(This parenthesis was added after the whole post was written: the following is "The Garbage Truck Story Intro")

In what may seem like heaps of ages, I have not seen the garbage truck taking the garbage from the garbage cans, which are in the garbage compartment, out in the front of my house.

The other night I saw it.

Well, it was not night, it was dark, but it was 4:fifty-something AM. What was I doing up at that time? Well, I happened to wake up because I was very thirsty. I think I was dreaming that I was in the Grand Theft Auto game again, killing a lot of people, and it must have been very exhausting... So I woke up and hear these heavy thumps. Bung, bung! "What the hell". I go to the kitchen, drink my water, and as I do, I peer through the curtains, and there they are: the garbage people, picking up the trash with the horrendous garbage truck eating it... It is so early! Why do they do this so early? I think it was Monday or Tuesday... Are garbage people ashamed of what they're doing? They must get pretty good money. Are they hiding in the darkness? Or do they do it so early as to protect us, mortals, from the horrificatios of the garbage truck?

I remember seeing this truck every week when I was in High School. Nasty little shit. A huge platform comes out of the dark, sticky, fetid, putrid bowels of the truck, and it covers the trash bags, and sweeps them up into its unholy, unwordy (unmentionable), endless place inside. That place must be bottomless, seriously. How does it keep so much rubbish in? When do people know that the truck has had enough for one morning?

(this parenthesis was added after the whole post was written: The following is the unedited STORY: "The Garbage Truck", enjoy)


The end

Hmm. I got inspired there. I shall title that (of course): The garbage truck.

Oh, almost forgot, I drank my water and went back to sleep. How anticlimactic.

Yes. I'm here to bring down a beast. I know. I don't know how this post is going to be... constructed, hopefully the disappointment and... rage will let it have some kind of sense. (If you don't want to read this whole thing, just scroll down and find the capitalized sentence) (I needed a mystery too).

I read the illustrated version of The Da Vinci Code, of course, after all the hype, I wasn't just going to imagine all the things mentioned in the book, when they were all real (and by real I mean the places, the paintings and artifacts) (and by real I also mean that I may or may not believe what is written on the book, that is of little importance, I'm here to talk about the mechanics of the book and the movie, and, of course, there is no way of eluding the contents and the contexts).

I'll start again. I read the illustrated version of The Da Vinci Code to understand better what the places and paintings this story talks about. I knew some of them art works, that happens when you finish school in an art high school. Also, I want to make clear, that, even when I'm not an expert in creative writing, I'm aware of some writing techniques as I read a book.

So, I'll have to start again. I read the illustrated version of the before mentioned book, and believe me, the design of the book, and the pictures are the best part of it. I was trying to give this book some slack, but after watching the movie, I can only see the flaws of the book (and the horrendous mistakes of the movie). The book is not a complete waste. There is an enthraling mystery: an old man is dead, in the ultrasecure Louvre museum, and is found in a very freaky state: naked and with a series of symbols and codes over and around his body that are meant to be deciphered by the right (or "worthy") people. Catchy, I know. So we're good for now. Quick paced action and description; strong, almost gorey scenes... Raunchy, I know. Then, the tension starts building (and remember this is the book): as Robert Langdon (mastermind hero) is called by a cryptologist Sophie Neveu (clueless educated girl) as Langdon is talking with Captain Fache (brutally sanctified French police) and she is right there giving Langdon the phone for him to call her. Get it? Well, it gets more complicated. Langdon calls and Sophie's recorded message answers: "You are in grave danger, don't tell Fache" (and in my head I could hear the hypertesitive music of a movie) (hypertensitive, gosh, what a word). And then, they escape by throwing a tracer out the window and fell on a truck. The police had secretly put in Langdon's clothes. Why? Because he is prime suspect. Why? Because of the balls of Fache. So here there. There's tension, as the police realizes Langdon and Sophie are still in the Louvre museum.

The book keeps on and on, with near misses from the police at catching Langdon and Sophie, which is actually what KEEPS the narrative going, or, better said, it is about the only action that there is in the movie: them running away from the police as they try to solve the puzzle. And then, there's is the history text. Gosh! There are so many unimportant details of things, and they're not memorable details either, poetry-filled or beautifully described, no. They are actual details of, let's say, an ice pick: "it is s long narrow object with a diamond point made to break large blocks of ice in the Alaskan coast, in the 1930" (I just made that up, bytheway, just to illustrate the verbose-ity of the history in the book). So, that slows the book. Still, there was the mystery. And that helped. But, don't try to find something literary in this book, there are almost no metaphors or hyperboles or any other figures of speech that are not literal or plain visual. That's not totally bad, but sometimes it can be just plain boring.

So, book, I give it a B. For interesting mystery, for heavy plot, an interesting character (the albino monk, which, for me was the best character in the book, and to whom I was the most fond of, even though he was the main villain) (but villains are always the best, aren't they?) (and he was the only one I really cared for in the book) (sad that he dies in the end...) (oops, I ruined it). B, for lengthy historical babble, which in the end IS the book.

