Tick, Tock

The Persistence Of Memory. Savlador Dalí, 1931
El tiempo derrite los últimos segundos de mi sueño.

Asfixiada en tu marco cronometrado, sin control ni dominio, sin pausa. Dices ser el que cura las heridas más profundas; quizás curas lo que la razón no puede. Lo que es cierto, es que nos encontramos destinados a que nos mates, nos hagas esclavos de la búsqueda de una eternidad marchita que huye y nos arrastra consigo.

Me enloqueces, siento que te malgasto y tú me malgastas a mí. He desafiado la vida solo pocas veces, breves períodos concedidos por el destino para no morir en deseo y excusas. Pensé que esos momentos nunca acabarían, pero me arrebataste cada instante sin compasión, aún cuando más lo disfrutaba. Dices que resuelves nuestras dudas y dolores, que los años enseñan lo que los días no conocen. En lo que a mí concierne, lo que dices es una gran mentira. Aún cultivando la amistad, debilitas el amor y desluces la belleza externa, permitiéndonos sólo poseer el pasado, y el futuro, así no queramos, es más tuyo que nuestro.

Tiempo, protagonista arbitrario de la vida misma, agente efímero del tormento, te llevaste contigo mis mejores recuerdos, aquellos que prevalecen en el desván de mi memoria. Me limito a flotar en tu espacio, dilatando mi tiempo de vivir. No contaré tus presuntuosos minutos, contaré sensaciones, y cada momento será un día. Fingiré que el tiempo detenido que tanto añoro existe, y que no controlas mi vida a tu placer.

No sé por qué escribo para ti, a ti que nada te importa. Eres una fuerza imparable que espera por nadie, un caminar sin rumbo por una vía infinita, una causa perdida.  Me quejo de tu impaciencia, en ocasiones de tu monotonía, pero principalmente de tu  falta de piedad. Eres absurdo e irremediable, indigno de mis interminables por qués. Pretenderé conocer por qué vienes y vas a tu gusto, susurrando en mi oído sin perdón que todo está por acabar. 

Sudo De Tanto Sobrepensar

Forces of Some Nature. Erik Parker, 2004
Mi mente es algo así.

Meras observaciones mías, desde distintas ventanas del alma, distintos momentos y memorias. He llegado a reconocer que soy un ser en ausencia de organización psicológica, identificándome siempre con aquel que me recuerda ciertos rasgos de lo que fui, de lo que soy, de lo que me gustaría ser. No tengo una crisis de identidad, pero nunca he creído que el ser humano posea una individualidad definida.

Ninguna persona es la misma por un largo período de tiempo, se puede evidenciar claramente bajo la auto-observación seria y profunda, luego de despertar consciencia. Esta multiplicidad psicológica se dice llamar alter ego, pero ciertamente yo considero que el humano solo está en constante cambio, en una constante discusión interna de sobre quien prevalece, de quien controla el cerebro intelectual, el centro emocional, el que obtiene la supremacía sobre el cuerpo. El que ignore esta lucha en sí, no ha evidenciado los innumerables cambios y contradicciones de cada quien, o al menos no en distintas y específicas situaciones. Ese otro tú que se descontrola cuando te pasas de copas; ese otro tú que domina cuando te enamoras, siguiendo del típico acto de “yo no era así”; odias la vida y al minuto sientes eterna felicidad, entre otros muchos ejemplos.

Vivir en un mundo sin concordancia, es claramente vivir como humanos, débiles ante en conflicto continuo y la falta de voluntad ante las miles personas viviendo bajo tu adorada y “’única” personalidad. Lo sé, es una desafortunada realidad, y la forma de solventar esta lucha imparable es… pues no lo sé. No soy ninguna Freud del siglo XXI, pero es obvio que cada quien posee las llaves para su propio entendimiento. Realmente, quién soy yo para dar consejos de auto-comprensión, cuando millones de veces me he visto presa de las diversas circunstancias que me victimizan, pocas veces consintiendo el hecho de que la vida es ilusoria y fugaz, de que la muerte últimamente reduce a cenizas las vanidades del mundo. Indiscutiblemente, la vida es un problema que nadie entiende, y no pretendo volverme existencialista.

Sé que no soy sólo yo la que piensa esto. 

Todo Es Más Apasionado En Español

Untitled. Wilhelm Sasnal, 2003
Quítate esa máscara, no seas falsa.

