'What if it is disease?'

he decided at last. 'What does it matter that it is an abnormal intensity, if the result, if the minute of sensation, remembered and analyzed afterwards in health, turns out to be the acme of harmony and beauty, and gives a feeling, unknown and undivined till then, of completeness, of proportion, of reconciliation, and of ecstatic devotional merging in the highest synthesis of life?'
(...)
He could not doubt, and could not admit the possibility of doubt.
(...)
Since at that second, that is at the very last conscious moment before the fit, he had time to say to himself clearly and consciously, 'Yes, for this moment one might give one's whole life!', the wothout doubt that moment was really worth the whole of life.

Myshkin, The Idiot, FD

i might be becoming a dylanist

especially when quoted by rimshaw...

7 simple rules for life in hiding

1. Never trust a cop in a rain coat
2. Beware of enthusiasm and of love, each is temporary and quick to sway
3. When asked if you care about the worlds problems, look deep into the eyes of he who asks, he will not ask you again.
4 & 5. Never give your real name, and if told to look at yourself, never look.
6. Never do or say anything that the person standing in front of you cannot understand.
7. Never create anything, it will be misinterpreted, it will chain you and follow you the rest of your life, it will never change.

the familiar place in my head

are you who you say that you are?
are you who you say that you are?
are you who you say you are?
the fact that we can't tell
makes us like you even more...

***

old tricks to get back to old places...

theft

someone stole my cigarrettes: when i grabbed my pack, there were only two left.
i've consumed number two.
i have my cigars...
but it's not the same.

someone stole my images: when i sat to write, there were only faintly shadows.
i turned the light on, they flew.
i have my echoes,
but it's not the same.

just not the same.

unacceptably not. the. same.

give me back blah-blah. give or take, i don' t really mind.

just leave me somewhere so i feel like i used to feel - alive.

fact, no tact

"That is a fact. And fact is the most stubborn thing in the world."
Woland, The Master and Margarita.

i am gathering my facts, as if i need this average exercise to reach a conclusion. i know my conclusion, already. i've known it for a very long time - i have this thing, perception, after all. perception is a fact. that's how i get familiar with fact, through perception. usually. only this time i am using the rational mind, which is always slower, and just confirms what i had already perceived, since the fact was fact for such a long time, way before i perceived and, obviously, eons before i knew it.

good heavens have we changed.

but yeah, we may be seasonal still - the heat hints so. provoking all the echoes in my head, enhacing mucha, wanting me to go back to our land that's the slavian epopey or just all those paintings awaiting in the hermitage.

commanding me to write. retake. reform. assess. redress.

be truthful.

be daring.

shhhhh:

"jump --
you will fly."

bop writing

so here we go for a little of bop writing - my sort of therapy, says I to john o'leary, my old friend with whom i've just discussed the state of the cinema and we've ended up checking at whatever's screening at la filmo. the russian ark. awesome.

i may go.

in the meantime, i am chilling out with my cocktail of the day (6/8 cava, 1/8 martini, 1/8 granini orange juice... that's until i ran out and now i'm using orange acuarius), a cigarrette (the cigar this morning got me nauseous), interpol's our love to admire (after a pre noon ride into the past with the clash and the replacements), i am fully clothed, which is weird for me to write in, the new position of the table, windows wide open, and this little typing's already making me feel better.

gris is sleeping. by the octopuss. on my pillow. he kicks me out of my pillow every night.

oh. it's peace is the trick: women, you have no self control... me? not now, not at the moment. it's just, i am a little tired. and my life is about to change yet again, and i am tired. mmm. peace is the trick, i guess. follow whatever in the starswept night.

GRIS

gris is home, and that's the only good thing i can think of.

i wish i had the guts to break down, or let it go. but i'm really starting to believe it's not up to me, but the screenwriters. the strike is over yes indeed. back to work, you typers, suckers, and my life is a mess - again.

ol' gris is home at least. he's watching the telly. i'm drinking wine and eating cheese, he's eating fuet. polonia is about to start. we just talked to our mom. it's getting warmer. larkin is still in my life. i am craving a fag. i am tired. tomorrow it's friday. some people are free. but most, they're just travelling. i miss the images in my head - yeah, i still believe in them. my neighbors' TV is too loud, it pisses me off. i am glad i am typing something that's not coubication, interconnection, tarif or cost. i wish i could change, and not change, and stay the same but all different. i am flying to chile in a fornight - that's fucking nuts. i'll get a new tat. in hanga roa. the forecast's on: rainy weekend. crap. i am cancer and delirium - nah, that's henry miller. i am poor and aging - just like paul banks back in the 2000s. only i'll be a creepy 30 next month. fuck fuck fuck.

get a life - quit the current one.

