…because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…
On the Road - Jack Kerouac

Tilda Swinton - The Maybe (2013)

“A gentle refusal of explanation and the element of surprise is integral to the piece. There is no schedule for the random appearances, no artist’s or museum statement besides the simple label on the wall nearby. 

It is an open question, a proposal, a treasure hunt. The title is perhaps the main clue. Yet if we are to be investigators in this mystery and look hard enough we may find some other leads.

The iconic image of Swinton in the glass case has come to represent a signature moment in the exploration of the links between the ‘live’ (performance art) and the ‘death’ of the gallery space (its tendency to freeze in time and space that which is displayed there).

Later, an email from Swinton…provides some further insight. ‘I asked myself to propose a gesture, a hybrid between that essence which I value most in live performance – namely, that kinetic experience of human beings all (wholly – as in, every part of them) present together in the same space at the same time and in the thrall of time and the unexpected – with that essence which I value most in cinematic performance – namely, the possibility of the scrutiny by the viewer of the unwatched who cannot watch back.[…]’

Swinton cites further inspirations. Among them are powerful childhood memories of pretending to be asleep, the archetypal image of the sleeping woman in myths and fairy tales, a sensitivity to the predicament of countless homeless people who seem to be treated by society as if, sleeping rough, they were sealed away – invisible – behind glass and the dominance of the dead in glass boxes displayed for the glory of religion and art – exemplified by both Christian and Communist reliquaries but also Damien Hirst’s pickled carcasses.

Swinton presents a present, living human being alongside these images of passivity, but as both subject and object – and author/artist. The most commonly asked question by spectators of The Maybe – now, as eighteen years ago – is ‘Is it real?’”

(Source: likeafieldmouse)

Miserable Bastard (Lydia Lunch)

You can’t save anyone from themselves. You will lose everything, attempting to play saviour. You will never, ever heal the terminally wounded. You cannot repair the damage already done by selfish parents, vicious ex-lovers, child molesters, tyrants, poverty, depression, or chemical imbalance. You can’t undo psychic wounds. You can’t bandage old scars. You can’t kiss away ancient bruises. You can’t make the fucking pain go away.

You can’t shout down the voices in other people’s heads. You can’t make them feel special. They’ll never feel beautiful enough, no matter how beautiful they are to you. They’ll never feel loved enough, no matter how much you fucking adore them. You’ll never be able to save the battered from battling back at a world they’ve grown to hate. They’ll always find a new way to pick up where the bullies left off. They will, in turn, become bullies. They will turn you into the enemy. They will always find a new method in which to punish themselves, thereby punishing you.

No matter how much you’ve convinced yourself that you have done everything in your power to prove your undying devotion, unfaltering commitment, unending encouragement; you will never, ever be able to save a miserable bastard from themselves. They will always find a way to spread their pain over a vast terrain, like an emotional tsunami which devastates the surrounding landscape; an ever-expanding firewall which singes everything and everyone in its wake.

The longer that you love a damaged person, the more it’s going to hurt you. They will mock your generosity. They will abuse your kindness. They will expect your forgiveness. They will try your fucking patience. They’ll sap your energy, and eventually they’ll end up killing your fucking soul. They won’t be happy until you’re as miserable as they are. Then, their incredible self-loathing will be justified by the perpetuation of a cycle, from which there’s absolutely no recourse. Once you enter their freefall, it’ll be nearly impossible to turn your back on them, and you’ll be racked with guilt; you’ll be frustrated by your own impotence; you’ll be made furious for ever buying into their fucking bullshit in the first place. And of course, the more damaged they are, the more charismatic, the more brilliant, the more sexually intoxicating, the more dangerous to your own mental health.


Carta anonima de mi para mi.


Carta anonima de mi para mi.

La paloma y el sueño (Efraín Huerta)

Tú no veías el árbol, ni la nube ni el aire.
Ya tus ojos la tierra se los había bebido
y en tu boca de seda sólo un poco de gracia
fugitiva de rosas, y un lejano suspiro.

No veías ni mi boca que se moría de pena
ni tocabas mis manos huecas, deshabitadas.
Espeso polvo en torno daba un sabor a muerte
al solemne vivir la vida más amarga.

