come close to the vision again. And the courtship dance began:
"How may I name you, subtle vision?"
"You do not name me. I've been already named and the sound-meaning you're looking for comes close to this: Battlegeorge.
Please do not stare at me so boldly, we believe the thing has something from the word, you know."
"Battlegeorge? We? ... Pardon. Battlegeorge?". I took advantage of my genuine amazement reaction to conceal the fact I was mounting a creamy pie on a portable pie-thrower.
"They might had run short of ideas that year," he said.
"They?"
"My fellow visions."
"We?", I remembered.
"Any problem with your pronouns, miss?"
"Not yet. Who are 'we'? I mean, you. The plural you."
I aimed at the glowing thing.
"Oh, we! By saying 'we', do you mean 'you and me'' or 'other people and me'? "
"Other people and you."
"I live in an otherworld. Let's say, you live in the otherworld for me, I live in the otherworld for you. We exclude each other."
I had to prepare my mind for the shoot.
"What about 'you and me'?"
"We're storytellers. We include each other. We have got no other business."
"Excuse me, but did you already know what I was about to inquire? The coherency of the exclusion-inclusion clauses was impeccable."
He admitted it, glowing brighter out of vanity.
"How do you do it? Can you read minds?"
"No, but we can suggest them what to think," -he looked back again- "at least when they are thinking through words."
He said those last three words with pie all around, all over, all inside his mouth.
Gerald whistled over my voice, seemingly unamused at my faulty exhibit of gritty, whitie wit.
The jacket had to be grabbed in seconds, before Gerald -who had just been blessed with sudden acceleration- went out of sight. The extra centisecond was employed in getting hold of the pocket-telescope my sister had given me for revenge. As I was undertaking the running state, a vision developed from the thin air before me. It was a man, a quicker runner, keeping a distance from me as he spoke:
"Hark, human!
Do not underestimate the power of the Topoi.
Beware, beware!"
His being non-human had a remarkable appeal for my twisted taste. So did his use of poetic parody. I ran after him faster than I was running after the rat, even though it was but the same action. [A cheeky move for someone THAT foreign, countrygirl, huh.]
He turned his head back, unfurling his moustached-smile like a peacock.
Then I remembered, just after I remembered Gerald, too. I hadn't taken it out of the jacket's secret pocket since childhood (yes it runs short yes it is beautiful). [Too unrealistic. You can do it better, jellyhead] (Come on, give me a little changüí.) [Hrmm. Alright.], since the summer of 1997, when I last put my pea-thrower... my pie-thrower [Yeees!] to practical use. As soon as I divised the Ministry of Internal Affairs building, I counted thirty marathon steps to the next bakery. In the meantime, I called the shop, ordered a double-crust, double-cream pie, paid with my credit card, consulted my online horoscope, and gasped. I dived into the bakery, monosyllably explained I was in a hurry, ignored the queue and helped myself with the hearty tart I had so recently acquired.
One bloke hid his face behind The Paris Match and winked. The others didn't even take a wink, even though they felt a compelling, savage bolt of insane rage deep inside. The bloke with the magazine had successfully expelled the bolt through his winking eyes, which were pointing to a picture of Sofia Loren. Beautiful, boltstruck Sofia winked. [Nods.] (Stop commenting, making gestures, even breathing as I write, please, I get too easily distracted) [No lie!]
I get too easily distracted, yes, but I knew what I had to do. The very art all my ancestors excelled at: pie-throwing!
Somehow I managed to come close to the vision again. And the courtship dance began:
"How may I name you, subtle vision?"
"You do not name me. I've been already named and the sound-meaning you're looking for comes close to this: Battlegeorge.
Please do not stare at me so boldly, we believe the thing has something from the word, you know."
"Battlegeorge? We? ... Pardon. Battlegeorge?". I took advantage of my genuine amazement reaction to conceal the fact I was mounting a creamy pie on a portable pie-thrower.
"They might had run short of ideas that year," he said.
"They?"
"My fellow visions."
"We?", I remembered.
"Any problem with your pronouns, miss?"
"Not yet. Who are 'we'? I mean, you. The plural you."
I aimed at the glowing thing.
"Oh, we! By saying 'we', do you mean 'you and me'' or 'other people and me'? "
"Other people and you."
