stupid computer of mine.... le da con dañarse en el momento que más necesito un outlet... Pero bueno, no he abandonado mis responsabilidades con este website. Tengo posts en mis drafts pero no tengo ganas de postear refritos asi de la nada... Así que, los dejo con el clichoso Feliz Año Nuevo, y espero que no tengan trastornos mentales.
Neverending battle suena tan poetico, como para un cuento... espérenlo... quizás
(((((BIBLIOTECA OCTAGONAL)))))
(((Libros-Películas-Paréntesis)))
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
On picky men, on survival from disorientation, on retarded jeans, on economic recess, and on sleepy contradictions.
Men are as picky/choosy with their clothes as women are. Evidence of this is the fact that you see them in Zara, or in Guess, or in Banana Republic, or (I forget the other expensive/chic store in Plaza) buying an sorting clothes; I saw them today, as I shopped for Christmas. It was interesting. (And the fact that I finally went inside Zara and Guess made it a little bit more shocking).
Talking about Guess, and Plaza las Américas (largest mall in the Caribbean for those puertorricanly-impared)... I got lost... well, not lost, but disoriented... at the hall between JC Penny, and Macy's, somehow I thought I was heading east (towards the main entrance), but I was actually going south (towards Macy's). I don't know how it happened, I went into those stores that I never go, just to look around, and when I finally realize where I was, the map in my head straightened... it made me dizzy, but I survived.
Talking about that hall.... There is a store there called: Lucky Brand Jeans, goshdangit, a pair of jeans in there cost 138 frigging dollars!!! Can you believe it? Would you pay that much for them? Hell no. Talk about uberduper recontrarchi supercalifragilistupidly retarded. I'd rather buy 4 at $20 a piece, in different colors and styles for every day off of the week!
Talking about expensive shit... Puerto Rico is in a slight (although many would argue that adjective) economic recession, but people still walk around the mall with three to five bags full of stuff.
Talking about people without money... I was one of those walking around with two or three bags. Now I'm sleepy, goodbye. Or should I play with my new Nintengo Wii? Nah, I must sleep, I have huuuge ojeras.
Talking about Guess, and Plaza las Américas (largest mall in the Caribbean for those puertorricanly-impared)... I got lost... well, not lost, but disoriented... at the hall between JC Penny, and Macy's, somehow I thought I was heading east (towards the main entrance), but I was actually going south (towards Macy's). I don't know how it happened, I went into those stores that I never go, just to look around, and when I finally realize where I was, the map in my head straightened... it made me dizzy, but I survived.
Talking about that hall.... There is a store there called: Lucky Brand Jeans, goshdangit, a pair of jeans in there cost 138 frigging dollars!!! Can you believe it? Would you pay that much for them? Hell no. Talk about uberduper recontrarchi supercalifragilistupidly retarded. I'd rather buy 4 at $20 a piece, in different colors and styles for every day off of the week!
Talking about expensive shit... Puerto Rico is in a slight (although many would argue that adjective) economic recession, but people still walk around the mall with three to five bags full of stuff.
Talking about people without money... I was one of those walking around with two or three bags. Now I'm sleepy, goodbye. Or should I play with my new Nintengo Wii? Nah, I must sleep, I have huuuge ojeras.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Holiday Warmth o Ella está feliz
Holiday Warmth o Ella está feliz
por: Joel Feliciano
Sube las escaleras hacia su apartamento. Camina por el pasillo de su piso alumbrado por una luz tenue, que la baña de tonos sepia, y hace que sus movimientos sean más lentos. Imagina lo que hará esa noche. Se imagina mirar el techo mientras el sol termina de ahogarse en el horizonte. Un leve tintineo de dos únicas llaves se escucha. Abre las dos cerraduras de su puerta, la segunda truena como el choque de las bolas de billar a donde estuvo esa tarde; libre de tareas universitarias, se había pasado el día paseando por su ciudad de frías nieblas, su ciudad de luces entumecidas por nubes, de aires memorables de nostalgia y recuerdos enternecedores. Entra en su apartamento. Por la ventana al final del pasillo de entrada entra el final del día: una claridad vaga que la divierte, que desenfoca las sombras y que une las vidas. Deja caer las llaves en el counter de la cocina, pues no tiene una mesa de comedor. Suelta su bulto en otra esquina. Se quita los zapatos. Camina en medias. Siente el frío del suelo de madera. Siente la mullida suavidad de la alfombra del cuarto. Enciende el radio que está en el piso. La estación fue predestinada desde ayer: un Jazz absorbente y grueso. El saxofón embadurna los rincones de una tristeza hermosa, de una alegría de olas de mar. El piano timbra y ausculta los misteriosos rincones con curiosidad, y suena en el trasfondo de una fotografía en blanco y negro. Ella se trepa en la cama, su único mueble. Abre la ventana que hay en la cabezera y el frío entra. Enciende la calefacción, que está al alcanze de su mano, para no congelarse. Es una chica complicada. Le gusta el frío natural, pero no le gusta congelarse. Tiene sentido. Y para que ese calor se le quede dentro