The power of a phone call

I hate phones. I hate them. Two reasons: 1. since I don't speak much then the phone takes away that 85 percent of body language that I used to communicate, then there's the nagging thought that one only uses a certain amount, lets say 50%, of the words of ones native language, so that takes away anothe 10 percent of my communicative abilities. So then, that leaves me with only 5% of spoken speech to survive a phone conversation. Don't get me wrong though, I'm always grateful to recieve a call; its just that... I don't know, that I get so unconfortable when I get to a dead end in the conversation, and nothing interesting comes to mind. Reason 2. then there is that horrible feeling of waiting for an important phone call and then it never seems to come, or the other way around, when an unimportant call arrives at the worst moment, when you are busy or when you just can't answer.

So yes, it is stated that I don't like phones (too much).

But it is so awesome when you get a surprise phone call at the right moment, it is like if it were magic. It depends on the person, it depends on the day, and just by saying "hello, how are you; I wish you well, I'll see you later"; it just makes your day. Or doesn't it?

It gives you such great excitement. When there was no phone postcards were the "thing", they are somewhat more personal because you can see the handwriting of the other person... I don't know if that is more personal or not, I just think it is because you get to keep the memento. Unlike a phone call. But, phone calls are just so immediate. I mean, if you think of someone you can always give them a call that very moment and be happy with yourself and maybe, just maybe make that other person happy.

I should start doing that. Whenever I think of someone I shall call them, even if it is like three thirty in the morning; I would say: "sorry to wake you but I just wanted to tell you that I was having a dream and you were in it and I just wanted to tell you about it, ok, you can go back to sleep, see you later". I wonder how'd they feel, would they be mad that I woke them just to tell them that? Or otherwise be happy that I did? I don't know. Right now people are so afraid of going with their first impulses or their first thoughts just because of what the other person will think or say. But how many good wishes and smiles are wasted with restrain? Although also we avoid sorrows and deceptions by keeping our first thoughts inside, but I'm speaking about the good-first-impulses and the good-first-thoughts that pop into your mind, keep the other ones, use them only when you want to make someone miserable. But yes, to wake someone in the middle of the night to tell them that you had a dream of them, would that be good or bad? I guess it depends on the day of the week or if you really, truly cherish your sleep-time (then turn your phone off during the night :-p ).

Why am I writing this? Well, I guess I'm in the need of a phone call, a short or a long one from whomever, at whatever time.

I had a picture on my msn messenger of a cell phone with a text messege that read: "I wish I recieved phone calls more often", it was postmodern, it was funny and sad too.

Its just that time of the year when I start to get depressed. Not that I get depressed every Christmas, because I don't... really. It's just that things accumulate in time in my head and then there is a point when there is no way for me to unthink them, and among those thoughts (uncertainties about the future are included) there's the thought that I don't get many phone calls. That I'm not worthy of someone else's ephimeral thought.

congratulations/felicidades

congratulations congratulations congratulations
Somewhere I heard that if you repeatedly say this to someone, good things will happen to them, so, congratulations
(not to be confused with merry christmas, which I will wish you soon)


felicidades felicidades felicidades
En alguna parte escuché que si le dices esto repetidamente a alguien, muchas cosas buenas les van a pasar, así que: felicidades
(pero no confundir con feliz navidad, lo cual ya mismo les desearé)

Relationships: Forgiveness and Love

For J & J
From J

Watching tonight's episode of Nip/Tuck I found that relationships are too complicated. Yes, I would like to know this from actual experience, but due to lack of it, I have to learn somewhere else; either from people I know or from the next best thing: tv. True. Not the best teacher... but...

Anyway. I've been following this series form some time now and, aside from the twisted, and far fetched, fictional things that happen, there are things that one may believe. I mean, people are capable of anything, those things that you don't even dare to think of, other people do; and this show actually shows (sorry for redundancy) some of those things, it is in you and I to judge or not (altho we don't want to judge, we always do). My point is that I believe that the thing on the show happen, and they happen everywhere (or at least in the countries with liberal cultures) and that they happen all the time.

But the weirdest and most unbelievable thing to believe (another redundancy) from the show are some of the relationships. For example, take Sean and Christian, best friends since forever, full-grown men, business partners, plastic surgeons; the storyline goes like this: Sean learn that his son is actually not his son, he is the son of Christian. What does that mean? Christian had sex with Sean's wife, which, by the way, is their best friend too, since forever. I don't remember the circumstances of how that happened exactly. So, as you may deduce, Sean separated from his wife (it was the high point of their crumbling marriage anyway) and recented Christian.

Then, I missed some episodes and don't really know how they all got back together to even talk to each other. But they did. And I can only think of the people that go to Jerry Springer, how many relationships break there (either if they are real people or not, because I still debate the legitimacy of the people that go to that show), and I think, how much love did these people put into the other? To scream I hate you in tv and to beat them up in public ridicule? And then I see the fictional characters of Nip/Tuck and somehow they seem more real. After an understandable time of what... grievanve? solitude? thought?... The characters are back together.

Like, Sean and Christian had so much history in the past that this huge thing slash event in their lives, that would totally rip their friendship apart, was still not able to "totally rip their friendship apart" (deja vu) (redundance). How? How are they still able to speak to each other? How are they still able to even look at each other in the after such a big lie. (Altho Christian didn't know that the boy was his son, still he had sex with Sean's girlfriend/wife). Was it that their history together is stronger than a lie? Was it the need of having his best friend back? Was it loneliness? Was it that their love is stronger than a lie? Maybe its a combination of all of that, but how many times does this happen? People willing to forgive in able to keep loving?

Look now at Sean and Julia's relationship (Julia is his wife/exwife). In tonight's episode they get back together. She has been dating another man; throughout the whole of episodes you can see her moving on with her life, with very few or very minor hints of trying to get back with Sean, except in one episode in which they couldn't resist each others prescence and had sex (I missed this episode too). On the other hand, since their break-up, Sean has been hinting that he would like to get back with her. And, after they find out in tonights episode that the baby Julia is going to have is his baby, and not of that other man she was dating, they grumpily/ tenderly/ quietly get back together in the winter on Christmas Eve (more romantic and kind of cliche it couldnt be, but it was all believable). So again, was their history stronger than their turmoils? Did they need each other? Were they lonely? Did they sit in nostalgic longing? Was their love stronger than their troubles, the lies? Did they need to forgive themselves and each other? Was it a combination of them all? How many times does this happen to real, non fictional, people? People willing to forgive to be able to keep loving?

I guess it has to be a mutual forgiveness for the relationship to keep working. But I also think that one has to start the process. Unlike tv, where forgiveness happened relatively at the same time for both characters, real people have to give in first, the one has to say sorry first... And that's where the it all comes down to, to that scary moment of humility and pasiveness (pasiveness is not the exact word, but I forget the right word). Being afraid of rejection and of "what will happen" is what stops many relationships from forgiving. And ergo of loving. (I always wanted to use "ergo"!)

With this post, what I want to say is that it IS posible, and that it DOES happen, to re-mend relationships. Just like the characters in Nip/Tuck, you have to be perseverant; you have to take the first step; you have to trust your history; to evaluate your current happiness level; to test if that level of happyness included that other person; to trust that other person; to check if it is in fact what you need; and in the end just to follow what your heart and mind dictates you. What can you do if you keep loving? Try again. If it doesn't work, move on. But, if the love is still there between the two, why fight it? Because of dignity? Dignity is also vanity. You can sacrifice something in order to get something better back, would you not?

So again the rethorical question looking for an answer: Who is willing to forgive in order to keep loving? Who?

I would.

Ganas de escribir

Escribo. Escribo. Pero ya es hora de dormir.

Trampolines

Why are trampolines so fascinating? I didn't know until I tried them. And, I always wanted to try them.

How awesome and scary it is to jump and just let go. It takes some time to get used to. You jump and you don't have to care about the hard floor... It is so totally unlike human. Humans are always afraid of the floor, of "falling" to the floor, specially adults. But when you have a trampoline its... just undescribable.

Oh. Where did I jumped? Hmm. At this awesome place/warehouse-turned-park where there are trampolines all over the floor... Oh god. It is so great. And it hurts the next day, so its a good AND complete workout, as I've read.

So, jump away people. Because I will never stop. (altho there is not much time left for me here in "fabulous Las Vegas"... bummer to that, oh well, i'll be back!!!) Yes!

The history of the name

Well. I intended this post to be very clever but it will not be.

The history of the name Las Vegas. Well, I wanted to know why Vegas was called like that. And I had the idea that it was because it was a small valley, because a vega in spanish is: plain land in or in between or in the middle of a mountain range smaller than a valley tho. Valley=valle. Small valley=vega.

Anyway. It turned out to be just that. The founders had no real imagination to come up with a good name, so they took a dictionary and looked valley and found vega, so there you have it.

(the story about the founders is totally mine, but I dont want anyone to feel undermined by me undermining the history of their town, if it were to me I would come up with stories for every country, like for example Puerto Rico translates into Rich Port, nasty name. Who came up with it? Well, unoriginal founders/conquistadors who found lots of riches in the island or near the port, or they considered the island a port, who knows... so, that's it for this long parethesized disclamer).

Parenthesized. Hmm. (that's for Danielle).

About Endless lights or Barquitos en la noche (boats in the night)

I wrote a poem a very loooong time ago. It is called Barquitos en la Noche, (Boats in the night). The boats in the night are the lights that you see when you see the city from a high place, like a mountain.

Well. If you didn't know... rigth now I'm in Las Vegas. It s such a weird and awesome place, both at the same time. Its a huge plain, a humungous valley, during the day you can see the mountains at every cardinal point, and they are brown and devoid of vegetation, contrary to Puerto Rico which the mountains have lots of green among other colors. At night, the valley is different: lights in the middle of the desert, you can see it from the airplane, its like a giant square of lights in the middle of a black nothingness, as if it were a bright island in the ocean.

The lights are endless. Once on the ground, or rather on the ground but on higher ground in relation to the rest of the valley: you can see the lights and the horizon is so black. And the streets are so straight, they cut the city from one end to the other, as if it were a grid... or a computer chip.

Once I come up with something more to say I'll come back.

Talking about boxes

Sad when the past is reduced to the contents of a box. The fact that the memories are in the objects and the objects are forgoten in a box. Why is it sad? Memories in your mind are stored in box-like neurons, and when you randomly remember them it's such a good feeling, but then, in the present you realize that that moment will happen no more.