"I live in an otherworld. Let's say, you live in the otherworld for me, I live in the otherworld for you. We exclude each other."
I had to prepare my mind for the shoot.
"What about 'you and me'?"
"We're storytellers. We include each other. We have got no other business."
"Excuse me, but did you already know what I was about to inquire? The coherency of the exclusion-inclusion clauses was impeccable."
He admitted it, glowing brighter out of vanity.
"How do you do it? Can you read minds?"
"No, but we can suggest them what to think," -he looked back again- "at least when they are thinking through words."
He said those last three words with pie all around, all over, all inside his mouth.
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Mysteries
Jun. 1st, 2009 | 02:08 pm
music: beth gibbons
Prayer to Persephone Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be: Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,—Persephone, Take her head upon your knee: Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here." Edna St. Vincent MillayEl sombrero de Pau me provocaba extraños pensamientos. Es hora... Ceres se despide nuevamente. Tengo que descender, una vez más to drink the milk of Paradise.
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
The Alliterated Mouse
May. 25th, 2009 | 02:13 am
music: trip bebop (i wish!)
(I was once asked "What do you see here, lass?".
The man in the red sweater produced a Rorschach inkblot. It stood before my eyes so clearly, a full-blown open Swiss army knife, reaching to the supralunar hills.
Then closed my eyes. The Swiss army inkblot landed in a transparent lake.)
A teardrop could have fallen from my mind, but I wasn't in any way sad. I opened the Paris Match and read it along. Some article on sarcastic ostriches gave me an Idea. Decided to open the little rectangular box where I kept my promises closed. They didn't attempt to flee. My fifth eye glimmered and I understood they were dead.
The white mouse running in the aluminum wheel stopped, stepped out of his toy, stooped, steeply jumped through gravity and metachuted its way down. He winked at me as if he were saying: "My name is Gerald. How do you do?"
"How do you do?", I muttered.
"Follow me, fellow."
I obeyed.
For a second I thought I could hear the sound of a siren whistling a jazz tune with a strong will and a weak sense of tempo. It was all in my imagination. I shook my head and focused at Gerald. He had his iPod eyebuds plugged in, and stared at the stairs. There was a hum and the fiery smell of rum and after that Gerald was running wildly while whaleboaters wielded their wooden windshields.
There was a battle roaring amidst the Indian Sea.
"No," said Gerald, "look closely".
Which I did.
He was right: the city was standing in half bloom against the May night. I may again knight and be knighted, kneel and be kneeled upon Neal in the pond, I pondered.
"You must stop writing", a mirror spitted at my back. I looked above my shoulder as the yo-yos spilled from the chandelier. The odd thing was: there were no chandeliers at home.
There was no home at the chandeliers, either.
But it was home indeed. I felt a scented sense of it. Or the Paris Match matching Matt's doormat (they look alike, no joke). And there was a mouse somewhere...
"I'm a she-rat", rattled Gerald.
The words struck me with the strength of a thousand rodents.
"Can I still call you Gerald?"
She said yes.
The man in the red sweater produced a Rorschach inkblot. It stood before my eyes so clearly, a full-blown open Swiss army knife, reaching to the supralunar hills.
Then closed my eyes. The Swiss army inkblot landed in a transparent lake.)
A teardrop could have fallen from my mind, but I wasn't in any way sad. I opened the Paris Match and read it along. Some article on sarcastic ostriches gave me an Idea. Decided to open the little rectangular box where I kept my promises closed. They didn't attempt to flee. My fifth eye glimmered and I understood they were dead.
The white mouse running in the aluminum wheel stopped, stepped out of his toy, stooped, steeply jumped through gravity and metachuted its way down. He winked at me as if he were saying: "My name is Gerald. How do you do?"
"How do you do?", I muttered.
"Follow me, fellow."
I obeyed.
For a second I thought I could hear the sound of a siren whistling a jazz tune with a strong will and a weak sense of tempo. It was all in my imagination. I shook my head and focused at Gerald. He had his iPod eyebuds plugged in, and stared at the stairs. There was a hum and the fiery smell of rum and after that Gerald was running wildly while whaleboaters wielded their wooden windshields.
There was a battle roaring amidst the Indian Sea.
