For the water to lay still

I want the hours to stop

For the water to lay still

Like the characters in the books when I close the pages

They living trapped among words, until we again read

I want life to stop slipping away

For tea not get lukewarm

And to see your smile without a frown

without a care

I want Time to stop, every day, at 2 p.m.

And to embrace you forever, under this bridge

debajo del puente
Mission Bay, Bonita Cove beach

Reflection

walked in front of a mirror
didn't see my own reflection
where was I going?

lost myself some more
lost in disappointment
or was it frustration?
sure, lost in translation

walked walked around
looked looked around
still no reflection

Life imperfect momemts, mosquitos!

To love this life.

In its most imperfect moments...

Mosquitoes!

---

The beauty of life is in loving even its most imperfect moments.

----

To love life's imperfect little moments.

-----

Sometimes I feel that enjoying life is being thankful for even the imperfect moments.

-------

Last night silly writings.

10 years

I have been writing this blog for 10 years!
10 years.
I, I, I, I need to keep on writing here.
My first post:
12 and in a night-train
Hope there is not a last one,
for a while.

under construction

as my little life seems always to be
be be be, and then it bes again



[this photo="" from="" across="" my="" street=""][/this]

and a song to accompany the mood, sure thing!
another Arcade Fire, the Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)



this to honor the always-under-construction
neighborhood of my heart & souls
as it goes:

And if the snow buries my,
my neighborhood.
And if my parents are crying
then I’ll dig a tunnel
from my window to yours,
yeah a tunnel from my window to yours.
You climb out the chimney
and meet me in the middle,
the middle of town.
And since there’s no one else around,
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow.

You change all the lead
sleepin’ in my head,
as the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn.

Then we tried to name our babies,
but we forgot all the names that,
the names we used to know.
But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms,
and our parent’s bedrooms,
and the bedrooms of our friends.
Then we think of our parents,
well what ever happened to them?!

You change all the lead
sleepin’ in my head to gold,
as the day grows dim,
I hear you sing a golden hymn,
the song I’ve been trying to say.

Purify the colors, purify my mind.
Purify the colors, purify my mind,
and spread the ashes of the colors
over this heart of mine!

another day

the faraway sound of cars passing by
fade out
as the sun, and the daylight

another day lived
another day dies

fears, feelings, sounds, words, movements
all, with the night, seems to calm down
fade out

and my mind wonders
as before, as every night
who am i?

tonight, even if i know i need to improve
i go to bed, with a smile

i might be wrong
but at least i know that i've tried

Thirty-four, Tao Te Ching

The great Tao flows everywhere, both to the left and to the right.
The ten thousand things depend upon it; it holds nothing back.
It fulfills its purpose silently and makes no claim.

It nourishes the ten thousand things,
And yet is not their lord.
It has no aim; it is very small.

The ten thousand things return to it,
Yet it is not their lord.
It is very great.

It does not show greatness,
And is therefore truly great.

petit soledad

I wrote a sentence in my soul
That later I forgot,
I held your hand strong
Only to –later– let it go,
I’ve walked across continents
To find myself thirsty, fatigued, and alone
I smiled at my solitude though
& it smiled back! And softly with a little frown
It drew for me the Earth, The Moon, and the Sun
Then it all, lastly, seemed to be worth
Now me and my lonely shadow
Hand in hand, merrily we go



“In solitude, where we are least alone.”
~a Lord Byron quote

milk & sky

Morning &
I’ll walk out the door of my existence
facing a bright blue sky
&
Spilled like hot milk
On a warm morning stove
minute white clouds hop around

dazzling blue cuts this sorrow
the milk melted, was your eyes

writing the unintelligent way

the movie, twosome, as dual duality dual
all day all days
music beat tap, freeway noise the back
back louder than front
complexity in numbers
we humans create
we all have to calculate

a radio station and a freeway
those are numbers anyway
the non-traceable human soul
numbers again
bodies without a backwash or a simple mathematical outline
88.3 jazz station raison d'être, the redemption
163 the freeway, taking you closer to frustration

can’t stand up from this chair
a motionless body
out of madness and hope
sky-scraping soul one minute
stumpy the next
them tint all with a color of perplexity
oomph then sulk then up and down again & again

communion of the downfall with a smile of cooperativeness
perplex of its own thing
the movie of this morning 7.30 am then
“the more you drive, the less intelligent you are”
-was it radiohead’s or repo-man?

a smile and a grrrr just because…
also while thinking of not writing felt so bad
what would i do without writing?
Even if it is this non-understandable ravage
nobody would these things or movies or nothing understand
so thankful i found the friends to at least try…

----

last night, i left my wallet
at a grocery store
at the parking lot in the shopping cart
got a phone call from the store
somebody returned it
all was intact inside
my $3 in cash
and my 70 € my mom gave me
i was a lucky woman
and a thankful one
since there is still a lot of honest people
around
i hope you find them on your walking path
thankful this little note i write

Back wrenched (draft to the 1st post)

Tonight I found this interesting (for me heh heh)
Draft on word
It was actually meant to be my very 1st post on this blog!
I didn’t finished, and the 1st post came different
But here what I found tonight:

Back wrenched first involuntarily, in forethought after and since recalling how good is a good stretch, especially in the middle of the day.

