The Trees Attack Again!

The trees attack again. This time, it was not raining, it was as sunny and unclouded as it could ever be. (If you want to read their first attack, click here).

Last Saturday I went to the university because I had to take the PAEG (now called EXADEP, which is the equivalent of the GRE but bilingual). I had to be there at seven thirty AM, because the test started at 8. SEVEN AM!! So much time has past since I last got up from bed before 8 AM. Ok. So, I set the alarm for 6:30. I went to bed at 3:30 AM. The alarm sounded as if only 15 minutes of sleep had passed. I hit snooze. Seven minutes later I hit snooze again. Seven more. Snooze. It is now 6:44. Snooze. Snooze. I finally got out of bed at almost 7:00 o'clock. Rushed to get dressed and brush teeth. 7:10. Grabbed a peach yogurt that was in the fridge and ran out. RAN out. I walk for two minutes, when I sense something missing. Fuck. Money and the train card. So I had to run back. I finally closed the door of my house at 7:17, calculated the time from there to the train station: "I should be there by 7:30, I HAVE to be there by 7:30". In the meantime, I was praying in my head, "please God, hold the train until 7:35, but no later than that, please please". So I was trotting all the way, gulping the yogurt, on the itchy morning sun (have you notice that the morning sun when it hits you it itches for some reason?, or maybe it's me, hmm). One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, walking fast, half way I check my cellphone, I'm still on time, 7:22. Finally, the moment of more weariness arrived. It was the moment when the train was visible from a distance. My head was a split screen:

please, please, please, please, | The train passes every seven
don't let it pass now, don't let | minutes, so, if it started at 7:00
me see it pass by, please God, | next train should be at 7:35
hold it until I get there". | hopefully, hopefully.

So, I accelerated my pace even more, almost ran. A guy was selling hotdogs on the sidewalk (he is new, he settled there a week ago), so I walked again, as to not be branded as: "the guy who was running this morning". But after he was out of sight, it was also out of mind, and I ran. Yes, this time I ran. If I missed this train, chances were high that I was going to be denied the privilege (if it is a privilege, which I think more of as an obligation) of taking the stupid exam.

I arrive to the station. Winded. I take the card out. And still pray in my head: "please, God, I'm still not on the platform, hold it one more minute". Because, it has happened that the train arrives as I'm sliding the card, and it leaves right after I climb the stairs and step onto the platform (and have to wait seven, or 13 minutes for the next). My head was playing jokes on me because I heard the screeching of the wheels as the train stops, but it was just in my head. The moving banner said: "El próximo tren hacia Sagrado Corazón llegará en 5 minutos". Five minutes! Thank God! I checked the clock again, 7:27.

I took the train. I made another calculation, the train arrived at 7:32, it takes 20 minutes to get to school. I shall be there by 7:52, with 8 minutes to hurry through campus. I couldn't read in the train as I often do. I was too hot and too preoccupied. I only fanned myself with a piece of paper and watched the landscape.

Two more stops. The train goes underground. One more stop. Yes. Arrived. Time: 7:52, "Dang, I'm good!". Left or right? Left station exit is a longer way, because I'd have to go around the library and museum, etc. So, right it is. Now, follow the longest, highest, most heavenly looking electric staircase ever in the history of electric staircases. It is huge, and long, and the ceiling is glass, so morning sun goes through. My legs were weary from all the walking, so I just let the steps carry me to the top. I had 8 minutes, I'll get there. I get out of the station, turn on the corner and the University gate is closed! Nooooooo! No no no no nooo! See, that is not the principal gate, that's why it was closed, I always forget that they close it on Saturdays. So, I ran aaaall the way to the other entrance (which is also the left entrance of the train station), ran all the way around the museum, and the library. And then I gave up. "Fuck, damnit!". I kept walking, it was 8:01, kept walking, and got to the building, I had to go to the second floor. A guy was there, he asked: "For the test?", I said excitedly: "Yes!", "Second floor at the end of the hall". A ray of hope sanctified me. I ran up. Ran down the hall. And there they were. Everyone, sitting, waiting. And I, at 8:05, was one time. Phew.

The test was horrible. Grandiose words (in Spanish) that I had never heard before (falaz, oprobio) held me back. And the math part had 40 question to answer in 30 minutes... who the hell resolves mathematical problems in 45 seconds? WHO! And I, that I haven't taken any math since the year 2000, was in a bad disadvantage. I'm not saying any more.

The exam took until almost 1:30 PM. And I decided to go back home and crash like a, like a crasher... And that's when it happened. A tree attacked me. The sun was high in the midday sky, (which for some reason felt really good on the skin, which, by the way, that's how people get sunburn, or sunpoisoned, or sunbaked in the first place, I remember when I looked like a lobster once, my skin was so hard like roasted chicken, hard and red like a lobster shell, and it pinched every time someone touched it, or everytime I lay back. Never leave yourself thrown on the sand on the beach, the sun will hypnotize you and make you fall asleep and then eat you!). So, as I was saying, the sun was full of life. The air was fresh, the university was not at all crowded, the wind blew rather hard. I was walking like a zombie, slow and steady, drinking a Pepsi (stupid vending machine, I pressed Iced Tea and Pepsi came out, bitch), and I said: "ooh, I'll walk under this enormous shade that this tree has". Shouldn't have done it. The wind blew so hard that the leaves rustled, and a series of little yellow flowers fell like snow (and you all should know that I've NEVER seen snow, but I imagine it), they fell like snow, some slowly, like feathers and others like little pebbles, it didn't hurt, but they got into my soda! They wanted to poison me. And then, the biggest blow, a branch! I hear a crack, and the next moment a small branch fell on my shoulder. Ow. It wasn't that bad, really, but this is the second time that trees attack me. I guess I will think it very thoroughly to visit that Sequoia forest... a sequoia branch will definitely split me in half.

I went back to the train. Slept all the way. Zombie-walked home. Went by the hotdog guy, surely they were thinking things about me, I was too tired and too zombievified to care and to imagine... 25 minutes later I was home. 10 minutes later I was dreaming of sex.

