hair gel

first the eyes were shot
palms up against them strong
those holes in the crane
that hold them

other own bones known
are cross, on top
to count this horrible night
over

opened raised
rightist light through
thick wet straws of my own hair

many months i forgot
to notice it or wear it down or to cut it
now i touch it and strands
go all the way down to the shoulders
thick and messy
didn’t see it this long growing

blurry then vision of
green little pearls shinny and
fuzzy from the pressure hold-ed
patterns on white soft of
aunt’s embroidered hand towel

it is the bathroom
i discover
my customary sacrifice-stone holder

the woman at the radiology test
smelled like a fresh shower
months ago in that morning

i remember the test
and her
ago as i wonder
if every morning
a man smells her hair
or if he touches it softly
it is fresh and silky
and smells well
as i re-call her

i wonder if her skin
is touched with love
at late nights
or kissed good-bye
in cloudy mornings

or if like mine
is cleaned and perfumed and soft
yet lonely
grows older

dark
the holes the marks
on my eyes
grow deeper
of the holes
stronger

tonight this painful bathroom
smells as her hair
it was familiar
since i entered
and before the pain
i smiled
since i noticed

friday night lonely sandwich

el día de antes no es el día de hoy
las palabras huecas sin eco siempre son
palabras por las ideas o por el sonido
¿el mensaje o puramente canción?

si las lees rápido, necias son
si quieres entenderlas
no es con la cabeza
es con el corazón

aquí la diferencia
entre buena literature
y un mal poema
como este
sin razon…
desabrido
sin un buen sazon

i am hungry i want a sandwich

a white van

sometimes you live in a city that you weren’t born into
sometimes you feel completely grounded to a place
(a city or a house or even a little space)
and you feel is completely where you belong

that was me many years ago in divinely crazy mexico city
i swore i would never move out of its traffic
its pollution and over 500 years of historical bonds

i was a fish in the water in the wild subway metro
and drove all around the city fast
and knew every corner by heart

yet one day i left
and regardless of chance, coincidences
and plenty of metaphors
i ended up living in san diego

i wasn’t meant/supposed to be here
i was on my way to san francisco when i first stopped
i was never too attracted to the southern californian vibe
i remember the friend kurt aka nowork comment to me
at a sandiegan well-known record store
bere, i don’t picture you here in san diego
a beach town
i thought of you more in boston
or some big city with history like that

yet
fortuna chances and some twisted faiths
i am here in san diego
and after 5 years it finally starts feeling like home

and again i remember what my friend helmut
an over 70 year-old german man living in
minneapolis for the past 60 years told me
when i just arrived here fresh from mexico city:
san diego, bere, is somehow looking after you
since i found immediately a little studio
a creative-director job
and got a little car that today i finally own

i was still on my way to somewhere else
i have been on my way to somewhere else all these 5 years
i was settled but not convinced or aware of
what’s really going on
as usually happens with me
with many situations in my little life
a slow learner have always been/will be

today i woke up and strangely and even if sad but san diego felt home
not because i have embraced the southern california style of a life
or because i am too lazy and even if overprized is easy living here

actually i think i realized it was home for the very first time
when just a couple of weeks ago
while crossing very distracted a street by my house
in lovely neighborhood of normal heights
i was almost run over by a white van

ironically enough the white van had printed a logo
paradise valley hospital
national city california
that place! that hospital!
it is were i was actually born!!

no matter how attached i am and will always be to
mexico city its landscapes its turbulences
its art
i was born in national city san diego county
and fortuna brought me back
so fortunately enough an intriguing reminder
with a fast van came at
you were born in this city
is that a cause enough?
if not, remember you life can be taken
in case of not enough joy and if don't appreciate it at all

it was frightening not ‘cause i am actually
afraid of death since i am not
i am just afraid of leaving without having
told people how important they are
and how special life is
and how fragile

today happily except for a couple of replies
that i owe
like to beto, and ina, and tanya
i have the rest told about their art
and importance and all

in case a white van from national city
comes to haunt me down again
and i also i told my mom how much i love her
and to remind of that to my dad too
since even if apart they can contact each other better than i do
i even left some stuff here bloging wrote down!