Había sed en tus ojos. Suave sudor tu frente
recordaba los ríos de suave, lenta infancia.
Yo no podía con mi alma. Mi alma ya no podía
con mi cuerpo tan roto de rotas esperanzas.

Tus palabras sonaban a olas de frágil vuelo.
Tus palabras tan raras, tan jóvenes, tan fieles.
Una estrella miraba cómo brilla tu vida.
Una rosa de fuego reposaba en tu frente.

Y no veías los árboles, ni la nube ni el aire.
Parecías desmayarte bajo el beso y su llama.
Parecías la paloma extraviada en su vuelo:
la paloma del ansia, la paloma que ama.

Te dije que te amaba, y un temblor de misterio
asomó a tus pupilas. Luego miraste, en sueños,
los árboles, la nube y el aire estremecido,
y en tus húmedos ojos hubo un aire de reto.

No parecías la misma de otras horas sin horas.
Ya sueñas, o ya vuelas y ni vuelas ni sueñas.
Te fatigan los brazos que te abrazan, paloma,
y, al sollozar, a un lirio desmayado recuerdas.

Ya sé que estoy perdido, pero siempre ganado.
Perdido entre tu sombra, ganado para nunca.
Mil besos son mil pétalos protegiendo tu piel
y tu piel es la lámpara que mis ojos alumbra.

¡Oh geografía del ansia, geografía de tu cuerpo!
Voy a llorar las lágrimas más amargas del mundo.
Voy a besar tu sombra y a vivir tu recuerdo.
Voy a vivir muriendo. Soy el que nunca estuvo.

Moon Palace (Paul Auster)

I did not starve, but there was rarely a moment when I did not feel hungry. I often dreamt about food, and my nights that summer were filled with visions of feasts and gluttony: platters of steak and lamb, succulent pigs floating in on trays, castlelike cakes and desserts, gigantic bowls of fruit. During the day, my stomach cried out to me constantly, gurgling with a rush of unappeased juices, hounding me with its emptiness, and it was only through sheer struggle that I was able to ignore it. By no means plump to begin with, I continued to lose weight as the summer wore on. Every now and then, I would drop a penny into a drugstore Exacto scale to see what was happening to me. From 154 in June, I fell to 139 in July, and then to 123 in August. For someone who measured slightly over six feet, this began to be dangerously little. Skin and bone can go just so far, after all, and then you reach a point when serious damage is done. I was trying to separate myself from my body, taking the long road around my dilemma by pretending it did not exist. Others had traveled this road before me, and all of them had discovered what I finally discovered for myself: the mind cannot win over matter, for once the mind is asked to do too much, it quickly shows itself to be matter as well. 

Moon Palace (Paul Auster)

Victor knew that he lacked ambition, but he also knew that there were other things in the world besides music. So many things, in fact, that he was often overwhelmed by them. Being the sort of person who always dreams of doing something else while occupied, he could not sit down to practice a piece without pausing to work out a chess problem in his head, could not play chess without thinking about the failures of the Chicago Cubs, could not go to the ballpark without considering some minor character in Shakespeare, and then, when he finally got home, could not sit down with his book for more than twenty minutes without feeling the urge to play his clarinet. Wherever he was, then, and wherever he went, he left behind a cluttered trail of bad chess moves, of unfinished box scores, and half-read books. 

La modestia (Vila-Matas)

Es triste decirlo, pero me parece que he comenzado a perder interés por la caza de frases, interés por el mundo, por casi todo. De un día para otro, estoy comenzando a perder fuelle. Es como si al ancestral cazador que hay en mí le estuvieran comenzando a fallar la curiosidad y las necesarias atención, agilidad y paciencia. Como si ya sólo me quedara un exclusivo interés por volver a cruzarme con ella y poder decirle, no sé, poder decirle mis más modestas verdades: que envejezco, que ya no soy tan buen cazador de frases, que ya no me dicen mucho las medallas, ni el mundo, sólo ella.

La palabra profana (Edmond Jabès)
El árbol es el símbolo de unidad del universo que
la sombra y la luz reivindican. Es el deseo exacerbado
y colmado que ha regido mi vida y por el que he
penetrado en la muerte.