enciende un cigarrillo. Y mira la chispa ardiente en la punta. Y exhala hacia la ventana, enrolladas sus piernas entre sus brazos, sobre la almohada. El humo se escapa por la ventana, pero queda el amargo olor en la habitación. A ella no le importa y mira el cielo gris, mira la niebla que se confunde con el humo. Apuñala el cigarrillo en el cenizero, donde descansan en paz otros cuántos. Se acuesta en la cama, y presiente los cambios de la luz, que se desvela como un telón de terciopelo en el teatro; aparecen pliegues tras los objetos, tras los libros. Recuerda entonces el ramito de pino que arrancó de algún árbol de navidad que vendían en la calle de camino... Lo saca del bolsillo de su camisa. Lo huele: un agridulce que la sumerge en memorias intocables. No puede comprarse uno. Entonces escucha la voz solemne, honda, y levemente rugosa de un hombre en la radio. Imagina a un hombre negro, con la sencillez de una sonrisa sumamente blanca. Cierra los ojos escuchando la siguiente tonada, y se imagina la noche, se piensa abrazada por otro cuerpo en aquella cama, entre las sábanas tibias por la piel. Cuando abre los ojos ya la ciudad ha ennegrecido, las cornisas de los edificios cercanos relumbran con las girnaldas navideñas. Respira profundo, su pecho se yergue... Puede escuchar los rastros del retintinar de un villancico a lo lejos. Entonces tocan a su puerta. Se levanta, saca de la nevera la botella de coquito que su amigo le ensenó a preparar; la única receta que se ha dignado a hacer, solamente para aquella ocasión; y pone la botella en el counter, el contenido espeso y cremoso la excita. Se sirve en uno de sus tres vasos de cristal, la crema se desliza y ella se deja dominar por el amigable olor de la leche condenzada mezclada con el hambriento vapor del ron... Sonríe. Y camina hacia la puerta. Abre y toma de la mano a aquella otra sombra.
por: Joel Feliciano
Sube las escaleras hacia su apartamento. Camina por el pasillo de su piso alumbrado por una luz tenue, que la baña de tonos sepia, y hace que sus movimientos sean más lentos. Imagina lo que hará esa noche. Se imagina mirar el techo mientras el sol termina de ahogarse en el horizonte. Un leve tintineo de dos únicas llaves se escucha. Abre las dos cerraduras de su puerta, la segunda truena como el choque de las bolas de billar a donde estuvo esa tarde; libre de tareas universitarias, se había pasado el día paseando por su ciudad de frías nieblas, su ciudad de luces entumecidas por nubes, de aires memorables de nostalgia y recuerdos enternecedores. Entra en su apartamento. Por la ventana al final del pasillo de entrada entra el final del día: una claridad vaga que la divierte, que desenfoca las sombras y que une las vidas. Deja caer las llaves en el counter de la cocina, pues no tiene una mesa de comedor. Suelta su bulto en otra esquina. Se quita los zapatos. Camina en medias. Siente el frío del suelo de madera. Siente la mullida suavidad de la alfombra del cuarto. Enciende el radio que está en el piso. La estación fue predestinada desde ayer: un Jazz absorbente y grueso. El saxofón embadurna los rincones de una tristeza hermosa, de una alegría de olas de mar. El piano timbra y ausculta los misteriosos rincones con curiosidad, y suena en el trasfondo de una fotografía en blanco y negro. Ella se trepa en la cama, su único mueble. Abre la ventana que hay en la cabezera y el frío entra. Enciende la calefacción, que está al alcanze de su mano, para no congelarse. Es una chica complicada. Le gusta el frío natural, pero no le gusta congelarse. Tiene sentido. Y para que ese calor se le quede dentro enciende un cigarrillo. Y mira la chispa ardiente en la punta. Y exhala hacia la ventana, enrolladas sus piernas entre sus brazos, sobre la almohada. El humo se escapa por la ventana, pero queda el amargo olor en la habitación. A ella no le importa y mira el cielo gris, mira la niebla que se confunde con el humo. Apuñala el cigarrillo en el cenizero, donde descansan en paz otros cuántos. Se acuesta en la cama, y presiente los cambios de la luz, que se desvela como un telón de terciopelo en el teatro; aparecen pliegues tras los objetos, tras los libros. Recuerda entonces el ramito de pino que arrancó de algún árbol de navidad que vendían en la calle de camino... Lo saca del bolsillo de su camisa. Lo huele: un agridulce que la sumerge en memorias intocables. No puede comprarse uno. Entonces escucha la voz solemne, honda, y levemente rugosa de un hombre en la radio. Imagina a un hombre negro, con la sencillez de una sonrisa sumamente blanca. Cierra los ojos escuchando la siguiente tonada, y se imagina la noche, se piensa abrazada por otro cuerpo en aquella cama, entre las sábanas tibias por la piel. Cuando abre los ojos ya la ciudad ha ennegrecido, las cornisas de los edificios cercanos relumbran con las girnaldas navideñas. Respira profundo, su pecho se yergue... Puede escuchar los rastros del retintinar de un villancico a lo lejos. Entonces tocan a su puerta. Se levanta, saca de la nevera la botella de coquito que su amigo le ensenó a preparar; la única receta que se ha dignado a hacer, solamente para aquella ocasión; y pone la botella en el counter, el contenido espeso y cremoso la excita. Se sirve en uno de sus tres vasos de cristal, la crema se desliza y ella se deja dominar por el amigable olor de la leche condenzada mezclada con el hambriento vapor del ron... Sonríe. Y camina hacia la puerta. Abre y toma de la mano a aquella otra sombra.