Conversación entre una madre preocupada y sus dos hijos preadolescentes y postmodernos en una tienda Game Stop

-No.
-Pero mami este es uno de los mejores juegos que hay.
-Que no. Mira eso. Eso lo que tiene es violencia nada más. Eso no trae nada bueno. ¿Qué es lo que va a aprender la juventud de hoy en día?
-Pues mira este...
-No, mira eso qué feo.
-Mami, yo no puedo contigo. Contigo no se puede. Contigo no se puede salir a comprar nada. La próxima vez vengo con abuela. Porque contigo no se puede.
-¿Tu sabes lo que le pasó a tu abuela por estar comprando esos juegos? [initeligible]

[tiempo después]
-Raúl, este juego es mejor que ese que tienes ahí. Mira que tu no sabes correr carreras bien. En este juego tienes que buscar [ininteligible] y te va a gustar.
-¿Pero no es difícil pa mi?
-No, chico, eso no es difícil na. Si eso hay unas cosas que hacen [aquí él hizo sonidos como de explosiones].
-¿Este te gusta?, Raúl. [la madre agarra el juego]
-Sí, ese le gusta.
-¿Le gusta a él, o ese es el te gusta a tí?
-No mami, ese es el que le gusta a él, si es bueno.
-No mira, [la madre coje otro juego], este se ve mejor.
[El nene mayor hace gestos y sonidos de fastidio]
-Ese se ve muy difícil pa mi.
-¿Y este?
-Ese no mami. Este. [el mayor le da otro juego a la madre]
-Pero es que ese es muy difícil pa mi.
-Mami, él no sabe jugar los de carrera.
[la madre coge un juego de Shrek]
-Baja la voz, que me tienes un oido [ininteligible] y con dolor de cabeza.
-Pero yo no...
-Sshh, baja la voz, vente.

[Un rato después, en la caja]
-Ay, pero yo pensé que era más barato.
-Mami yo quiero chicle. [le decía el nene chiquito, el otro estaba jugando con un Nintendo DS]
-¿Cuánto son los chicles?
[ininteligible, resulta que la mamá no compró el juego o los chicles o ninguno de los dos]
-Eres mala, mami [el chiquito le daba puños suavecitos en el muslo a mamá], vez, yo te pedí que me lo compraras [no se sabe qué] y ahora no me lo vas a comprar. Es que tu no me amas. Tu no me amas.

[fin de la conversación, salieron de la tienda, no se sabe si con algún artículo]

Wheeeeeee!

Click here to see the best ad ever made! It is an ad made for Firefox. You will hurt because of all the laughter...

La perra puta y el perro tuerto y meón

(The slutty bitch and the half-blind, pissing dog)

Today I saw a slutty bitch, walking with a half-blind, pissing dog. They were quite a pair. They actually looked good together, for their fur was tan brown on both. What race were they? I don't know. Here we stereotypically call all stray dogs: "sato portorricensis" (sato, meaning: wandering, lascivious, homeless, sicky, (it could be one of those adjectives or all).

Yes, as I waited for a bus, (stupid A3, never arrived, bastard!) at the university, they walked by. She was sniffing the sidewalk looking for something to eat, you could see her ribs through her skin (remember it's a SHE because it's a female dog, I know English treats them as "its" but I speak Spanish, and we make differences in gender, ok!)). And he was sniffing some plants on the side of the sidewalk (nice redundancy), and then he would lift his legs and piss on the plants, and then he wiped his paws on the grass, as if he were a bull, as if piss had gotten under his paws and he were grossed out. She had found a bone on the gutter, she chewed (dang, it sounds weird to call it "she", oh well), she chewed as if the bone was a chick-a-stick, until there was nothing. The male kept sniffing the plants, and pissing on them. I could only imagine being a leaf, screaming at the stupid dog: "motherfucker!, why the fuck don't you go and piss your stupid, warm shit all over your momma! asshole", and then resigned to the smell, because, being a leaf you have no hands to wipe yourself down, you depend on your leaf friends, and they won't touch you because you have piss all over... At least it's a rainy day, you say; and you await the rain with hope and with hurry.

But back to the dogs. The udders of the female (oh gosh, are they called udders?, like the cows', I don't know: las tetas de la perra), were stretched and swollen, old age maybe?, dehydration? bad nutrition? Who knows. The male, on the other hand, had a longer coat of hair, more colorful (copper-like), healthier. So yes, why was the bitch slutty? Well, because I, pornographically-aware, noticed that her vaginal area was also swollen and looked used, or raped. Yes, she was a sexually abused bitch, probably the male dog didn't really notice, he met her a month ago, and she had already had six births of more than 4 puppies, all from different fathers. So, if she was sexually abused in the month that he was with her, he wouldn't have notice. Of course he wouldn't have notice, he was half-blind, one of his eyes was closed, and the other was not fully open either, so he probably found his way thru smell... In that case, maybe he did smell other dogs' semen in/on her sex, that's why he was marking territory so that she would only be his. His penis was also kinda protruding; that, not only proves that he is a horny bastard, but also that he rapes her (with her consent, of course) regularly; he was sore, that's why he had it out (and, surely, with a developing urinary infection).

So yes. After that, 7 busses passed by, not the A3 that I needed, so I left and took the train and went somewhere else to get a faster bus.

I wonder if they had an intimate moment this night, alone, on the wet gutter....


ps. The leaf (remember it?) thanked God and all other Nordic and Greek gods for the blessing of rain, of course, the rain came almost too late, because the leaf developed skin cancer. But she is alive, and still cursing.

Puerto Rican bridge

*Joel sings again*

Puerto Rican bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, Puerto Rican bridge is falling down, my fair baby.

Puerto Rico y el Mundo: un cuento ficticio

Puerto Rico es un cuento ficticio interesante y complejo, difícil de escribir. La verdad me encantaría escribirlo. Pero dada a mi brutalidad e ignorancia política, pues no lo haré, pero por otro lado pretenderé (por la misma brutalidad e ignoracia) postularme en algún futuro a legislador... (gobernador no, eso es mucho trabajo...). Anyway, el hecho de que coja este comentario y lo haga un chiste es porque la verdad es que sería cómico si en verdad fuese un cuento ficticio. También es cómico que el hielo de Groenlandia (aún no sé por qué es GREENland en inglés, si siempre ha sido blanco, pero ese es otro issue) está perdiendo su hielo por el calentamiento global y enfriará el mar entre otras cosas. De que los científicos en Noruega están preocupados porque no hay hielo por primera vez EVER en un sitio ahí que no me acuerdo. Y que otros están contentos porque no tendrán que gastar tanto en calefacción. Es cómico ver que cuando yo estaba en escuela superior me creía la teoría aquella de que un meteorito caería en Nueva York (cayó un avión) y que una guerra laaaarga comenzaría desde ahí... y miren. También me río, porque pequeñas cositas aparecen, las cuales uno, que es medio sensitivo a estos mecanismos creativos de "foreshadowing", las nota. Como: las discuciones de Venezuela con Estados Unidos, las intervenciones de Estados Unidos con paises suramericanos para que escojan personas del gobierno que a ellos les conviene. Que si Taiwán es parte de China y no un país aparte. Descubrieron un décimo planeta y los calendarios astrales se jodieron. Que si las islitas de Macedonia están siendo tragadas por el mar y aquí seguimos construyendo a tres pasos del arrecife de coral. Que el estatus está siendo decidido y la gente no se está siendo discutido/decidido sin la gente darse mucha cuenta, por lo que está sucediendo. Que si Acevedo Vilá está haciendo campaña publicitaria pa que el pueblo lo apoye. Que los otros no quieren firmar. Que si debieron botar unos cuantos con salarios altos...