how convenient all this is

i have not intentions to die
but peace comes to my heart
so from here to eternity i owe to nobody nothing
not even a dime!
(well of course not counting the credit cards or stuff like that)

and freedom flushes through my veins
and i realized that paradoxically and
without a single draft or a careful plan:

i am living again in the city that i was born in
i came back 30 years later or so…
i hope that is enough of a good reason
or for me
a reasonable cause

we shall see we shall know

the dying cow

today i am trapped in between the feet
of a dying cow
and she won’t stop kicking my skull
and being a cow i still love her soft

a white cross and two black chimneys against a blue late sky
imaginings awareness cryptograms to convert and
resulting a in a very small component
to live for
verdict a broken individuality
grounding thousand mistakes

changing divinities
on your trail of revenge
you revenging from

yet i was not ever a judge
nor a witness
even less the accusatory
nor the accused

yet somehow i end-up being executed
at once
from the friendly closeness i presented
with a smile

a connection fading
days become longer and sore

the palette colors on a canvas
could have been dissimilar?
if you haven’t seize one day my path?

innocence lost
can’t remove can’t go back can’t eradicate the facts

a white handkerchief
flutters high
and then subtle and gentle it falls
against a scenario of
a building built out of square solid rocks

an inside patio
surrounded by the edification
that square hole
the one your ignorance digs every day in my core

the hankie is humid and white
as i thought was your soul

you are just shifting
and i am lost
yet out of a private calamity
i have never been for too long
maybe in 36 years
for 2 minutes or so
while, one day in your arms
and that was all
but you won't believe me so

you and unknown goddess to beseech to
me back to my dying cow
she needs my attention
to feed her on the pieces of what's left of my soul

back to my soft lonely own
a sheep i follow while blind

the forgotten and beautiful maeve brennan an irish woman and a new yorker

a couple of years ago i read about this amazing irish writer Maeve Brennan and her sad story, below a link and a few stolen words from an article by Angela Bourke


"One morning in 1981, writers and editors arriving for work at the New Yorker's 43rd Street office found a very small woman in a long, untidy black skirt, with grey, unwashed hair, sitting in silence outside the office partition on the 20th floor.

One young editor, Mary Hawthorne, was intrigued enough to question colleagues about the visitor. She learned that the unkempt old lady was Maeve Brennan, once a glamorous star writer on the magazine, lately blighted by mental illness.

Brennan sat silently in the office until evening and returned the next day. Then she disappeared and Hawthorne never saw her again. Brennan was an Irishwoman and a New Yorker; an intellectual and a beauty. She dazzled everyone she met and wrote some of the finest and most widely read English prose of the 20th century, yet in her lifetime, when Irish writers were celebrated as never before, she was practically unknown in her own country."

Maeve wrote among other stories
The Springs of Affection: Stories of Dublin

she also lived an apparently tortured and secret romance with Philip Larkin, and wrote this book The Philip Larkin I Knew

read the complete on-line version of this sad story here
Maeve Brennan

also a review link from The Observer (Guardian Unlimited Books) of Angela Bourke's book
Maeve Brennan: Homesick at The New Yorker

morning, sunshine! who wants some eggs & bacon?

i just couldn't resist! please click on the image so you can read...
i have so many 'interesting' things to blog about, what i saw at the getty, los angeles, etc.
but this one...
love the morning, sunshine! just please do not forward to my catholic family or...
love the spider man, always have, el hombre araña y jesucristo! what a great duo indeed they are!

word of mouth

there are lists
there are blogs

but as with music, life, or love

the best way to get a book recommendation
is word of mouth

a book-friend
hey! i read this good book that i think you’d like it
and
one can re-e-search and type
and read printed
but a friend’s note
or a friend’s mouth
about a book
it is just warm

own life
own trajectories
each book has

so many letters
so little time!

find a good friend or an awful co-worker
(this might fix it)
or a randomly smiling person today
and out of the blue
just tell them the name
and recommend
a dear book
you read once, or twice

(or with a piece of music or a movie
or a park…)

worst case, click on books
or write one! and please tell me the title

señales de primavera

and the earliest flower (a new little red one) on my neighbor’s patio, this break of day, just for me, blossomed. the neighbors are actually rather uptight and hardly take pleasure in their backyard. me, i have this view (of their yard) from my kitchen all times

thus i am on the increase of this early-morning-washing-dishes compulsive behavior, i have been gaining weight because i eat to get the most dishes dirty so i can wash them and look at the yard, pretty complex fatting plot going on

moreover, on this springy pleasant friday while at work, i realized, itunes charming randomness courtesy that: a-ha! the story of music of the second half of the past century could be resumed to these 3 tracks (disclaimer: important is the order! probably if inversed the story of music could/would collapse! so if you have access to them and want to try at home, just don’t mix the order or…) and they are

