What happened? A.K.A.: a long exercise in self-serving communication.

A long, long time ago, I used to write a lot. It was my first approach to communication, as I remember it. I learned to read earlier than the average age, helped by my parents and brother. My parents felt like encouraging it at a time when it was financially possible, and they got me a typewriter for Christmas when I was 8 years old. I clearly remember the feeling of elation at the discovery. It was a grey portable Olivetti. At that time, I had of course never seen anything like a computer, and being able to write faster than my pencil allowed was an amazing advancement.

As it goes, technology made its exponential leaps in such a way that it’s still hard for me to realize what’s happened in my lifetime so far. Life took over, and my path in writing got detoured by learning to live it best I could. I tried along the way to find a space for it in a blog, often not being able to define its purpose, or be consistent. Looking back, the majority of my choices, if not all, had communication in the forefront. I developed a major interest in language and linguistics, and spent the majority of my time analyzing how humans communicate, artistic disciplines being included in that.

I find myself today, on a bit of an introspective kick. Taking a step back and stopping to think whether I’m ready to be vulnerable enough to communicate by allowing meaningful, personal thoughts to be put on record and shared. As I type this into a very, very different machine today than I did back in 1990, I feel maybe I am. This is a time of information, and how we choose to share it and receive it affects us in a major way. I still love communication and people, as it is apparent to me now.

I’m posting this to my old blog, but also on this medium (Facebook) that has been used for many different purposes. I do agree with the statement that its management is evil. I also believe a lot of the people who will be able to access my posts of this kind in the future, will not know me enough to make anything of them. But I also find its value in being able to share this with the people who do know me, and might have been frustrated in the past by my inability to communicate with them on a more personal level. The last year in my life has been a milestone in defining who I am and want to be. I don't expect the learning process to ever be “done”, but there is definitely much more of a direction now than there was before. In the process, a lot of people have crossed my path, and managing my time became more and more challenging.

Provided this definitely does not replace direct, personal communication, and that it feels a bit self-serving, I still hope to find a space here where more of me can be poured out for whoever’s interested and maybe encourage others to do the same if they have the same time management issues I do. I want to learn more about you too. Whether it’s a random observation about your day, or a deep realization about your life.

I have also been reluctant to put myself out in the cloud, you know. It’s a weird world. But hell, it’s here, it’s now, and we’re in it. Let’s use it to make our goals more achievable.

Ok, here we go. Wish me luck.

Society, crazy indeed...

I was pondering on the nature of things, and all my pondering lead me to one conclusion: we are wired for our own unsatisfaction.

I'm sure you've heard more than once that humans are creatures of habit. I guess this can also be seen as a good thing, we follow patterns, but mainly what it means is that we are design to adapt. There are very limited circumstances to which humans could not adapt to and continue to survive in. This means anything new you're experiencing now, every new sensation, will become dull and common with time. It's meant to so you can deal with different temperatures, light levels, noises, anything surrounding you, even if extreme, if you should need to for a longer period of time. Hell, you'll stop eventually feeling fire if you were to walk on it often enough. Not that your skin will thank you.

So what does this lead us to? We're constantly adapting to new things, which makes anything exciting or thrilling stop being exciting and thrilling eventually. I see all around me people trying to get new thrills on new things: travel somewhere new, jump out of a plane, learn a new dance. We need to get a jolt of that here and there, it's also in our nature. There's no easier way to get me depressed that doing the same things over and over. The majority of people I know (if not all) subscribe to the same notion.

But what have we done? We've built a society based on exactly the opposite idea. Society subscribes to the notion that someone who's "got their shit together" has a permanent place where to live, a permanent job, a permanent relationship. It makes good terms of "contract", "full-time", "long term", "monogamy". And yes, I know all the different lifestyles within; I live in San Francisco, and I surround myself with people who don't agree with any of the above. But still, they fall in the same patterns. We all get a job, a place, a relationship.