Parece un chiste si fuese todo un cuento. Y me encantaría escribirlo. El mundo entero está cayéndose en cantos...

Pero o sea, a pesar de que hace unos días soñé un horrible sueño que nos pone a todos en estado fantasmagórico luego de una explosión, nadie se preocupe, que las predicciones de Nostradamus que creí en escuela superior decían que después de una guerra 33 años habrá una era larga de paz... Claro, después de cada huracán siempre queda la paz, ¿no?

(sorry, he querido escribir algo como esto hace tiempo, con ello no logro nada más que sacármelo...)

Electrocutions and OCD

For those who are "abbreviat-ically-impaired" (like me, stupid abbreviations), OCD stands for Obssssessssssive Compulssssive Dissssssorder.

Now to our post.

I think I have said that my trip to Las Vegas was hugeamongously awesome, and the subsequent trip to SanFra also, of course, but there was a unmistakably (I'm using weird adverbs today, sorry) interesting phenomenon that happened to me in Vegas.

But first, some backstory/background/context:

1. It was December when I was there, so, I had to use lots of layers of clothe; being from the tropics' makes even 70 degrees very cold. Although it wasn't nastily (adverbs) cold, I was ok, thanks to a pretty warm fleece (*please, read the word: "fleece" in emphasis on the combination of sounds "ee" a "s": fleeeessss*) (nevermind) (OCD'ed about sounds, I know...). Anyway, so, I had a fleeeessss (which reminded me of a sheep that my grandfather had, she was pretty cute, except when she would ram you for no reason... I was little then, so... her fur/hair was so tight and thick, just like the fleece, I guess that if I were a shepherd, and it were cold out, I would just sleep with a sheep embraced in my arms...) (so I digressed yet again). Again, I had that fleece, which kept me warm in the cold (and thankful that it was given to me), and actually kind of hot sometimes..., but anyway, the thing is that I had layers of clothing on, at least three. I don't remember the temperature, maybe around 40F?
2. The apartment I was staying (which had an awesome view on top of a hill (which also made it a little bit colder than the Strip)) (double parenthesis) had a very thick, cushiony, comfy, comfortable, contourable carpet (and all other adjectives with c). Not to leave out that ninety percent of the hotel floors have carpeted floors.

So, that ends the bit on backstory/background/context.

Now to the post.

So, in Vegas I developed OCD. Yes. How? Well, everything I touched shocked me. No, no. Not shocked me as in: "WoW that's frutal" (I say frutal instead of brutal, and brutal is a good thing if said in an excited way) (frutal just sounds fruity...) (I think I've said that before)... I got shocked as in electrocuted, (weird adverb coming) statically shocked. Yes. I open the car doors, TZZzz, Ow! I open the metal doors to get in the hotels, tzzzZ, Ow, mutherfucka. Joel touches the stairs hand rail, ttzZzzz, goddangit! Everytime. Everything that had a door or a handle, or something made for your hands to grab, Joel got zapped! Hard! And no, it was not my imagination. You could hear the electricity colliding with my fingertips. And sometimes afterwards I would feel my arm or my fingers very weak, as if they were flying, as if their soul was parting from their bodies... they died for some seconds, everytime, with every door or handle.

So, I developed OCD as a mean of selfprotection. I was afraid that the other Joel (not me, the other) (and not the other Joel who is me, the other Joel that lives in Vegas, and who is a real person)... I was afraid that he was going to find me in some corner, stuck onto a handrail electrocuted, with my hairs standing straight up, and a prickle of smoke flying from my charred eyeballs. So, I would tapped all handles, doorknobs and handrails, before grabbing them, and even then I got zapped. Bastard! So, then I just told him to open every door. It would had seem onerous, but hey, he probably had more grounding with the center of the earth than I had, because he didn't get shocked (well, maybe once or twice... I think), aaand he wasn't afraid of doors and handles, I on the other hand, was never the same afterwards. Doorknobs and handlebars are my enemies now. Although I have yet to get shocked here in Puerto Rico (maybe i'm closer to the center of the earth here, or I dont know, there something in the air that functions as insulation...). But yes, I still nervously tap all doors and handles, not all tho, but some. So I have never recuperated.

On the other hand, I guess it is an interesting thing to have a manic-obssssesssive thing like that, makes for good non-interesting, uninteresting, overinteresting little stories like this one.

So, I attributed the whole zap to carpets and clothing, and constant fucking friction. Who invented friction, and who made it make electricity and heat? Damn them. Damn all of those geniuses...

I should (shall) visit Las Vegas in summer and walk almost naked. So that no carpets or clothing can get in the way. But then again, I wouldn't, what if electricity traveled through fabric? No shoes? Don't think so. I rather keep my life, covered and hot and electricity-free.

Rambling. Ranting. I must go. I am going a bit unbearably incomprehensible. (adverbs)

Goodbay. (Goodbay? hmm, I wonder if that bay exists)...

goodbye. (no one says badbye... not even people who hate each other... why? Deep down we all want to live in peace... hmm, random thought).

Si la gente no hablara de más

Si la gente no hablara de más

¿Cuántas cosas no serían diferentes?

Hornyyy

*Joel sings*

Hornyyy, I am so hornyyy... I want somebodyyyy to fuck on my ooowwwn...

: /

My bother watches the TV Guide Channel... when there's nothing else on tv... I wonder if that's good or bad.

Disgustingly Repugnant, Repulsive Stagnancy of Scatology

WARNING:
The following post is preTTy disturbing, or just plain disgusting.


Doesn't it bother you that, when you get a bad stomach cramp, you fly to the bathroom and barely have time to take off your pants, and as soon as your butt touches the toilet everything from your insides just spills out almost involuntarily? But even worst... Doesn't it bother you that after enduring the pain of racing your car through the street, slam open the door of your house, and fly to the toilet, what you shit is a lond of liquidy crap? That, had another second past before you got to the toilet, you wouldn't have stood a change against your own feces? Doesn't it bother you how horrible would have been to have all that brown stinky, gooey watery shit all over your pants, on the seat of your car? You would never drive it again. You think. But, even worser... doesn't it bother you that when you are sitting there on the toilet, all the nasty shit splashes nasty goop up towards your butt, and you can't help it because it is coming out involuntarily (now it is)? Doesn't it bother you that it feels like you're pissing through your asshole? That it sounds hideously horrendous, hugeamongously unatural; as if you were giving birth to an alien, your water broke, and the alien is these chunky little pieces of shit floating around stained, contaminated water (which was once clear) of your toilet. Now... Doesn't it bother you that now you don't only have to wipe you soiled ass, but also your hole butt. And if you are nasty enough (or curious enough) to look at the toilet paper, you see light-brown stains on it, which surely smell like rotten eggs. Doesn't it bother you that your diarrhea, doesn't just affects you, emotionally and internally? That it also affects your butt, your nose, your eyes, the seat of your car, the door of your house, and God help the ones in cars you cut in the street, who might have died in a car crash because of your shit? Yes. Diarrhea is bad. Very bad. Wipe your ass after it, flush the toilet thrice, wipe the bottom of your toilet seat, seriously, check it... And if the mess on your butt is too much, just give up, and take a shower. OK! It will all be better afterwards.