Dedicado a Alexandra, quien vive en la gris ciudad de San Francisco.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Today Last Year, no fear
There are dates that you never forget. Today is 19th of December. The 19th is part of a sequential-trilogy of days. I'll explain. The 17, 18 and 19 of December of last year 2005, were the turning point of a very awesome Christmas.
Two days ago, I started to write this, and here goes:
On December 17th, 2005, a night much like this one, at this same exact hour/time: 1:00 AM (of the 18th actually), I was on my way to the Greyhound Bus Station in Downtown Las Vegas. I was going to make a 15-16 hour bus ride to San Francisco. It was one of the best experiences I've had.
The bus ride was pretty much uneventful, but the days before the ride, and the days after...!!! Gosh... I get teary-eyed.
I left Las Vegas at 1:45 sharp. I was driven to the station by Joel (the other one). On the bus I called Alexandra, who was the one I was meeting in SanFran, and we talked for like an hour or more, or until the people on the bus were bothered by me speaking. The road was dark, invisibly barren. We would stop at these small little outposts in the middle of the dark nowhere. And we'd move on to the road. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the day was rising. Early morning in the plains of California, after a while buildings and urban areas started to appear on the roadsides, and soon the metropolis of Los Angeles was evident. There the bus stopped for a layover (at a very unappealing station). Then, the landscape of lonely hills returned. The bus stopped at the most solitary Burger King I've ever seen, and it was cloudy, the sky was super grey, it was a little rainy, and it was uber cold. I loved it.
But I want to tell you about the moment going to the station in Vegas, and the moment getting out of the station in SanFran.
I had been camping at Joel's appartment (the other Joel), it was the last day I was going to be in Las Vegas. We were going to eat. Joel's girlfriend had to work. I packed up my things, I put them in the back of the car. I was leaving. We had dinner at the Hard Rock Café, and then we had like four hours to kill before 1:45 AM. I don't remember exactly what we did, I think we walked around the casinos and tried to get to a show (cirque du soleil or a comedy show I'm not sure) but it was sold out. But, what I do remember is the drive to the station. So much silence. It reminded me of the taxi ride, in Orlando, from the appartment in Disney to the airport. The same quietness, the lights of the street swooping by around the car. And, just like that, I was at the station, I grabbed my bags and said goodbye. It reminded me of so many movies when goodbye scenes are so long. But this, was very casual, as if that was a natural thing, as if tomorrow I'd be there again. "See you soon", I said. "Merry Christmas", he said. "You too", I said. "Thanks for visiting", he said. "No, thank you". And just like that, I crossed the glass doors, bought my ticket and he was off and I was off. 1:00 AM that was, on the 17-18.
Then, at 6:30 PM I arrived in San Francisco, it was dark already. And the station was dirty, dark, and wet. I asked a clerk: "What's the address of this place", she said really loud(if i recall correctly): "This is Mission and 2nd Street". And in my mind I was: "Dang, I need to go to 9th street or Market street". But, since the lady wasn't really nice I just went towards where everybody went, it was a bus stop, a big one, and I had to get on one to get to Market. I called Alexandra:
"What do I do."
"Where are you?"
"Second and Mission"
"Oh my God, your so far! I'm on 17th street."
"Dont you live on 9th?"
"I was with a friend".
"Ok, so what do I do?".
"Find Market street and the Bart".
"What the fuck is the Bart".
"The subway, just ask for the Bart".
And so, I was off, with my bags, running around dark streets. I was fine tho, because I had studied Google Earth, and new the order of the streets (I'm geeky like that). Then, I asked for the Bart and people told me the directions. I went underground. I emmerged at the appointed station in 16th Street/Mission Street. It was darker, wetter, and a little getto. I was in survival mode, and I saw heaven: a Walgreens! Five minutes later Alexandra arrives and we embrace right in front of the cashier lady, who had to wait for us a while before I could pay. It was already like 8:00 PM on the 18th. On the 19th I woke up to a new city.
2005 was the year of no fear. On January 6th, 2005, Alexandra was in Puerto Rico, she said: "no fear, Joel", because I was leaving to Orlando, "why fear, Joel? Remember: no fear". I followed I guess.
No fear makes u do things... And this is/was just a pinch of those things.
What will happen in 2007?
Two days ago, I started to write this, and here goes:
On December 17th, 2005, a night much like this one, at this same exact hour/time: 1:00 AM (of the 18th actually), I was on my way to the Greyhound Bus Station in Downtown Las Vegas. I was going to make a 15-16 hour bus ride to San Francisco. It was one of the best experiences I've had.
The bus ride was pretty much uneventful, but the days before the ride, and the days after...!!! Gosh... I get teary-eyed.
I left Las Vegas at 1:45 sharp. I was driven to the station by Joel (the other one). On the bus I called Alexandra, who was the one I was meeting in SanFran, and we talked for like an hour or more, or until the people on the bus were bothered by me speaking. The road was dark, invisibly barren. We would stop at these small little outposts in the middle of the dark nowhere. And we'd move on to the road. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the day was rising. Early morning in the plains of California, after a while buildings and urban areas started to appear on the roadsides, and soon the metropolis of Los Angeles was evident. There the bus stopped for a layover (at a very unappealing station). Then, the landscape of lonely hills returned. The bus stopped at the most solitary Burger King I've ever seen, and it was cloudy, the sky was super grey, it was a little rainy, and it was uber cold. I loved it.