My mother is outside sorting through heaps of boxes (plastic boxes, futuristic plastic rubbermaid boxes) and I can see her through the window, and suddenly a song begins to play. It's one of those songs that you put to newborn babys (or any baby) so they can play with the hanging objects that move on top of their craddle. And I look over, and my mother is holding a doll. It is a white clown, big black eyes with long eyelashes, red nose, red lips, white face, white hair, white dress and hat with colored hearts. I have no memory of the clown. But the clown has a small card hanging from the neck. My mother said: "It's your sister's, it was a gift for her 10th birthday". While the song played she held it in her hand, and the head of the clown moves side to side. And she looks at it. In her mind there must be eight thousand thoughts, maybe the same thoughts that run through mine. Why is this precious, little things forgotten away in this box? And then she wound the key in the back of the doll so the music would start again. And then she set it on top of the washing machine, apart from everything else.

Then she took out a black gorilla. I remembered that one. And she goes: remember this one? And in my head I remember how funny the stupid gorilla sounded. While it grunted, like a gorilla, his hands would flip him, and he'd do a somersault and land on his feet and then laugh!

Then she took a small bunny. "What about this one?" The bunny was my sister's too. And she loved it when she was little. She would laugh a lot, because when you pull the string it would vibrate and walk and if you had in in your hand it would tickle.

Why do we humans keep this things to torture ourselves in the future? Why do we put so much into things: toys, pictures, cards, mementos? Why do we put so much into other humans? Joel, because that's the way of the human. Our greatness and our punishment is in being able to put value on things and people, to put care and love, and to suffer because of them, and to be beautiful and better because of them.

Comment manger des raisins/How to eat grapes.

Le premier chose que vous devez faire, quand on manges des raisins, est ouvrir un raisin pour le voie. Vous devez diviser du raisin alors que vous pouvez extraire les graines. Et puis, vous pouvez manger le coeur du raisin sans problème. Et finalment, vous pouvez jeter le rest du raisin dans votre bouche. Et vous vais savourer le grand saveur des raisins. C'est très magnific.

The first thing that you should do, when you eat grapes, is to split the grape. You should split the grape so that you can extract the seed. Then, you can eat the heart of the grape without problem. And, finally, you can throw the rest of the raisin in your mouth. And you will savor the great flavor of grapes. They're magnificent!

Ajem. Harry Potter y Religión.

(this goes in Spanish)

Hola

Es que tengo que hacer unas preguntas de religión. ¿Cuál es la diferencia entre la religión Cristiana y la Católica, si alguna?

Lo que sucede es que siempre he creido que los cristianos son todos aquellos que creen en Dios, independientemente de su religión. Y si de pronto se buscan en algún diccionario, lugar donde puede encontrarse las definiciones más objetivas, te va a salir:


Cristiano: del cristianismo; persona o ser viviente.
Christianity: Christian religion, founded on the life and teachings of Jesus.
Catholicism: The faith, doctrine, system, and practice of a Catholic church.
Catolisismo: Religión que profesan los cristianos que reconocen al Papa como representante de Dios en la tierra.

Ok. Dadas esas minimísimas definiciones, no me entra en la mente que hallas las llamadas religiones cristianas. Si es lo mismo que la católica, lo único que no quieren tener como que ese nombre encima, sabe Dios por qué.

Desde que fui una vez a una iglesia de estas: "Fuente de agua viva" mi escepticismo se agrandó. Cuando la supuesta presencia de Dios era internalizada por las personas por sugestión más que por el milagro divino. Dije sugestión. Me habían invitado a la iglesia unos amigos que estaban locos de contentos al haber encontrado algo más fuerte que ellos que los protege (supuestamente). Pues, un día dije que sí. Y fui.

Y cuando fuiii... había un señor alto, gordo chiquito y flaquito, un señor alto gordo chiquito y flaguito... (ay, perdón, no pude dejar pasar la oportunidad de cantar eso)

Bueno, pues cuando fui, la actividad era muy muy muy diferente a mi usual y conocida iglesia católica. De entrada, estaban muy empeñados en que yo diera mi número de teléfono y mi dirección, yo con la sospecha. Comenzó la cosa y lo primero que hicieron fue presentar a las nuevas "caras" en la congregación. Eso sí estuvo chévere, conocer a tu prójimo, ¿no?. Pues nada, me levanté y dije mi nombre ta ta ta. Ok, entonces luego comenzó a hablar la pastora, por largo rato, y luego se puso a cantar, cantaron como 2 canciones "upbeat" y entonces depués una retrajila de baladas rompe-venas. Entonces es que se ponía la cosa rara. Porque la gente empezaba a llorar y a llorar. Y entonces después se empezaban a reir y a reir. No me acuerdo cual vino primero si la risa o el lloriqueo, pero de lo que sí me acuerdo es de haber sentido un sentimiento colectivo que no tenía nada que ver con la presencia de Dios, y sabía (o crei) que no tenía nada que ver con Dios porque ya me había sentido así en otro momentos, y era por causa de la música. Cuando estás por largo rato escuchándo música sugestionable, o sea, tarde o temprano vas a caer. Es como ir a un concierto y escuchar tu canción favorita de tu cantante favorito y la canción es bien melosa y corta venas... Pues así. Y entonces luego la gente se paró para que la pastora le pusiera la mano en la cabeza... la gente se caia al piso y le ponian un sábana. Me rehusé a participar de semejante ridiculés.

Disculpen aquellos que se sientan ofendidos, pero esa es mi opinión.

Entonces, descubrí la "diferencia" (entre comillas) de la religión cristiana (o una de ellas) y la católica. Me sonaba más como un culto de engaño.

Así que pues, quería saber si me convencen de lo contrario.


Todo esto viene a que leí un artículo, al cual llegué por casualidad (porque uno siempre cae por casualidad) cuando buscaba info sobre la bolera que harán en plaza las americas. Los links me llevaron a la info que buscaba, pero uno me llevó a un foro de un website "cristiano" puertoriqueño, en el que aparte de decir bien grande: "este es un foro es CRISTIANO", tiene un artículo sobre Harry Potter, y me enfogona encontrar fanáticos que le quieren sacar cuarenta patas a un gato.

No es que esté defendiendo los libros de Harry Potter (aunque Sí los estoy defendiendo), pero es que me hierve el cerebro encontrar personas que no pueden aceptar diferentes tipos de literatura. Yo acepto que Harry Potter puede tener alusiones directas e indirectas a cosas bien... demoníacas (como por ejemplo cuando el ave fénix coje fuego de momento, yo hice :-o )), pero entonces también tiene otras cosas como lo es el amor, la fidelidad y la amistad. O sea, ¿cuánta intolerancia hay? ¿Es que no se pueden escribir o inventar fantasías? (Porque los artículos (son dos) atacan también, efímeramente, a Lord of the Rings, Alice in Wonderland y El Mago de Oz). Sin mencionar que, de seguro, la persona que escribió los artículos le encontrará connotaciones demoníacas a alguna novela homosexual, o de divorcio o hasta del Da Vinci Code... jajaja estoy ASI de seguro. O sea, cualquier cosa que vaya en contra de la doctrina es del diablo.

AARGH! cómo me retuerce!

Cómo me retuerce que no halla criterio para cómo está escrito el libro, de la imaginación extraordinaria de la JK Rowling (aunque mucha de su semiótica debe tener mucho research)... La doña que escribió el artículo (no sé si es doña o no...), empató muchas referencias de los nombres y situaciones que suceden en Harry Potter, que si Harry tiene la marca de la bestia en la frente entre otras cosas. Puede que tenga razón, como también puede que no, pero entonces censura al libro diciendo que es una irresposabilidad de los padres dárselos a sus niños. Pero, ¿cómo entonces vamos a saber qué es aquello a lo que no debemos acercarnos, si no lo podemos leer para hacer de nuestros cerebritos una opinión propia? Católicos y "Cristianos" (en comillas también) se contradicen cuarenta mil veces y nunca pierden, nunca quieren perder.

A mi me encantan los libros de Harry Potter, tienen aquel atractivo de ser más o menos innovadores (aunque no tanto, porque hay otros libros de fantasía igualmente profundos...) pero más que eso es la facilidad con la cuál se pueden leer, y no es que sea un lenguaje sencillo, sino por la forma clara y concisa de la historia. Son pocos los párrafos que quieren ser poéticos/arregladores de la sociedad, después de todo es un libro escrito para niños, pero las situaciones van más allá de lo que un niño pueda entender, en ese aspecto sí estoy de acuerdo con la doña, pero de ahí a decir que leer los libros es prácticamente el comienzo del apocalipsis... Por favor. El planeta tierra se está sobrecalentando por culpa de la gente irresponsable, y los huracanes son resultado de ello, así como los terremotos y otros desastres.

Y me encanta el site (dicho sacásticamente para aquellos que no pueden ver mi cara (todos)) porque en donde dice: "esto es un foro CRISTIANO", dice: "a todos los foristas les pedimos discreción con todo lo que publiquen" (and I think: Fair Enough). Pero entonces más abajo dice lo siguiente entre otras cosas (los paréntesis son mios):

# Se prohibe la pornografía (ok, no problem), insultar a otros usuarios (ok), ataques personales, uso de malas palabras (why?), obscenas o de índole sexual (está bien, matenerlo clean, chévere).

Pero entonces viene la mejor!!!!!!

# Se prohibe todo comentario que vaya en contra de la doctrina cristiana y/o hablar mal o hacer comentario alguno en contra de los auspiciadores de RadicalesPR.com.

Hablar mal de los auspiciadores se las paso, porque sin auspiciadores to el mundo está chavao. ¡Pero se PROHIBE comentario alguno CONTRA la doctrina "cristiana"! O sea, más inconstitucional no puede ser. Y no le pongo este mamotreto que escribí en el website porque hay que estar registrándose, (stupid registrations), a lo mejor me registro sólo pa maldecirles la existencia.


Se acabó la diatriba (aunque no hay NI UNA! palabra mala! o de aquellas malas de verdad).

Ay! les pongo los links de los artículos de Harry Potter:
http://www.radicalespr.com/content/articulo/articulos.aspx?articleid=361&zoneid=2
http://www.radicalespr.com/content/articulo/articulos.aspx?articleid=368&zoneid=2

Me voy a terminar de leer Caracol Beach, que tiene sexo, crimen, sangre, alucinaciones, homosexualismo, drogas, fantasías, locuras, peleas, diatribas, odio, resentimientos, prejuicios, brujería, dioses paganos, muerte, fantasmas, tigres de bengala que vuelan, y aun así es mi libro favorito porque tiene de todo además de amor, amistad y reconciliación.

adiós
Joel

To be left

You have seen it many times. You have probably had it happen to you, hopefully not too many times. To be left. To be left when you don't want to be alone, or whenever the momment is the incorrect.

