Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Let me explain.
I'm an advocate of ideals. Unlike principles, ideals aren't necessarily the base for subsequent ideals, and they certainly don't care to address what some object should be like, how it should work, etc. Ideals aim for ultimate perfection, with no other purpose (necessarily) than attaining it.
An ideal: World peace.
I'm a man of ideals, but not of very many principles, which in other words means I have a lot of conceptual truths about myself and the world, but not a clue about how to live by them, act for them, or even how to respect them.
Comes a birthday candle.
My heart or something that acts like it instantly begins a feast of self-indulgence:
"I wish health for myself and my loved ones, that I get that job that I'm aiming for, that nothing bad...-"
Like a thunder, like that lover from 2 years ago who should be over you by now but instead cannot help but reappear like a bitter bitch, my conscience (my mind?) rushes in:
"What about world peace, Phineas? What about all the unfairness in the world, and the people who have never celebrated their birthday, who've never even had cake - those mothers who are loosing their children in non-sensical fights, wars or robberies, as you blow those candles..."
All this happens in the split of a second. This is usually the time where everybody around you is done with their singing and clapping, has given you a second to perform your part of the ritual, and mutter:
This is exactly when I have to say, "Give me a second. I'm thinking." I suspect this is what happens to everyone who takes too long to blow their birthday candles: A sudden moment of unbearable pressure and excitement, where all your selfless and selifsh Wishes gallop to the forefront, rushing for a chance to take the spotlight. I tend to think that this is a chance for that little person inside of us to really take a moment and reaffirm who we are.
Right there, I've defeated the purpose of the ritual of Wishing.
In my case, like I said, the fight is between my very immediate neccesities and sending positive vibes to this seemingly unfair universe (shouldn't these too be part of my immediate necessities???). It's too huge of a difference in scope, and usually my birthday Wish ends up being a forced mash-up, an almost incongruent mini-speech that may include sentences as ridiculous as "I wish for the well-being of my family and friends, as well as for those innocent souls in Darfur. And when I hoped for inner peace for myself earlier, I also wished it for humanity as a whole."
Wishes, of course, should be spontaneous and free of conscience. They should come from the gut, and be sent to all dimensions with convincement. Personally, next time I will not apologize, rewrite or argue with myself when I Wish. Que así sea.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Plant a kiss on these eyes.
Stop. Stop it or.
Fuck, I've never felt more alone.
I've never felt more controlled.
I've never felt like winning it all.
I've never felt that I couldn't at all.
Tried to stop me
but they couldn't
because they apply simple measures to a complex mind
and a simple tactic won't prevent the crime.
Just a glimpse into the past and I remember who I was.
So I recall what the Chinese lady at the museum once told me:
Nothing matters if your inspiration is concentric.
The devil made a much finer job at trapping my soul:
He knew, and didn't stutter.
He hushed, and didn't panic.
The devil knew me well, and waited
For me to go back,
hungry happy high angry nappy nigh and every now
and again we both get bored with the world because no one wants to come in
and take a chance.
It's too much pressure for simple minds, and an unnecessary alibi for complex ones.
It's hard to digest.
Sitting outside, it's never sunny enough
for the Devil and I,
it's never fully enough,
as we sip our cup of tea.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
But whose means are we talking about, and what ends are we defending?
And what means are we applying, and whose ends are we trying to attain?
It's not only about whether one values outcome over process or vice versa, is it?
It shouldn't be about morals or rationality, certainly not ours'.
It should be about what's best for the animal species that is being exterminated, or the natural resource that is being exploited, or the children and the handicapped and the poor and the "different" that cannot defend themselves.
We should see through their eyes, and act. Not think, not feel. How irrelevant. Simple empathy, and even simpler but effective action.
What about us? What happens when we are the ones at a crossroads and we are the victim, the oppressed?
You might ask.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Or anything better to choose from
If anything more fragile than a day
Or anything more momentous than breathing
I would understand how it is that we are suspended somewhere in the universe
Clenched in Dragon’s claws that loosen to a simple dream.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Y tiene razón.
Es que to be a writer you have to own more behind(inside) than what meets the eye, more than what the conscious life festers or lets out. Mejor dicho, to be a writer is to have more in your soul than what you can express, or act upon, or deny. It is to live in contradiction, or in the very least, in hyperbole.
And you must not care about these conditions. These circumstances are to be explored, suffered, savoured, but not denied and not ignored.
No, not ignored.
Plus, a mí sí que no me importa nada tener coherencia. Nada.
- ▼ June (6)