Orgías de Talento

Days

Ya sé. No he escrito nada en cuarenta días. Es que la inspiración se me está saliendo para otros lados, para otros cuentos. Ya pronto escribiré algo por aquí.

For the Spanish-cally impared: www.freetranslations.com

The Train Goes Slow in the Rain

I discovered on a Wednesday not long ago, that the train goes slow when it rains. A trip that usually takes 25 minutes took 35; one more minute per station, how do I know these calculations? Well, I'm weird and think of these things while they happen (or later after). (hahaha laterafter).

I walk up to the train station (which is on its own a 13-17 minute walk from my house), and as it always happens, I see the train already departing. Fuck. I say. Fuck. I hate it when I see it and I'm just so unable to catch it. I rather wait an eternity than to actually see it leave before getting to the station. I rather be blind before seeing it depart without me. (So dramatic, Joel. Thanks, Joel. You're welcome).

So, as it was a cloudy day, and it was only 2:twenty-ish pm, the train was running in intervals of 11 minutes. And again I cursed. Damn. Fuck. When I got to the platform there was nobody. Nobody. Of course, everyone had already left in the stupid train, leaving me! Bastards. The banner with the moving, red letters said: "The next train to Sagrado Corazón (for some reason there are lots of space between that and this): arrives in 8 minutes". Shit. Oh, well. The life of pedestrians. So, I waited.

In the meantime I started gnawing the nail of my middle finger, as it was too long. I'm also weird like that. I keep one nail long so that I can scratch pleasurably whenever I want. If I had all my nails short (and believe me, after biting them, what's left is only good for caressing, not scratching) I would die of itch. I would. And it's not like I am prone to itches, but sometimes you itch, here, there, somewhere, sometime, and you just have to. I took a bite out of it and spat it over the hand rail, and wondered if the people that were under the platform (its an elevated platform bytheway) noticed a piece of clear nail falling from the sky. What was left on the tip of my finger was an askew uneven design of nail, it poked out on one corner, like the tip of a dagger. "El próximo tren hacia Sagrado Corazón llega en 3 minutos". Three minutes. So, again I went onto my nail, I looked at it at different angles, against the cloudy sky, or in the shadow, I bent it, it hurt, I flicked it with another (shorter) nail, it made a snapping sound. " arrives in 1 minute". And that's when I heard the train bells. Very particular bell too. Very train-like, hopefully you have heard train bells, it's like (oh my god, a revelation just came to me!) it's like a school bell!

I get in the train and there is someone in my seat in the back. More quiet cursing. Asshole. So I sat on the seats of the middle, next to the window. As the train pulls off, a light rain starts to fall. Then the rain presses on harder; it beat the steal ceiling of train hard. And then, the train slowed down. I could see the rails clearly. I could have counted them if I wanted, instead I read a book I brought. Never did I realize that I was going to be attacked by a tree.

The train has a gutter on the side of the ceiling. When it is not raining it drips water, lots of it actually, maybe from some cooling system or maybe its air conditioning residue, I don't know (I should ask). So, when it rains the gutters spills gallons of water, and since the gutter has an opening next to the door, sometimes people get wet.

So it was the smoothest ride ever on the train. I could hear the screech of the metallic wheels as they turned on the rails, it went on forever, of course, the slowness of the train made sure of that, but also, the sound was milder, not as teeth-cracking as it sometimes is.

I arrived to the station. It was a station that I had never stopped before. It was the first station after the train goes underground. It was pretty. But, also, interesting, because of the chute-like tunnel from which the train comes. It looked like a covered slide, like the ones in water parks... But it had the rough surface of concrete, and a cryptic feeling. This is far in the tunnel though, the station is actually quite pretty and comfy, with high, bowely (if that's a word), church-like ceiling.

Anyway. I got out of the train, and went to the University. Needless to say that my shoes, my socks, the bottom of my pants up to my knees, and my backpack got soaked, despite the umbrella. You see, that's why I love huge umbrellas. Not huge, hugeamungous umbrellas, even when they are nuisance to carry. As I'm walking I can see only my feet and some space in front of me, because the umbrella is covering half of my head and face (well, it was raining extremely hard). The rain was so hard that the whole view turned into a gray, unfocused haze. And then it happened. The tree attacked me. It happened like in the movies. A movie of a natural disaster that you see trees overturning and branches fall, and you say, "that doesn't actually happen to people", or "it happens but no one really sees it happening". Well, it happened to me. The branch that fell from the tree was at least 24 inches long, and maybe it had like an inch in diameter... It was gray, and it looked old and empty on the inside. So I guess it was a dead branch hanging to the tree by mere instinct. But when the rain fell on it, it became more brittle and it fell right in front of me!!! I said: "whoa, shit", and jumped backwards. I couldn't help to look up, even in the rain. "The tree's attacking!". The branch snapped in two as soon as it hit the ground.

And then, the day went on. Wet. Gray. Beautiful. I did what I had to do at school, (I left at like 8:30), and the night passed with no more experiences. Except, that I think I saw someone that I knew from high school on the bus from Pizza Hut (oh yeah, I went to Pizza Hut and (me and my friend) and we ordered hamburger meat on it, and they gave us italian sausage, we thought that they thought that we would think that we didn't know the difference between the ingredients, but we knew the difference, but we ate the pizza anyway because we were starving); so, I think I saw a guy I knew in high school. I think he looked at me for some time and recognized me, and I did the same but I wasn't sure. But before I could confirm he was who I thought he was, he stepped out the bus. I said to my friend: "see if he limps", "limp?", he asked, "yes, he limped in school, because of a surgery", "oh". But neither of us could see behind the glass window of the bus in the dark.

Quite an adventure. Slow trains. Wrong pizza. Limping memories. Gray rain. Tomb-like tunnels. Trees attacking. (Treebeard!)...

This was a boring post, wasn't it?

Natalie Portman Again!

