the socrates syndrome

Debility infuses days
Discolored morality
Climbing the
Clenched soul
At nights

Splotchy principles
Of my lower mind
My inferior soul
My poorer core

Not malevolence
Nonetheless
lacking fineness

reason stumbles
revealing my own self
A weakness-full-of face

Not loving enough
Not caring enough
For no one
certainly not for one self

monster of despise
Judging lefts & rights
Have I become?

Feeling mad and rude this day

ignorance and unrestraint
undisciplined soul
makes me carry
this non-glorious self every step

not proud of myself
ignorance violence
my very own intellectual spiritual
faults

if i knew my own definitions of right and wrong
that could help
confused although
can't see the light
or don't know what is light for myself

wish had some radiance
but I don’t
wonder if I knew
when the dark spots started to grow
when did these crooked principles
were plotted?

was it on the cradle early existence of my soul?
Was it on my bringing up?

Or is it embedded? As in genes
On the traces of a damaged dna

Doubt and self-judgment
I call upon

Since doubt on my own
Believing am mistaken
Seems the only way
To a path of humility
And interior peace
That I, since born I long for

Poor of spirit
Poor of soul
Weak and mean

seems the only comfort
Is not among the human race
i undergo low for them
feel this day

everybody seems more radiant
too valuable (in a righteous sort of way)
to be my friend

an iceberg wish i could live in,
between 4 walls of coldness

me alone to cure my own miserable soul
seems to be the way

ice cold to refresh
the self inflicted bounds
of a lower woman as I am today….

"As for me, all I know is that I know nothing."
Socrates

william blake

A truth that's told with bad intent, Beats all the lies you can invent.
William Blake

me, to a male friend a couple of days ago

yes i know i seem very cool, rational (?) and laid back sometimes
but don't ever forget that first of all, i am a woman! so...
whimsicalness wins most of the time

sorry, nature precedes, and... huh? i am actually thankful for that

a woman alone in the house

7.35am

she wakes up
the corner of her eye glimpses a reflection on the living room’s old mirror
dry lifeless hair
wrinkles around the eyes, not deep yet not subtle, marked as the wounds on her gentleness once
piebald skin
a shrug of bitterness she wears this morning, instead of a smile
a bent back hides her body, her breasts
what repulsive view! how ugly i am!
but of course i am alone, she retorts
how could any man like me? whispers to herself
self pity, self fault
her unattractiveness blamed, long cause of lonesomeness

5.23pm (later on the same day)

the same mirror for a second time in the day
distracted, all the errands a busy day
walking by the mirror fast wondering if she could escape the mirror’s old manias
his tendencies to all reflect
yet she stops all at once
not anymore afraid of it
the sight is so different now!
her hair after a day of its own humectation, shines & falls flawlessly on her forehead
the way that he used to like it
when he was close long ago, one day
it even smells fine!
the wrinkles seem less deep now
long lashes lustrous & lengthy soulful stare, bringing out the deep color of her eyes
the walk & little sun brought out an unexpected pretty blush to her face
now she smiles and her striking white teeth fill the room with a different light
a deep breathe fixes her posture
she is not in such a bad shape after all, at least for her age, she likes her breasts!
but i alone in the house now, as always,
she cries, and no-one to share no one to stare her new found beauty or to divide the caresses
with this unique moment of hers
no other than her lonely reflection on that mirror
he is never besides her
upset, throw to the mirror a blanket
she beautiful now not ugly like some hours before
yet lonely still
she goes and cries unaided on her bed, again, blameworthy of being always just…
herself

beautiful or ugly, a woman always blames herself for her loneliness…

la línea de la belleza

the book that i am reading now
just started so have no reviews yet, of mine
but here one, and an 'about the author' note
the line of beauty by alan hollinghurst

& then i knew who is richard greenberg

last night another night at the old globe theatre, this time the violet hour; and the name richard greenberg, for me now is linked to outstanding ideas, marvelous plots, full of unforeseen twists; i think one knows it is a good play when all seems fast, short, and easily ending! when you can't believe the intermission is here, and when the curtain is down again it is sad to see the play over. i could've stayed the whole night and re-watched it many times! it was that delicious... the machine, what a ironic twister. a highly enjoyable play, fast paced and never dull or boring, full of new york city references, queens, the queensborough bridge, etc.

the cast was superb! 2 women 3 men, and specially t. scott cunningham as gidger, maybe since his character carried the most delightful and funniest lines on the play, not to mention his dog sir lancelot


from aCurtainUp review on the Violet hour:

It's that time -- that wonderful New York hour when the evening's about to reward you for that day ---Denis (Denny) McCleary explaining the title for his colossus of a novel to his friend John Pace Seavering -- and by extension, the title for Richard Greenberg's play about a fateful day in their lives...

one henry james day

as I search, and become overwhelmed always seeing the flocks of materials coming, into English and American literature figures; (and not that I am done with the Latin’s, the Europeans, or even less with my beloved Southern American authors). However, as I search in English, and why English? Well, because I am following the switch of a language, from Spanish to English with its implications on the adulteration of my once-better-defined-since-in-narrower-mind-landscapes-developed personality.