But why? If all we crave for is the thrill of the new, why not work contracts here and there, move from place to place, country to country, and hop from bed to bed, from arms to arms? All I could really think of is: it's just too damn hard. We've built ourselves into rules and laws that make going against it all perfectly unpractical. We laid down a road with fences on each side that points in one direction. You can try to hop over the fence here and there, but eventually, you just get too tired.

If I had the will or patience, I would build a Second Life world where all different rules applied. Where we had a different job to do each day, a different place to live, and no limits to our love. I'm not saying it would be satisfying either, but it'd be an awesome experiment.

In the end, I guess I know it wouldn't work. And I know the reasons why. I am, after all, one of those humans.

Erinnerung an die Marie A.

I recently watched "The Lives of Others". While watching it something very strange happened: I found a bridge to my past.

I have a cousin who sings. She has a beautiful voice and plays about every instrument imaginable. She encouraged me to play while growing up, and along the way I did. The piano, the sax, harmonica, bass guitar, guitar. I was surrounded by music. One time she made a demo tape. I had it at home and played it often. I didn't know the songs, but I started learning them. That's how I discovered "The Rose" and "River". That's how I discovered blues and gospel.

But up until that moment in "The Lives of Others", I had completely forgotten about that one song I used to sing. Up until that moment. One of the main characters lays on a couch and reads from a Bertolt Brech book. He was reading a poem in German. I was reading the English. And still, I remembered the Spanish:

Fue un día de un azul Septiembre cuando
Bajo la sombra de un ciruelo joven
Tuve a mi dulce amor entre los brazos
Como se tiene a un sueño calmo y suave
Y en el hermoso cielo de verano
Sobre nosotros, se posó una nube
Era una nube altísima y muy blanca
Cuando volví a mirarla, ya no estaba

Pasaron desde entonces muchas nubes
Navegando despacio por el cielo
A los ciruelos les llegó la tala
Y me preguntas, que fue de aquel amor
Debo decirte que ya no lo recuerdo
Y sin embargo entiendo tus palabras
Pero ya no me acuerdo de su cara
Y sólo se que un día, lo bese
-------------------------------------------------

Little research showed me the original. And although I didn't know the source of this song, this poem, up until that moment, exactly at that moment, I got a little piece of myself back.

I don't believe in Sundays

This used to be my Argentine blog. I used to write here from my friends and family in Argentina to be able to have an idea of what's going on with me. After a while, I realized that none of them really knew what a blog is, or what I was talking about. For a while there, I just wrote for myself. For the sake of putting it out there. Felt good.

Now I find myself missing a time when I had something to write about, or the will to write about nothing. I figured I'd give it another shot. But this time, in a different language. I wanted to keep my old posts, though. It's part of my history now.

I thought about some words for a while, to make myself understand what I'm doing. I thought about the word reinventing. Reinventing? But if it's "re" is it really "inventing"? I thought about contradictory words. I thought about change and about time. I thought about my nature, our nature. I thought about motivation, and goals. I thought about words. I thought I'd put some down here in the time to come.

Time waits for noone...

Un año. Todo un año pasó. El reloj sigue jugando conmigo, como siempre lo hizo, pero ahora lo hace con rabia. Ya no le presto atención, pensando que quizás de esa manera desista.
Ayer conocí a mi gemela cósmica. Es decir, alguien que siguió en mismo camino que seguí yo, pero lo hizo bien. Y pude ver como podría haber sido, cuando podría haber hecho.

Sentada acá, este Sábado, otro, como tantos, que se pierde en la lista de Sábados sin sentido solitario, todo parece haber pasado. Y todo lo que fui, y lo que pude ser, se desvanece como la niebla matutina en San Francisco. Todavía se siente el frío, a lo lejos, pero ya no se le puede ver.
Aquellos abrazos, esas conversaciones. Las risas, las lágrimas compartidas. Resona el eco en algún lado que no volveré a visitar. La historia se repite, siempre, una y otra vez, simplemente porque la historia somos nosotros, y seguimos acá.
Acá estoy, sufriendo mi historia. Dejándola pasar. En el eterno sueño de lo que pudo ser, de lo que podría ser.