Stretching the skin slightly comes an itchy, a little, the dryness of skin that comes with age, a little the sun of this city while you are outside.

Wrenched yet still holding the strength to write.
Sun glisten outside, what remains with a jump inside this heart.

After a colander, the clouds up in the sky, let filter through little squares the lightening shines .

4 of a Sunday, remembering trains and stations at 12, still a girl back then, many years ago, now 36 and San Diego, is the place. Those of the memories of the trains are far behind, as far as Guadalajara, city back in Mexico, that country just aside of this one.

The train station was particularly illuminated that night, maybe since being a Saturday night; the lights were dressed with the glittering of the traditional going out at the middle of the weekend. Funny how according to a calendar (the Roman in this case, as western civilization has selected for us), we gather when we should all united have fun, the official days of going out, socializing rules, rules & pre-sets, optimized for each & every one. Saturday don’t mind if your hair looks nice or the skin hangs all over and out, you are supposed to go, then if not, a week of wearing a crawling brain situation all around, a week, of trying to comfort yourself on the fact that all will recovered the next time.

Anyway the station looked fine, and 12 year-old are picky!, at least I was one, perfectionist, the drip way, so I knew the art deco decoration of this station was fine, it came with the same hope that the 20’s implied, the young century the best one we had in a while, the feeling of renaissance of rebirth, after the big war inundated the world, we have been very down and not very high since the 15th one that this after war

Then it finished there
I don’t understand myself the 15th nor the war references
But oh well
Many times I re-read what I tried to write
And truly, makes not much sense
But in this case
I didn’t dislike all the parts!
The strange person back in March 07, 2006
That I was, I seem to be today
& that’s somehow nice (?)
or stable of me (?)
rather conformist (?) ha!
this was supposed to be a writing exercise
this blog, and it has been anything else but that
but it's fine! it has become more of a journal
than anything, but i still can on it
well, write (insert smile) & non-sense type
las fotillos, también, now & then
& march 07, 06
Is not that long ago
And the actual 1st post came like this
I didn’t re-read it myself
But I will, I had befor
One day I’ll re-read it again
I think…
But not tonight

http://bereweber.blogspot.com/2006_03_07_archive.html

61 :)

a kitchen poem

she opened her mouth
wide
(a mild gesture of her fatigue)
& the fresh scent of peppermint
by her face
prevails

how will it be his embrace?
as a ray of sunlight
that caresses a fresh piece of wood
in a carpentry bench?

fragrances of honey &
of wet soil after rain

***

in my kitchen
there are these higher shelves
the ones i can’t reah
unless i put a stool
underneath my feet
where i store cans, rice, & other food

if there is...
peppermint &...
your arms smell like wood...
the higher shelves
i can’t reach them,
anyway,
while you are away


árbol de lima - Autlán, Jalisco
April 2007

blue mail box

I saw her this morning again
The woman by the parking lot

She walks fast from the office
To the sidewalk across
Deposits her letters
An oblong mail blue box

As she walks under the shadows that the buildings
On the floors of pavement have drawn
She shivers and holds her arms
Rubbing one against other
To heat from that rhythmical cold-warm-cold

And when there’s a gap between buildings
& the sun heats the before-cold-nothingness
just then she lets her arms go
Stretches soundly
& Turning her head a bit up
smiles soft to the sun

The letters, the bills
envelops of different sizes, various colors, textures, and sorts
Are on their way to a destiny
Always for me
unknown

an old poem

i found an older post
and some of it
tonight
makes sense (?)

monday is not green

Freeway entrance
Coffee check
Cup tight
no spill
Keeping always
All the surfaces
Clean

Noses little
Freckles
Dreams
Mouths chubby
L.A.’s dream

Hits
Lovers
Cups
Fashion
Scream

Noises
Currencies
African dead
Dreams

Corporate behind
Gimme some
Ganja
Marley
Imaginings
Reality-built-in
jade dreams

where did I read this?
...
oh i know! in my own stupid blog

image my kitchen ceiling
more of the strange saturday headache
light is one of the migraine mysteries i don't get
to see everything with a neon-ish aura for a couple of hours
is rather strange

sidewalks under construction

A man is building a little road
That road will serve many other men to walk on

While that man is building the road
He thinks of the benefit his work will bring

Yet one day, once the road is finished
He won’t have anything else to pass his seconds every day
Since the road is already built

Now is the job of the men walking that road?
To know what their walking through will be beneficial to…

This is not a religious parabola or anything like that
I just think of how I spent every second of my day
Some of my seconds are spent building something that I will use later
Some are spent in using those things I built before

At the end of the day
I just have seconds spent
I guess that is life
Spending the seconds in a ‘proper’ way…

Life’s passing
As I type
As you read…
As we breath
in and out...