                                                                            REB ALOHAI
Es tan viril la voz de nuestros profetas que se
confunde con la, desvahada, de la multitud.

                                                                            REB AMLED
Primera voz
Allá donde el poema es llevado en triunfo,
el pueblo congregado se apoya en los gritos
como el marinero en la tormenta
y la moza al astil de su amor al viento.

Segunda voz
La fealdad se ha puesto sus zapatos de marcha.

Primera voz
Así pasa el tiempo, túnel interminable.
Así pasa la sangre de un hombre al otro,
de un continente a un continente.

Segunda voz
Noche de festejo en la que muda la mentira.

Primera voz
Los fuegos artificiales, con sus tablillas en los pies,
bailan en el cielo, instante de eternidad.
Segunda vozLa muerte extrae a las plantas sus muelas.

Primera voz
A la mañana siguiente a la orgía, los perros evocados ladran.
Los campos de batallas están cubiertos de encajes.

Segunda voz
¿Cuántos sueños, decid, seguirán obsesionando
a los vivos,
a los supervivientes embotecidos?

Primera voz
Lo natural se burla.

Segunda voz
A toda marcha, el verano de las minas,
el acero de los motivos diferentes.
A toda mancha.

Primera voz
La palabra aún por nacer es una burbuja.
Los cuentos de hadas están comidos por gusanos de luz

Segunda voz
Tantos vidrios rotos, tantas lágrimas
han alzado nuestras lámparas.
El sol se encuentra al otro lado del agua
donde tú estás en pie,
con los brazos cargados de regalos.

Primera voz
Nuestros sinos son rayos de errancia.
Tantas noches pulverizadas, tanta ausencia de lluvia
han modelado nuestras copas;
al otro lado del incendio
donde estás en pie,
con las piernas abiertas.
Los años se han atado el pañuelo al cuello.
El diálogo de las estaciones se ha callado con el torrente.

Segunda voz
La palabra es un olivo.

Primera voz
Nunca cólera
estuvo tan afinada.

Segunda voz
La esperanza empavesa los caminos que la miseria abre.
La embriaguez yace en la calzada en su vómito,
en torno las balas, abejas muertas lejos de las colmenas.

Primera voz
Los nombres de las calles han dejado de velar por la ciudad.

Segunda voz
La palabra es un abeto
surgido, antaño, de las nubes.

Primera voz
El adiós asombra a la mañana.

Segunda voz

Los bosques son páginas de historia,
con flancos de cuchillos,
con perlas de plegarias.

Primera voz
Baile. La llama desvestida de tu traje.
La orquesta ha conocido otras fuentes autorizadas.
El éxodo en el azogue del espanto.
Los hornos crematorios en las consignas severas.
El aire está en todos los labios, aliento perfumado.

Segunda voz
Crepúsculo de las cimas. La aurora no tiene malicia.

Primera voz
El aire está en todas las cabezas, buitre demente
El oro, en cada bolsa al fondo de las canteras.

Segunda voz
La palabra del álamo temblón es hecha pedazos por los tambores.

Primera voz
Poeta de una demorada ausencia, llevado a ver, a verter como
el cielo en el mar. Mi color no viene de mí.

Segunda voz
La palabra del hontanar es profecía del río.
Y Yukel habla… (Edmond Jabès)

Y Yukel habla:

Te busco.

El mundo donde te busco es un mundo sin árboles.

Sólo calles vacías,

calles desnudas,

el mundo donde te busco es un mundo abierto a otros mundos sin nombre,

un mundo donde no estás, donde te busco.

Están tus pasos,

tus pasos que sigo, que espero.

He seguido el lento caminar de tus pasos sin sombra,

sin saber quién era yo,

sin saber a dónde me dirigía.

Un día estarás.

Será aquí, en otro lugar,

un día como todos los días en que estás.

Será, tal vez, mañana.

He seguido, para llegar hasta ti, otros caminos amargos

donde la sal quebraba la sal.

He seguido, para llegar hasta ti, otras horas, otras riberas.

La noche es una mano para quien sigue la noche.

De noche, todos los caminos caen.