Natalie Portman (*Joel drools*)... she is hot even with short or no hair or pink fake hair...

Cavities

POEM: Poem

As part of what's becoming a Poetry-hating series of poems, this is the first poem that came about. It is rightfully titled: Poem. And it hates itself. Sort of.

Poem

by: Joel Feliciano
©2004/2006


Literate verses will not be found
between this and the next stanza,
they will have no rhyme,
they will have no sound,
Just a huge extravaganza
to tell people how I go around
writing the most literal words,
so they get meanings of mine
without hassles in their minds;
for this poem is for the worlds,
for all who long simplicity...
its for all whom I'd like to astound
by the nerve of this letter surround
which wants to keep you on and on,
reading with no thinking of before,
and enjoy the beauty of a con
with such delight, and credibility
and such passion, that you know
there won't be another stanza,
as I said on the verses before,
because this whole long rhyme blow
is just mechanics and lucidity,
and sun, and sound, and music, and fun.
So, soon will end this bonanza,
as your eyes must have already found:
this poem's end its near to the ground
and I hope its purpose was drawn.


October 2004

POEM: Postmodern Joel

(This is a repost of a poem that I wrote in a very "elongated" post some time ago. I am reposting it because it deserves to be on its own, it is from that acclaimed (*snickers*) post titled: Joel: Poetry-Hater. By this time I had fully understood what postmodernism was all about, hence the title of this poem.)

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)

by: Joel Feliciano
©2004-2006

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

Two crushes: Ana María Polo and Natalie Portman

I think I'm in love.

This is Ana María Polo. She's a judge. And she has a show like Judge Judy, or Judge Joe Brown, it is called: Caso Cerrado (Case Closed) and it is an awesome show because SHE is in it. I watch it almost every day. Isn't she the most interesting woman ever?! I shouldn't be having crushes on older women... But it is a crush, only a crush. I know I will never see her in real life. (Or who knows, probably I could) (You see, I still have hopes).

I've found pictures of her where she looks a little ample on the hips, and she is horrible at posing, but it doesn't matter. I don't care. Oh gosh. Her eyes are so charismatic and forgiving almost, they have a deep, true "something" in them. But ooh, she is though on the court and she will tell you to shut up and if you do not shut up in her court. And when she slams that wooden hammer. Oooh! Her authority is unpresedented. I think I'm in love with her toughness. I don't know. I don't know! Why is love so blind! Why!






But wait! There's more!







You know this girl?

Yeah you do! Natalie Portman. Hottest girl in the world. The less make-up she wears, the more beautiful she looks. Have you seen her in the movie Garden State? If you haven't then you MUST see it, and see HER. She is the most enchanting girl in that movie... as opposed to her queen Amidala in the first episode of Star Wars (but that was a mistake, I know, and she knows).

Just look at her. Look at her smile! She smiles and laughs with the hugest, widest mouth, and with so much excitement that it makes me smile even when I don't know what she's laughing about. Just watch her. Just do. Yes. I would fall on her feet if I saw her. (No, I really wouldn't, I'm too shy for a performance like that). Well, I got to go. I have to quit looking for pictures of her. I have to quit looking AT the pictures of her. Oh if could just kiss her cheek.... *sighs*


Yeah, I'm in love.

(pictures courtesy of yahoonews and telemundo.com)

Adivinanza

If the Diet Sprite Zero has no calories, no sodium, no carbohidrates and no sugar, then what is it?

Si la Diet Sprite Zero no tiene calorías, ni sodio, ni carbohidratos, ni azúcar, entonces ¿qué es?

A new species!

Scientists have discovered a new animal in the waters of the South Pacific. And it is so particular that they have had to make a whole new family of taxonomy to classify it.

Interesting isn't it? It is also blind. To put my imagination into gear, I'm guessing the hairs are very sensitive, and with them it attracts its prey and walks and finds its way.

Anyway, here's the LINK to read more.

WEIRD STORY: Joel and the Beanstalk

Joel and the Beanstalk

by: Joel Feliciano
©2003/2006

This is a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy, he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea. A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise is he. And then one day, one magic day he passed this way, and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this I said to him: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to plant, to plant beans.

And then he planted the beans on his yard, and a beanstalk grew ever bigger, because he used floral grow, and because of that, the beanstalk had many orchid flowers on many of its ends. But the boy, who's name is Joel, couldn't stand the beautiful smell of the orchids and told a friend of his, named Jack, to cut it down, to chop it down into pieces. But then Jack climbed the beanstalk. Halfway on it, he saw an eagle, a bald eagle (it was actually bald, the chicken skin and all). And the eagle said that he was no bird to be so close to the clouds, and of course, Jack knew that. But the evil eagle used its beak to cut the beanstalk under Jack and he fell through ages of air. Somehow, Jack survived, he was sure he was going to find some golden eggs in the sky, but he just had a bad luck day.

So Jack cut the beanstalk into pieces. Into squares. And brought them to the kitchen. He brought water to a boil and put the pieces in it. Little green stuff floating in plain boiling water. He then poured two entire cans of tomato sauce and some very teary onions (the onions were actualy crying, although not because of their own acidic gas, but because they were going to melt like something that melts horribly in boiling water), and then he put the top on the pot. An hour later his recipe was done: broccoli and cheese soup with beanstalk stems (or whatever), and he gave some to Joel. Joel, the strange enchanted boy, who wandered very far over the land and the sea, didn't like soup, so he said: "I don't like soup..." But Jack insisted, he said that this soup was very good, and that it didn't have the consistency of a normal soup, that it was more like eating (having) cream of wheat.

So Joel said: "Yes, ok, I'll try it". Joel took the plate and looked at the white, creamy stuff in it, that had some red because of the tomato sauce, and of course the grean pieces of beanstalk. And Joel took a spoonful of sugar and let the medicine go down in the most delightful way. (Joel was a sicky boy, and didn't like medicine). Joel said that the soup that was not a soup was very good. But then, he's eyes began to swell, (well, not he's eyes, but the skin over and underneath of them). And he asked: "What did you put into this creamy soup of wheat?". Jack answered: "I put some latinamerican horse glue", and he laughed and evil, booming laugh. "You know I'm allergic to glue!", Joel said. "I KNOW!", said Jack, and added: "Oh, I also put some of that beanstalk you made me cut into pieces". And Joel said: "What?! I'm allergic to orchid too, duuuude! Do you want to kill me?!" "DUH!", answered Jack.

And then Joel called his sister to ask her what was her favorite movie, because he didn't remember, and he wanted to go to the grave knowing that (for some reason). And then she said: "My favorite movie is... (and she actually paused for the whole time it took you to read this parenthesis) The Matriz 3, (and zhe actually zaid Matriz with a Z, which iz very annoying). And Joel cried: "Nooooo! That horrible movie! I am really going to die alone in this world". It was more of a statement than a question. "Is there not going to be a better triquel?!"