But I want to tell you about the moment going to the station in Vegas, and the moment getting out of the station in SanFran.
I had been camping at Joel's appartment (the other Joel), it was the last day I was going to be in Las Vegas. We were going to eat. Joel's girlfriend had to work. I packed up my things, I put them in the back of the car. I was leaving. We had dinner at the Hard Rock Café, and then we had like four hours to kill before 1:45 AM. I don't remember exactly what we did, I think we walked around the casinos and tried to get to a show (cirque du soleil or a comedy show I'm not sure) but it was sold out. But, what I do remember is the drive to the station. So much silence. It reminded me of the taxi ride, in Orlando, from the appartment in Disney to the airport. The same quietness, the lights of the street swooping by around the car. And, just like that, I was at the station, I grabbed my bags and said goodbye. It reminded me of so many movies when goodbye scenes are so long. But this, was very casual, as if that was a natural thing, as if tomorrow I'd be there again. "See you soon", I said. "Merry Christmas", he said. "You too", I said. "Thanks for visiting", he said. "No, thank you". And just like that, I crossed the glass doors, bought my ticket and he was off and I was off. 1:00 AM that was, on the 17-18.
Then, at 6:30 PM I arrived in San Francisco, it was dark already. And the station was dirty, dark, and wet. I asked a clerk: "What's the address of this place", she said really loud(if i recall correctly): "This is Mission and 2nd Street". And in my mind I was: "Dang, I need to go to 9th street or Market street". But, since the lady wasn't really nice I just went towards where everybody went, it was a bus stop, a big one, and I had to get on one to get to Market. I called Alexandra:
"What do I do."
"Where are you?"
"Second and Mission"
"Oh my God, your so far! I'm on 17th street."
"Dont you live on 9th?"
"I was with a friend".
"Ok, so what do I do?".
"Find Market street and the Bart".
"What the fuck is the Bart".
"The subway, just ask for the Bart".
And so, I was off, with my bags, running around dark streets. I was fine tho, because I had studied Google Earth, and new the order of the streets (I'm geeky like that). Then, I asked for the Bart and people told me the directions. I went underground. I emmerged at the appointed station in 16th Street/Mission Street. It was darker, wetter, and a little getto. I was in survival mode, and I saw heaven: a Walgreens! Five minutes later Alexandra arrives and we embrace right in front of the cashier lady, who had to wait for us a while before I could pay. It was already like 8:00 PM on the 18th. On the 19th I woke up to a new city.
2005 was the year of no fear. On January 6th, 2005, Alexandra was in Puerto Rico, she said: "no fear, Joel", because I was leaving to Orlando, "why fear, Joel? Remember: no fear". I followed I guess.
No fear makes u do things... And this is/was just a pinch of those things.
What will happen in 2007?
Monday, December 18, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The Mystery of the Eyes on the Ceiling
Part II: The Sighting
And to unfold the mystery, here is proof of those fatal eyes on the ceiling. They're creepy!
SÚPER CREEPY (with an accent on SÚPER).
To be continued...
SÚPER CREEPY (with an accent on SÚPER).
To be continued...
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Mystery of the Eyes on the Ceiling
Part I: The Horror
I've been sick with sinusitis since Sunday. This makes me have weird dreams that wake me up in the night every two hours. But, on Monday, I am dreaming some odd thing (which I can't remember) and the alarm clock goes off. As I open my eyes, my vision blurry, my mind still in a daze... I see two hugeamongous, emerald green eyes on the ceiling of my room looking at me. You can imagine the start/jump I suffered. My heart raced three thounsand miles in three seconds, my blood heated up in less than one... I didn't scream because I couldn't (I was just waking up, I have no power for anything). Qué pendejo soy, ah.
Before leaving this post, I'll say that the eyes watch me every morning. Pretty peepy. Pretty voyeuristic. Pretty creepy.
I have pictures to prove this. But I'll post them tomorrow, I want to get a CLEAR shot, and not some fuzzy, unfocused shit that would be compared to bigfoot sightings.
Before leaving this post, I'll say that the eyes watch me every morning. Pretty peepy. Pretty voyeuristic. Pretty creepy.
I have pictures to prove this. But I'll post them tomorrow, I want to get a CLEAR shot, and not some fuzzy, unfocused shit that would be compared to bigfoot sightings.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
On why I write in English
I have had this "title" on the blogger drafts for some time now, (you can see in this screenshot that I have had it as a draft since May 24, 2006; click for larger view).
It seems that there are many people intrigued by this infatuation of mine... Well, I guess I have felt your pressure since May of this year. So, here it is.
I was recently asked: "why do you write in English?" I, instead of giving a straight answer, would only take my attention towards something else (pichando eh), and never answered. Two reasons: 1. I didn't answer because indeed my attention was diverted, and I get distracted easily. 2. I didn't really want to answer. But now, I do, and I do it not only for those persons who have asked me, I also do it for those who haven't, and also for me too, to have it black and white.
