Hoy toca Jazz

Jugamos a que vuelvo y me ensenas las estatuas nuevas?
Hay asombro en cada vuelta, y nostalgia, y cuesta convencerse de que no.
Con el retorno se secan las dudas,que empequenecen en cada aeropuerto. Y uno se plantea nuevas idas, charcos cada vez mas grandes, en busca de esos seres especiales que aun no han comparecido.

Pero hoy es verano, (dentro de mi, fuera ni fu ni fa) y como ultimo viernes libre en mucho tiempo, me voy a dar un homenaje. Hoy no existe Murcia, ni Argentina, ni la revista, ni si quiera ese sobrino que esta por nacer en cualquier momento, mientras escribo. Hoy se difuminan las preocupaciones y se disfruta la locura de este Londres secreto.

Voy a arrancar a Sheila de brazos del vodka y arrastrarla al Southbank. Hoy?
Hoy toca Jazz.

discontinuidad

"No era eso, de todas formas, lo que queria decir. Entre mi observacion del traunseunte que, al final, perdi enseguida de vista por no haber seguido mirandolo, y el nexo de estas observaciones, se me inserto algun misterio de la desatencion, alguna emergencia del alma que me privo de continuidad."

Pessoa
(Me pasa todo el tiempo)

Is the critic done for?

'But there's also this: the writing isn't valued anymore, and not only because there's a certain amount (not much) of decent writing to be had on the net, for free. Interesting expository writing, the kind that only a few writers can write, the kind that takes a retained high school education to read and understand, is just not considered of value in our culture. By evolution or design (I'd vote for the latter), we're much stupider now than we were 40 or 80 years ago, a simple fact that can be proven to any fool by a comparison between 1968 and today, by way of the two eras' political speech rhetoric, song lyrics, movie content, fiction bestsellers, primetime TV programming, magazine syntax, school curricula, so on and so on. If we as a culture couldn't find the interest and patience for, say, A.J. Leibling or H.L. Mencken or George Santayana or Rebecca West or Bertrand Russell or George Orwell — and, if they were writing today, no interest or patience would be expended upon them at all — then paying talented writers a staff wage nowadays makes no practical sense. Writers who can hit that middle ground, the one without demanding subclauses or allusions, etc., are a dime a dozen, and do not need to be kept on retainer. If writing in America is a matter for the common denominatorship, then we're all freelancers, and we'd better face up to it.'

Michael Atkinson: porque los criticos no deberian darse mucha importancia...y los bloggers tampoco.

Iwant to amputate your guitar hand and graft it on my own

He vuelto a sonar de noche.
Sorprende volver a encontrarse en ese estado, boli en ristre, deshojando, deshojandome, freneticamente.
Una proposicion secreta y poderosa, porque que mas da, este momento es unico, irrepetible, y mejor lo empleamos en la alegria, en la disposicion, en cantar alto.
O en sembrar esperanzas, lenguajes secretos, billetes de avion.
Cualquier cosa mejor que dejar el tiempo pasar sin sentirlo,o sintiendolo clavandose en la piel, dejando huellas inutiles, porque no hice nada por evitarlas.
Mejor asi, optimista y bold, very bold.


"I am not one for cheesiness. Things that make my feet touch the clouds, my heart all fuzzy like cotton candy and my head like irridiscent soap bubbles I'd rather say in a bland, straightforward manner laced with what i like to imagine as wit. I believe that human emotions are rather limited; what makes them unique are the reasons that bring them about. And how one expresses them.

I do not like explaining, but in a rare chance and if you call within twenty minutes, you get a free, you heard it, a free bag of nothing. I fancy telling you about why I'm happy right now. I think reading this when we get into a fight again will make you feel better and call fifteen more times until I feel sorry for you and answer the phone. Also, your birthday is near. Consider this as a pre-birthday thing. Although I'm still a little upset about you going to spend your birthday with your frat.

That said, these are the reasons why and how you make me happy.

You are a patronizing bitch. You are six years older with double majors and undoubtedly, you know more than I do. Whenever I make a blooper that reveals how ignorant I am about everything in general, you correct me, I pout a bit, and then you take your correction back. I find that horribly funny. You know and I know that I'm wrong but for the sake of that little joke between us you lower your pride a little. I appreciate that very much.

Iwant to amputate your guitar hand and graft it on my own. Do you know that you make me fall in love with you every single time whenever you play the guitar? I cringed at that sentence goddammit. I must be improving. I bought a guitar just so you coulplay when you visit me at home.

You snore cute. I laugh internally whenever you fall asleep and snore within five minutes after you say something. Sometimes it's three. I know I know it's cute now but if and when we get married and shit it's going to be a problem. Because I don't snore. And I always believed in equality. Then again, I hear that couches are quite comfortable places to spend the night in.

I like your eyes. They look at the world in such a delighted manner that I think you are high with pot all the time. Actually it's the first thing I noticed about you, your pair of eyes. Thank your mom for them—those are hers. If you didn't have them things would have been different, because then you wouldn't be able to look at me like that moment you walked in at Ortigas Park 45 minutes late for our first date. And me sleeping already!