The other night I was watching the wrestling on tv, and you're thinking: "what! who the hell watches wrestling at this day and age?", I answer: "A looooot of people", then you reformulate the question: "what! who, in their right, educated mind watches wrestling at this day and age?", and I answer: "A looooot of people".

But that is not the "thing" I want to say. What I want to say is this:

Last Monday night I turned on the tv to watch my wrestling show. I happened to know before hand that one of the wrestlers was found dead on Sunday morning. And I knew there was going to be a mourning session at the begining of the show, as it is custom. But I am moved by people crying, I can't watch people crying, a lot of people crying, it's like an energy that sticks and makes you cry too, something like collective laughter.

Well, there is the heap of wrestlers all gathered, in their wrestling attires, no storylines, no rivalries, and from the women wrestlers (algunas atacás) to the the biggest guy wrestler were crying. People you would not expect. Or maybe you would (because I expected it from them) but you can't believe it. Big, muscle wrestlers can cry too. And I found myself shed tears too. And it was not the fact that Eddie Guerrero (the wrestler) died, because I didn't know him, it's the fact that he was a character, a very well rounded, cheerfull, and sometimes in pain, character, and just knowing that death comes to everyone, even characters, is what made me cry.

Also, hearing what the wrestlers had to say about Guerrero, hearing what they had lost, friend, husband, companionship, with him a lot of things were gone, not only his physical state, also his presence, his aura was gone. And for some reason I could relate. I have not lost someone close to me, I don't even want to think about it. My grandma died when I was in fifth grade I think, and I don't remember how I reacted. I know I didn't cry. I remember that. But when there was no more of her around, was when it hit me. When there was no more oatmeal in the mornings, or when I peeked into her room she wasn't taking her afternoon nap, and I could jump on the bed and wake her up with a start. I also lost my pet bird, it was sad seeing him not alive, after all he sang.

I also could relate to the wrestlers because in love, and in friendships there are also losses. If your greatest love leaves you, it just breaks you (of course if you still love him/her). If your greatest friend leaves you it leaves this huge emptyness. So that's why I also cried. Not only for Eddie Guerrero, but also because I knew how they felt and I knew how IT felt.

When I was younger I once asked my aunt why was she crying for a dead politician? It couldn't fit in my head, why would she, when he didn't anything for her, nor even knew her. She said: "Because I know how it feels to loose your parents". I didn't understand then. But life has that nagging way of retaking things from the past and reteach them in the present, to then be recalled in the future as a lesson learned.

One never fully knows somebody, but who cares if you fully know somebody, as long as they make you feel great, as long as they are true to you... Hopefully we won't get hurt. People will show you what they want to be, or what they want to become, characters are reflections of people; and when Goofy cries you cry because Goofy is always so goofy, and it's just sad to see him down.

We are so young after two decades of life, sometimes even after more (i don't know yet), we still have so much to learn. But oh, how wrong it feels to be left.

Joel.

Subjects for the coming days.

A complex of intruding
Review on Pantalla Breve (shortfilms)
My birthday
A story premier
About casting
Subliminal sexual messeges in board games
Review on San Juan Cinemafest
Campaign against "lol"
Tangents and digressions
Protruding things
My Shortfilm
Something sqwishy
Something in Spanish (who knows what!)
A reminder on JIP
Deep sea creatures
About forgeting and things to forget
Update on the mother of all knots
Tripping to Vegas and SanFra.


wooh! I have a lot of work! I'm sweating already, and its cold tonith. Maybe I'll keep that order, or maybe not. I'm unpredictable. Sometimes. Not too many times. Often. Hardly. eeeh I'll shut up.

Freak Rain

Yes. I know. Rain is a recurrent subject of mine. But I just can't get enough of it. The other day I was sitting placidly talking to a friend on the messenger, when I see this freak rainfall starting. It had gusts and blasts of fat, cold drops that was just beautiful and I had to take a picture. And here are some.

November

November is such a poetic name for a month. Don't you think? Just the sound of it makes it want to hug it tight. Where do the names of the months came from? I know I heard it somewhere but I don't remember.

November. New ember? In Spanish: Noviembre. I don't know. I just like November, as it happens to be the month with the most holidays, tied with July I think. Also it is the month I was born. It is the month that welcomes the winter and Christmas season.

It just a month that gives me hope for whatever it is that I do. A month that look forward to. Specially Thanksgiving. Hmm. And there is such sweetness when you say November, Noviembre, it kinda flows, unlike October which gets stuck in Oct, or May which kinda leaves you wanting more. Noviembre. Like tomorrow.

Great word. Great month. Great memories. Great thoughts.

A Great and Horrific Song for Halloween

This is a very-hard-to-translate song... With that said, I have to warn this is a guerilla translation, done on the spot, yes, I know it is irresponsible but... hmm... I don't really care.

You may find the song at your nearest P2P program or music store... So that you can listen to how awesomely gruesome this song is. And catchy. Its not the best song of the band, but it stands out, at least to me.

The song was written by Mexican band: Café Tacuba, pretty much and probably (redundant?) the best punk-rock-alternative-folkloric band ever in the history of Mexico and Latin America, famous for reinventing themselves often and for their very original lyrics and sounds.

But first, some language barriers...
The song is called:

Alarmala de tos.

"Alarmala" can mean many things, if it had an accent (alármala) it would translate into "alarm her". But it doesn't have it. So it might be a weird (but totally possible) conjugation that means: "he/she alarmed her". The whole song uses that weird conjugation so... Although the correct conjugation would be "alarmola". So I don't know.

Then it says: "de tos", which is "of the cough". Yes, I was like that too: "he/she alarmed her of the cough"? What the hell? Something like "she warned her of a disease"? But it doesn't make sense in the song. On the other hand: "tos" can also be short for "todos" which is "all". So that would say: "alarmed her of all"; "all" meaning "a lot of people". That one translation would be the best, altho I will use it "alarm her of all" because in the present tense it just makes more sense as compared to the rest of the song. If you say "alarmed her" it implies someone did warn her of something but the song doesn't say...

No further ado


Alarmala de Tos/Alarm her of all

por Café Tacuba


La Lola paciente mendigaba,/The Lola patiently bummed
sufría, su jefe la obligaba,/she suffered, her father made her,
con ella sacaba buena lana./he gets good money with her,
La pobre era jorobada./The poor girl had a hump.

Su madre le metía el talón,/Her mother stepped on her,
era perversa y de mal corazón./she was mean, and cold harted.

Su hermano vivia en el reventón,/Her brother lived his life to party
él era el filo, amante de un panzón./he was the lover of some fat panzy.

Ese día, pasaba normalmente,/That day was passing normally
cuando su padre atacola de repente,/when her father attacked her unexpectedly
violola con un deseo demente,/he raped her with a demential desire
y ella quizo morirse en ese instante./and she wanted to die in that instant.

Mató a su padre cuando este la seguía,/She killed her father when he followed her
mientras su madre con su hermano le ponía,/while her mother put her brother against her
pensó que ayuda jamás encontraría,/she thought that help would never find her
hasta que al fin, halló un policía./until at last, she found a police man.

Alarma, alarmala de tos,/Alarm, alarm her of all
uno, dos, tres, /one, two, three
patada y cos. /a kick and more*
(X2)

La Lola su historia lloró,/The Lola her story moaned
auxilio al "tira" imploró,/help to the cop she groaned
el "azul" sonriendo la miró.../the "blue" watched and smiled...

¿qué creen que fue lo que pasooo?/what do you think happened neeeext?

Siguiola, jalola, atacola, golpeola, pateola, escupiola, tirola, violola /He followed, he pulled, he attacked, he punched, he kicked, he spat, he threw, he raped her.(X2)

Siguiola, jalola, atacola, golpeola, pateola, escupiola, tirola, matolaaaa.../He followed, he pulled, he attaked, he punched, he kicked, he spat, he threw, he killed heeeer...

Con una pistola./With a pistol.

Alarma, alarmala de tos/Alarm, alarm her of all
uno, dos, tres,/one, two, three
patada y cos./a kick and more*
(x4)

Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma.
Alarma...

Alarma.



*"cos", I don't know what the hell "cos" means, and I couldn't find it in the dictionary, so it must be short for an odd Mexican word that I don't know, if anybody knows, please enligthen me. And again, that chorus is what I chose it to mean, or what I can understand or draw from it... if you have info on this, again: turn my brain-lights on.

On another note, I'm proud of me. I translated that and it even rhymes a bit in English.

Do you think that song is horrible? Perfect for Halloween? I think it is. It is also funny and peculiar to find it in a song. You should find it and hear it. If you do, and if you like it, and you would like more, then you should also find: "Las Flores", a simple, short, funny, beautiful, and very comprehensible song (unlike the one above), that one is my favorite yet. I might post, and translate it one day.

Ok, I'll see you.
Don't eat too much candy, it gives you cavities and makes you fat.
For now...
Happy Hallowennie.

Joel.

Thought of the Month / Pensamiento del Mes

Qué bueno es hacer cosas solamente por el simple hecho de hacerlas. Hacer cosas sin sentido, o que no tienen ningún propósito. Qué bueno es hacerlas, y es muchísimo mejor cuando las haces acompañado.

How awesome is it to do things just for the heck of doing them. To do nonsensical things, or things with no purpose. How awesome is to do them, and better yet to do them with the company of someone else.

(This thought was inspired by the beautiful memories of a friend, who melancholically remembers the past. Who doesn't remember the past with yearning?)

And the time turns

It is 2:30 AM. At some point right now, the world spins a little slower to make the United States fall back an hour.

How does this happen? I don't know. It is an event that occurs there. Maybe there is some old guy living in an old lighthouse at the center of the country, where there is this huge clock on top and the old guy climbs the steps to hold the clock's hands. This man has survived death many times, because by stopping the hands of the clock he opens an invisible fold in the mainframe of this existence where, if he were to fall inside, he would be trapped in a space and time that doesn't move, doesn't age and doesn't change. "Sometimes it doesn't sound bad", he thinks, but he knows better....

First JIP: Why dogs dont like it when you blow on their faces.

www.joelbuki.blogspot.com
presents...

a
Joel's Interactive Program production...

Why Dogs Don't Like It When You Blow On Their Faces.

Staring:

Joel

Joel

and

a dog.