I have debated on this subject, again since May, probably even before that. To understand this, I'd have to give some backstory. I know backstory (in storytelling) can be tedious, monotonous an boring, but I'll try not to. Well, it began when I was in school, and WANTED to learn English. I was a "cable-less" child until I was in like 9th grade. Cable is not a household necessity, I know, although, I also know that I wouldn't live without it, even if the TV is turned off for the entire day. Anyway, back to backstory, I learned English watching Sesame Street, and the sort of "muppet" shows that PBS, (el canal seis) would air.
Ok, that has nothing to do with why I write in English, but I'm getting there. So, then, I finally learned. Then I started University and found all these people that, even when they spoke perfect Spanish, they'd throw lines in English. Why? I asked. No apparent reason. It was probably "cool". And well, I, even when I despised that kind of behavior (I still think that the Spanglish spoken by Newyoricans/puertoricans/latins has a horrible accent) I became one of them too. And, because EVERYTHING I watched on TV was in English, then it became a natural thing.
Then, in 2004 I joined a Yahoo group with them friends from the University. And language started slowly shifting from Spanish to English as we moved out of Puerto Rico. There are still some things in Spanish there, proof of our love of the language, though, for the sake of all who don't know it, we write/wrote in English. "So?", you may ask, "let them figure it out for themselves..., tell them to buy a dictionary". That was a very good point, still is. But, we figured, that the people who knew Spanish, also knew English, whereas the English-knowers didn't know Spanish. And so, being the Spanish as giving as we are, and being the higher language there, then we let ourselves write in English so we would be understood by the majority of the people.
Then, I went to Orlando. And I came back. And started this blog out of sadness, because I had a great time over there. And well, this blog was/is intended for them to read. And the rule applied also: "I knew more people who spoke Spanish-English, and English-only, than Spanish-only". So, make the math, if I have
10 friends Spanish/English + 10 Englishonly + 5 Spanishonly (1 English blog) = 20 people who will possibly read and write.
Whereas if I have:
10 friends Spanish/English + 10 Englishonley + 5 Spanishonly (1 Spanish blog) = 15 people who will possibly read and write.
So, 20 vs 15... you figure it out...
And it is/was true. Many of the people I know speak both. This seemed like such a childish explanation, such a childish reason, but that is it. Childish stuff is what gets us in trouble (random thought) (I'm not in trouble) (look at George Bush, he's such a baby, or Roselló... Ohmygosh, out of context, out of subject... back, back to languages please).
BUT here comes the big ass BUT.
That math problem I just made up is outdated. Statisctics are different now... It seems that I get more hits from Spanish posts than English.... And since I am a child born out the capitalistic world, I will go with what the statistics say.
BUT, not only because of that... no no no. There's also another reason as to why I will be switching/leaning towards the Spanish now: because it's just so much easier for me, and also I'll have a more sophisticated and spontaneous beat in the writing, which I think I have lost a little; also I miss the one-sound-only letters, I miss the hardcore control of syllables, the ommited subjects, the syntax, and I miss the very wisely-used-very-ellusive accents (which actually have a purpose, as opposed to most of the French accents...).
I don't know if this long ass answer answers your questions. Writing in English is more of a habit than it is a choice. (I eat all the food I have on my plate out of habit, more than out of hunger or whatever) (that's another post) (and of course, there are exceptions to that rule) (that brings me to a question: am I fat?) (oh well, another day it'll have to be). So yes, I write in English out of habit, but that's only for this non-fictional blog areas, when I do fiction I have to do it in Spanish, its just such a richer language (no offense to English-speakers)...
Well, that's it. If I have offended somebody then go seat on a rusty nail, turn on it three times, then come back and ask. If I have offended somebody please call 1-800-hot-nail or find us on the net at: www.hotnail.edu/offenses.
Ok. Now, back to bed, because I have one of those illnesses that cannot be translated into English, nor be understood in most other Spanish-speaking countries, one of those illnesses vernacularly, authochthonously, puertorricanly named: La monga. Qué mierda es estar enfermo. (watch out for those adverbs).
It seems that there are many people intrigued by this infatuation of mine... Well, I guess I have felt your pressure since May of this year. So, here it is.I was recently asked: "why do you write in English?" I, instead of giving a straight answer, would only take my attention towards something else (pichando eh), and never answered. Two reasons: 1. I didn't answer because indeed my attention was diverted, and I get distracted easily. 2. I didn't really want to answer. But now, I do, and I do it not only for those persons who have asked me, I also do it for those who haven't, and also for me too, to have it black and white.
I have debated on this subject, again since May, probably even before that. To understand this, I'd have to give some backstory. I know backstory (in storytelling) can be tedious, monotonous an boring, but I'll try not to. Well, it began when I was in school, and WANTED to learn English. I was a "cable-less" child until I was in like 9th grade. Cable is not a household necessity, I know, although, I also know that I wouldn't live without it, even if the TV is turned off for the entire day. Anyway, back to backstory, I learned English watching Sesame Street, and the sort of "muppet" shows that PBS, (el canal seis) would air.
Ok, that has nothing to do with why I write in English, but I'm getting there. So, then, I finally learned. Then I started University and found all these people that, even when they spoke perfect Spanish, they'd throw lines in English. Why? I asked. No apparent reason. It was probably "cool". And well, I, even when I despised that kind of behavior (I still think that the Spanglish spoken by Newyoricans/puertoricans/latins has a horrible accent) I became one of them too. And, because EVERYTHING I watched on TV was in English, then it became a natural thing.