1. slint’s carol from their album tweeze
2. insky’s cedes from his album lostapes {ben twire] (another one)
   
3. madredeus’ céu da mouraria from their album ainda (soundtrack to yet another wonderful wim wenders film lisbon story -the adventures of a sound engineer lost on lisbon and... watch the movie, is way more recommendable than my stubborn words)
   

they come & go & come back from the post of the rock to the post of the lovely-yet-somehow-unknown-experimental-weird-ala-ranaldo-style to the beautiful-regardless-if-you-are-a-motley-crew-fan you’d say yeah, that is that!

enjoy your ends of this week, wherever you are, or not...

hangover murders (or i am starting to figure it out, too)

‘this is not a party
but a police investigation’

found and lost
objects, at end of a corridor
lost was first
and found
a clock

embryonic/full
still yet goes

unfinished scheme
and a highly-troubled plot

tick tack
potentially, a casualty
just

another capture
grand
then no more

and if not

each second
overthrown closer
closed
then gone

at all

lapses
time
scrivener
capturer-imaginer

those skies
and some ghosts

the police figured it
one of those
hangover murders

a party,
investigation
followed up

my vigil 40 winks

that fence
where siesta and vigil
once in a while meet
been balancing -top of it
a bird or a cat felt like
strolling on
just about to jump
convinced that if not
in any case
so slim this edge
will drop

all the time
can’t asleep
can’t wake up
during the hours of the day

keen on your few catnap
i just jaunting the same that same fence
not back to the vigil world
not able to fall asleep though

the fence is inhabited as well
for many images of old memories appeared
the time i was talking to my girlfriend
seeing her reflection on a mirror
back door

bathroom mexico city light
the electric one
combined with the 4pm one through window
glass transparent yet texture gave the idea of a green
a green one, washed out

the remembered the ride home from there
not a remarkable moment at all
a daily dose of soulful plainness
just a dot in the brain
reappeared i don’t know
and the talk was about? will never remember that part?
but the color of her hair and the light
and the love for her and her presence in my heart

and something like missing her now
she was dear my dear friend

and like ghosts that live on the thin edge of the top of the fence
many non-transcendental memories of plain moments
arrive
and they keep me awake
they keep asleep
they keep me alive

y sobre mis fotos me dices que...

ch, writes:
weber aquí por fin ..... la crítica constructiva de tus fotos, me gustaron mucho las de new york, y el puente y la ventana de un lado y del otro.

y tus cielos azules con las lámparas, el puente, el paisaje de los cabos en el avión, a menos que ahora ya sepas volar, me gustan tus fotos urbanas, lo único que no me gusto mucho fueron los maniquíes, la imagen se ve sucia, se pierde con el vidrio y los reflejos, a lo mejor los reflejos de algo mas interesante que las calles y los coches, el reflejo del alma de los maniquíes, si es que tienen o lo mejor su alma se congelo en el plástico.

quien sabe...tendría que pensarlo. me gustan tus fotos urbanas y me parece que eres muy buena. ...por que te fuiste y me dejaste?... como te extraño!

me, respond:
sólo me fuí, pero nunca te deje
& here: yearning for more than a blue day (antony & the johnsons)

sanders goes to washington

jerry sanders made his appearance in washington d.c. today
san diego union tribune's and nbc's
apparently sanders shook hands with: THE DEVIL!
pictured here below (clicker on his ulgy face to read on his outdated haunting skills, we agree, less haunting & more grocery shopping)


and also with his winged misbegotten friend, and his race of guardians of the doors of hell (wonder who could've bred such a thing, maybe another pair of horny-wired demons as well?)
we wonder if donna frye had won the elections instead of sanders, would she have been invited? we don't really think so...

just hoping that jerry washes his hand and thoroughly disinfects himself before heading back home

what a shame for san diego soil!

a lovely sunday at the padres bleachers (without the padres)

one of the most enjoyable gracious moments with my friend rocio while she was in san diego was doubtless the over-an-hour we spent seated on the bleachers at petco park watching the japanese team batting practice at the ‘06 world baseball classic on sunday, march 19, 2006.