Era necesaria esa noche en que tomé tu mano, en que estábamos solos.

Era necesaria esa noche como era necesario ese camino.

En el mundo donde te busco eres la hierba y el deshielo.

Eres el grito perdido en que me extravío.

Pero también eres, ahí donde nada vela, el olvido hecho de cenizas de espejo.

Sutra de El Corazón de Prajnaparamita

Avalokiteshvara, el Bodhisattva de la Compasión, meditando profundamente sobre el Entendimiento Perfecto, descubrió que los cinco aspectos de la existencia humana estaban vacíos*, liberándose de este modo del sufrimiento. En respuesta al monje Sariputra, dijo lo siguiente:

El cuerpo es tan solo vacío,
el vacío no es más que el cuerpo.
El cuerpo está vacío,
y el vacío es el cuerpo.

Los otros cuatro aspectos de la existencia humana:
Sentidos, pensamientos, voluntad y conciencia,
también están vacíos,
y el vacío los contiene.

Todas las cosas están vacías:
Nada nace, nada muere,
nada es puro o impuro,
nada aumenta o disminuye.

Así pues, en el vacío, no existe el cuerpo,
ni las sensaciones, ni los pensamientos,
ni la voluntad, ni la conciencia.
No hay ojos, ni oídos,
ni nariz, ni lengua,
ni cuerpo, ni mente.
No hay sentido de la vista, ni del oído,
ni del olfato, ni del gusto,
ni del tacto, ni de la imaginación.
Nada puede verse o escucharse,
olerse o gustarse,
tocarse o imaginarse.

No existe la ignorancia,
ni el fin de la ignorancia.
No existen la vejez y la muerte,
ni el fin de la vejez y la muerte.
No existe el sufrimiento, ni la causa del sufrimiento,
ni el fin del sufrimiento, ni un camino a seguir.
No existe el logro de la sabiduría,
ni ninguna sabiduría que lograr.

Los Bodhisattvas confían en el Entendimiento Perfecto,
y, libres de todo engaño,
no sienten ningún miedo,
disfrutando del Nirvana aquí y ahora.

Todos los Budas,
pasados, presentes y futuros,
confían en el Entendimiento Perfecto,
y viven en la iluminación total.

El Entendimiento Perfecto es el mejor mantra.
El más lúcido,
el más elevado,
el mantra que elimina todo sufrimiento.

Ésta es una verdad fuera de toda duda. Dilo así:

Que significa…
partir a lo alto,
partir a lo más alto.
¡Que así sea!

* Vacío es la traducción habitual para el término Budista Sunyata (o Shunyata). Hace referencia al hecho de que ninguna cosa, incluida la existencia humana, posee una sustancia verdadera, lo que implica que nada es permanente y que nada es independiente por completo del resto de las cosas. En otras palabras, todo lo que existe en el mundo está interconectado y en un fluir constante. Por tanto, una correcta apreciación de esta idea nos libera del sufrimiento causado por nuestro ego, nuestro apego y nuestra resistencia al cambio y a la pérdida.

Nota: “Entendimiento Perfecto” es la traducción de Prajnaparamita. El nombre completo de este sutra es El Corazón de Prajnaparamita.

The Satanic Verses (Salman Rushdie)

Question: what is the opposite of faith?

Not disbelief. Too final, certain, closed. Itself a kind of belief. 


The human condition, but what of the angelic? Halfway between Allahgod and homosap, did they ever doubt? They did: challenging God’s will one day they hid muttering beneath the Throne, daring to ask forbidden things: antiquestions. Is it right that. Could it not be argued. Freedom, the old antiquest. He calmed them down, naturally, employing management skills à la god. Flattered them: you will be the instruments of my will on earth, the salvationdamnation of man, all the usual etcetera. And hey presto, end of protest, on with the haloes, back to work. Angels are easily pacified; turn them into instruments and they’ll play your harpy tune. Human beings are tougher nuts, can doubt anything, even the evidence of their own eyes. Of behind-their-own-eyes. Of what, as they sink heavy-lidded, transpires behind close peepers… angels, they don’t have much in the way of a will. To will is to disagree; not to submit; to dissent.