*dances to some music*

gris is fighting sleep - so he can be a pain in the ass tonight.

trying trying

but not quite making it.

i've been distracted, recently. and i am tired. so i have no poetry in my head. i read levine, a couple of times, top of my lungs, and i shed a few tears. but still no rythm. still no images. i come here, to warm up. but i only have like... one hour left? i want to see the debate. i try to relax. hint. invite.

o brother where are thou?

i know you're around, your shyness is cute, but now i need you, mr dark side. we have some work to do. bring on the images. i am willing to type them down. minutes pass. this is not working. i used to have this vibration in my head, where did that go? where did that go, once more? when will it return? okay okay, i will wait.

i lit my cigarrette and do the waiting.

***

Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing?
Then he is malevolent.
Is God both able and willing?
Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?

Epicurus

...and Dreams.

back.

home.

it's cold and i'm envolved by Darkness. it's the right set up for Dreams.

Dreams, it's part 2. part 2, it's paris. paris, it's hell. and hell, that's where my Dreams are put down, like a wild dog. but somehow they manage to reborn, and so does part 2, paris, hell, the wheel is moving and i can't make it stop. in this vortex, my Dreams already dead, i'm just a journalist, reporting, from hell. i've become what writers become, which is, life, it doesn't really happen until it's all written down, plain and to the point, and whatever it's thrown at me, i sit, munch, stamp on paper, shrug it off. it's the writer condition. in words it shall live on.

look at us. a month and a half and so grown already. so whole. we're doing a good job.

the day ends now.

curtaincall.

happy valentine, m'sieur.

Dreams (cont)

my dear, i am tired and it's a month and a half before we finish the project, this is gonna end me.

other than a very stressful period at work, i'm doing fine, fighting the urges to take off, hit the road, change. 9 months here and i'm already bored. i hope this feeling is due to my work situation cos the alternative is having to accept that i just need to hop on, town to town, on town at a time. like there's no end. forever. ah well. there's worse things i guess.

i'm verseful, that is all. you know what it does, in my head. the words won't let me sleep tight. then in the light, i can't seem to focus.

wait a sec. brb.

if my Dreams are closer,

it just means my mind has been pushed away.

i'm seeing dark spots. there's someone at the corner, in the shadows. i see you.

happy valentine, m'sieur.

i acknowledge you. you've always been there for me, and i appreciate it. you're a good friend. you bring on fantastic moods. you've pushed me to my best, that's priceless, and timeless.

you remind me of what's important: intensity. be reasured, i'll hold my ground.

a toast, to us.

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin

twenty

We were twenty
for such a short time and always in
the wrong clothes, crusted with dirt
and sweat. I think now we were never twenty.

Philip Levine

land/horses

in my angry quest to get my angry fix of mood and emotion, i land on land/horses. i had never bothered to read the lyrics, now i wish i never did.

because now i also get the feeling i'm surrounded by horses-horses-horses-horses-horses-horses-horses-horses-horses-horses

and i may not use blow but i also want to go rimbaud.

i want to do a little writing but i am really tired, this week.it's only been one month, and i'm already tolled away, and i'm more impatient, edgy, volatile...

reckless.

i can't remember yesterday 7pm-1am. i just woke up past midnight and i was in bed. unfully dressed. i drank a lot of water. folded my laundry. went back to bed. in the meantime i got flashes of leaving gina's flat (where the guys frolicking in bed?). i walked home - i remember... nothing. not even how i crossed plaça catalunya. i ignore whether i took pelai or ramblas. i stopped in the supermarket to buy 4 x 5l-bottles of water, but this i remember a posteriori cos i've seen them in the kitchen today. my neighbors were in the elevator - freaking out probably. i must have looked horrible.

but this morning i feel fine, leaving aside a couple of uninvited bruises in my legs, and i have energy enough to leverage my stakes in discipline to sit down in bed, grab a glass, and try and get some writing done.

allons-y.

the fallen

so heath ledger is dead - he's been found dead, and though early reports mention pills & OD, no one's talking the big D.

but he had it. he had the big B maybe.

he's dead.

he last played the joker. the joker said, in alan moore's the killing joke: "all it takes is one bad day". indeed. all it takes is one fucking bad minute. i used to live by this creed, i'm used now to live oblivious to it, but it's the truth, the ugly truth, the truth that may not matter but weighs in, in the end. one bad second and the dark side creeps in and then you're found dead.

and who the hell is waltzing mathilda, now?

heath ledger, 28, named after romantic hero heathcliff, is dead.

like all the young dudes.

mood snatcher

i had given up on this WE's writing: i was supposed to help move stuff around in barcelona's eixample, from someplace to another place, this one with awesome views and one huge terrace. oh well. bear with me.