the sun was stroking the little crowd of about 30 people, mostly japanese, and us, wishing both cuban & japanese teams good luck.

japan won the classic as we now know, and even with my latino background i felt happy for it. perhaps, since we shared with the japanese tourists the relaxing beauty of a san diegan day. still remember the shy smile of a very young japanese kid, and how dropping his big suitcase on the grass, getting rid of what seemed to be his luggage for a long trip, relieved he smiled while seeing his team practicing.

o god: techy ultimate geek happy hour in san diego & lots of handy noises afterwards

as if one can put the words geek & happy in the same sentence
o god, can't believe i am going to this!
march mingle http://www.marchmingle.com/
might be... fun? geeky for sure

afterwards to the casbah (yes where i saw the giraffes & low) for some clapping with clap clap clap: yeah!

long day, after so much strolling around with missed-already mexico city small girl
pinche chio! regresa...

1.618 033 988 749 894 848 204 586 834 366 times richard meier unearth getty’s center steps closer to divinity

(this photo by: rocio bernal)
perhaps because i started to grow up intellectually
(my bachelor’s degree started as architecture)
under the shadow of the conception of beauty and proportion
set by the greek’s φ section aurea/golden number, ratio or divine proportion (varphi = frac{sqrt{5} + 1}{2} approx 1.618 033 988 749 894 848 204 586 834 366) and under the influence of the teachings of the bauhaus school of design in germany

moreover, taught to have a firm conviction in architects such as le corbusier (a house is a machine for living in, and author of the architect's bible modulor), walter gropius, mies van der rohe, and of course frank lloyd wright; and other functionalist modernists architects of the ‘white school’ as i personally refer to them, or the international style as there are officially known for the rest of mortals; it is that the getty center in los angeles (santa monica area) was extremely impressive to me

names describing the center as a modern acropolis
a top of the hill closer to heaven than anything else in the southern west coast of the united states come to my mind

richard meier and partners
(hence of the polemic spend on the project)
deserve a big admiration sign! the last of the modernists triumph will getty center be?

the space is beautifully peaceful
the word zen melts with a déjà vu state
induced by the first step of this space encounter:
a tram climbing slow the giant mountain
leaving los angeles lower and behind
silent machinery tick tack to reach the heights
throwing a veil of tranquility
juxtaposition the guts and the mind

just felt like this before in a space once
last year on my birthday to be exact
when i stepped into glorious frank lloyd wright’s
mecca of american modern art:
the new york city’s guggenheim

where the modern ancestors of my visual and soul foundation
are buried in between the pages and paintings of wassily kandinsky
along with the transcripts and images from the (again) bauhaus (pdf file)

déjà vu en una esquina de van nuys ca 9.43 am leaving for the getty center in a red rapid line bus

the getty center http://www.getty.edu/
its architecture http://www.getty.edu/visit/see_do/architecture.html
and gardens http://www.getty.edu/visit/see_do/gardens.html

a piece of heaven imitated by meiers with a superb result: one of the most remarkable achievements of modern landscaping and architecture

make you sure you see the over-180-degrees-view of the city of los angeles, california from the cactus garden

soon i will post some photos on 23

chomsky en español

ó: a ver si así le entiendo a este señor rebeldoso y medio enredoso

http://www.rebelion.org/chomsky.htm

ah! y también una lista completa de su noamesca o chomsikesca bibliografía en castellano (literalmente no nomás legible, si no también en la semántica absurda de cada día...)
http://www.rebelion.org/chomsky/Chomskybib.htm

fascinada (casi tanto como con el té) con los e-books y artículos transcritos de este prestigiado autor

enjoy! ó como decimos más pal' sur: gózele sabor! ah! el sabor de la rebelión, al menos en literatura

a quotidian pleasure: a fine cup of tea (‘for this impossible thing we know as life’)

Tea is yet another one of those little addictions that shapes my every-day-full-of-minor-eccentricities life.

My daily several cups of tea sieve into the core of my existence cup by cup, drop by drop.

I do love coffee, and good strong dark coffee, since coffee, save rare occasions, is a one-time-deal thing in the mornings, and do I appreciate the coffee culture as much as the tea culture, yet that goes in another cup (or later blog), yet tea…

o tea tea tea (and I am not referring to herbal infusions, which I really thank & appreciate specially on tardy nights) but tea is one of the best traditions that one can find in humanity, no wonder has been around for years, lustra, decades, centuries, millenniums, I would dare to think?