"No," said Gerald, "look closely".
Which I did.
He was right: the city was standing in half bloom against the May night. I may again knight and be knighted, kneel and be kneeled upon Neal in the pond, I pondered.
"You must stop writing", a mirror spitted at my back. I looked above my shoulder as the yo-yos spilled from the chandelier. The odd thing was: there were no chandeliers at home.
There was no home at the chandeliers, either.
But it was home indeed. I felt a scented sense of it. Or the Paris Match matching Matt's doormat (they look alike, no joke). And there was a mouse somewhere...
"I'm a she-rat", rattled Gerald.
The words struck me with the strength of a thousand rodents.
"Can I still call you Gerald?"
She said yes.
Link | Leave a comment {4} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
Noches de Indochina
May. 20th, 2009 | 05:17 pm
Ladraban los mastines a través de la niebla
la mañana en que ascendimos a cubierta
por una escalera de soga. El día era blanco
y las mejores brujas temblaron al despertarse.
Mi pañuelo violeta se vertía contra el aire del puerto,
los mapas florecientes, los manuales de botánica
apilados al borde de la cama
(nosotros apilados al borde de la cama,
los manuales de botánica arrastrándose
sobre los mapas abiertos, las alas de los insectos
bajo la sombra ondulante de mi pañuelo arlequinado).
No hay imagen que no se haya cifrado entre mis sueños,
corriendo por los camarotes como polizones a salvo del olvido.
Te costaba entender mi fijación con las enredaderas,
mi vocación de hiedra, la melodía sexuada
de las frases latinas. Contemplabas, sediento,
las islas fantasmales, el Índico infinito,
el rostro de tus ancestros muertos en un pentagrama.
Detrás de tu figura transparente, el cielo
se interrumpía en las gaviotas.
El sueño dormitaba. Me bastaba permanecer
a tu costado como un liquen hambriento,
seducida por el continente y sus peligros,
por el aire abrazándonos como una mortaja luminosa.
Navegábamos con los ojos vendados;
tu desnudez se estremecía entre los relámpagos
y el colmillo de enero. Respirabas como un silfo cachorro
cuando me confesaste que tenías miedo del regreso
con tu voz visionaria, raída por el láudano
De nuevo te vislumbro en esta noche sin pausa.
Encerrada en aquellos días imperiales,
trazando de memoria tu espalda lanceolada
a la luz de las galaxias y sus más bellos fósiles,
tu nombre me precede, impronunciable
como los de aquellas bestias obsoletas
que rugen en el ático de las enciclopedias
Las academias me cubrieron de honores. Los vapores franceses
me arrastraron hacia golfos distantes. Tu rastro se extravió
en el océano de mis habitaciones,
con la garganta en llamas, acaso devorado
por un monstruo prehistórico, raptado por sirenas,
persiguiendo ballenas con rabia milenaria.
El aleteo de los motores te devuelve, intacto,
detallado, a mis brazos exhaustos.
No hay imagen que no encuentre el camino de regreso.
Me sujeto a tu réplica con raíces aéreas,
emerjo de los sueños con la mirada fija en el abismo.
Se suceden las décadas como las pulsaciones,
tu rostro cada vez más débil me susurra mi propio nombre
En la cubierta la noche lo inunda todo con su espejo salvaje
Aún hoy ladran los peces que te vieron desaparecer:
estarás en el fondo de los lagos,
buceando cada vez más lejos de la atmósfera,
de esta barca inmensa donde te convoco sin descanso
cubierta de follaje, repitiendo afiebrada los nombres misteriosos,
las especies fantásticas que te ocultan
bajo sus escamas, sus cabellos eléctricos, sus inmortalidades.
Link | Leave a comment {3} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
I love the 80s... the 1880s
May. 18th, 2009 | 09:13 pm
Sábado a la tarde, bajo el sol de Buenos Aires un picnic (neo)victoriano... cómo me gusta que en esta ciudad desquiciada sucedan esta clase de cosas, cómo me gusta poder habitar en estos parajes anacrónicos.
La previa, en casa.
Ahora sí, a estudiar, o no voy a poder salir del horno en que me encuentro.
La previa, en casa.
Ahora sí, a estudiar, o no voy a poder salir del horno en que me encuentro.