And then on his cellphone caller ID appeared a number of 500 digits. He answered, and it was a Korean boy who said something in Japanese: "Konichiwa". Joel did not understand and said: "Who the fuck is this?! How did you get my number?!". And the boy said: "Konichiwa". Joel said: "You calling me names, huh, you fucker!". And the boy goes: "Arigato". "I'm gougnt to fuck you up, bastard!". And the boy's voice changes into a deep hollow voice, almost god-like really, and now he speaks in Spanish: "Yo sé el dolor que tienes. (I know the pain you have), porque yo lo he sentido también (for I have felt it too), y te voy a ayudar a sanarte (and I'm going to help you heal), pero tienes que comer mierda (but you have to eat shit)". [A shit-eater in Spanish is someone very arrogant]. And Joel said: "But I'm a shit-eater come-mierda!". But the boy, who's not a boy, and has a god-like voice said: "No, tienes que comer mierda real (no, but you have to eat actual shit), y no cualquier mierda, tienes que comer mierda de goldfish (and not just any kind of shit, you have to eat goldfish shit), y luego acostarte en una cama rosas rojas (and then you have to sleep one a bed of red roses).

And Joel, spent all his savings on ten dozens of roses and a big old goldfish (with a fishtank combo pack, it was an offer: 19.95). And he stared at the fish, and fed him huge amounts of food for a long time, until the fish finally began to take a dump. Joel, took the fish out of the water by the tail. The fish was wriggling, gills gasping for... for... water; and the thin strand of shit dangling. Joel slurped the brown string of shit off of the fish, as if it were a spagetti. And then he laid over the petals of the roses.

The morning after Jack found Joel on the floor lying over a thousand red roses, with his eyes swollen like Quasimodo's. The autopsy revealed that Joel had died from food poisoning, the boy-who-was-not-a-boy's-with-god-like-voice's recipe/prescription was for orchid-beanstalk food poisoning, and he did not mention (or didn't know) that fish shit had very small particles of latinamerican horse glue (due to the fact that horses branched out of goldfish in the evolutionary chain).

The morals of this story are: Do not buy fish tank combo offers in the pet shop when you know you may die soon; don't tell all you i'llnesses to your friends, they might take advantage of them; and of course, don't take candy from stranger, specially when the candy are beans, and specially when that stranger is me.



December 2003

POEMA: Barquitos en la Noche

Barquitos en la Noche

(Boats in the Nighttime)

por: Joel Feliciano
© 1998/2006


La inocencia infantil brilla
Toda la noche, todo el día.
Una bengala infinita
Que se apaga tras los años de la vida;
Pero cuando aún sigue presente
Es tan bella como la risa.
La inocencia infantil brilla
Pero el destino la arranca,
La espanta.
Pero cuando aún sigue viva
Es tan hermosa como la sinceridad
Que se da o no se encuentra.
Es... como barquitos en la noche
Cuando bajas de la montaña
Y miras la ciudad encendida...
Que alumbra sólo en la oscuridad,
Y así mismo brilla:
Barquitos en la noche
Navegando, sin regreso, a la eternidad.



Octubre 1998

In the meantime...

In the meantime some teen/adolescent poetry (altho I think it is one of my best pre-university poems). Next Post/Previous (whatever).

I mentioned it in a past post CLICK HERE

About porn

I wonder how people will react if I post some pornographic writing here. Something that someone would find in... I don't know... a porno magazine. Although of course it is not totally porn, it is literary porn, though graphic. I wonder if people would get offended by it, or gasp at my nerve of publishing it. Or I wonder how the image of "me" will change in people who personally know me. I wonder. I shall post it. Soon. A first chapter at least. And see what happens. In the meantime...

Growing up happens in a heartbeat

The other day I was looking for DVD sets for TV shows. And I found

The Wonder Years.

Have you seen this show? Probably one of the most complete TV shows ever. It was a sitcom, but it was filmed with movie cameras instead of TV cameras, and, although there was comedy in it, it was not all about it, it was about the drama of coming of age. Maybe I'm just being hyperbolic, but I haven't seen another show with a narrator, have you? It just makes it very dramatic and very close to you.

Anyway. I wish I could buy the seasons, although they're not as expensive as I expected, I cannot get it right now. You can click HERE to check it.

In one of the websites I also found the very last lines of the series:

Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you're in diapers, the next day you're gone. But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul. I remember a place... a town... a house like a lot of other houses, a yard like a lot of other yards, on a street like a lot of other streets... And the thing is, after all these years, I still look back... with wonder.

I wish I could go back and live it all over again.

CUENTO: El Mejor Amigo

El Mejor Amigo

por: Joel Feliciano
© 2006

I

Ya era tarde, se nos acabó el tiempo. No lo pude decir. Mi mejor amigo... está por ahí no sé dónde.

Sí, mi mejor amigo, lo supe aunque no me lo dijo.

II

Era víspera de la graduación de sexto; éramos sólo niños; hacía calor y jugábamos en un pasamanos.

-¿Sabes qué?

-¿Qué?

-Me aceptaron en aquella escuela.

-¿Ah sí? -bajó la cabeza. -¿Y vas a allí?

-Sí.

-¿Por qué?

-Porque es buena escuela.

Él estaba sentado en cuclillas jugando con la arena, yo guindaba del pasamanos. El silencio hizo gritar a la campana hasta que se cansó. Él levantó la mirada y dijo:

-No te vayas.

En ese momento no supe lo que quería decir y entramos al salón.

III

Gran fiesta fue la graduación, jubilosa, bailamos y gozamos y reímos y brincamos hasta que su mamá lo llamó diciendo:

-Vámonos.

Nos despedimos como si ese fuese otro día más.

-Adiós. -dije.

-Nos vemos. -contestó él.

...Sin imaginar que esa sería la última vez que nos diríamos adiós.

IV

Ahora, que ya es tarde, comprendo aquellas palabras... Pero cuando fui a buscar nuevamente su amistad a la casa, ya no estaba.

-Se mudaron a qué sé yo dónde... lejos. -dijo un vecino.

Se me acabó el tiempo, no lo pude decir.

Qué no daría por saber qué ha sido de su vida: si maleante o sacerdote. Si recuerda, como yo, aquellas palabras cuando gritó la campana y él levantó la

mirada:

-No te vayas.

Pero en ese momento no supe lo que quería decir y entramos al salón...

Octubre 1997

CUENTO: Trilogía del escritorio

Trilogía del escritorio

Por: Joel Feliciano
© 2005

Primera parte

Y cuando el papel en blanco se levantó y flexionó sus esquinas superiores con pose de karateca, el escritor supo que no escribiría ni siquiera una palabra hoy.

