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