I wish I could be in love one day again
With an unknown man that cares
For some of my seconds share
and for watching with me the crows cry

love is a good way to pass your life around
art such as... works also dignifies

y como cada día

& the poet repeats day after day:
i don't know...

músculos bajo plumas

y ahorita, así de la nada, me acuerdo. pero el recuerdo está parchado, como si estuviera hecho de pedacitos de tela, de la misma tela de la que se cortan las ilusiones pequeñas y los sueños que tienes cuando estas despierto.

casi atropello a un pájaro, parecía un ganso, y bastante grande, entonces tenía la presencia mas que de un ave, de un animal mas voluminoso, como un perro de cacería o una oveja. el camino que manejaba, nublado y niebla, curvas y a veces al salir de ellas, pequeñitas piedras. todavía no llovía ni estaba mojado de antes. pero en el ambiente se sentía esa fuerza extraña que invade todas las cosas, no solo las materiales sino tambien las etéreas, antes de una tormenta. oficialmente era la tarde, pero de mañana casi todavía. y siempre ha habido algo diferente, casi místico en las tormentas de mediodía, algo de contradicción, de sentimiento eclíptico con sabor a mito, y a paradoja de una muy básica teoría sobre la luminosidad ahora negada con lluvia que corresponde a un típico mediodía, y fundido con el aroma de las lágrimas de melancolía que pronto serán la lluvia misma. el ave cruzó, corría, tuve que frenar en la curva y vi como sus alas ahora cercanas se movían, contemplado por menos de un segundo como los pequeños músculos en acción se tensaban bajo las plumas de textura suave que resplandecían bajo el poco sol filtrado entre densas nubes formando un arcoiris de cientos de tonos de un mismo color café. todo tan rápido, menos de un segundo fué. nos vimos frente a frente, imagen transparente, pero no tanto con los ojos sino más bien con el sentido del sentimiento, y de alguna manera y afortunadamente las dos sabíamos que no había mas peligro, pero también la complicidad unificadora existía, que aunque mas corto que un pequeño instante o que esa mitad de un de un segundo, peligro y de muerte, lo hubo...

extraña, misteriosa, inesperada, y a veces de muchos tonos de café y entre la niebla y al mediodía, en la contradiccion de un nublado incandescente el pájaro y yo supimos, eran tanto la muerte como la vida

y si los arboles de cuyamaca retorcidos quemados hace poco, grandes fuegos forestales fueron no solo nuestra perfecta escenografía, si no también testimonios y eternos testigos de muerte pero antes, de vida

esta mañana

es solo una niñería
y estoy ocupada en el trabajo
pero tomé notas con lápiz y papel

y la sensación del lápiz
y la sensación del papel
uno sobre el otro

una maravilla

prophecies of self-indulgence

a headache again
so strong
blinding a lost day?
a sunday
i got a cold

i said i would write
or picture or something
almost 40 years
and back to the same nonsense

again still not a plan
have let behind some many
usually unfinished or broken

too many and too little
to pick up the pieces
and re-start one or the other

you can be a child forever and always
just don’t forget
children
are always growing

trying to be done
with at least
the self-indulgence

friends family
care
realizing
they are something
lucky I have some of them

my head just hurts so much
the sun out seems purifying
another walk
another sunny sunday

saturday nor daily

it seems did it make it
strong coffee
and a late morning
happens

those sort
of connections
de café
convents
and inventions
that was what about
i was talking

o saw last night
stoned the movie
stoned at 9.50
damn photos i can’t download
freaking procrastination
since december
crippled computer
surviving

anyway the movie
was ok
more on it later
still didn’t cure me
from insomnia
if nothing

here saturday before noon
so it is officially morning
slept 3 hrs
natural
for what is worth it

now into caffeine
and disgraces resplendent
with the sun of the south
of this california

don’t tell me on
geographical compartment
the desert is close

and middle of the days
still happen

to walk in the sun cold
while time’s clicking

natural insomnia

no retorts
not there tu
not me somewhere
nor the small squares
beautiful reminders/pacifiers

hectic/
not recalled

silence

afraid insecure
if invading
a simple thought
is too strong?

retreat
safer
and
distance is
longer

sent sent
no come back

a blank mind needed
not invading
not even with thinking
rather in a
way of disappearance
i feel i despair
lately

distracted was
runs fast
not idea where
or how to open a front door
some times

a link not since
have been muted
maybe something i wrote?
maybe something i thought?
and long travelled...

insomnia
insomnia

natural
read and sleep is not coming

can’t stop wondering
i hold out

a dream
an unreal
a something
can’t get a hold
of my own peace
somehow

if i could flat out tell you
yet

what to do?
not pills anymore
not fiction solutions
a natural pain

like the one
of being for some
an umbrella
on a day
that is not raining

if still breathing
unexpectedly
change it
the world

the world can
in a second
all be changed

yet afraid in my waiting
i am forgetting
i am not the only spectator
just because with me nothing changes

not mine
not again
not something
i just don’t know
how to blank-mind-it
if just...

just letters against
white screen
on a cyber space
rented

late on a lonely night
paying the price of
not sure what karmatic
error

that eats my guts
you might forget it
but i feel inundated in my own
ignorance

the damn valve closes
and believe me it is not orange

i wish i felt safe to walk late the streets
but can't even find the front door
for a starter

an umbrella
in a day
that is not raining

no wonder