Then, in 2004 I joined a Yahoo group with them friends from the University. And language started slowly shifting from Spanish to English as we moved out of Puerto Rico. There are still some things in Spanish there, proof of our love of the language, though, for the sake of all who don't know it, we write/wrote in English. "So?", you may ask, "let them figure it out for themselves..., tell them to buy a dictionary". That was a very good point, still is. But, we figured, that the people who knew Spanish, also knew English, whereas the English-knowers didn't know Spanish. And so, being the Spanish as giving as we are, and being the higher language there, then we let ourselves write in English so we would be understood by the majority of the people.
Then, I went to Orlando. And I came back. And started this blog out of sadness, because I had a great time over there. And well, this blog was/is intended for them to read. And the rule applied also: "I knew more people who spoke Spanish-English, and English-only, than Spanish-only". So, make the math, if I have
10 friends Spanish/English + 10 Englishonly + 5 Spanishonly (1 English blog) = 20 people who will possibly read and write.
Whereas if I have:
10 friends Spanish/English + 10 Englishonley + 5 Spanishonly (1 Spanish blog) = 15 people who will possibly read and write.
So, 20 vs 15... you figure it out...
And it is/was true. Many of the people I know speak both. This seemed like such a childish explanation, such a childish reason, but that is it. Childish stuff is what gets us in trouble (random thought) (I'm not in trouble) (look at George Bush, he's such a baby, or Roselló... Ohmygosh, out of context, out of subject... back, back to languages please).
BUT here comes the big ass BUT.
That math problem I just made up is outdated. Statisctics are different now... It seems that I get more hits from Spanish posts than English.... And since I am a child born out the capitalistic world, I will go with what the statistics say.
BUT, not only because of that... no no no. There's also another reason as to why I will be switching/leaning towards the Spanish now: because it's just so much easier for me, and also I'll have a more sophisticated and spontaneous beat in the writing, which I think I have lost a little; also I miss the one-sound-only letters, I miss the hardcore control of syllables, the ommited subjects, the syntax, and I miss the very wisely-used-very-ellusive accents (which actually have a purpose, as opposed to most of the French accents...).
I don't know if this long ass answer answers your questions. Writing in English is more of a habit than it is a choice. (I eat all the food I have on my plate out of habit, more than out of hunger or whatever) (that's another post) (and of course, there are exceptions to that rule) (that brings me to a question: am I fat?) (oh well, another day it'll have to be). So yes, I write in English out of habit, but that's only for this non-fictional blog areas, when I do fiction I have to do it in Spanish, its just such a richer language (no offense to English-speakers)...
Well, that's it. If I have offended somebody then go seat on a rusty nail, turn on it three times, then come back and ask. If I have offended somebody please call 1-800-hot-nail or find us on the net at: www.hotnail.edu/offenses.
Ok. Now, back to bed, because I have one of those illnesses that cannot be translated into English, nor be understood in most other Spanish-speaking countries, one of those illnesses vernacularly, authochthonously, puertorricanly named: La monga. Qué mierda es estar enfermo. (watch out for those adverbs).
Saturday, December 09, 2006
El dinosaurio
El dinosaurio
por: Augusto Monterroso
Cuando despertó, el dinosaurio todavía estaba allí.
Fin
A la verdad que parece un dinosaurio sí, caramba.
por: Augusto Monterroso
Cuando despertó, el dinosaurio todavía estaba allí.
Fin
A la verdad que parece un dinosaurio sí, caramba.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Crazy/Beautiful and other crazynesses
Watch this picture. (click for larger view).
Do you see the awesomeness of it? Do you see the piercings? I myself don't like piercings, but in that picture they look sooo great!
Now, watch this other crazyness.
Do you see what I see? (that reminds me of a Christmas song). If what you see is a carving of someone's SKIN!!, then you're right! My gosh, I never thought I would see voluntary "skin carvings", it just baffles my mind! BUT, this "carving" looks so tidy, so clean, so artistic that I almost want it, but nooo, I won't get it. I ask myself why would people do this to themselves? I'm not judging, just in case; although I want to judge badly, but I can't, because it looks fucking great! Dude, just look at that design! From an artistic perspective is great, it's awesome, if it were a tatoo I wouldn't have a problem! I mean, I don't have a problem with it being a SKIN carving! My problem is with the pain that it must have taken to make it! Imagine the pain of a tatoo, mixed with the pain of grinding your skin on pavement as you fall from a running motorcicle (I'm sure is not as brutal as that example, but I may not be far from truth either). The artistic technique is flawless: look at the depht of the cut, at the pressicion of the edges, at the finnesse of the angles, at the clean look, at the details of the design... Dang. I can't stop looking at it.
This "skin carving", for all who don't know, is made so that when the skin heals, it will leave a scar, ergo a scar in the shape of a butterfly. I really would love to see the end result of it, (not to mention pictures of the healing process (I would imagine oozing puss, some bleeding and itching scabs)). Awesome concept. Nasty pain.
I found this while I was surfing through blogs:
http://modblog.bmezine.com/page/4/
Be warned though, it is not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of stomach; parental discression adviced and most importantly, mental discression advice aaaand openmindedness! Some pictures will make you shiver! But some others are reaaaally just awesome.