so i see my saturday's morning's liberated and since i am supposed to go pro on the writing thing again, i start drinking - ok this one goes down regardless - and i turn to mr. oberst - could happen anyways - and then it's his words that remind me of the week's epiphany:

i knew i'd been using since i was very young, searching in music and movies and art in general to get my high, the hit the right sentiment, i've been mood scoring all my life, it's in the nature, but listening to mr. oberst i have to ponder:

maybe i wasn't scoring
maybe i was just snatching
maybe there's no real feeling in me
and that's paranoid and yet
it could be.

i have a history on stealing or snapping into someone else's mental state. there's one particular period of strife and confussion i've later recognized as not of my own... that's paris. there's others. this is not the point.

it's the way mr. portrays things, it's my own poor language: writing to paint an image that's both telling fact and sentiment and it's already happened and shall befall again, it's particular and universal, the words hide nothing, but give no clues straight away... all with a rythm. and structure. i don't know how to explain: definitions are dull. and i have not the energy, the technique and the tools to create the image that would illustrate this.

there's more to it: it's the fact that i was 2000 when he was to 2000 and i was lifted when he was lifted and now i am so cassadaga. eg:

2000:
For a sunrise or a sunset.
You’re manic or you’re depressed.
Will you ever feel ok?

2002:
But you should never be embarrassed by
Your trouble with living
Cause it's the ones with the sorest throats
Laura, who have done the most singing

2005:
I just got myself to blame
Leave everything up to fate
When there's choices I could make
Yeah, my heart needs a polygraph
Always so eager to pack my bags
When I really wanna stay

2007:
Everything it must belong somewhere
I know that now, that's why I'm staying here

that's him. and it's me. and i am digressing.

it makes sense.

i fear i am in someone else's mental state.

and i must go and do some writing.

red flag

so here's I and my colloc aka the Other One/the_dark_side/the:intense:side discussing the whole writing thing. we've been sitting for an hour trying to type and we've managed a bit before we've strayed and we've started checking out mr jack kerouac and stuff in you!tube, there's something amazing in hearing His voice. anyways we've written some lines and corrected the structure in chapter 1 and chapeter last and now the Book looks more rounded and symmetric and circular and it makes me feel rather good but then the Other One tells Me:

the Book has outgrown Us.

and crap, It's right.

I'm somewhat darker and unforgiving, It's lighter and hopeful, and we both concluded that the writing has changed us both more than we've achieved with the words laid out. ergo, the Book's stronger and smarter than Us.

so we've come here to rant:
da-da-da.

but this is some rigurous ranting. that's why we publish, to at least write something fine:
and hell
da-da-da,
that's all we can think of.

the rest is the Book.

we'll try again.

daniel daniel daniel

al final siempre vuelvo a las mismas neuras de siempre:
kerouac
oberst
michael corleone
arthur
ginsberg
la carretera
day-lewis

en hommage anticipado para there will be blood, re-introducing daniel day-lewis

ps me encanta la página de artes del guardian!

sparring

so here i is trying to get back on track and type a little but i can't seem to pull it through so what the hell i turn to my sparring (i.e. this blog). useful thing, wishful thinking, whichever, but at least i'm in front of the computer and
yes
typing.

god i am tired and hangover. this week's been long and exhausting and i've played soccer twice and i've wii'ed too much and my drinking's still as heavy as during x-mas. not as, but almost.

last night was my friend's 30 b-day party. first 78 er to turn. saw a lot of people i hadn't seen in a long long time and you know what i thought:
nadie sabe lo que le va a pasar a nadie
excepto que todos seguirán desamparados y haciéndose viejos

so here i is listening to tom traubert's blues and attempting at mood scoring, doesn't seem to work. maybe i should read selby's intro again...

here i is.

i'll just keep on trying.
let us not give up.
hey montana...

laicismo radical

estupendo artículo de Juan Luis Cebrián en El País del 09 de enero:

Sabemos que el cardenal Rouco Varela no es partidario del divorcio y así nos lo dio a conocer a finales del año pasado, con gran aparato propagandístico y mediático, rodeado de sus pares y jaleado por sus fieles. Pero sabemos también que la excepción confirma la regla y que hubo un divorcio concreto que sin duda no le debió sentar tan mal. Me refiero al de la princesa Letizia (con z de Zapatero), gracias al cual pudo el clérigo oficiar con la pompa debida los esponsales del heredero de la Corona en una escena digna del mejor Anouilh, en la que el honor de dios y el del rey parecieron, por un momento, evidenciarse absolutamente unidos.

continua...

allen ginsberg's dream (for inspiration, reassurance, and a smile)

Doctor, I don't think you're going to find this very healthy and clear, but I really would like to stop working forever--never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I'm doing now--and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends. And I'd like to keep living with someone -- maybe even a man -- and explore relationships that way. And cultivate my perceptions, cultivate the visionary thing in me. Just a literary and quiet city-hermit existence. Then he said "Well, why don't you?" I asked him what the American Psychoanalytic Association would say about that, and he said . . . if that is what you really feel would please you, what in the world is stopping you from doing it?

test test

blah blah