Estoy cansada de seguir la ruta pautada, el protocolo establecido por las máquinas sociales liderando sin pasión. Sentir, es lo que se quiere, es lo que se espera, al menos de un ser con corazón. Sin embargo la vida se ha reducido a la lógica, y a un manual de reglas sin sentido aceptado por todos como moral; libro regulado que veta mis sentimientos y los embarga como nulos, pensamientos absurdos en un mar de sucia perfección que descarrila la belleza en el mundo en donde vivo. Y no el de mi cabeza, aquél que tanto imagino, sino el real.

El rezagado se encuentra a sí mismo cuando busca la fe, porque tiene el valor de enfrentar lo que por ley es bueno en la corte de los valores, pero tu vida se ha basado en apuntar al diferente, a enseñar en teoría lo que con práctica se logra y la dicha de nunca pecar. Si existe un verdadero Dios, éste verá más allá de los hechos, siendo tú culpable de caer en la tentación de juzgar a quién apenas conoces, pues más llamativo es el humano sideral que disputa, el que no piensa igual, el que vive en otra onda.

Mujer argumentada con supuestos ideales, tus prioridades son distintas que las mías, pero esto no te hace mejor que yo. Discierno en todas tus decisiones, te restriego con sarcasmo una sutil (nada sutil) respuesta, incapaz de disimular que soy anómala y que, honestamente, no me importa lo que piensas. Cometiste un error al juzgarme, siendo Dios el único que califica, pero no te juzgaré por ello. Piensas que no hay nada malo en ti, pero de nuevo, no te juzgaré por ello. Continúa tu vida mintiéndote, mezclándote con el resto, disfrazada de robot en trajes de lino, escuchando la música de moda y utilizando la jerga moderna. Todos verán tarde o temprano eso que ocultas, eso que tienes miedo a reconocer… eres imperfecta, como yo.

Creative Every Day Challenge: Night

"Wanderlust". Nick Mauss, 2003
Constant struggle between the light and the dark.

I have decided to participate in something called the “creative every day challenge.” My brain has tirelessly haunted me with the same repetitive thoughts, so it would be fun (or at least distracting) to deepen into imposed topics to get my creativeness running more fluently instead of stalling annoyingly in dead ends.

When something is severely disturbing my conscience, I can find no rest, even in the middle of nighttime. At 2:30 in the morning, my thoughts were distressing my sleep and I was sick of everlasting series of rambling thoughts, so I decided to write about the topic of this month. It was also, moreover, the perfect opportunity for me to stumble on some creativeness and finally find serenity. Without deepening too much on the subject, although my grandmother continuously believed I would blind myself for reading and writing with little light, I truly understand how inspirational darkness can be to an artist (if I allow myself to be called such a thing). The silence of night is unparalleled; it is almost heightened when losing your eyesight in the obscure and the unknown. It seems that your thoughts naturally flow faster, as if the words fade before they can turn into a complete sentence, and you can feel the calmness crawling under your skin and your heartbeat becoming the soundtrack of your sleep. In the midst of shadows, profound remorse and hidden notions become as clear as the day, ironically. Therefore, everything seems to flow smoothly, since you feel more in touch with your inner self, even if you are half awake. Maybe I’m just over thinking. 

Not Worth It

I’ve been feeling crazier than usual. It is probably because I have discovered it is within my nature to constantly promote mental dissonance by splitting my feelings into opposites, without clearly deciding on a side. Surprisingly, I have only experienced this degree of discrepancy in one significant part of my life, being the main reason of my impatience. I am impatient because clearly, a vacillating state of mind has empoisoned my otherwise very decisive temperament. In other words, I am too scared to fully engage and commit wholeheartedly. I know the reason and I know how to solve it, but I do not wish to. Again, this is the reason of my craziness, not the fact that I am suffering from a chronic ambivalent condition or a serious case of “mixed feelings.” I am waiting for some(one)thing that pulls me out of this absent status. Not really. 

Reminder

John Baldessari, 1931.

Knowing Yourself Is Utopia

Untitled (Cubism and Abstract Art). Steven Wolfe, 1955
There are some things better off without an explanation -  It loses its appeal.
Art should be considered among those.

After several days of enduring my creative drought, I found myself bare-footed feeling the soft and dry sand with a pen in one hand and my mind in a different time zone. It is not surprising to have caught myself drifting apart with the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the corals, sweeping my thoughts and worries and leaving nothing but reminiscent memories and dreams. Clearly, the beach has a miraculous power to deepen world’s mysteries and your very own as well. The peaceful environment released me from my own constraints and I let go, for once, of my never-ending search for eternal bliss. When am I going to realize that attempting to dictate over what I should feel is ridiculous, and that a complete state of flawlessness can never be attained? This serious case of obsessive-compulsive disorder has led the uptight side of me take over my decisions and has run my life in the search for a perfect emotional balance. Impossible if you ask me. Coincidently, I happened to read a book about liberating oneself from social and artistic conventions while sitting under the almost unbearable rays of the sun. This book turned out to be exactly what I needed to endorse a change in my life, written in the craziest and most fervent way.