Do you see the awesomeness of it? Do you see the piercings? I myself don't like piercings, but in that picture they look sooo great!Now, watch this other crazyness.
Do you see what I see? (that reminds me of a Christmas song). If what you see is a carving of someone's SKIN!!, then you're right! My gosh, I never thought I would see voluntary "skin carvings", it just baffles my mind! BUT, this "carving" looks so tidy, so clean, so artistic that I almost want it, but nooo, I won't get it. I ask myself why would people do this to themselves? I'm not judging, just in case; although I want to judge badly, but I can't, because it looks fucking great! Dude, just look at that design! From an artistic perspective is great, it's awesome, if it were a tatoo I wouldn't have a problem! I mean, I don't have a problem with it being a SKIN carving! My problem is with the pain that it must have taken to make it! Imagine the pain of a tatoo, mixed with the pain of grinding your skin on pavement as you fall from a running motorcicle (I'm sure is not as brutal as that example, but I may not be far from truth either). The artistic technique is flawless: look at the depht of the cut, at the pressicion of the edges, at the finnesse of the angles, at the clean look, at the details of the design... Dang. I can't stop looking at it.This "skin carving", for all who don't know, is made so that when the skin heals, it will leave a scar, ergo a scar in the shape of a butterfly. I really would love to see the end result of it, (not to mention pictures of the healing process (I would imagine oozing puss, some bleeding and itching scabs)). Awesome concept. Nasty pain.
I found this while I was surfing through blogs:
http://modblog.bmezine.com/page/4/
Be warned though, it is not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of stomach; parental discression adviced and most importantly, mental discression advice aaaand openmindedness! Some pictures will make you shiver! But some others are reaaaally just awesome.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Educational Post: Blue Planet
(more Penguins and Whales)
The other night, (or shall I say morning?, because it was like 3 or 4 in the morning).... Lets start again... If I go to bed uber late (or uber early) I usually turn the TV on, to watch "10 or 15 minutes" until my eyes get tired. It so happens, tho, that whatever it is I find is so interesting that I stay up until the show is over. That's what happened this night (morning). I turn the TV on when I lay in bed, I flip the channel into Animal Planet, knowing that for sure something interesting for "the insomniac" is going to be on, but also knowing that if I do, I will stay up, ALSO knowing that if I stay up I won't wake up the next day as rested as I should. But, masochism is a very complicated trait of the human race... So, I turn the TV on, and there it is: BLUE PLANET, a critically acclaimed documentary series about ocean life in our planet (duh, it's not going to be Jupiter).
Penguins
(I know, I'm obssessed by now with penguins, but I have to talk about them again, but if u are bored of penguins, just skip this parragraph and scroll down to the "Whales")
As I watch they're talking about penguins, and about the hardships of a particular species that has to ride the waves so they can get to the top of a very steep cliff, so they can go to their breeding grounds. And you see the little birds struggling in the tempestous waves, you see their small, black wings (that look like fins of course) flailing on the surface, being engulfed by the raging foam of the waves, and then, they fall so hard on the rock (which, bytheway, is not a flat, smooth rock, but very pointy and rough, my mind could only imagine the quatity of penguins being impailed by them). Seeing this was really really very moving. They do it because instinct tells them to, and they don't see the dangers, or maybe the do see it, but they still go against all the odds.
Whales
But, the most exciting, and moving thing I saw that night was the chase of a grey whale. Grey Whales are the second or third biggest animal in the world, only the Blue Whale is larger. So, who or what is chasing the gray whales? Man? Nope. It is a pack, or a school, or a group of orcas, killer whales. Dang. Killer whales are called like that because they're the only whale that hunt, to eat, while the other whales just eat krill or plankton. So, the narrator says: "the gray whales follow strict migration roads... the killer whales know this, and they are on the hunt. The gray whales don't know they have been spotted". And while he narrates, you see the mother gray whale, with her calf, swiming placcidly inches from the surface of the ocean, without even making waves, while, on the other hand, you see the orcas going up and down on the water, with that distictive dorsal fin (like sharks), and their black and white skin breaking the blue of the ocean, swimming rapidly, even almost rabidly. And so, the Grey whales finally see the danger.
A grey whale can easily outrun an Orca, because they are three or four times larger, but, calfs are not as strong. So you see the orcas swimming faster, and you can see the difference cause the water on top of them swirls and splashes. But, when the calf gets exhausted, the mother has to stop and fight. And, believe me, this fight was VERY VERY intense. You would say, "No, a fight in the water cannot possibly be interesting, let alone nerve-racking, nothing like a good boxing match". But you may be wrong. I don't know how the people of Blue Planet did this, but the editing, the narration, and the action in the water was super exciting:
The narrator goes, "the killer whales circle the mother and her calf, and try to separate them. The orcas push themselfs between mother and calf, taking turns; and in the meantime, exhausting the young whale". And you see this huge black orcas swimming between the two gray bodies, you see the fins of the grays, the foam in the water, the struggle underneath... "The orcas have to be careful, the mother can inflict great damage with her tail... The orcas finally succed". And now, the orcas litterally jump over the small gray whale, and you see the huge skins trembling, you can even imagine the profound sound it would make. And I say out loud: "they're trying to drown it"; that's when the narrator says: "the orcas jump over the young calf, trying to submerge it, they want to drown it". And then you can see the large gray whale going under the small whale trying to get it to the surface so it can breath, while the orcas are on top of the small whale, pushing down, AND while you see the poor calf upside-down in between them, clearly suffering, clearly exhausted, I could even imagine him rolling his eyes because he can't breath. And then, out of the blue, "one orca takes a bite". And OH GOSH, you can SEE the bite on the small calf's fin, it looked as if you took a bite off of a sandwich, a clear half moon on the fin, and then, the blood. And, finally, the orcas drown the baby whale.