Segunda parte

Y cuando el escritor blandió su bolígrafo de tinta china como una espada de esgrima contra el papel, el papel se arqueó por el medio y con un zarpazo le tumbó el arma; el escritor supo que no escribiría ni una palabra más.

Tercera parte

Y cuando la cara del escritor ardía con heridas rasgadas por las sus filosas esquinas del papel, el escritor supo que las siguientes palabras de su vida estarán escritas en su epitafio.

It is Ok.

When things are going great, it is good to say: "I'm good" (although someone said to me that that is the incorrect way of saying: "I'm well"). It is great to recognize ones own achievements, to know that things are going in the right way, because this "now" is Ok.

1ro de Febrero, Today, last year.

Hoy, hace un año, a esta hora, 2:30 AM. Yo estaba en otro país, pasando la primera noche con gente que acababa de conocer, pero que me regalaron los siete meses más extraordinarios.

Today, a year ago, at this time, 2:30 AM. I was in another country, spending the first night with people I barely knew, but whom gave me the seven most extraordinary months.

Cinco Hábitos Extraños

Pues, me ha llegado este juego, gracias Yolanda, en el cual debo confesar cinco hábitos extraños y/o bochornosos. Vamos al mambo. (diablo qué cursi quedó eso).


1. Dejo que me crescan las uñas de los dedos (generalmente solamente dos dedos en cada mano) por ninguna razón específica o especial. (A veces creo que es porque soy medio vampiro) Pero después me repugnan cómo se ven y me las arranco con los dientes. Al día siguiente me arrepiento porque no tengo con qué rascarme. (Y rascarse con unas uñas chéveres es tan bueno).

2. Tengo que dormir boca arriba, con dos almohadas mínimo y con el abanico prendido, aun cuando haga el frío más peludo en la historia (si no hay abanico, me tardo horas en dormirme, aun si hay aire acondicionado, it's not about the air, it's about the sound). Entonces, siempre me acuesto de lado y siempre me digo: "Joel, sabes que no te vas a dormir si te acuestas de lado", pero todas las noches lo hago y todas las noches lo digo (o casi todas).

3. Mis pies pueden apestar todo lo que ellos deseen, pero no pueden verse ni sentirse sucios en ningún momento. De día no salgo en chancletas, y si es de noche y hace mucho calor tampoco, la humedad hace que se le peguen cosas a los pies semidescalzos. Detesto andar descalzo, se me pegan tierritas y cosas y se me ensucian. no.

4. Si estoy hablando por teléfono tengo que dejar todo, porque si no pierdo la atención y la concentración de lo que me están diciendo. Y si se quedan callados al otro lado del teléfono por mucho tiempo digo: "adiós" porque no me gustan los silencios largos e incómodos. Después me quejo de que no me llaman.

5. Colecciono los Lego's Bionicle. I'm a dork.

6. A veces caminando me pongo a pisar las grietas y/o uniones de losetas en el piso, y a contar los pasos entre las grietas. A veces la regla es NO pisarlas. Y a veces en mi mente voy narrando somo si fuese una carrera de caballos o un partido de fútbol soccer: "Y tiene que pisar las tres siguientes grietas en cinco pasos exactos... ahí va... ahí va... ¡lo hizo, lo hizo, lo logró! ¡Ha hecho lo imposible!. Cosas así.

Sí, ya sé que puse seis. Es que se me fue la cuenta, porque también soy despistao.

ahora, a quién poner de "víctimas", jum.

David - http://vervenna.blogspot.com/
Nicole - http://nicolececilia.blogspot.com/
Ojitos - http://ojitosdemar.blogspot.com/

STORY: Broken Smile

Broken Smile

by: Joel Feliciano
© 2006


Subconsciously my mind wanted to capture the blooming of the dark umbrellas on film. That's why I brought my (digital) camera that day. The rain was thin and annoying, and the clouds were swirling in the sky. I was waiting for the bus with a bunch of people under a tent. Some raindrops were pounding on the leather of the roof.

I was busy taking pictures of the people walking from the tent to the bus, opening and closing their umbrellas, when I noticed her, on the sidewalk, her face towards the rain, her eyes closed in a trance, a smile on her face. I took a picture of her. The drops dripping from her bangles, her hands limp on her sides, her head thrown back facing the ashed sky, her clothes soaking wet, plastered on her breast, on her stomach, on her legs. I took another picture and then thought that there were a lot of crazy people in the world.

My bus arrived. I tucked my camera in my jacket. Grabbed my umbrella, pushed the little black button, (I'm always aware of these small details, sometimes I'm annoyed, my girlfriend says that that's the nature of photographers, I guess she's right). So yes, I also noticed how I shook the umbrella so it would extend and then bloom with a flapping noise. I noticed the bony, metallic structure of the inside, and the little drops of rain that bounced off the black fabric just before I set the umbrella over me. The same thing happened when I stepped in the bus, but in rewind.

Through the dropleted glass I watched her stading there, smiling at the sky, unmoved, unbothered by the sharp cold drops of rain.

I checked the pictures in my camera, a stern-face guy lifting his umbrella, the inside of the flower of another, and then her. She is so happy.

I was shocked the next morning.

It has been raining for two days non-stop now, they announced floods on the news. One reporter even said that the world was drowning in tears, tears because of the light feather-like drops of rain.

She was still there, same clothes, same position, but her white blouse was stained with blood. She was still smiling, though, right before she fainted.

I ran with my black umbrella and covered her face from the rain. Her deep blue eyes were opened but they were lost in a raging storm.

"Are you Ok?"

I leaned to her face, her lips were slit and swollen, her teeth were bathed in blood, one of them was chipped. Watery tiny red rivers escaped her overflowed mouth.

"I lost my umbrella," she said spitting drops of blood and pointing to the sky.

"Who did this to you?"

"I don't know," she said looking away from the sky.

"Where did he go?", I quickly assumed that some brute guy did it.

"I don't know. I just lost my umbrella", she repeated, and I thought that she was really loosing her mind.

"Where? Where did you loose it?"

And she pointed up. I don't know why I ventured out of the comforting shade of my umbrella, but I did. I looked up to the smoked sky, one single drop stung my eye… A black dot was dancing in the clouds. I blinked, I focused, the dancing dot was still floating in the air.

"Do you see it? It kinda looks like a flower, doesn't it? It blew away yesterday, when I was walking."

That's when I noticed the puddle of water where she was lying, and the halo of water made by the falling drops from the corners of my umbrella, I noticed the bareness of a nearby tree.

"Is that why you were smiling?" I asked.

The winds in her eyes dissipated, she looked directly into mine, almost like she looked through me, she gave a weak smile and said: "I was crying."