Based on an idea by goody


Dogs. I wonder what's it like to have a dog. A dog is not a bird. I've only had birds as pets, and fish... and once a turtle. But they are not dogs. Dogs have a tendency to act like people, they could become good friends. Turtles don't care about you, they just want to eat. Fish... you can't really caress a fish (although I did try!). And birds, they are lovable and caresable, and they do click and sing to you and sometimes even poke your skin with their beaks, but they are so fragile... they are just not a dog.

Right now I don't want a dog. There is no space in this house to have one. And he would be making all kind of messes. But I would like one sometime. To blow on his face and see how it frowns and grimaces, like a baby tasting something sour.

But why dogs don't like it? I don't know. Probably because when you blow you are exhaling CO2 and you might actually be taking his breath for a while... Who knows. I've blown on my birds and they shake their heads furiously for one microsecond. How did I come up with this explanation? Well, have you put your face in a really really really fast fan? Or have you taken your head out of the car window while still in motion? Don't you kinda loose your breath? Its like, so much is getting in that you can't exhale what you have inside. Well, I guess its the same principle. Hmm. I might be onto something. I might win a nobel prize for this deduction. Or I might have just guessed something that had been previously discussed, and I didn't know...

Oh well, I'll update whenever I get a dog. (you might want to sit down for that...)

I introduce to you: Joel

Hello. I introduce to you: Joel, he is my other me. And remember that I am Joel too. He was on a trip in the French Islands, he has come back with a nasty sun tan (no, it doesn't look right, it's not a nice looking smooth brown, no, its more like a stretched, toasted, roasted nut).

I noticed that he came back because he started to talk to me when I was writing an email today. Yes, I noticed. I didn't see him leave, and I didn't find the note he said that he left me telling me that he went on vacation. And I didn't see him enter, he just started talking to me, as if no time had passed. As if I was going to accept the fact that he abandoned me! The nerve! Joel, shut up. You see! You see! He's now telling me to shut up! I mean, am I not aloud a little bit of resentment or a little bit of anger? Stop being so melodramatic, Joel. I'm not being...I should really kick you in the balls, bastard! Accept that you are glad that I'm back. I AM glad that you are back, but you didn't say anything, you left me alone. (now he's rolling his eyes).

You are just jealous that I went to the Islands and have this stunning tan and you don't. Prefiero mi jinchera a esa bronceadera que traes. Stop speaking in Spanish. Que no. Yo hablo lo que me de la gana. But what about the people who don't speak spanish. Well, they can always find a dictionary. You really are something. Whatever. Now, say sorry and translate. ¡Que no! You are such a baby. Whatever.

Everybody, this is Joel, the tanned one, Joel has gone off of the computer. He's being temperamental. He's glad to see me. He just doesn't like other people to see his feelings. It's nice meeting you all.

And today is Monday again

It seems that I can't get enough of Mondays. Hmm. Maybe that's a sign. I should make something up and write. Just for the sake of writing. I guess I could just let my mind run now... I don't think I want.

I was watching the wrestlilng, and they are showing a stupid "comedic" sketch that has gone on for too long. I wonder who's writing the scripts. Today has been the worst show ever.

I guess that is not interesting. I guess I've lost the will to be entertaining. Maybe tomorow. TomoRRow.

Hoy es Lunes 17

(Today is Monday the 17th)
(and Today I write in Spanish, I'm in the need of my accents and conjugations)
(Translation services are available at www.freetranslation.com, or you could wait until I do it)

Hoy es lunes 17 de Octubre. Hace exactamente una semana que no he escrito un carajo. Que he estado en el limbo, que ni siquiera me pego a la página blanca por miedo al noséqué. Tengo dos cosas interesantísimas en la cabeza para escribir, y por alguna razón no encuentro la fuerza para hacerlas. Tengo que obligarme. Estoy decayendo, como está decayendo mi blog. Tan emocionado que yo andaba con mi blog, para allá y para acá... que si le escribía todos los días. Nada. Lo que sucede es que estuve esperando respuestas y comentarios, estuve esperando ver la vida al otro lado de la página, y resulta que la vida al otro lado de la página es invisible. Resulta que el otro lado de la página no me pertenece a mí, que aquellos lectores que viven en esos bordes son dueños de sí mismos aun cuando vuelan por los cielos de mí mundo escrito. Resulta que a pesar de que esos lectores se inmersan en mis mares voluntariamente, no los puedo obligar a que reaccionen y mucho menos que reaccionen ante mi. No puedo obligarlos. No puedo. Resulta que este lado de la página, el del escritor, es difícil de aguantar, porque el escritor quiere saber la opinión del lector, pero he llegado a la conclusión de que no es necesaria, es bien recibida e importante para el crecimiento escrituril, pero no es necesaria para mi, porque este lado de la página, mi lado, es mío, para mí, para mi propia satisfacción. Lo que escribo está hecho para que se lea, y seguramente se está leyendo, lo único es que no hay récord de que está sucediendo. No importa, yo ya cumplí con mi lado de la página, y si se lee bien, y, si la iniciativa de comentar está en aquellos al otro lado está presente, mejor. Pero ya no me voy a rochar. Ya no. Lo que va a suceder ahora es que me voy a sentir contento simplemente de ver mis párrafos en la página.

Tantán!

Stupid Rain!

Sunday, 3: 58 AM
(Joel finishes talking on the msn messenger with a friend).

Sunday, 4:00 AM
I'm excited because tomorrow I will be a tourist! I will be going to the castle of El Morro, take pictures, take the blazing sun. Sweat with no care... But there is a thin rain falling right now. I hope it won't be wet tomorrow. Well, not tomorrow is technically today. But, until the sun rises it is still tomorrow to me.

Sunday, 4:30 AM
(Joel sets up the alarm of his cell phone for 10:30 AM).

Sunday, 4:55 AM
(Joel's cell phone suddenly rings) Hello? And I hear people talking for like 5 seconds. And then they speak to me. And then I don't understand. And then I say its 5 in the morning and then she (Heather) says "I'm so sorry!" And I go, "It's fine! I was up anyway" and I smile. But she goes "I'm so sorry, I'll call you tomorrow!" And I go, "It's ok!" But she was hanging up already.

Sunday, 5:01 AM
(Joel, finally, puts his Da Vinci Code book down and thinks:) Stupid book! It's a hatefully written book, (hatefully, meaning clumsily written, as in it being very insipid, and almost technical), It's a hatefully written book! But... The mystery is sooo compelling. (and then Joel goes to sleep).

Sunday, 10:30 AM
(Joel's alarm goes off but he doesn't hear it).

Sunday, 10:54 AM
(Joel wakes up, because his body has something to do today, but doesn't remember, then his mind give him a bolt; and right then, he hears a thunder and the rain falling on the back yard. Joel says: "Stupid rain!", turns around in bed, and falls asleep again).

Sunday, around 1 PM
(Joel wakes up again from a very good dream, he doesn't remember, but it was very good; he goes back to sleep).

Sunday, 3:21 PM
(Joel finally gets out of bed).

Sunday, 5:00 PM
Stupid rain! I was supposed to go to El Morro! To be a tourist! I even charged the battery of my broken camera! (which works! nonetheless). Aarrgh!

Sunday, 5:13 PM
Lets go watch Flightplan! (Joel suggests to a friend (Randy), he says "Ok").

Sunday, 7:05 PM
(Joel's phone rings. A call he's been expecting from another friend (the other Joel). But Shites! The movie is about to begin, so Joel's brain is bombarded with distractions: of people walking by, of the sound of the theater, and the conversation wasn't as good as it should have been).

Sunday, 7:20 PM
(The movie starts.)

Sunday, 9 something PM
(The movie ends and Joel has to pee, the bathroom is full of people, so he waits. When he goes into the stall, he surprises himself to see how much liquid he was holding in.)

Sunday, 9:4something PM
(Joel is having an amazing strawberry and cream frappucino from starbucks, he had never had one before, and a raspberrycheescakebruller or something like that).

Sunsay, 10:30 PM
(Joel watches wrestling reruns on a local channel).

Sunday, 11:03 PM
(Joel calls his friend, the one who called at seven, to arrange something).

Monday, 12:30 AM
(The wrestling show is over and anxiety falls onto Joel)

Monday, 1:29 AM
(Joel starts to write this post, anxiety building up. Luckily another friend logs in (Matt), this time on the AIM messenger, and the anxiety recedes for a while).

Monday, 2:49 AM
Stupid rain! The hole day has been wet, with a little rain falling at random hours. (And as he says this, a light rain starts falling.) It's been rainy for the past 7 days, why did I think today was going to be different? Plans have a way of not being accomplished. Damn it!
(And with that thought, Joel's anxiety boils up from his stomach once again, thinking of his previous arrangement).
The future, like today, holds uncertainty, holds a lot of rain.
(But Joel loves the rain!)
I shall be all right. If rain falls I will curse at it for a while, but then I will go under it and be showered.
(Anxiety of the future, it holds uncertainty, a lot of rain. But Joel loves the rain!)

Monday, 3:00 AM
(Joel puts Sunday's date for this post (instead of Monday's), but he changes his mind, and leaves the post for Monday at 3:00 AM. Then he hits "post".)

On how we meet our friends

It is weird how people get to know other people. To think that at some point you wouldn't even talk to someone, and the next thing you know... that someone is so special. And afterwards you think back, and don't even recall how it all started.

It is the mystery of friendship. The mystery of the mind to gradually forget how love progresses from none to all. Have anyone stopped to think about this? How is it that you find friends? How is it that they become such an immense part of us? What was the process? Was it just by hanging out? Layers and layers of different qualities build upon layers and layers of lots of other experiences and then, without the slightest clue of what's happening, that person becomes the person you call on the phone when you are bored, when you need help, when you need company, they are the people you call when you fear for them, people you call because you care for them.

Only once was I aware of this process. Only once. And it is still so unexplainable, because, even when I was aware that that person was going to be a friend, I still couldn't grasp the moments in which we knew we were friends. I guess that that sense didn't come to both of us at the same time. What I remember is just hanging out, or like talking about what movie you like... I don't know.

What I do know is that, even when you never really know when your friendship started, you will always remember when it ends, or when it begins to end. Friendships can be lost with an act, with a word, with abandon. I don't intend on keeping myself uncommunicated of that person of whom I was talking, because I don't want to let happen the same things that happened in the past, friendships not broken, but forgotten. I'm sure I'll find them again, sometime, in the meantime I'll keep hanging out with the friends I have, and I'll keep wondering how weird, simple and complex it is to find one.