So knowing this, my cousin, who just arrived from London, brought me some Harrods KnightsBridge English Breakfast No. 14 bagged tea. Is there a better present from London for a tea-fiend?

I had one this morning, and it was good, yet! O and sorry my cousin but it wasn’t as fresh and rich as the tea I get from the better-than-british-just-from-Connecticut tea page www.specialteas.com

Their teas are the freshest, delicate and excellent! Their selection is also so rich, you can delight yourself with some subtle Nilgiri tea (Tiger Hill is for much my 3 or 4 cups a day favorite!) among the single state ones. Or, you can select a classic blend like English high-grown leaf, or some Five o’clock tea, and not to mention my favorite among the flavored blends the Holiday Dream, which I have consider my holiday nightmare, since refusing to drop it at night (even if caffeinated) has been cause of many late nights of tea-drinking-induced insomnia, and without any regrets!

Now this tea comes usually loose, then I get some tea bags at any asian store for less than 2 dollars or they can be ordered from special teas as well, almost as comforting as the tea itself, is my almost every-night routine of bagging my own tea, fresh and ready for the next day. So sorry England, but for tea, I stay with the Connecticut one!

It is worth to mention that a precious petite jewel of tea-literature is the ‘The Book of Tea’ by Kakuzo Okakura. This little book apart from giving information on the different kinds of teas, their lovely development and history, and its peculiarities and preparation, also enlightens your heart with little pieces of philosophy of life, as we can read here in a little excerpt from the first chapter, A cup of Humanity:

"Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence. It inculcates purity and harmony, the mystery of mutual charity, the romanticism of the social order. It is essentially a worship of the Imperfect, as it is a tender attempt to accomplish something possible in this impossible thing we know as life." -Kakuzo Okakura

now if you don't want to buy the book, well just visit this link here and read it online courtesy of Project Gutenberg

The Short List, watch short films or… make one!

san diego’s state university proud tv show
do you get the sunday’s-night-before-working-again-for-a-week depression?
are you on the west coast and it is 9.30pm?
then forget the crudity of the corporate world you’ll have to face tomorrow and
tune in sd channel 4!! The Short List is ON!
for ½ an hour you’ll be immerse in a stranger world
full of the eeriest and loveliest yet short visions from all around the globe

The Short List highlights every week different and glorious short films

http://www.theshortlist.cc/

and not just that! you can actually submit your own films!!!
try their web site also on the submitting films button and read the wonderful words:

“The Short List team reviews work year-round at international festivals and here in california. no limits on year of production. no entry fees. films must be completed with all rights cleared for broadcast.”

i think actually the show appears in many other areas/cities of this so 'grande' country throughout PBS

hooray! and thank you short list and san diego state university for: movies, loony and short, multicolored and multihued, multi-fun!

legends of the magnolia bakery

that's passion for the bread!
found this on the web
in manhattan
http://youtube.com/watch?v=o3DarGd2yE4
here we just mouth-water from the e-smell

all through ROJO
http://www.rojo.com/today/
Rojo means "RSS with mojo" and in this spirit our company is dedicated to providing the best feed reader around so that busy people can discover and read content as efficiently as possible.

funny things at an asian store and rain, john lennon too

you realize that your emotions might be playing with your lucidity*
when
you are in a chinese/korean/japanese supermarket, a big big store
and while buying some tea & snacks for the after lunch
then the indecipherable broadcast on the store’s amplifier recites sales, offers, and more! (all chinese so…)

in between offers carefully presented and distributed in amounts and percents by each aisle
(the numbers were in anglais so… )
they let play the tackiest version of john lennon’s jealous guy
it sounds straight from a jukebox, or a boy’s toy
it is at least an octave high and fast as if john had too much green tea
from the one on special on aisle 15

you remember the feelings, the words, you are about to start to let your heart melt deliquesce and cry cry

then the announcement, the sales the offers in chinese again loud & feelings interrupt

you realized you are just lost… you laugh at yourself or whatever you thought once lost
scared the feeling away while laughing, somehow melancholic but happy that you can still miss someone afar
even as eating panda-shaped cookies with bellies full of a pinkish substantial strawberry jelly
fictional as the character you thought you were in your own life

and I never believe before that one grow to become what we thought we could be
even though at my 36 I am so similar to my dreams at 12: an astronaut I wanted to be, eternally in love with the stars and an incredible man living in mars, with glasses and books, very much like harry potter and yet very far

today I am space-cadet not NASA title but hey! I can really fly high… the devoted one to, still in time in space very afar, maybe never reachable will be, but what life without dreams or great expectations would be…

poor ones those that have all that can desire and then reach, as wilde said: the illusion is the first of the pleasures my friend… now to cry with lennon again…

