danny

today i was as happy as i could be.
if i didn’t exploded, you’ll be reading this.
oh lord, how merry can a man be!
do we deserve it?

danny boy, you strong sonnofabitch…

tu el implacable, el que no llora, el que no sufre. el que a penas de vivir en las penas ajenas, no penas. el que escribe y exorcisa su sentir en las perras negras de otros. el que a punta de vivir y vivir y decir, nunca vivió.

hoy te mato, hoy te aniquilo con el alcohol pendenciero también de otros, te doy una muerte lenta y placentera, una muerte tan tuya, escrita, decida, muerte de renacimiento sin memoria, muerte que se olvida. yo te mato de dicha, y luego de alcohol. y te dejo muerto sin cafés ni alka seltzers, para que no disfrutes mi dicha, mi gozo, tu que núnca me diste algo de eso, por no ser no me dejaste ser.

hoy te muero fuerte, hoy te aniquilo lapso, para dejarme vivir un mísero secundo, si, mi miseria, pero la que de glorias marchitas hoy he merecido. pues antes de matarte, ya un poco había muerto yo. de cobardía. de lujuria miedosa. de eso que yo sé que tu no sabes.

de vida, cabrón. de vida. ya tu mañana serás otra vez, y yo será triste memoria.

i am flying. and i’m afraid to fall.

a phrase like a thousand moments. ‘cause there, while we’re flying, more free than thoughts, more free than what our marginal, chaotic, day by day life will ever permit us tomorrow, there we waste our time worrying about the fall.

one day we’ll die, inexorably. enjoy the flight while it lasts.
(at least let yourself die a happy man)

i’m still sort of fighting with this blog, but since i have better, more futile things to fight with, i’d better go.

niña…

te he imaginado aqui, hoy, contrariando las situaciones. te he imaginado por un momento a mi lado, recostada. tu cabeza apoyada en mi vientre, tus labios que se mueven y no los veo pero los siento como sé que se sienten. yo que juego con tu pelo, tu que me imaginas y me tienes al mismo tiempo, yo en el vértigo del perderte para siempre, sin haberte jamás tenido. dos, nosotros, que jugamos a ser felices, a pesar del tiempo y las situaciones, y los viajes y quien sé (sabemos) que aún te espera. los dos, nosotros, con nosotros juntos ahí uno al lado del otro y que más importa en ese momento. que más da si la tierra se sale de su eje nosostros dos juntos ahí, el uno para el otro, lamiendonos las futuras heridas con un aire de nadie me quita lo baila’o. tu conociendo el precio, yo que nunca lo sabré.

así que sé que soy felíz imaginandote cerca aquí tocándome, desnuda o en ropas, pero desnuda para mí, diciendonos cosas de los dos, que fueron de los dos de hace mucho tiempo, y que hasta ahora sólo nos quedaba la duda de cuando las oiríamos finalmente, siempre sabiendo que seráa así, que serías tu y yo, que sería de este modo, y ya nada importaba, y desde hoy, quizás ya nada importará. pero sí, porque solo te he imaginado.

tu estás cerca, huele aún a tí, pero aún no has llegado. y yo sólo se hoy que seré más paciente con el tiempo. y que un día, tu llegaras.

aquí, niña, finalmente, contrariando las situaciones, a mi lado…

Well it’s blues in my house, from the roof to the ground,
And it’s blues everywhere since my good man left town.
Blues in my Mail-box ‘cause i cain’t get no mail,
Says blues in my bread-box ‘cause my bread got stale.
Blues in my meal-barrel and there’s blues upon my shelf
And there’s blues in my bed, ‘cause I’m sleepin’ by myself.

— MERLINE JOHNSON (THE YAS YAS GIRL) – “Blues Everywhere”

ok, this is it…

the end of the affair…

this is the second time my computer dies in less than a month! c’mon, damn it, do you have to be a wintel guru just to be able to install a bunch of multimedia programs and do websites, movies, interactives and animations? yesterday some fucking download (i believe) change all my users privileges, and then win2k could not restart, a stop error. so instead of making myself useful to the world by applying all my knowledge of whatever i know how to do, i have to spend days deciphering win-lingo, to be able to setup as a pro-master-geek-shell-programmer my bloody user priviledges, a firewall, norton fucking antivirus, and whatever else i’m missing right now, but i’ll need in about, er…, two weeks when this lousy excuse of a computer decides to die again, this time i hope by natural causes, and forever!