The Seven Dada Manifestos destroys every code and system established in the world of art, yet it can be adapted as a life ideology, a way of living. It promotes spontaneity, immediateness, and contradiction, defends chaos against order, imperfection against perfection. It is based on the absurd and the scandal, rejecting and mocking the imposed order. At first, it was difficult for me to comprehend this random word selection and the end to its mean. As I went along, nevertheless, I began to enjoy the hidden rumor and the ironic and satirical inclination that started to become apparent. It was not beautiful, it was not romantic and it definitely was not logical, so why was it so appealing to me? It was passionate, rebellious, incoherent, and absurd, nothing like I’ve ever read. It showed me that the importance of logic and reason was in fact, not relevant at all. This makes absolutely no sense. Or so you would think. There is not an explanation for life, but we as humans have an exasperating natural desire to find a justification for the unknown, yet sometimes we cannot help but finding none. Dadaism shows that logic, after all, is not that important in situations where emotions count as indispensable. This is so hard for me to recognize, but I finally got my head wrapped around this important message. After I finished, I felt happy.

I desired to reject the mainstream beliefs and to explore the everlasting secrets this little book contained. My creative drought was over. I focused on the prize, which was feeling satisfied about what I wrote, about what I felt. I have no one to blame for my ambivalence, and no one deserved an explanation either. I started looking on the bright side (something I haven’t been able to do for a while) and stopped feeling sorry for myself. I might never become a real Dadaist, but I am pleased with the fact that my emotional and mental stability are completely misbalanced. This disequilibrium is provoking a nonsense uncertainty concerning everything. I am a mess, I swear. It is fine though, I have learned to like my absurdness – it is the very thing that makes me human.

My favorite part of the book:

"A work of art is never beautiful, objectively, for everyone. Criticism is, therefore, useless, no longer existing subjectively, for each, and without any general character. Or perhaps have you found the common physic basis to all manking? How are you planning to order the chaos that constitutes an infinite variance: men?."

Let's be RIDICULOUS.

Why Is 2011 Leaving?

Bird's Eye View - Shenzhen. Weng Fen, 2002.
Learning from the past, but always looking to the future and what it's ahead of us.

Being this the last day of the year, it is not surprising to find many of us thinking about the memories and experiences another year has contributed to our life story. Despite of my suffering from the lack of ability to equilibrate strong cognitions simultaneously, 2011 was a pretty unforgettable year, yet I do not understand why I have the need to acknowledge the year’s blessings at the very end. Is it easier for us to look back and recognize the steps we have taken in 365 days? Or do we follow Aristotle’s theory and believe that the end of everything we do is happiness? Nevertheless, everybody desires to successfully conclude their year without dramatic interventions or physical danger, although those resolutions seem implausible these days. Maybe, we just need to find new realistic resolutions in order to find the last day of the year satisfactory, instead of frustrating over not meeting Justin Bieber. Or maybe, we need to become oblivious of New Year’s resolutions and just live your life to the fullest, taking day by day. This is the point I was trying to get at, if I hadn’t allowed myself to ramble so much. Subsisting one day at the time with little regard to the future is extremely difficult. We humans have a tendency to count the days; instead of making them count… we are afraid of being reckless. We are afraid of change. At least I am very aware that I am. However, things will not stay the same no matter how much we would like them to, and when a life change occurs, we have two choices in how to respond. We can despair that a change has come and assume the worsening of the situation, or we can respond with excitement at the new possibilities the change presents. I want to live day by day; I’m just not sure if I will follow what I preach. Hopefully, 2012 will allow me to be illogical and incomprehensible, without me having to explain it to anyone (just like I was in 2011).

Critical Final Thoughts of 2011: One of the best years of my life.

I love my friends!!!

Feelings And More Feelings

Self 3, Brookline. Nicholas Nixon, 1947

When you don’t express your feelings out loud, you seem to swallow them as if they did not belong in another place but your stomach. 