Link | Leave a comment {11} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
arco iris (ella es)
Mar. 15th, 2009 | 04:21 am
She's a rainbow decías mientras me mirabas las zapatillas y un poco estabas viéndola a ella, a veces veías a través de mí y la veías, y she's a rainbow era el modo de convocarla, es decir de negarme y silenciarte. De pronto sonaba en tu cabeza la canción, absorbiéndolo todo. Abrevábamos de las mismas flores pero no soportaste contemplar mi reflejo en los pétalos.
(En mi interior un arco iris. Los colores se revelan intensos, recortados por el mediodía o atenuados con la bruma de Nueva Inglaterra. En mi interior un paraíso de témperas, una jungla que comienza a suceder, un sistema de toboganes que desemboca en un abismo que desemboca en camas elásticas.)
No represento al misterio sino a la ciclotimia, tendría que haberte confesado. Quizás entonces me hubieras podido ver a través de ella a la que veías a través de mí, quizás entonces me hubieras visto humana, sin mi trompa violeta o mis antenas iridiscentes.
Monstruosity is in the eye of the beholder. Eso es lo que intuimos los oscuros, eso y she's a rainbow y, detrás de todo, la rabiosa noche del espacio.
(En mi interior un arco iris. Los colores se revelan intensos, recortados por el mediodía o atenuados con la bruma de Nueva Inglaterra. En mi interior un paraíso de témperas, una jungla que comienza a suceder, un sistema de toboganes que desemboca en un abismo que desemboca en camas elásticas.)
No represento al misterio sino a la ciclotimia, tendría que haberte confesado. Quizás entonces me hubieras podido ver a través de ella a la que veías a través de mí, quizás entonces me hubieras visto humana, sin mi trompa violeta o mis antenas iridiscentes.
Monstruosity is in the eye of the beholder. Eso es lo que intuimos los oscuros, eso y she's a rainbow y, detrás de todo, la rabiosa noche del espacio.
Link | Leave a comment {5} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
un cosmos de copetín
Mar. 8th, 2009 | 05:35 am
por qué seremos hijas de la retórica pero amantes de las epifanías? cuac, de repente las palabras dejan de significar y uno pasa a comprender el mundo por "la mente backup"... el auspex [la bendición de los toreador: éxtasis estético--> la iluminación por interrupción (cogitus interruptus)] o mejor dicho el BIOS intelectual que sigue su curso cuando el resto del software falla... la lucha por la supervivencia que no cesa a pesar de que no vivamos en las tierras salvajes de kenia, puerto libertad o las montañas de marte, infestadas de feroces motorratones.
changos, tengo que postear esto último en mi blog
qué terrible es la tiranía de la confesión... me parece que la blogósfera debe agradecer la multiplicación de sus fieles al catolicismo
tusecreto.com.ar es cosa de cristianos
(hay un tipo que le tiene miedo a los tractores, la fauna del mundo es absolutamente reverenciable)
changos, tengo que postear esto último en mi blog
qué terrible es la tiranía de la confesión... me parece que la blogósfera debe agradecer la multiplicación de sus fieles al catolicismo
tusecreto.com.ar es cosa de cristianos
(hay un tipo que le tiene miedo a los tractores, la fauna del mundo es absolutamente reverenciable)
Link | Leave a comment {2} | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
(con problemas de la poesía)
Feb. 21st, 2009 | 05:00 am
Y por ti, monstruo, arrastro de los pelos rostros
adorados, despierto muertos, desgarro estrellas
y los arrojo
a un absurdo fuego de palabras.
(de "Antipoema", Ulyses Petit de Murat)
adorados, despierto muertos, desgarro estrellas
y los arrojo
a un absurdo fuego de palabras.
(de "Antipoema", Ulyses Petit de Murat)
Link | Leave a comment | Add to Memories | Tell a Friend
magister ludi
Feb. 18th, 2009 | 05:29 am
music: Entre dos aguas (Paco de Lucía)
mi fama de ajedrecista es angustiante
proclamada incapaz en el juego de go
el mah-jongg
el backgammon
he sido vencida deliberadamente
he obsequiado victorias para que no descubran
mi verdadero rostro
mi secreta maestría