Now to the movie.

DO NOT WATCH THE MOVIE. PLEASE!

Do not. It is the stupidest movie I have seen in the theater since... "In The Bedroom" (I have to say, though, I must watch "In the bedroom" again). There is nothing, nothing going on. I read the book a year ago, and I watched the movie last night. I was confused in the movie. Just imagine how a non-reader was. The scene I just recounted above has more tension than the movie (and note that I wasn't trying to give any tension to it). EVERY scene that I read in the book and said: "oooooh, this would make and interesting movie scene", was obscured, omitted, dimmed, toned down, or down right cut. The editing is nasty. In movies there is something called (well, I don't remember how it is called, but you'll see what I mean) which is when someone cuts scene 1 to scene 2 to scene 1 to make known that two things are happening and/or to make some entralling tension. None of it happened in the movie. NONE. The book has Sooooooooooooo many. Not even the soundtrack had a spark of tension in it. I'm sure that if they had put some JAWS music in it it would have been so much better. Seriously. The movies is two hours and a half of endless texty/testamental (or testamentical) dialogs, and unsuccessful "car chases". The Amazing Race (read previous post) had better editing, music and "pedestrian chases" than The Da Vinci Code movie. God!

The script only cared for the content of the book (which I already said was meaningless, because it is fiction, despite what I (or you) may or may not believe). And when the script only cared for the content it forgot about the rest of what comprises a movie. First the tension, there was none, none in soundtrack, nor editing, not even in what the characters say, because they discovered and they said it, they didn't keep anything in. Second, there was a hugely underused of settings slash backgrounds, which were many; as a result, we see mostly headshots and cliché tilts or pans of whatever church or monument the characters entered. Third, the movie didn't grasp a constant tone slash atmosphere, at times it felt like a film noir who-done-it, at other times it went all Sixth Sense on you (I'm a ghost), at other times it went really deep into things: extreme close-ups à la CSI, or then it went epic, like the Lord of the Rings, with some very interesting flashbacks (which actually looked awesome) (but awesome for 10 second is not enough). And forth, and most importantly, there was no symbiotic/ecologic relationship between the character and me (or the audience for that matter, except Sir Ian Mackellen's character, and it still falls short on how much you can love him (as a good guy or villain) (yes, he's a villain, and I said I loved villains) (the albino was a very interesting character, though underused/underdeveloped, and, what's up with an albino with blue eyes? aren't they supposed to be red?) I never once cared for Langdon or Sophie, or the albino or anyone, and that's bad. It reminds me of The Talented Mr. Ripley, where Ripley the protagonist villain, at the end of the movie wins after all he put his victims through, he wins; we cared for his victims, that's why we (I) liked the movie. But that doens't happen in DaVinci Code. Again. Nothing happens, or nothing exciting for that matter.

Well, I've grown tired of bringing down such a box office smash hit movie, but it's true, it was 6.50 dollars wrongly spent. I should have kept it for the X-MEN tomorrow, even if it is a bad movie, Mystique is going to be there, and The Angel, and Magneto, their only presence is just worth it.

bye.

Last Wednesday was the Amazing Race Season Finale (La Carrera Asombrosa, I love the title in Spanish)... I have never been so engaged into a tv show. I saw myself screaming at the tv, yelling to the people to hurry the fuck up, to stop bickering, to not go that way... It was such an exciting show, gosh, something like watching a really good game of basketball, volleyball, football, or whatever sport you like, and your team won the last game, after being the last team the year before... Even though you are not part of the team, you feel it. How does this happen? I don't know.

Well, it happened to me with The Amazing Race. What I like the most is the fact that they have to race around the world. To go into totally different countries, with different languages and obstacles, and the best part is that everyone does it. So, I chose two team, since the first time I started to watch this season. I cheered for these two: Fran and Barry, 60-year-olds. They did pretty well in the race. They even won one of the legs of it (the rest were won by only 3 other teams, there were 12). But I missed that episode, I would have been so happy for them. Why did I pick them? Well because I always go for the ones with the hardest odds, and because they looked like pretty nice people, deserving to win. But I also missed the episode in which they got eliminated from the race.

But, I had chosen two teams, remember, in case one of them got eliminated. The other team was: BJ and Tyler, 25-year-olds, dubbed as hippies (which they are, kinda), they seemed more like really crazy guys to me, but very, very in tone with everyone around. See their picture? They look so... out of place... out of time... But they are really intelligent and well spirited, and they were, of the whole bunch of teams, the ones who got along the best with each other as opposed to the rest. You just had to see them. So I also chose them.