Appendicitis

Some books have good appendixes, they inform you of things that you specifically want to find in that book. But other books have bad appendixes, so, they suffer from appendicitis (an inflamation of the end of the book... hmm)

Just a random thought.

Neglect

Yes, I know. I've been neglecting my baby here. I should be put in jail... lalalalala I've been busy writing a novel (or a pretense, or an effort of a novel, but I'm trying).

So, leave me alone!

:p

ps. I have not forgotten JIP, I already have two titles... it is exciting to think about what I'm going to write, keep them coming!.

Neon Lights in October

Oh, I love the previous post. It is like Northern Lights (if you've ever seen them, because I haven't, but I can always imagine). Whenever you put your mouse pointer on the text, it glows neon green, it is beautiful. Don't you think?

I'm sorry. I know I'm naive. And impressionable. But I don't care, I like little things like these. They make my life interesting.

The Hugeamungous Link

This is the biggest link, goodbye! Actually, this is a Hugeamungous link. Just click it and you will find lots on interesting stuff. You might find the meaning of life, the theory of the human evolution unraveled, you might find life in another planets, you might travel to Costa Rica, or to France, and live the rich life, as those girls on that MTV show "My sweet sixteen" (those girls are so spoiled! my God! and I'm sure there are boys with rich parents that are just like them!) (*envious sneer*) (Bitches!) You might also find the love of your life if you click this link. You might see the center of the earth. You might see the center of your heart. You might even smell things through your computer with that new technology. You might find the power to thinking things and make them move (telekinesis they call it, I call it luck) (*another envious sneer*). You might find your biggest wish come true! You might also find that your lover is hooking up with your secretary, (regardless that you are male or female, or that your lover is male or female, or that your secretary is male or female, you might find them), but not only that, after that you might also find that your secretary has been screwing the janitor, who in time has been fucking your teenager son/daughter, while he/she visits your house to "fix" the plumbing, and then you realize that you started it all by 1. hiring that secretary, 2. taking the janitor to fix the plumbing for the first time, 3. by cheating on your secretary with your lover. Also, if you click this amazing, hugeamungous new link, you can win a trip to Las Vegas and spend all the money of your sweet sixteen girlfriend, while you ask yourself of senseless things like: the world's beginings, the meaning of life, and that enormously intersting question, that would enlighten your existence fully: How the hell did this guy come up with a word like: "hugeamungous"? Who knows, one day, if you click, you might find out!

Update on the Mother of all knots, and apologies

The apologies are for that post/story: The Yogurt; of September 25th. But the apologies are not because of the story, they are because of the font. In some computers, I have seen, that the font is very small, and almost unreadable. I will fix it right now. So, if you skipped it for its font was unappealing (which I don't think you did), go back, The Yogurt is going to look lots better (it also has less errors than the first one).

As for The mother of all knots, posted on: September 13th, I'm still working on the knot.

The Challenges of TomoRRow

Oh, I've been anticipating this post for a long time. I have! I wanted to write it badly, but couldn't find the words. It's not like I have the words tonight, it's just that tonight I am going to be brave enough to write it, without knowing the outcome.

The Challenges of TomoRRow.

No, I'm not going to go sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although it wouldn't hurt, now that I think of it. TomoRRow brings all of these images into my head like, the deep, black ocean of space (merde! so cliché!) (Cliché is in French?!) (Oh my God!, it is! I always knew it, but never stopped to think about it, hmm, so the parenthesis should say: "merde!, très cliché!") Moving on from my tangent. As I was saying, Challenges of TomoRRow brings images of the deep, black ocean of space, of highway lanes on the surface of Saturn's rings; of blue, cold, windy atmospheres in Pluto; of glowing, flaming reds in Mercury; of seas of smelly methane gas on one of the moons of Jupiter (I actually read an article about that, and I wondered how a "sea" of gas would look, and this is what was concluded: "when you dip your hand in it, it is slightly colder than the air above, but it doesn't feel like water would feel, it is like dipping your hand inside a whirlwind, that waves slowly, even thickly between your fingers. But then you cannot see the surface of this sea methane, for it is covered by a greenish fog that hangs on top of it, swirling and lurking, as the sea is not solid, it is just heavy, concentrated gas, just hovering on top of another solid, which we would call the "sea bed"." My mind is digressing once again!).

But no. I am not going sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although images keep coming: of stars, of three suns burning, of two moons shimmering, of the sun just walking along the horizon, instead of rising on top of our heads (and you don't have to fly deep space to experience that, just hang around in Antarctica, or in the North Pole with Sandy Claws... The sun just drifts around you, and not over you! It makes sense, since the north and south pole don't ever get direct sunlight. But to actually SEE the sun just go around the horizon, it is incredible. I can only imagine how lost people would get... That's another thing I learned, or unlearned, and that people missed when they didn't go see March of the Penguins! ... And again, I trailed off.). I will start again.

No. I am not going sci-fi on you. Not at all! Although images keep coming. But no. I just wanted to talk about the word: Tomorrow. Such a nice word, isn't it? It suddenly, for nor reason, fills your lungs with pride or maybe with hope, with the hope to see a future day? The hope to live one more day? It brings images of light, of freshness, of birds chirping of the sun rising, and it would make sense, as the word comprises of: To (direction) Morrow (which once meant: morning). Oh, But No. What I want to point out is the fact that tomorrow is written with two "R's". I was surprised the day that I stopped and looked at the word when I was chatting with a friend. I had typed: "tomorow", and I had always typed it like that, with one "R". But then, I looked at it, and, for some reason, it hit me that it looked odd, that is was missing something. I went to my trusty dictionaire and found that it had two "R's". Then I made a comment to my friend, whom I was speaking to, and he said that it took HIM a while to remember that its double "R". This statement, coming from a native English speaker, appalled me. But soon I got over it, because I myself forget how to write Spanish words, like "necesitar", I forget if the "C" goes where the "S" goes. (That word is "to need", its variant: "necessary" is also confusing to me).

But Tomorrow is one of my favorite words (in English, and I love to read it from the English as if it were Spanish, which would sound: toh-moh-roh, or toh-moh-roe, depending on my mood). It is one of my favorite words, along with "bus" (in Spanish is "bus" too, but instead of reading it "bus", you would read it "boos", but a very short "oo", don't go booooing around; so, it sounds very funny when someone just comes and says "boos".).

So yes, Tomorrow is one of my favorite words, for many reasons: because it makes you procrastinate in your own self-contained thoughts; because it makes you digress from your current subject; because it makes you forget the "R's", the "C's", the "S's", the "OO's"; because it makes you totally go on a tangent that doesn't really go anywhere; because it makes you go very repetitive; because it brings flash-backs from the future, because it lets go of flash-forwards from the past; because it brings images of the deep, black space and a parenthesis that went after it concerning French; because it makes you remember things; because it makes you go "clichéry"; because it makes you think of what is coming, or not, or it just entertains you when you read it in Spanish: toh-moh-roh; or because it is just such a beautiful, beautiful word to look at: Tomorrow (proud T, repetitive O's, and the finality of a W, and, of course, the mysterious and intriguing double R). But it is one of my favorite words because it makes you realize, and it makes ME realize, what a liar I am, because tomorrow is a word that ultimately makes me go, and in itself it is, soooo sci-fi.

Joel's Interactive Program (JIP)

I present to you J.I.P., an effort to make this place more enjoyable and busier, and more interactive ... (*whispering to himself*): mainly for me. Because, (*clearing throat*), I love writing but I also need to reeeeaaaad! Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince won't last much longer, Ok!

So, I've created this idea. YOU give a title, any title, a very random title, and I will write about it. What do you think? Or maybe better, I shall write a story from your title, that will make it harder... and maybe even more interesting. YOU can also suggest a sentence, a very random, crazy sentence, the least sense the better, and I shall write around it, or WITH it. I don't know. You can suggest whatever you'd like.

So, ok. Homework.

1. Think! (because I'm running out of neurons!) (altho I have a list of titles here, but I need encouragement).

2. Give me a title! (whatever, as random as you can) (ex. "The Correct Toe"), (I've also been thinking of doing a series of stories with the titles of the songs from a CD) (hmm) (I can foresee copyright battles)

3. Or, Give me a sentence! (even more random-er than the titles) (ex. "And saw Pedro sleeping blessedly with his face stuck to the ceiling") (*wink*)

Please! Pleeeeaaaase! Help me!

I await (*bloodshot eyes*) for your COMMENTS. Just click right below of this sentence! Come ooon!

Repressed anger.

STuPID, FUCKINg, genes of mine! ASsholes, basTArDS, moTher"F"ing genes of mine! FuCKErs, dAmNED genes of mine! I hate them!

Except the precious chromosomes that invented my feet, those, THOSE are the best genes ever! My feet are the best, my toes even... They smell a bit, but, hey, genes are not perfect.

EXcept! The Rest of the GENES, they are all a big lot of SHITTERS!, DAMN YOU ALL. Genes puÑeteros!, cABRonES, HIjos de PuTA!! Malditos! aaAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAah!

Ok. I'm good now. Let me just cut this arm off, and I will be just dandy!

The Yogurt (based on veridic events)

There it was. There is nothing else in the fridge. Just the pale light, just the cold. On the door, there are all sorts of sauces: bar-b-q, ketchup, mustard, grape jelly... On the lower shelves there are some bottles of beer and soda cans. But on the top shelf, there was nothing, nothing but the heavenly-looking cup of yogurt.

Its flavor was strawberry, and you could taste the rich, thick, gooey white substance on your tonge. "Umm", you think. And as you reach in to grab it, a thought pierces your mind. "Don't. Don't, it will bring illnesses towards you".

The yogurt didn't belong to you. It belonged to your Chinese roommate, he who has been fighting the people upstairs for the past two weeks. The people upstairs are loud; he is fed up with them. But you... you are not bothered. Actually, you couldn't care less. the last time you ate his yogurt he flipped out. He ranted about everyone slurping his yogurts. You didn't know he was going to go like that, and your other roommate, the Japanese girl, she said that he wouldn't mind. She lied to you, a fellow woman, how inconsiderately conniving.

But the yogurt looks so tempting in the fridge. All alone, on its own shelf, waiting, seducing. You slammed shut the fridge's door. To open it seconds later, slowly, hopeful that the stupid, beautiful thing would not be there. But, it didn't work. It was still there, looking at you, calling at you. Oh, the hell with it, right?

