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.