You take very good care of me. I am a very demanding Special Bother—I want all your time, your resources, and your soul if it's edible. I always assumed, and I still do, that finding a man who can put up with me is a rare thing. I'm fussy and fickle, shallow and mean. I try to sound smart and deep and philosophical but I'm all just made of bitch and rot. And I'm actually not sorry about that because I like myself that way. And you? You can take all that. Thinking about it makes me woozy.

Most important of all, you're not boring. I can share things with you and know that you will understand. Whether I start talking about philosophical or political bullshit (which I do now rarely because I find that it's all really pointless and I'd rather talk about Wowowee or Claudine and Piolo), you get me. I can tell you stupid details about my day and you'd sound mighty interested until you fall asleep ten minutes later—don't worry I find that funny, you snore so. I like it when you don't agree with me and when we argue. Remember that argument about atheism in the cab one rainy night? And the radio blaring out El Shaddai? That one's a funney.

Get a medal and a felt-tip marker. I'll write I love you on it.'

deliciosa declaracion de amor que he encontrado por ahi, pense que mejor nos reimos juntos.

Mind you

Someone gave me a piece of advice: write intently, for five minutes, every-single-day.
I am starting today.
It is not for sure that such noble exercise will improve my skills anyhow, but again, there is nothing absolutely sure. So let's give it a go, just in case.

I don't know what's happening, there is no melancholy anymore, just determination and vague plans, and maybe that's the cause I cannot compromise myself to any chosen book.
I happen to jump from Otis Ferguson to Graham Green, and, although entertaining and stimulating, I come to leave it aside after two pages and rest my eyes in the boxes still filled with memories in some corner of the room. I bought two windows, you see? And now think I should go back to them; Alejo Carpentier and his General sound much more impressive in English, even when(or perhaps because) I don't interrupt my reading to look for treacherous words in the dictionary.

I can see that, you could argue, but then...do I care what you think? It's MY vocabulary we are dealing with, honey. And I choose when it needs to be boosted, improved, increased.

It is a pity I can no longer concentrate on one thing more than five minutes. Time is out!

I will never (ever) be a cyborg

Por eso no me interesa perder mi tiempo aqui sentada, navegando.
Menos mal que paso de Facebook, Myspace y todos esos rollos marimorenos.

Humm,error on page. Fuck it!
Hartica me tiene la tecnologia.

Ala, a Youtube a ver Too Long, de Yael Naim, que es una maravilla y el petardo de mi blog no me permite subirlo.

Un pensamiento que no viene a cuento se me va a Montevideo, donde a estas horas espero que Mario este de vuelta en casa, sin Luz, pero curado.
Ay amigo, malditos los anos que pasan.

El placer de ladrar

Debido a mi incultura disfrazada le descubri muy tarde, aunque me sonara su nombre, en aquel curso de critica de cine y television, alla por el ano 2003.

Una pardilla inepta destrozaba el texto sin pudor o consideracion algunos, lo que me obligo a pedir la palabra y continuar diciendo lo que el queria decir, como debia ser dicho. Me emocione, se emocionaron, y un silencio reconocedor y admirativo se apodero del auditorio. (Se me da bien leer en voz alta, pero el merito se lo atribuimos al texto, que conste)

Quiero escribir sobre cine porque el me enseno que se puede hacer con ironia y en espanol, ademas de quedarse uno mas ancho que largo poniendo a parir a toda Europa y parte del extranjero. No es el mas ortodoxo o comedido, al contrario, la pasion se escapa de entre los renglones cuando evoca conversaciones, describe escenarios, presiente intimamente a los que observa.

Es sagaz, entretenido y cabron. (Cualidades todas imprescindibles en el hombre ideal)Sabe transmitir como nadie su adoracion a la pantalla grande, y ha leido tochos aburridisimos y embrollados de teoria del cine a los que se cuida de calificar como 'tochos aburridisimos y embrollados'. (su puta madre, estaria pensando, con esa locuacidad que le caracteriza).

No deberia esto convertirse en una oda u homenaje, asi que no me enrollo mas, que hay muuchas peliculas que ver todavia. Carlos, no te enfades conmigo por no ir demasiado al cine, y disfrutar de mis peliculillas de forma sucedanea y reducida, pero...sabes cuanto cuesta una entrada al cine en Londres?? Una, que sigue estudiando.

Le quiero porque...

http://www.elpais.com/articulo/cine/Voy/cine/luego/vivo/elpepuculcin/20080509elpepicin_4/Tes

Buenos dias sr. Boyero, mi pregunta es sencilla. Usted dice que al cine no va, pero yo tampoco le veo en ningun pase de prensa... entonces ¿dónde coño ve usted las películas?
¿Cuándo cojones he dicho yo que no voy al cine? Por desgracia, últimamente me toca ir a los pases de prensa y ver a gente como usted. Perdone que no me fije demasiado.

ray me confronta y me dice...

boomp3.com

futuro

Algo o alguien puede matar mi futuro, pero quiero que sepas que mi futuro no es suicida.

Mr Mario Benedetti

Instrucciones para Vaiven: leer desnudo a la luz de una vela mientras te acarician la espalda.