You grabbed it. You tore the cover. You sank a spoon in it, and you licked that spoon as if you were having an orgasm. Like your first one. Maybe you will be dead tomorrow, killed by your tantric Chinese boy roommate. Your Japanese girl roommate will laugh at your corpse. She never liked you. Who cares? You are having the orgasm that was waiting for days in the cold, white insides of that fridge. And the sweetness of the illegal, and the sweetness of its strawberries melting around your tongue is so good.

The end.

(The preceding was a fictional story based on veridic events. The characters are fictional, the situations are half-true. Any likeness to real life is just pure coincidence).

Talking about food

Today I went to the dentist. I don't like the dentist. But I like the nurses of the dentist even less. There are like four. So I go into the cubicle to get my mid-year check-up and clean-up (for some reason I think I'm not saying the right words...). In my mind I was wishing that the pretty nurse didn't take me, not because I didn't like her, nooo, she is beautiful to look at, when you are laying down with your mouth open. The thing is... she is a bit rough. And my gums are tender. But to my gums relief, this lady came up and did me teeth.

Have you notice that they talk to you while they scrape you teeth? I don't if it just them in that office, but they all have a story whenever they are cleaning up your teeth. It is nice tho, it takes your mind more or less away from the pain in that small area where your teeth are attached to your gums. But then it is bad because you want to answer something, and sometimes they expect you to answer with your mouth agap, and their fingers inside... uuhh it gave me chills.

I hate going to the dentist. Not because I don't like the people in the dentist's office, they're the nicest people in the world actually, very nice, the doctor is too, very... outgoing, speaks his mind. But, ooh, i don't like the pain in my mandibles after I return home.

Tengo ganas de comer pescado.

Tengo unas ganas enormes de comer pescao. Un filete de dorado bien sasonado con pimienta y oregano. O un salmón bien horneado, que quede bien rosadito con mucha mantequillita deretida. O una serenata de viandas con bacalao. O me conformo con un fillet-o-fish the Mc Donalds. A lo mejor ando preñao.

I'm in the mood for fish. A "dorado"(mahi mahi) fillet seasoned with pepper and oregano. Or salmon roasted pink, with lots of melted butter. Or a "serenata" (mix of root fruits: potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and others with no translation) with codfish. Or I would even go for a fillet-o-fish from Mc Dondalds. Maybe I'm pregnant.

The truth about this picture

It is weird to see pictures in websites of places where you have been. I've been on this plaza three time in a month. This plaza is called: Plaza Colón. (as in Christopher Columbus).

Puerto Ricans have a saying: "Cuando Colón baje el dedo", (when Colombus puts his finger down). It is used whenever you have something that it is impossible to acomplish. If there was a translation it would be, maybe: "When pigs fly". Because pigs won't, and the Statue of Colón will certainly won't put his finger down. Unless, of course, there is a mutation in the pigs DNA or a bad earthquake brings the finger down. I remember calling this plaza the plaza of the cockroaches. Because there were a lot in the bottom of the fountain located under Columbus. But that was way back. I didn't see one the three times I walked by.

As I was saying: it is weird to see pictures of places where you have been. Because I can see the changes in this plaza. Those craggy, branchy trees next to the round balcony are now a lot taller and full of leafs. I stood right there in that round balcony, and there are big trees that, if I were to take that picture again today, you wouldn't see it.

Also the picture looks as if it were of another country, because the picture is taken from an angle that you would not be able to get, unless: 1. you lived in San Juan, or 2. you were a professional photographer, or 3. you were very determined.

Do you see the brown construction in the background? That is the Fuerte San Felipe, (one of the to fortifications that crown the north coast of Old San Juan). The sky blue/grayish buildind was a Hooters, I don't remember what it is now, I think it is not being used. Next to that is Café Berlin, the restaurand/bar/lounge that I went the other night. To the right you can see a lot of trees, under those trees there is a bank, don't remember which one... On this plaza also the movie: Desperado, with Antonio Banderas, was filmed, some scenes anyway, and the bank was also in the movie. Wait. Now that I think of it, I believe it is a Museum (It would make sense of the lot of trees, because it is a garden, I remember the garden).... Hmm. I'll check and get back to you.

This plaza is like the begining of old San Juan. If you go north, between the former Hooters and the Fortrest you will eventually find the other fortrest, called: El Morro. If you go south, like down the stairs of the round balcony, right in front actually, there's the Tapia Teather, behind the teather, there are hotels, bars (Señor Frogs is near), and the docks where the cruises... well dock. To the east, walking parallel to the Hooters, you will find the Old San Juan City Hall, and the governors house La Fortaleza, and also, the famous bar-infested San Sebastián Street.

Again, it was weird when I first saw this picture (which I used in a previous post, as you may already noticed), because I walked right down those stairs, crossed the sidewalk, crossed the street, went behind the teather, and came in to Starbuck's, (that reminds me, that I hate coffee, but I looove cheesecake). I just thought of showing you were I've been.

Me dieron ganas de caminar. (Now I want to walk).

I'll tell you how it goes.

French Class

Parler

Je parle
Tu parles
Il/Elle parle
Nous parlons
Vous parlez
Ils/Elles parlent

(tada!)

March of the Penguins and Other LoveBirds

Lately, everything overwhelms me. Everything beautiful overwhelms me. Everything sad overwhelms me. Everything happy overwhelms me. Everything about "leaving and returning" overwhelms me.

Today I went to see March of the Penguins. Everyone I talked to about going to watch the movie/documentary was like: "Joel, that is just boring". I decided, then, that I would enjoy life by myself. I didn't ask them this, but, how something that you don't know could ever be boring? And some people might say: "Joel, but you can watch that on the Discovery Channel". I would answer: why pass up the oportunity of watching it big, in full detail...? (You've seen more mediocre things, anyway).

The movie was so interesting and beautiful. I want to go to the South Pole now. In October or November, when summer starts, and it is less cold, maybe like cero degrees instead of -58 degrees. To make such a movie is to endure so much. You have to love film, you have to love nature very much, and have such patience and wonder towards those beings that you want to capture, beings that do not pose, nor care about you at all. At least penguins are not agressive.

With the movie I learned how intelligent animals are, or just penguins. I learned how penguins are so much like any human being. And maybe also, how they are more intelligent than human beings. Animals, or penguins, use their common sense ALL the time. Unlike many human beings. But penguins also go mad, and loose their minds with bad decisions. The penguins walk for many miles, more than 50, thats more than Puerto Rico's distance from north to south, and sometimes they walk more, depending on how much ice is frozen on the ocean surface. Guided by instinct they go deep inland where the ice is thick and it won't break on the next summer season, so that the chicks won't fall into the cold waters. They walk. But sometimes they slide on their bellies, propelled by their legs. And I couldn't help but think that some people did things the hard way for no reason (others don't of course; but I've heard people say: "pasa trabajo", as if to say that you should do things the hard way instead of doing them the easy way... why? It doesn't make sense).

Penguins form a partnership, male and female, to breed one egg. One! And there are so many perils ahead for that egg. The mother makes the egg, but she has to transfer it to the father, because she had use her resourses and has to go back to the sea to feed. The transfer is hard, they have seconds for it, if for some reason the egg rolls away from the penguins thick, black feet, the egg freezes, cracks and dies withing seconds. The parents have no purpose anymore and leave. The mothers that had a succesful transfer hurry to the sea, but the ice is frozen so they have to walk even longer than the first time. The fathers stay with the egg, for another month. All males engaged in a simultaneous bond, all hurdled together for warmth under the blizzards.

And so, when the females finally come back, the egg has hatched into a grey chick with black eyes, fragile and tender. And transfer time is back again, and the same rule applies, because the chicks are not yet able to walk by themselves. Seconds away from under their parents flap of skin, and their little bodies die as ice hardens their insides. The loss is unbearable. They made desperate grunts that sounded so sad. And then, they go mad, they try to steal another penguins chick, but the group doesn't let it happen. And so, the males go back to the sea after almost 4 months without eating, their path is even longer than the female's, as the ice keeps freezing, and that's why there are less males than females, perhaps.

I've told pretty much the whole movie by now. But it is not as rewarding as it is to see how these animals chose this place to live, and how they manage to survive in it. Because that's the place where they were born, and just because of that single reason, they always go back to the same exact place to breed. To love.

To love.

How can a bird love? I don't know. Maybe they don't even call it love. Maybe some scientist only call it "the instinct of survival" (I just made that up, by the way), the instinct of keeping the race growing is what make these penguins protect that chick, and endure the hardships of going hungry and exausted... But, isn't that what humans do? (Most of them anyway, the responsible ones, the loving ones). Humans, above all, want the well-being of their children. Why? Because the children have to be better than the parents? But why do they have to be better? Because the parents love them unconditionally? But why is that love unconditional? There is no reason for wanting the well-being of your children, really, there isn't, if you think about it. Love is not learned, it is just born, it is instinctive.

And how can a bird love a human or viceversa? Oh, how can a dog love a human or the other way around? I don't know. Who knows? No one. But I want to believe that my little Cockatiel, cared for me, or us. Coki, his name was, he died last Sunday. And even though he was just a bird, he was our bird, and we played with him for the six years that he lived, because we had him since he was just a baby chick. It was so sad to see his bright yellow body sitting on the floor of the cage, as if he was just tired, like a duck sitting on the grass. His head, with the orange spots on the sides, lowered in front of him, his beak touching the bottom of the cage. I had to touch his soft feathers for the last time, and it surprised me how alive he felt. But, he didn't respond. I remember when he survived the rocking chair, when one of his nails was broken and never grew back, poor thing squealed, whenever he was touched with the Vick's. And when he survived the rat glue-trap, somehow he got stuck on it, his beak his wings all stuck to the glue... he looked so glad, with his chest proud, after I cut the feathers to free him, and cleaned him... battered but alive. I didn't know how much I cared for him, or how much I loved him until he was gone. I hope that he felt my instinctive love when he was alive, because I felt his whenever he, lovingly or instinctively, would walk up to my hands and whistle with me.

Home is where the heart is, I said once... A friend said to me once... Some unaccounted person said once... If you were born in a place of friggid temperatures and dangers, but you were warm under your parents loving flap of skin, over their thick feet, and you walked on their feet as they taught you, and they cared for you with love, you are bound to go back to that place. You will go back by instinct not knowing exactly what you are doing. When you finally arrive, you say: this is where it all started, this is where I'm supposed to be right now, this is what I must do, this is where I help the circle of life. And when you're task is done (in the place that you called home, in the place that you were born, in the place that you played with your friends when you were little), you grow up, or if you are already grown up, you grow a little more, and then you leave. Just to come back home again, next year, and instinctively love once more.