I know; devil talk. Shaitan interrupting Gibreel.


The Satanic Verses (Salman Rushdie)

A man who sets out to make himself up is taking on the Creator’s role, according to one way of seeing things; he’s unnatural, a blasphemer, an abomination of abominations. From another angle, you could see pathos in him, heroism in his struggle, in his willingness to risk: not all mutants survive. Or, consider him sociopolitically: most migrants learn, and can become disguises. Our own false descriptions to counter the falsehoods invented about us, concealing for reasons of security our secret selves.

A man who invents himself needs someone to believe in him, to prove he’s managed it. Playing God again, you could say. Or you could come down a few notches, and think of Tinkerbell; fairies don’t exist if children don’t clap their hands. Or you might simply say: it’s just like being a man.

Not only the need to be believed in, but to believe in another. You’ve got it: Love.

Saladin Chamcha met Pamela Lovelace five and a half days before the end of the 1960s, when women still wore bandannas in their hair. She stood at the centre of a room full of Trotskyist actresses and fixed him with eyes so bright, so bright. He monopolized her all evening and she never stopped smiling and she left with another man. He went home to dream of her eyes and smile, the slenderness of her, her skin. He pursued her for two years. England yields her treasures with reluctance. He was astonished by his own perseverance, and understood that she had become the custodian of his destiny, that if she did not relent then his entire attempt at metamorphosis would fail. ‘Let me,’ he begged her, wrestling politely on her white rug that left him, at his midnight bus stops, covered in guilty fluff. ‘Believe me. I’m the one.’

One night, out of the blue , she let him, she said she believed. He married her before she could change her mind, but never learned to read her thoughts. When she was unhappy she would lock herself in the bedroom until she felt better. ‘It’s none of your business,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want anybody to see me when I’m like that.’ He used to call her a clam. ‘Open up,’ he hammered on all the locked doors of their lives together, basement first, then maisonette, then mansion. ‘I love you, let me in.’ He needed her so badly, to reassure himself of his own existence, that he never comprehended the desperation in her dazzling, permanent smile, the terror in the brightness with which she faced the world, or the reasons why she hid when she couldn’t manage to beam. Only when it was too late did she tell him that her parents had committed suicide together when she had just begun to menstruate, over their heads in gambling debts, leaving her with the aristocratic bellow of a voice that marked her out as a golden girl, a woman to envy, whereas in fact she was abandoned, lost, her parents couldn’t even be bothered to wait and watch her grow up, that’s how much she was loved, so of course she had no confidence at all, and every moment she spent in the world was full of panic, so she smiled and smiled and maybe once a week she locked the door and shook and felt like a husk, like an empty peanut-shell, a monkey without a nut.

They never managed to have children; she blamed herself. After ten years Saladin discovered that there was something the matter with some of his own chromosomes, two sticks too long, or too short, he couldn’t remember. His genetic inheritance; apparently he was lucky to exist, lucky not to be some sort of deformed freak. Was it his mother or his father from whom? The doctors couldn’t say; he blamed, it’s easy to guess which one, after all, it wouldn’t do to think badly of the dead.

They hadn’t been getting along lately.

He told himself that afterwards, but not during.

Afterwards, he told himself, we were on the rocks, maybe it was the missing babies, maybe we just grew away from each other, maybe this, maybe that.

During, he looked away from all the strain, all the scratchiness, all the fights that never got going, he closed his eyes and waited until her smile came back. He allowed himself to believe in that smile, that brilliant counterfeit of joy. 

He tried to invent a happy future for them, to make it come true by making it up and then believing in it. On his way to India he was thinking how lucky he was to have her, I’m lucky yes I am don’t argue I’m the luckiest bastard in the world. And: how wonderful it was to have before him the stretching, shady avenue of years, the prospect of growing old in the presence of her gentleness.

He had worked so hard and come so close to convincing himself of the truth of these paltry fictions that when he went to bed with Zeeny Vakil within forty-eight hours of arriving in Bombay, the first thing he did, even before they made love, was to faint, to pass out cold, because the messages reaching his brain were in such serious disagreement with one another, as if his right eye saw the world moving to the left while his left eye saw it sliding to the right.