At one point in the race they ended up in last place, I was so down... because the editing of the show is made so that the climax is very... climactic... And so, they were running to the "pit stop" (if you have seen La Carrera Asombrosa you know) doomed. Until the host of the show tells them: "BJ and Tyler, you're the last team to arrive", and you can see their disapointment, but the hosts continues: "but this is a non-elimination pit-stop, so you're still in the race", and instantly their faces changed into the most optimistic smiles. But the host was not done: "However, you have to give me all of your money and possessions, and only keep the clothes ur wearing and your passports". And that is just wrong. They're the last team, and now they're broke in a foreign country. But, what was amazing was that in the very next episode they finished first.

In the season finale, there was one last final challenge, to put the flags of the countries they had just been in, in order. They were up against the team dubbed: "the frat boys" (they looked fratty I guess, clichés and stereotypes are there for some reason...) (which I didn't like, because of being frats). The frat boys had all of the flags up, but they were in incorrect order. Whereas the hippies had all but one flag. And, again, the editors of this show are awesome, they've put it all together in a way that, we could see the two teams racing at this challenge at the same time. I was screaming. "¡Dale, dale, corre, corre, avanza, no te pares, esa, esa es, no, no esa no, corre!" It was something out of the Price is Right, have u seen that? It is crazy how people in the audience scream! Anyway, I was screaming, cheering, at the edge of my seat. And then! And theeen! The judge says to the hippies: "that is the correct order", and they ran to the end of the race. And it was just great, to see them win. I'm sure it felt so hugeamongously good to have won. My knees wouldn't have been able to support me. I would have fallen to the floor in exhaustion, in ecstasy for what I had accomplished. The hippies fell on their knees, or one of them actually, and I don't know if he prayed... It doesn't matter what mattered was the emotion, the excitment. The best part was that they weren't in the race just for the money, but also for the tour around the world, and they had enjoyed it so much... I, on the other hand, besides being glad and happy that they won, also envied them, not for the million dollars they won (which is never a bad thing), but because of the race around the world, just like they said, I admired them for that. And even if they hadn't won, I'm sure they would have been happy to have raced and jumped from country to country...

Fran and Barry
Eric and Jeremy (the frat boys)
BJ and Tyler (the hippies)

Now, who wants to be my partner for next season? Come on, I'm accepting resumés...

----One of my stories is now published in Yolanda Arroyo's Boreales page. Go there. It's in Spanish, so get those dictionaries... Title: OTRO SITIO
----Y para los españolohablantes: Un cuento de los míos publicado en el blog BOREALES de Yolanda Arroyo.

you can click HERE or HERE
puedes click AQUÍ o AQUÍ.

Mc Donald's
San Patricio Plaza
5:00 PM
Wednesday 10, 2006

Joel watches the value menu from a safe distance. After a minute, the guy in the registers says: "buenas tardes". And Joel nods as to make reference that he has not made a choice yet. There was no one at the register. The guy is now speaking to a girl co-worker. Joel slowly approaches the counter and overhears something she says about the guy's eyes; Joel dismisses this and says "hola". "Hola", they say. And that's when he notices the guy has the clearest of gray eyes. Which was probably what the girl was praising of him.

Joel orders.
"4.39", the guy says.

Joel waits, absentmindedly for his food. He is watching (without really seeing) the kitchen, he is thinking of random stuff. He is probably dreaming of getting the job as a designer, to which he just had an interview for. He is carrying an art tube with some works rolled inside. When the guy at the register says something:

"Are you studying architecture?"
"No. These are just some graphic works, xylographies".
"Ok", the guy says.

A pause. Joel starts dreaming again of working in the awesome graphic design office on the sixth floor the newest building in the area (so new, that it hasn't been completly built yet). When the guy says:

"Are you Puertorican?"
"Yes, I am", Joel says.
"It's just that you have a different accent".
Joel then smiles as he goes on another trip: It has not been the first time someone had asked Joel if he is Puertorican. When he was in Orlando some people didn't believe him until he spoke Spanish. And when he was working as a waiter in Plaza las Américas, lots of people would ask the same thing, even his boss asked him. Apparently Joel has a south-american accent, or maybe a north-american accent, people can't really point it out (except of course "Joel, are you Argentinian?"). Finally Joel, laughs.
"It's true", the guy says.
"People are always saying that", Joel says humbly, as his food is delivered, and he takes off.


So, am I really Puertorican? Or am I an addopted child from the edges of the Amazon river. The world may never know. See you next time for another episode of the... Twilight Zone. Tuninuuu.

Who's going to wash the dishes?

Not it. Not it.

Who's going to cook?

Not it.

Who's going to play tag?

Tag, you're it.

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.

-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]

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

(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.

*Joel sings again*

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

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...)

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

¿Cuántas cosas no serían diferentes?

*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.

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.

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

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

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

(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

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)

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?

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.

Joel and the Beanstalk

by: Joel Feliciano
©2003/2006

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 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

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...

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.

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.

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.

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/

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.

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.

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.

(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

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.

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

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