Vacations

... ...
...
___

Breath

Yes. Breath. Because tomorow's post will be... strong (I think). I will start writing, right now.

Another thing. This blog will start a new thing. Something... Interactive... we'll see.

So now. Clear your minds for tomorow (or a couple of hours). Just Breath.

Family Guy! and "Pum!" Ice Cream

Tonight I'm inclined to the dark sides of not posting.

I'm enjoying a rich "Pum!" ice cream. What is "pum!" ice cream? Well, if an ice cream vending car went through your neighborhood when you were little, the car would always call the children with a very creepy bell ring than went: PUM!... and after like 5 senconds: PUM. Five seconds: PUM. It was like the call from the devil. All the children from the street would come out to buy. It has been ages since I've had Pum Ice Cream. It is so soft and it melts in your mouth so easily. Soft served ice cream at your door. Genius!

ps. Depending on your cognitive ability and on your cultural background: "pum!" could sound like: "ping!" or "pang!" or "pom!" or "ting!" or "supercalifragilistic!"

Anyway. Since I'm not in the mood of writting a lot, here is a link, so to change the view from "letters" to "moving image". The link is from that sweet ("suite!") show Family Guy. When I was in Orlando, one of my roommates owned the first three seasons of the show. I had never watched it before. But then, that's the only thing we would all watch at night. Family Guy. We knew most of the jokes by the end of our stay in Orlando... For those who don't know the show, (like I once were), most of the jokes are just because they're random. One more thing: hopefully you can see the clip. And another thing: Ipecac, one spoonful of it is used to make people regugitate whenever they have consumed a poison.

Enjoy.

http://www.milkandcookies.com/links/33774/

Joel: Poetry-Hater

For that title alone, I am going to get lynched (or as the dictionary says: executed without due process of law, especially hanged, and in the pressence of, or by a mob). I can see the mob already ganging up on me. I can smell their smells. I can taste their bitterness.

How can I hate poetry? Oh, I hate poetry. I thought of saying: "I 'do not like' poetry", but it is not true, I hate it. I cannot stand it. Even if it is published on a book by the most renowned person... But, don't get me wrong. I can manage to enjoy some of it. Yes. It is like "reggeaton" music. I hate it, but after a while you have to sing the song (if it is one of the better ones, of course) and sometimes even dance to it. So yes, I can enjoy some poetry. I enjoy "more" the poems by people that I know in person. I won't read poetry from people that I don't know, unless it is for some technical reason (being which: that I need to count verses from some poem, that I need reference for some reason, that I have been recomended poems of someone whom "I would like", or I don't know, it even has to do with the mood that I'm in). So. Poetry, big no, no.

That being said.

Yesterday was the presentation of a magazine that the University of Puerto Rico, specifically the English Department, published, it is called "Tonguas" (get it? tongue=lengua). And I was so very happy to have two stories published in it. Very happy to see my babies in page 77 ("Los Nuevos Miércoles"), and page 82 ("The Echo of the Night on the Distance"). The magazine is an expression of "young art"; more multilingual and democratic it cannot be. There is photography, there are paintings, drawings, there are short stories, and poems. I, being a poetry-hater, can say that 98% of the poems are good. I also have to make a confession: I was on the editing team of this magazine (I have a credit, woohoo!), and I HAD to read a LOT of poems. And I learned that poems were a different kind of writing.

What I hate about poems is the "full of themselves" quality that they have. Poems are so selfish. They try to be so pretty and/or so demanding of so much attention, and I'm not that person. I have to read a poem at least three times to get half of it. My brain doesn't compute their intricate word choice. It just doesn't. Poems are so small and still they want to be this grandiose thing... Oh, but wait. Then you have the five, six, seven pages long poems. Don't even get me started with those. Isn't poetry suposed to be concise? Why is this poem ages long? I don't know. If the poem doesn't keep MY attention (because it wants my attention, and not some elite person) on the first page, then it dies. I'm really sorry to say it. (Although, the same eye goes for narrative, but I'm more lenient with stories).

I also learned that poetry was about images; about choosing the right words and connect them. But, with word choice, rhyme and sound are neglected (most of the time). I love poetry that rhymes. Even if I don't get it, those poems I like, sometimes maybe love... That is why music is so liked in the first place (at least most of it), because the lyrics rhyme. (Oh God, I can see frowned brows everywhere!) (Oh well). And sure, there are lyrics that don't rhyme, but in some way they have some kind of rythm, or beat.

So, on the presentation of "Tonguas" there was an open-mic. And guess what was the main course. Poetry. I was like: "Damnit!" I sat there, listening. And what impressed me more was not the poems, but how people would speak them. Some were very shy, some were very outgoing and loud, and kept the audience. But, poems, very little of them caught my attention, (altho I stayed for the whole thing; there was a lot of people). The best thing that was read there, was a nice short story. Also, there was a poem titled: "Conjugando verbos" ("conjugating verbes", you caught it) that I particularly remember because of the word choice, which was a grammar-class-like love story, which I found very original. Also, there was a poem in which ALL the words started with a "P", all of them (except for articles and conjunctions and whatnots), I also found that one very original. Also there were poems with a hip hop beat to them, they rhymed or had a beat, and they were the ones that stayed in my mind (altho, I don't like hip hop that much). So I guess I hate poems because I find them lacking much originallity?

I cannot help to hate poetry. I can't. I've searched for a poem that could/would change my life, but I haven't found it.

I write poetry, rarely. Sometimes I hate some of my poems, specially my old, inexperienced ones (not to say that I'm experienced now...). So, I write them rarely, and I try to make them as literal as possible, because, for me, there isn't a stupid-er thing than to write something "creatively" and then someone doesn't get it, or doesn't know what to think of it, or doesn't get the purpose of it. You can draw all the conclusions you want from a poem, or from a story, but, you, as a writer, want at least ONE person to know exactly (or somewhat exactly) what you meant when you wrote.

So, because I am a poetry-hater, because I am an "I- don't- get- your- deliriums- of- granduer- you- stupid- poem" person (notice that I say this about the poems, NOT about the people who write them, because I know they are capable persons... it is "I" who has a problem (we say that all the time: "its not you, its me..." whatever... so I'm going to shut up)...

People with stern faces stare at me. There is a man with a black hood over his head next to me (that covered his whole head), his arms are tanned, tatooed, sweaty and hugeamungous. There is another man on my right, he is skinny, and his hair is gray, dirty gray. Behind me there is another man, I can't see him, (duh!), because I watch at the angry mob. The sun is pounding on all of us. It smells, but I can't pinpoint the what it is, like blood, like unbathed people, I think there is also a hint of rain inside my nose. And as I look over the buildings of the "plaza", the sky is darkened, and rumbled towards us. The man with the hood pulled me, and guided me through the mob. People spat at me, telling me: "poemcist!", "son of the devil", "blasphemous", "motherfucking-bitch-ass poem-hater!". I couldn't understand. Others pulled at my clothes. My hands bound with metal casings, I held my clothes as good as I could. Some people hit me, even a stone struck me on the head. The man with the hood protected me. We were near the platform, and as we went around it, I saw the blood. Dry, clotted blood, mixed with mud, under the wooden trapdoor. We climbed the platform. The executioner (the man with the robe, of course), slid a thick rope around my neck, he hung the other end on the piece of wood that would hang me. He tightened the rope. The people were screaming, kill him, kill him, hang him already. And then, I saw a glimpse of the executioner's eyes, through the peepholes of his black hood, it seemed that he pitied me. And then, he pulled on the lever that opened the trapdoor into my doom. My neck cracked with a hard yank, and I knew I was gone there, but before I lost all life, the executioner took his hood, he was, Joel. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was a poetry-hater too. Then, the people started to poke me with sharp spears, and that's when I bled. Gladly I was dead. But then, with a mighty thunder, the rain splashed over everybody, and the mob ran, as if they were running for their lives, and my blood, was washed away, so that it wouldn't stink along with the sweat of the people.

On a scroll of parchment that Joel gave me... I, Joel, found this (written in long hand-writing):

I, (Poetry-hater, rhyme-lover, postmodern, bittersweet writer...) present you!... chan chan chan chan chan! (drumroll): a poem by me.


Postmodern Joel
(a cultural poem that is vital)

One day in May, I discovered
what postmodernism meant.
It was such a truth uncovered
that my grand mind only dreamt

of a boy who struggled
trying to find words to say
for a poem that juggled
in absudity and dismay.

Joel, the boy was called
by his brother and sister
by his missis and mister,
until they were appalled

by his postmodernism phase;
when he started to tatoo
intricate poems on his face
caused by an “evil craze”

inside his mind and index finger.
To his yard he darted one day
before lunch, on the grass he lay
rhyming words which lingered,

so they could have a nice sound
and impress many masters.
But he lacked cultural ground,
held nothing but disasters.

So he waltzed to the library,
took some pretty looking book
that had cultural poetry.
He read, and read and then went red

‘cause he understood nothing
he intended to understand.
He came back home pedalling,
and started to tatoo his hand.

He stopped half way up, couldn’t do it:
write culturally about his town,
or him, or whatever was around;
and so follows, what he came up with:

after waking from a deep sleep in May:
Postmodern Joel, it was titled,
a cultural poem that was vital
‘cause of its absudity and dismay.

October 8, 2004
8:35 PM



And on the bottom of the scroll parchment was this:

"All Rights Reserved"

And this:

"Yes, you may say whatev..."

And after the "v" there was just a scribbled line.

Rain, Wind and the Ocean

I promised a good post. So this post is about... eeeh... hurricanes and tornadoes. And I can hear you say: "Again?! But, Joel, you just did a post on hurricanes not too long ago", and I would go: "You just want blood don't you?" And you would be like, looking at the ceiling as if I wasn't talking to you...

No. I like blood. But I love rain. "Blood and rain" (Nice title for something. Wait for it. I mean it.) And today I saw in the news that there was a "marine tornado" (or a whirlwind [marine whirlwind, I guess], or, as the dictionary says, a waterspout) near the Puerto Rican north or east coast, I didn't hear well... But it doesn't matter, they showed a picture, and it was impressive. I hope I see one myself. They are an exciting sight next to the hurricanes (which I had a nice dream about... that's another post, tho). They occur only on the ocean, there are witnesses that say that they have touched land. I hope I get to see one, I hope I don't get caught in one!

So, now, here, something nice.