Si solo pudiera despertar.

Must be something I said...

Putos, nadie mira acá. Tomen.

I just want you so....

¿Y qué si a veces me olvido de acordarme? Me cuesta encontrar el otro signo de pregunta. Al menos conseguí alfajores Havana. Aunque se los coman las hormigas.

Todos ustedes son mentira. Sé que tengo que cuidar mis palabras ahora que soy pública (mea culpa), pero las palabras no me cuidan a mí, así que porqué cuidarlas a ellas? Alguien me robó los últimos dos años y medio de mi vida y mejor que me los devuelva pronto o le rompo el culo. Si, me escucharon bien.

Parece que parto más que comparto. Y en esta nueva encarnación mía, soy prisionera más que nunca, alimentando más que nunca mi altruismo ("todo lo que tengo, lo tengo por pelear").
Hoy pelear=inercia. Mi vida es un gran malentendido.

Luna tiene la posta, viene, me da un beso, ronronea y se va. Después se pelea con la pelota. Luna es lo mejor. Y le huele la boca a croquetas.

Quien quiere Celeste... escuché esa frase tantas veces en mi vida, aunque cuanto más lo pienso, suena más y más como ¿Quién quiere Celeste? No sé, quizás el tiempo cambió el tono.
Si sólo tuviera un Jorgito...
Cuesta censurar lo que sale del mate, sobre todo si uno se pasa gran parte de su vida aprendiendo a no hacerlo. No sé porqué parece que no fui yo la que se fué, sino todos los demás.

El tiempo no pasa en esta dimensión paralela. Es decir, pasa, pero no pasa. Es todo como en el teatro, donde uno se mete en esa realidad, y presta atención a la historia y cree, y se angustia por lo que va a pasar. Hasta que se prenden las luces, y te das cuenta que todo eso no existe, que te lo hicieron creer, que te robaron un par de horas. Y toda esa ciudad, ese cuarto, esa calle, son de cartón y telgopor. ¿O era tergopol?
Pero afuera todo está sucio y fuera de lugar, y no hay nadie para bajar el telón cuando querés que termine el acto. Ahora el mundo de cartón y telgopor no parece tan feo.

Extraño las florcitas. Esas florcitas pintadas en el papel, que pasé tanto tiempo contando y mirando, mirando y mirando, tanto tiempo... lindo tiempo. El otro día me compré unas Adidas. Las allstar, esas que tenía en negro y blanco, y azul y blanco. Nada más que ahora las tengo en negro y negro. Y cuando miré para abajo, de golpe me golpeó todo eso que pasó, que pensé, que no pensé, todo ese tiempo que miraba mis Adidas. Las líneas, los cordones, todo eso.

Zapatillas putas. Me cagaron el día.

Flower taste the sunshine....

"Well it was cold when i woke and the day was halfway done.
Nearly spring in San Francisco but I cannot feel the sun..."

Y entre todos los días que pasan, me pierdo un poco más en lo que creo, lo que no soy. Es gracioso notar como la distancia no aparece de golpe, como la geográfica, sino que es gradual, viene un poco más cada día que pasa.
Hoy estoy 12.000 kms. más lejos que hace dos años. Y mañana? No hay manera de volver atrás, porque esta distancia, a diferencia de la grográfica, no va y vuelve. Se queda. Da más tiempo, pero se queda. Hoy estoy 12.000 kms. más lejos de vos. Y de mí. No importa si vuelvo y abrazo, no estoy más ahí. Y no estoy acá tampoco. Estoy? Quiénes son estos fantasmas que me hablar, que me quieren hablar? Ya no los reconozco. Son figuras del pasado, recuerdos de lo que fue, alguna vez, en un sueño del que no desperté. Ahora estoy soñando algo diferente, parte del mismo sueño, pero diferente, y no me pidan que despierte.

Estoy tan, tan cansada.

Buenas noches.