damn silicon in general, and particularly that which runs wintel blood on their circuit veins…!!! (ok, i’m overreacting, but it feels better than the alternative)

so now i have to reinstall everything from scratch, redo all (fortunately just one, but really, really important!) my unbackupt projects, and pray to Holy Mary of the Blue Screens to salve me from any fucking mistake i can do (and that’s a thousand a minute, with the feedback quality wintel has us used to).

one good thing out of this, i think i’d better change jobs, better, change workline… i might become a writer (ok, sorry, obviously not a writer, ergo excuse moi). maybe a critic, or a enterpreneurial mind, or a carpenter. anything that can be done by hand, and without silicium. a painter, a secretary, a mailman…

last time, when i told people that my computer crashed, they were so insensitive! they did not feel my pain, nor my sorrow, my desperation… they told me “oh my…” and continued their lonesome monologue (of course, i was not listening at all, i was lingering, hurting, mourning alone). then later i realised they meant no harm, no inpoliteness, they really did not understand what the word crash meant to me. i told them yesterday they cut my hand, the right leg and tree quarters of my left eye. they heard as from today, i cannot longer read my mail, nor chat with all my online-acquainted digital-invented pathetic abroad friends about the weather, and exchange emoticons a hundred an hour to demonstrate how much we care for each other. that’s what computers mean to them.

so i feel oversucked by my laptop, and for being a prosthetical device, it really has too much control over all the rest of my body (not to mention my ephemeral life and emotions). this has to be ended, one way or another. (maybe or another, since just the fact that the first thing i did was to get connected and write all this crap online means i’m doomed, and merry about it).

long live virtual pain, and cybersadomasochism.

(i need a girlfriend, some bucks, and a mac!).

yeap, you got it, my real name is not danny.
reality bites.
but then, which one is my real name?
just call me whatever you want…

it must be obvious to you all the fact that i need a job.

right now i’m applying to interaction design institute ivrea’s interaction design master (as you can see, there’s a lot of interaction and design stuff going on there). also i’m on my way (yeah right!) to a 2 1/2 months freelance collaboration with the research center of the aforementioned institute. if all fails (cancelled!), then i’ll go to miami, to joing my much richer brother and live the miami life at the pace his charitative pocket can afford me until i get a job on one of those full-colored caribbean-minded latinamerican-supplier spanish-spoken kitsch-driven companies. so please, wish me luck!.

or get me a job…

“Otra manera de tratar de decirlo: lo defectivo se siente más como una pobreza intuitiva que como una mera falta de experiencia. Realmente no me aflige gran cosa no haber leído todo Jouhandeau, a lo sumo la melancolía de una vida demasiado corta para tantas bibliotecas, etc. La falta de experiencia es inevitable, si leo a Joyce estoy sacrificando automáticamente otro libro y viceversa, etc. La sensación de falta es más aguda en

Es un poco así: hay líneas de aire a los lados de tu cabeza, de tu mirada, zonas de detención de tus ojos, tu olfato, tu gusto, es decir que andás con tu límite por fuera”

— Rayuela, Julio Cortázar (chapter 84)

i’m reading one of those novels, Hopscotch (Rayuela), by Julio Cortázar. when i say one of those novels, i mean one of those novels that goes deep inside the characters, usually the main ones, and stress the world according to the narrator, the personage, the living being who posses the story. it is like the world is not a defined environment, discreet in it’s relations to us, but just an expression of our inner self, reflected in materical and metaphisical objects, that then we call the world (Berkley?, Wittgenstein?). so the world is not an existing arrangement of ordered causes and effects, but a huge mirror, where we see ourselves reflected in our most minimal and intimate details. (Alice in Wonderland?).

and i like those novels because they let me step out of myself, not to be me for a lapse, and rerun the world over other person’s paths, other’s steps. it lets me see myself from outside, and catch experiences of my surroundings as of perceived by strangers. like a guided tour of somebody else’s self. soothing to the point of not wanting to return to something (my own world) that i glance and judge as impossible to sustain, when others have already conquered it, as it seems.

then love is not love, but the way they love; the end of despair is just a bridge away, and searches are already searched; life is but just a story we can write, or read. it can be as real as ours, if not more, if not else. it is a map of ourselves, but drawed by mighty conquerors that had the courage (ink?) to roam and wander over wastelands of soul-charged cities, to break through jungles of self-boredom, and came out one-pieced, alive, with breath enough to tell the story, with stories enough to breathe.

but with a more clever eye, a more sharp soul, a more caleidoscopic vision of it (themselves?).

it is not easy to go out of ourselves and take a glance around. but it makes a fairer view of it. after all, outside there is the real mc coy. and true it is, the world is our oyster.

so be it.