*(lucidity being out on vacation for so long had to be replaced by a lunatic-dreamy-fascination arising the belief that, in this world, at least half the population could be as idealistic/romantic as you…)

calor -here on en español, i will translate soon / also this one got me 500 pesos not dolares but pesos about 50 bucks, mmm?

Aquí estoy, otra vez tendría que sentirme libre en mi propia casa, en este altísimo departamento de esta airosa ciudad de México, pero ¿como iba yo a saberlo?, si cuando vine por primera vez, hasta me pareció fresco, hasta llegué a creer que seria frío en el invierno. En cierta ocasión, y en los albores de mi felicidad te decía: ¿Te imaginas? Ya me veo en esas tardes lluviosas y frescas de junio, tejiendo cobertores de lana, para los pies de cama, rebozos para los brazos, cobijitas para nuestra cachorrita que es tan friolenta, y un suéter a rayas azules y beiges, para ti mi amor, para que te tomes una taza de chocolate caliente, mirando toda la Ciudad por la ventana, como a ti te gusta.

Pero antes de despertar del ensueño y todavía en la blanca y fresca habitación de mi casa materna, pasó el invierno, un invierno de tres larguísimos días, en los que los meteorólogos de la televisión nos permitieron llevar un ligero jersey de algodón, pero no así el clima, y un ligero temor cálido entró en mi corazón hasta convertirse en terror, mi terror ante esta masa abrasadora que desde entonces ocupa mi cabeza, mi mente, mi cuerpo entero, que no me deja en ningún momento del día. Llegó como una maldición, no se anunció, y de repente un día, el mas largo y cálido de todos, cuando yo preparaba viandas frescas para alimentarnos, derritió tu amor, y se llevó la melaza restante a la casa de enfrente que es fría, habitada por una mujer alta, de cabellos rubios, que todo el día se pasea exhibiendo lindisimos sacos de lino, abriguitos de lana, bufandas y gorros de colores y guantes de punto que hacen juego con las medias gruesas; y al llegar a tu a ese lugar frío, tu amor como miel derretida se cristalizó en dulce mantequilla.

Y yo aquí, ataviada con una ligera túnica de algodón, que se humedece cada dos horas, soporto la masa cálida que me mantiene despierta toda la noche y solo me adormece para provocarme terribles alucinaciones, se pasea por toda la casa, la tiene ya toda ocupada, en cada rincón derrite cualquier partícula de felicidad.

Yo que creía que el punto de ebullición de la felicidad era mucho mas alto, pero en esta casa, todo se derrite al solo existir, la parafina de las velas en los candelabros escurre sin dar luz, los libros unen sus paginas y se mezclan todas las letras sin darme entendimiento, la limonada tiene temperatura de café, y la comida sabor a infusión, ya ni los borreguitos de barro quieren pasear, la madera de los muebles antes crujía al secarse, pero ahora ya esta tán débil que debo sentarme en el piso, pongo una frazada húmeda, pues si mi piel desnuda lo toca, se fundirían en uno solo, las flores y plantas crecieron frondosas durante dos horas y luego se volvieron una sopa hirviendo que todavía burbujea dentro de floreros y macetas.

Antes lograba consolarme mirando nuestra foto en un nevado paisaje, pero cual ha sido mi sorpresa, que el otro día al estarla mirando me pareció ver que lo que antes era un pequeño bosquecito nevado que se hallaba situado a la derecha de la fotografía, ahora reflejaba un verde mas claro, solté la foto con sorpresa y la guardé, pensando que quizá la visión era debida a las gotas de sudor que entraban por mis ojos.

Pero al otro día, no sin temor, me dirigí al álbum, como adivinando el oscuro presagio, y mire como el bosquecito era ahora un conjunto de soleadas palmeras, fue tal mi sorpresa que decidí guardar la fotografía en la nevera y olvidarme del asunto por varios días, pero, ay de mi, que al sacarla el día de ayer, descubrí que toda la blanca y fría nieve se había convertido en candente arena, las piedras volcánicas, en erizos de mar, y el alto pino sobre el que estabas recargado, en palmera crujiendo al sol.