Frustration into crashing reality when arriving my so called home was what I felt. I didn’t understand it at first, but the sour gulp that was this feeling assaulted my trachea, impeding the invasion of a breath of fresh in my lungs. My heart was reluctant to accept I had come back, dissatisfied at the already perceived resistance to the fulfillment of my will. With every thought passing by, the more I convince myself needing an emergency tracheotomy. Abundant reasons answer the “why” of my behavior, maybe I was not ready to leave; but when was I going to be anyways? The place I’ve calling home for the past four months gave me an unforgettable experience: it allowed me to reencounter with the person I am and I want to become. Am I going to be able to overcome the difficult process it is forgetting Atlanta? I think I never will, and why should I? It touched my heart, and all the people I met did also. I became just another person in the crowded subway, another leaf in Piedmont Park, and another story to my foreign friends. Will it matter to Atlanta that I had gone? No… but to me, it meant everything, including who I am today. I will not let this frustration interfere with my daily life back in Venezuela, although it seems as if it were impossible. Frustration will only be the essential fuel to my success.

I will come back.

Good-bye My Dear Place

         
          Good-bye exasperating sound of gunshots in the middle of the night. Good-bye acidic taste of dismissing your friends when graduating because of the lack of opportunities.  Good-bye never-ending televised presidential lectures talking about the supposed improvements of Venezuela’s economy. Good-bye non-existent public transportation system, which instead of taking people everywhere, takes crime everywhere. Good-bye desperation and anxiety whenever I leave my house (or even in my house). Good-bye land of the forgotten, I wish to never come back.

          Good-bye satisfying smell of my grandma’s kitchen, replete with Cuban flavor and spicy humor. Good-bye everlasting revolutionary chatter on my aunt’s dining room every Sunday night.  Good-bye soothing caresses while sitting on my stepfather’s lap. Good-bye sweet and salty taste of cheese and plantain in every lunch. Good-bye impromptu diners with my best friends, sharing new stories and experiences. Good-bye dear place, I will forever love your flaws and your mistakes.

Feeling Springy, But I'm Really Falling.

Untitled - Victoria Smabunaris
The sky inspires the most beautiful ideas.

The bare touch of the light

The soothing wind playing with the hidden clouds

I wonder why I should leave



Dear Angel

Wings are placed on the most unexpected people.

Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen, enlightening paths when dark days prevail. Nevertheless, dear Angel, I feel alone. I miss your echoes of mercy and whispers of love. I haven’t tried to silence the static of worry, the stress of disorder and the magnitude of life. It is my fault that you are not here; I myself have frightened you away. What can I say? I wasn’t prepared for your sudden goodbye, nor for time to march forward, stopping for no one. I’ve struggled through the remainder of life, holding onto the memories, determined to never forget you and never let you go. I will never forget the first time I met your daring eyes. They were beyond anything earthly I had seen. I realized you were heaven sent, and to God I thanked for my life you touched with just a simple gaze. Every moment of bliss is made bittersweet by your absence and every second that passes disintegrates my heart. Never should you worry, my dear Angel, I will eventually be fine. It doesn’t matter if I can’t see your wings, you, my angel, have wiped the tears I shed since I could no longer hold you in my arms. I will feel how you fly so high beyond my sight, but always caring down upon me.  Closing my eyes, opening my heart, I obey this immortal touch, this light caress, and this unreal illusion. I will find my way over these crashing shores, knowing within my heart that my soul will always find yours.

Setting Free Your Inner Self

The Eiffel Tower, also known as "La Dame de Fer".
Being my dream place, I chose as a setting for my fictional story.

              Essential and precious is the impartment of ideas, free from internal constraints. An artist lays on the crispy lawn where the twilight days merge into mesmerizing nights of black and gold, in love with the subtlest charm alongside la Dame de fer. She wishes him to rebel against the walls that have imprisoned his words for so many years, walls that he built himself, robbing his freedom from the inhibitions of the social structure. Even if she evoked the most compelling dreams, she somehow thought he would never accept it. “Please my dear writer” she thought, “don’t censure yourself.” He would never embrace the gift of writing the most thrilling fantasies the world could never imagine. He would never write until every corner of his body was emptied and felt his soul emerging from the place it has been hidden, just like he did before, just like he used to. Or at least she thought.

 

              The artist shamefully chose to taste the peculiar evil of silencing the expression of his opinion, depriving himself from the privilege of explicating the beautiful and the rare with the help of just a pen. He claimed not to be as easy as it seemed, but reluctant to embrace his gift he chose to never demonstrate it for many years. Never has he let his emotions speak for themselves, but there was something he couldn’t understand about the woman he was with. She illustrated images, followed by emotions and feelings he had never felt before. He knew meeting her would be overwhelming, but he felt the heat of passion with just a gentle gaze. A deep desire crossed his mind, wishing to stay entrapped forever between their spark. There is no corner she could not fill, causing the waves in his heart to stay still. Lost in her magic, he quickly searched his bag. While desperately looking, he was surprised at what he was about to do. Time ceased, his heart was captured, and inspired by la Dame de fer, he began to write.