The mother has to go on, without her young, whom she kept inside for 18 months? (I forget the whale's time of gestation), and after birth for another 14 months, and for whom she had to stay behind from the rest of the whales...
During the fight, I imagined the hours it took the orcas to get this baby whale, and that's when the narrator says: "After six long hours of work, the orcas only ate the lower jaw and the tonge of the calf, abandoning the carcass floating on the ocean surface". Six hours!!! Just eat less that a quart of the whale! Natually, the carcass won't go to waste, it would soon sink and down there there are others who will rejoyce with that free bounty...
Nature sure is cruel. But amazing.
Blue Planet is on Wednesdays, at 9:00, I think, on Animal Planet, and a rerun during the late (or early) hours of the night.
(Love is instinctive). (Unexplainable)
Penguins
(I know, I'm obssessed by now with penguins, but I have to talk about them again, but if u are bored of penguins, just skip this parragraph and scroll down to the "Whales")
As I watch they're talking about penguins, and about the hardships of a particular species that has to ride the waves so they can get to the top of a very steep cliff, so they can go to their breeding grounds. And you see the little birds struggling in the tempestous waves, you see their small, black wings (that look like fins of course) flailing on the surface, being engulfed by the raging foam of the waves, and then, they fall so hard on the rock (which, bytheway, is not a flat, smooth rock, but very pointy and rough, my mind could only imagine the quatity of penguins being impailed by them). Seeing this was really really very moving. They do it because instinct tells them to, and they don't see the dangers, or maybe the do see it, but they still go against all the odds.
Whales
But, the most exciting, and moving thing I saw that night was the chase of a grey whale. Grey Whales are the second or third biggest animal in the world, only the Blue Whale is larger. So, who or what is chasing the gray whales? Man? Nope. It is a pack, or a school, or a group of orcas, killer whales. Dang. Killer whales are called like that because they're the only whale that hunt, to eat, while the other whales just eat krill or plankton. So, the narrator says: "the gray whales follow strict migration roads... the killer whales know this, and they are on the hunt. The gray whales don't know they have been spotted". And while he narrates, you see the mother gray whale, with her calf, swiming placcidly inches from the surface of the ocean, without even making waves, while, on the other hand, you see the orcas going up and down on the water, with that distictive dorsal fin (like sharks), and their black and white skin breaking the blue of the ocean, swimming rapidly, even almost rabidly. And so, the Grey whales finally see the danger.
A grey whale can easily outrun an Orca, because they are three or four times larger, but, calfs are not as strong. So you see the orcas swimming faster, and you can see the difference cause the water on top of them swirls and splashes. But, when the calf gets exhausted, the mother has to stop and fight. And, believe me, this fight was VERY VERY intense. You would say, "No, a fight in the water cannot possibly be interesting, let alone nerve-racking, nothing like a good boxing match". But you may be wrong. I don't know how the people of Blue Planet did this, but the editing, the narration, and the action in the water was super exciting:
The narrator goes, "the killer whales circle the mother and her calf, and try to separate them. The orcas push themselfs between mother and calf, taking turns; and in the meantime, exhausting the young whale". And you see this huge black orcas swimming between the two gray bodies, you see the fins of the grays, the foam in the water, the struggle underneath... "The orcas have to be careful, the mother can inflict great damage with her tail... The orcas finally succed". And now, the orcas litterally jump over the small gray whale, and you see the huge skins trembling, you can even imagine the profound sound it would make. And I say out loud: "they're trying to drown it"; that's when the narrator says: "the orcas jump over the young calf, trying to submerge it, they want to drown it". And then you can see the large gray whale going under the small whale trying to get it to the surface so it can breath, while the orcas are on top of the small whale, pushing down, AND while you see the poor calf upside-down in between them, clearly suffering, clearly exhausted, I could even imagine him rolling his eyes because he can't breath. And then, out of the blue, "one orca takes a bite". And OH GOSH, you can SEE the bite on the small calf's fin, it looked as if you took a bite off of a sandwich, a clear half moon on the fin, and then, the blood. And, finally, the orcas drown the baby whale.
The mother has to go on, without her young, whom she kept inside for 18 months? (I forget the whale's time of gestation), and after birth for another 14 months, and for whom she had to stay behind from the rest of the whales...
During the fight, I imagined the hours it took the orcas to get this baby whale, and that's when the narrator says: "After six long hours of work, the orcas only ate the lower jaw and the tonge of the calf, abandoning the carcass floating on the ocean surface". Six hours!!! Just eat less that a quart of the whale! Natually, the carcass won't go to waste, it would soon sink and down there there are others who will rejoyce with that free bounty...
Nature sure is cruel. But amazing.
Blue Planet is on Wednesdays, at 9:00, I think, on Animal Planet, and a rerun during the late (or early) hours of the night.
(Love is instinctive). (Unexplainable)
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