Then, I am finding authors that might fit and soothe my mad person (mad as in crazy, deranged, or lacking restraint or reason, or foolish, but NOT as in angry), authors that dedicate their lives and sensitiveness to write thoughts, legends, stories on the humane splendor and also on its horrible complications, for us one day to find and read and embrace. Authors who wrote marvelous words in English that might ensemble with my sight of life and sense. Authors who wrote a word or two that might bring me back to my own personal corner, where there are no big plans nor big treasures but the pleasure of the beauty on nothingness, on the little details of every day, those details that i can depend on: on teas, coffee, sounds of birds, noisy guitar feedbacks, one or two flowers appearing and trees that become older, and the art of my friends that is always shinning.

In this newest language, (5 years by now of being official, as official English can be in San Diego) today I am finally getting into Henry James. Not that I am picking to read one of his novels, not yet, but in a quick break at work and while I search, I read on him, and some of his texts and quoting, I think one day I will have to read "The Ambassadors" hopefully before I am much much older than this day, the one day I read for the first time some Henry James filigreeing one's soul with his wording... so little time! so many wonderful words, books, poems, sounds, records... aesthetic overwhelming joy

here some of Henry James quoting
Thank goodness you're a failure-- it's why I so distinguish you! Anything else to-day is too hideous. Look about you--look at the successes. Would you BE one, on your honour?
"The Ambassadors", Book First, Chapter 3

People can be in general pretty well trusted, of course--with the clock of their freedom ticking as loud as it seems to do here--to keep an eye on the fleeting hour.
"The Ambassadors", Book Fifth, Chapter 2

Live all you can - it's a mistake not to. It doesn't so much matter what you do in particular, so long as you have your life. If you haven't had that, what have you had?
"The Ambassadors"

Even when a thing's already nice there mostly is some other thing that would have been nicer - or as to which we wonder if it wouldn't.
"The Ambassadors", Book Ninth, Chapter 2

She had fortunately always her appetite for news. The pure flame of the disinterested burned in her cave of treasures as a lamp in a Byzantine vault.

"The Ambassadors", Book Ninth, Chapter 2

He had the entertainment of thinking that if he had for that moment stopped the clock it was to promote the next minute this still livelier motion.

"The Ambassadors", Book Eighth, Chapter 2

For the worst sign of all--as I must have it for you-- is that you can't help me. That's when a woman pities.
"The Ambassadors", Book Sixth, Chapter 2

Cats and monkeys; monkeys and cats; all human life is there.

It takes a great deal of history to produce a little literature.

She had an unequalled gift... of squeezing big mistakes into small opportunities.

and my favorite:
Deep experience is never peaceful.

also visit the Ladder a website devoted to Henry
“It rested – the ladder – against the great stony wall of the public attention”
The papers – Henry James

sir arthur conan doyle birth-day!

a day like today but back in 1859 was born one of my literary heros sir arthur conan doyle
he is featured today in google

here a link to his biography
sir arthur conan doyle siempre!

books

"Books are not life, however much we might prefer it if they were."

"What happened to the truth is not recorded."

"Parrots are human to begin with; etymologically, that is. Perroquet is a diminutive of Pierrot; parrot comes from Pierre; Spanish perico derives from Pedro. For the Greeks, their ability to speak was an item in the philosophical devate over the differences between man and the animals."

- Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot.

footnotes

1) Barnes (at least while writing on Flaubert and his parrot) is clearly out of his mind. Brilliantly, all over the place. The references, places, stories, quotations, and so much other richness included, are so vast that is delightfully hard for one, very hard indeed, and delightful too, to realize when you are reading fiction, fiction from either the author (not Barnes, but his narrator) or from his eloquently dissected subject, Flaubert, not the parrot in this specific case -nor that the bird doesn't get spoonfuls of scrutiny himself -; or historically accurate facts; or anecdotes from the French or the English side. Erratic genius that makes the most sense… Anybody who is interested in literature, books, and twisty-quirky references, don’t wait!

2) I talked to my mother on the phone today, as she gets ready to visit me for a long time... Out of the blue, and as I prepare my dinner, holding with one hand the 'parrot book' (see above), I remember that my mother taught me 2 basic cooking (more serving) advices:

advice 1. take the cheese out of the fridge at least 1/2 an hour before eating it. these days i always remember that the right temperature and texture are most important while eating a good piece of cheese.

advice 2. take the salad dressing out of the fridge at least 1/2 an hour before serving

most important details for a delightful trivial life, like mine, as on a wednesday night i worry over a brilliant lunatic author writing about another brilliant yet equally lunatic author, all while wondering if my cheese has the right temperature, triviality indeed...

NO to war!

There is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace: Project Gutenberg

an excellent literary resource on the World Wide Web Project Gutenberg, on downtimes I have read at least 2 chapters of Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit. I recommend you to recover the taste for the charming style, the observer's passion, the fascination of logic, of all times dearest Sherlock Holmes, my adolescence and life would have been very different without Sir Arthur Conan Doyle around (suspicious smile...)

Project Gutenberg features on its front page as today
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

once you are there don't forget to check their Music, recorded section