Leche Sola

Hoy me bebí un vaso de leche sola. Hace tieeeeeeempo que no bebía leche sola, siempre era con chocolate o con azucar o con mantecado.

Six months!

Today, six months ago, I started to write in this blog. Wow. Time passes by ever so swiftly.

And here is my first "official" post, it has so many errors, but at that moment I didn't care. "Is home where the heart is or anywhere but here"

This date also marks the moment where this blog will change.
First: I don't think the translated Spanish version is ever coming (altho I might be wrong)... there is just so much... So, I'll just alternate languages between posts; and as you have seen, there are bilingual posts, so... whatever.

Second: aside from diary/comment content that this place has, I'm also going to put some actual short stories, some in english, some in spanish, some on both.

And that's it. Yep. See u.

Bits for the Brain

Did you know?

Melcocha translates as: taffy!

It is soooo weird!

(melcocha, for those who don't get it, has a very negative connotation in Puerto Rico, it is a "something" that is gooey, mixed with a lot of stuff and kinda disgusting. It isn't something you'd buy in a candy store or in any store, it is something you create with any ingredients, just picture: mud with stick and shit, and mold and eggs, well, thats a very gross, graphic, hyperbolic example, but melcocha is not something you eat. Unlike Taffy!

You learn something everyday.

Toda la Ternura. by Nicole Cecilia Delgado

(All the Tenderness)

Hi. It is not common for me to publish/post poetry here, and even less so poems that are not mine. As I have said: I'm a poetry-hater, (I'm more of a story kind of person) but sometimes I get an interesting idea that there is no other way of putting down if it is not on a poem. But that's not the case today.

The other day I went to derivas.net (a blog-like literary online magazine) and found the Poem you are about to read (original and translated version, of course). I read it and found it so tender and so simple, and it looks so small, and unimportant and fragile on the page... but after you read it you find the power in words, the power in being direct, simple, and true. The size of the poem has to do with the subject, and title. Here goes: Thanks to Nicole for lending it to us, and for writing it.



Toda la Ternura

por: Nicole Cecilia Delgado


Me gusta cuando empiezas a sobarme-

toda la ternura que te cabe en la cabeza
y también, sin querer
la que no sabes posible

evidente y expuesta
en el gesto valiente que te acerca
a mi vulnerabilidad





All the Tenderness

by: Nicole Celicilia Delgado


I like when you start to caress me--

all the tenderness that fits in your head
and also, unconsciously
the one you don't know possible

evident and exposed
in the brave gesture that moves you closer
to my vulnerability

The mirror of wonders

Have you ever thought of looking at yourself?
No, not just stand in front a mirror and look at yourself.
I mean, really look at yourself, as if from someone else's eyes.
Could you stand your own image/presense
for more than the couple of minutes you spend in front of the mirror?
One doesn't notice how one changes, because one is always looking at oneself periodically.
But, we don't see ourselves all the time, like your boyfriend/girlfriends would.
It just bothers me that I cannot see myself, how I act or how I speak or how I look from someone else's perspective. I guess I'd have to keep a camera fixed on me all the time. But isn't it unconfortable to see yourself? At least at first?
Movie actors must be cured from themselves... I envy them.
Doesn't it bother you? I guess this is me and my insecurities talking...
But it would be cool to invade someone else's body just to see me, (and to see how that "someone else's body" feels...)
I'm just very curious about weird stuff like that. About imposibles. About existential questions like: doesn't it wonder you how your body stands on its two feet?
It wonders me.

The Horribly Bad reviews surrounding the movie: BloodRayne

I like to go to this website: www.rottentomatoes.com , (a movie review website) (I wish there was a BOOK review website just like it...).

Anyway. I stumbled upon BLOODRAYNE. I was stunned by the bad reviews that this movie has. Well, I saw the trailer, and it looks horrid (and sounds horrid), but I mean, there should be at least someone that likes it. So, I went to rottentomatoes.com and found out that there is only ONE good review for this movie. And when I read the ONE review is not that good at all, it just say something like: "you should be drunk before going to watch this movie". Another thing that impressed me was the lack of reviewers that actually wrote something about the movie. Now, there are at least 200 reviewers that write in rottentomatoes, only 30! have reviewed this movie. So, I kept on reading, there must be a reason for this.

And I found it.
The movie has hugeamungous names: starting with: Michael Madsen (Kill Bill 2), Michelle Rodriguez (Blue Crush, Resident Evil), Ben Kingsley (academy award winner, Ghandi), Billy Zane (Titanic), Meat Loaf, even Charlie Chaplin's daugther is in this movie, and as Rayne we have Kristana Loken, better know as the badass-beautiful nemessis in Terminator 3. So, why is the movie bad? Because of the director, as stated by the reviewers. The director's name is Uwe Boll, from Germany I believe. His previous movies were: House of the dead, and Alone in the Dark. As you may have noticed, both movies are videogames, so now Bloodrayne starts to makes some sense.

It happens that this director has bad directing skills (sorry for redundancies). And no wonder I was wary of the trailer, there was something inside of me saying: this is stupidly horrendous, and my instincs were right. I have not seen House of the dead, nor Alone in the dark, because of the bad trailers (or wait, I think I saw Alone in the dark, but it is THAT forgettable...). But, I wanted to know more, I wanted to read what this director said about the critics. Instead, I found an interview that he gave just after filming. And as I read I could see the ineptness (is that word?), I won't say ineptness, I'll say: superficiallity of his words. Maybe the language barrier is what's holding back his "good words" and/or intelligent thoughts... But it is painful even to read his answers to the questions, its like he is trying to sell the movie at all cost. We all do that at some point, but in almost every question? And he has this teenage word-choice/mentallity that bothers me. Don't get me wrong, I might sound like he does sometimes (or a lot of times) but, come on, on an interview? Anyway, with that it was proven to me that he's not worthy of my 5.50-6.00 dollars (or 10.50 - 9.50 if you are not in Puerto Rico). Although, I might just go see it, just because I bothered to look info on it. I might see it if they show it here, but by the looks of it I don't think they will show it. Good for me, then.

Now, see for yourselves:
Trailer: http://www.apple.com/trailers/independent/bloodrayne/trailer/
Interview: http://filmforce.ign.com/articles/561/561872p1.html
Website: www.bloodrayne-themovie.com

Don't go into the website, it's flash and it takes a lot to upload if you have Dial-up.

goodbye

Un pensamiento encontrado mientras limpio / A thought found while cleaning

La vida feliz
Y el mundo contento
les pertenece
sólo a los inocentes.

. 20/julio/1999
. 11:40 PM


The happy life
and the content world
is only owned
by inoncents.

. July 20, 1999
. 11:40 PM

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.