No sé porque te escribo esta carta, tal vez tu puedas ayudarme, no lo sé, pero tengo miedo, pánico, y hasta empiezo a sentir un ligero sudar frío de tanto calor, solo espero que esta carta no queme tus dedos, como lo hizo conmigo el bolígrafo con la que la redacté.

monday blues single-entrée dinner plate

detained encapsulated
a reaction a feeling a connection
and a smile
remaining persisting
on spirit
been keeping cover for a while

didn’t want air touching it
didn’t want the sun stroking it
nor the snow freezing it
between sealed fingers
with all care can have

thinking it: safe clean fine
careful! not to squeeze too hard
careful! not to let go free either
careful! half closed the hand
for a while

every every where with me went
each and every day since found
to dinners to parties to friends
to movies to the laundromat
when i took then photos
and when after, i deleted them
when i breathe deep-in
and when after, breathe down-out
when i made tea
and when after, i drank my dark cafe

the first thought in the morning
the last thought at night
it is
it was

yet like all treasures
got stolen
or it hides
nobody can give me a signal
nobody knows if it's dead or alive

maybe it just got scared of me
and ranaway and hides

the mirror reflection today
empty, again, another day
alone, empty recipients
empty, but care
empty myself, hidden the treasure
under my table, under my bed, and under my head

what if maybe was never there?
maybe just a reflection of my own care
maybe just a reflection of my own despair

maybe while elucidating it escaped
through the spaces
between the fingers
of my thought-careful-enough hands
or maybe between
the spaces of the straws of my hair

today again empty
yet i still hold it
something i want to believe is there

not sure what it is
but still heeding
staring at the space on
my two wide open empty hands

free yet alone another day

remembering what rocio told me one day:
love is for two, misery is for one
please bring me then my single painful entrée

i care not how humble your bookshelf may be...

i am looking into cascading style sheets to design webby pages
that can be accessed by blind people
at my company we have plenty of web-users with disabilities

yet if you are blind you can always type on a url and if it is design suitably for disabilities like blindness (w/voice reader access) like this one, then you'll be able to use the site
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext05/ttmgd001.mp3
what happens here is that a computer reader reads to you out loud what’s on a page
(like some old macs have a feature that if you type something it reads it back at you with ‘computer’ voice, huh?)
this now is a quicktime file but i am sure in some point it was just text on a word or simple text or html file and then with an aural cascade style sheet reference it to your html code
html reader you can recreate it like this… strange but nice huh?

o btw seems that don sir arthur conan doyle knew some of my friends ‘cause…’smoking is not forbidden’ he wrote

now gutenberg project supports free ebooks don't forget to visit and download or screen-read your favorite classics

monday monday
blue but sunny
san diego goes new week again

the rain it raineth

The rain it raineth all around
Upon the just and unjust fella;
But chiefly on the just because
The unjust stole the just's umbrella.

Rain, rain, go away,
Come another summer's day;
Rain, rain, pour down,
And come no more to our town.

- taken from: I saw Esau

------------------------------------------------

all i said about you rain
nevermind
was not main
was my lazy-ass brown-bread head
come here come here
rain and hail
come here and stay
this is your city
and you are my friend
when is dry and when is wet

americana breakfast on a friday day

smell of tuna sandwich
but the coffee straight and black balances it ok out
acoustic on the back
not yes does matter anymore since why?
the smell
one one one
one on top of the other one
mattered one day
not yet to anyone
there

people in paris
sings cat & sings powers
but who cares if they are in paris?
or if this tuna is grisly?
layered within dark café
and compassionate early-friday-breakfast pain

doesn’t much matter
lately later
since in my cradle
you are not
not today not yesterday
not today not tomorrow
not again

∑ sweater azulito
∑ la blusa de lino
∑ focaccia
∑ los quesos de lata camembert
∑ un trozo de pecorino pequeño
∑ parmesano fresco
∑ el vino 2 botellas
∑ semillitas de plantas para el jardín, no girasol
∑ mantón que te regaló Ana / vestido con el que nos poníamos

Lafcadio Hearn and his brumous luminosity

Today I got a self-paid package on the mail from New York City’s Strand bookstore.