Rain, Wind and the Ocean

Rain and wind unite on the ocean, as if they were a marrying couple. The wind came first. With his white tux flying in the space. He rushed through the aisle with hurry, but he had to, the aisle is the size of the Atlantic. His hair is invisible, but you can feel it, you can hear it flapping against his face. It is long. Long and soft. If you were going to run your hand through it you would feel every cold strand caressing the tips of your fingers. Then came the rain. With her white wedding dress falling and spreading, like water, all over the aisle. She also rushed through the aisle, rustling, a murmur that she did whenever she took a step. Her hair is black, and even longer than her future husband's hair, fuller, deeper, if you were to brush it, your hand would be lost in waves of blurs, like fog.

And they married. The bells of the tides jingle in your mind.

The wind grabbed the rain. He took her on his arms, and walked back to the doors of the Atlantic. You can see her dress just everywhere, there is no escaping it, there is no escaping that a piece of it falls over you, or that it sweeps your feet. But the wind is strong and quick, it quickly takes the dress off of you.

You were invited to their wedding, and you didn't know. You don't even know how you came to see their union on the ocean, you are just there, present, for no reason. Maybe you were just walking by the ocean and you saw the multitude of people, and when you came inside the ocean, the Atlantic ocean, you were just taken aback by the bride's and groom's beauty. Their almost pure, transparent beauty. But, you were also invited to their reception. And you didn't know. It was not far from the ocean. It was on the coast. You just followed them, like a zombie, like a hummingbird to the flowers. You were so amazed by their grandeur that you couldn't just leave without watching them dance at least one piece.

And there they were. Both of them. Near the coast. The wind started to rotate on the shallow end of the beach. The rain started to twirl and wave on the deep end of the beach. And then they both reached onto each other's arms and danced. From the sky you could see their power. The clouds started to point down into the center of them. They couldn't stop dancing the slow first dance. The wind's invisible hair was mixed with the rain's dark hair and they turned into a gray vortex that connected the sky to the coast. And when they touched the ocean, the ocean flew around in circles, and was sucked into their whirl, pulled up from the beach, like the mercury rising with temperature. Slowly rising, until at the top, the ocean rained down upon all of us: a multitude gathered in disbelief. The ocean was sprinkled from their twirl... And when the music was over, the ocean was left free, splashing in circles, as if it were a flower, and then, in circles it gushed down into the beach. Wind and Rain married on the ocean. And You, I, Us were invited to watch their magnificence.

wow

I swear, You swear, We all swear

We all make promises. So I am going to promise you that I won't swear any more promises. Ok? Now, I swear that we all swear at some point in time. So, I am going to swear so many things now, that you won't believe. And I am going to do this because I swore on this blog for the first time, only two days ago. (or maybe I did before, but I don't remember). Now, how many swears can you cram in one post? fuck, shit, fucka, ass, asshole, shitface, bastard, bitch, motherfucker, cunt, dick, cocksucker, whore, slut... Ok, I can't do this tonight, for some reason I am "très" tired (I drank some sangría on an empty stomach... maybe that is it). But I'll throw in some spanish too: cabrón, pendejo, mierda, puta... Damnit! I can't remember more... Oh well. I tried. I guess this is the lamest-est post ever. Fuck you, assholes.

This was such a PG blog. What has become of the world, using so profane words. I shall never use them, unless it is totally necessary. Or whenever the fuck I want!

(I promise a great post for tomoRRow) (*wink*)

The mother of all knots

Imagine yourself in a graduation gown. Remember the thing that hangs from your squared hat? (How is it called? someone please...) Ok. Now, imagine lots of those clingy, strandy things just knotted together. Like ten of them. Like ten of thousands of them... How knotted together? Well, imagine that you put them in one of those nets and then put it in the washing machine. And, after that, in the dryer... That is how knotted they are.

In my power I have a blanket that has those little threads on the edges. My mother washed it in in the washing machine, and they got knotted together. And then she said that "I" did it; because I changed the clothes from the washer to the drier. I said: "It could have happened in the washer..." She just didn't say anything, gave me the blanket and politely (and there is no sarcasm on that adjective... no, really there is not) asked me to untie the threads. I've been working on it for the past week. It is a nice blanket, pretty; that is why I do it.

<---- This is the knot.

This is how it has to look.----->

EMERGENCY!

Oh Dios! (Oh God, remember this for next time!)

I almost died. Today, suddenly I saw I had lost Posts from this my beloved, (your beloved) blog. I almost had a heart attack, after so much work, after sleepless nights and after hungry days to write everyday!!! I had lost posts! I almost cried. My children have been lost forever in the doomed bottoms of some bottomless pit, the ones that have the pikes poking upright at the bottom, like the fatalities of Mortal Kombat... I felt my heart being robbed from my chest by Liu Kang, or by Shang Tsung (shit! I looked for a list of characters [to write the names right], and there are SO many that I don't know anything about... I remember the first three Mortal Kombats and that is all I know... Old school, those were the best, then all of the others games kept being the same 2-D graphics and the uppercuts were not as exciting as when the first Sub-zero applied them after the reasonable freezing of the opponent... Good times) (that reminds me that I don't play games as often as I did before. I remember once playing Donkey Kong Country, for Nintendo 64 [I think] for eight hours straight. Donkey Kong was a nice game, when you had to throw the barrels to hit the Croc, so awesome.) (That also reminds me that I still have to finish playing: Zelda, The Windwaker, there are very little games that I play until the end, and those are the Zelda ones.... I usually finish, but sometimes I get tired before I get to the end... The Windwaker, tho, I need to finish; to know what happens to Link...) (Bytheway, there is a new Zelda game coming... which looks awesome, but they moved back the release date for and undisclosed date for next year... They are making it better, Yes! But, you'd think that I am hardcore gamer, NOT AT ALL, I only play fighting games [good ones] like: SoulCalibur, SuperSmash Bros... and of course, everyone loves that famous fighting game: Mario Kart... No Resident Evil (it scares me and then it bores me, and then it scares me again), no Final Fantasy (nasty RPG's, who invented those? and why people fight with stupid numbers?, that is good only for trading card games, which are also (most of them) boring) (like this post so far) (I will make it up) (You will wish that it kept itself boring!)

Back to my heart being ripped from my chest. There is a bloody mess on my desk, and I can see my heart still beating on the surface of the desk, the veins and arteries still attached into my body, through my broken ribcage. I can see bone, glistening bones poking out like white claws. I can see a red hole in my chest; it is hugeamungous, deep and dark, dark, dark red. The blood is boiling in there, like lava in a crater, it is dripping from the inside of my shoulders, maybe from the stalactites that are my collarbones (they are also broken, because of the impact into my sternum when my heart was torn out). It is like a cave in there. The blood vessels are like a spider web and then there is a pipe in the middle of it, it leads down into the boiling blood, into the guts, into the stomach. My heart is still pumping blood, how can it still be alive, how can I still be alive?! Oh my God! I'm going to die! I grab my heart, it feels squishy. I grab it gently because it seems very fragile. It is hollow inside, and I knew that, so many science classes have taught me that it is hollow, but I expected it to be stronger, like the muscles on my recently discovered forearm (*wink*).

Stupid Marron 5! my heart is drying on the desk and they are immutable to my pain, and they keep singing about broken smiles (*wink*) and about saying goodbye! Is it that I have to say goodbye right now? NO! I have much to do still! I have to go to Las Vegas, to San Fra, to Paris, to Japan, to New Zealand and visit my Kiwi friend (*wink*). Oh, my God, there is something in my eye now (*winkwinkwinkwink, tear, wink*) Fuck! Damnit! Ow! My heart fell from my hand, it slipped off like soap. And it hurt when it hit the ground, it felt like a punch on the back... not to mention that the heart pulled on my blood vessels, that felt weird, because I felt as if worms were... well worming under my skin. I took my heart from the floor, carefully, with both hands. And now, the red, palpitating surface of it has dust and "basuritas" ("garbagie thingies" from the floor, that may include, but are not limited to, hair, crumbs of whatever, dirt, dust, germs etc). So I tried to blow them off. It doesn't work as my heart is very, very sticky. So I try to take the off with a sweep of my hand, and it just makes it worst. Then I feel my heart drier and drier, and I think, oh God! My blood is clotting! So I spat on my heart. It doesn't work. It actually burns. And then I remembered that spit is an acid enzyme that starts the decomposition of food. And, I imagined my heart being corroded by my own spit. So I quickly put my heart over the boiling blood inside my chest area. I dipped it in there and I think I made it all better. Of course, now I have all of that "basurita" in there. It is sure going to feel like pebbles inside the shoes....

How do I close my chest now? My heart is safe inside my guts, probably some veins need some leakage-repair, I will call the plumber tomorrow, maybe he can fix the sink for free after he asks for my eye to pay for my arteries. ("To pay an eye" or "it costs an eye", Spanish saying that denotes that you are paying a lot!). So, since tomorrow I will be one-eyed, I can go buy that telescope I always wanted, yes, the one which you can only use one eye to look thru! Oh god. Nop, aluminum foil won't work to close my ribcage. Aha! If I pull them together I can Krazy Glue them. But wait!, Where's my sternum, that could be handy, it would be like repairing a broken figuring, you just glue-in the missing piece. It must be here somewhere. How did it go under the bed? But as I was leaning to get my sternum my heart plopped out of my chest again, along with my intestines. Oh, my mother's going to kill me when she sees all this blood on her newly-waxed floors.

Heart is one thing. But intestines. They are just nasty. They are as soft as the heart, but you can also feel lumps inside of them.... I could only think of shit. And to think that shit lives like right next to your pancreas.... Anyway, I set the heart on the bed, until I pulled the 3 miles of intestines inside. They didn't looking right. They looked like when you take folded sheets and then try to put them back in, they don't really fit, even tho you folded them back... Yes, the intestines were like that, after you take them out there is no way that they are going to fit inside again. So, I had bumps on the skin of my stomach after that, the doctor called them: hernias. No doctor, no, that's my guts sticking out, he just couldn't get it. So yes, as you can imagine I survived. I crazy glued my sternum, put my heart inside my chest and went to the hospital. They said that without medical plan they couldn't do anything, and that I looked fine anyway. So I took their word for it. Altho, when I walk I can feel things moving inside, like a maraca, I'm sure I will get used to it. Oh and yes, as for those "pebbles in the shoes", well I do feel them, but I'm sure that my white cells are making a lot of puss to get them out. I will get a huge zit very soon on my butt.

And after all that, I went back to the blog, and realized that my posts were not lost, that they were just unorganized, because the dates and times were changed when I (finally) set the correct time zone on the blog settings.