The fine-smelling wrap up (fragrance of cardstock and aged paper mostly) displays an orangey logo on the upper left corner that reveals the motto of this remarkable multi-shelved palace of modern manuscripts: 18 miles of books.

The book ordered is Stray Leaves from Strange Literature by Lafcadio Hearn, a ‘little mosaic of legend and fable’ (as Lafcadio describes himself) a compendium of stories reconstructed and re-written by Hearn based on ancient jewels of literature such as the Anvari-Soheili, Baital, Pachisi, Mahabharata, Pantchatantra, Gulistan, Talmud, Kalewala, etc.

The Contents as follows:

1. Stray Leaves
2. Tales Retold from Indian and Buddhist Literature
3. Runes from the Kalewala
4. Stories of Moslem Lands
5. Traditions Retold from the Talmud

The book printed in 1884 is in almost mint condition, considering the age. It was among the Modern Rare editions printed ones. I can wait to immerse myself in the brumous luminosity of Lafcadio’s ways.

Here a link to a Lafcadio Hearn website with more information on this amazing man who after strolling around Greece, Ireland, New York, Cincinnati, and New Orleans, settled in Japan, where his art flourished as beautiful as a garden in bloom during a tea ceremony.

http://www.mitchellspublications.com/guides/la/no/bio/hearnl/02/

Gracias to Lafcadio, to the Strand bookstore, and to the dear friend that took me there for the first time.

un-consciousness is glee while type fast on blank mind

hardly a few look-like-white-teeth-yet-are-little-plastic-cubes
carrying a sign, a typeface, a style
on their miniature square backs
with shifty strokes they
surrender tap tap tap at my fingers, strong

synthetic-keyboarded souls
ship
scanty substance on the written
grammar and languages broken
reddish underlines symptomatic of bad spelling tickle

still my teeth and my feet
peregrinating to them
an unrecognizable jaunt arrives
body bliss on
just times and arial fonts
no raison d'être not for a good cause

as black stitches on a white skin
they appear random on the screen
letters, electronic-calligraphy, cyber-inscriptions
materialize

on my keyboard, on my heart, on my hips…

12 and in a night-train

She thought or knew
This is it then:
Being an adult, she meant
She was just 12
But was by herself riding an over-night train!
No mother, no granny, no aunts this time
Nobody accompanied her
She felt so fulfilled extremely independent

She was free, yet a bit afraid
A train station at night
And she, all by herself!
Has to remember all the instructions given

All the signals of concern
Trains were always a fascination for her
Specially the ones with night cabinets
Those that had toilets hidden on what looked like a chair

And long seats that became beds
Open a little bit that door cabinet and
Here it is a small lavatory with a nice mirror
Where she can see herself and her hair

She’s barely twelve
But she travels alone in a train
She can’t wait for the dinner hour
When all the passengers meet in the dinning car

She can’t avoid the excitement of
Of the reminiscence of The Lady Vanishes
Memoir on her head
One of her favorite movies
She watches mystery movies and reads Sherlock Holmes
Waiting to solve the imaginary mysteries she knots on her head
Who killed my neighbor upstairs? (the neighbor was fine & alive)
Who is black-mailing my English teacher? (the English teacher just had black teeth & lung from the 20 cigarettes a day but not a single spot on her 64 years of life, not to mention never a blackmail)

But this 12-year-old girl is highly imaginative
And now she travels alone in a train…

What occult mysteries would be waiting at the dinning car?
A friendly woman about to disappear maybe? In front of my face?
Or perhaps an assassination and a corpse will be thrown out of the fast-car?

As her mother warned her,
She should stop her highly-imaginative mind
No murderers nor mysteries this time
Just she's happy
Already traveling by herself in an over-night train
if something exciting is going to happen ever in her life
it is going to be tonight
what better occasion that a long night on a moving train?

This is how being adult is she thinks

but today
She snoozes out of her thoughts
today when she’s already 36 and is seating on a chair
Shared-office, a surviving half decent job
where she plays with images as she did back then

She realized she’s been day dreaming again
Of that night, when she traveled first
As an adult
Alone, at 12
On a midnight train

Today
Still no mysteries to solve
Still nobody has disappear and nobody
For Sherlock Holmes or the
Enigmas of lost Egypt seem anymore to care

What a boring world
We live in now
All is blogs and e-chats

Was better when she was 12 since
Agatha Christie & Conan Doyle were popular back then…