Only he who keeps his eye fixed on the far horizon will find the right road

Today I'm wearing colors and I feel them sipping through my skin into my soul.

Some days work out perfectly through no "fault" of yours.
Yet when you work hard to achieve the same perfection things inevitably go wrong.
Thankfully, today has been an exemple of the former.

Lately I have been feeling slightly uncertain, at times  bored and, recently, disappointed.
But today I'm seeing sunshine, despite the cloudy sky.
I am feeling thankful for my exciting life, for my interesting job and proud of my own abilities.
I don't think about chances I didn't try out or about risks I took and failed.

The world is not in the palm of my hand, but all around me and  in every aspect me.
Everything I learn is somehow connected to what I was just thinking
and this train of thought has grown to be enormous.
What seemed to be fragmented bits and pieces has turned out to be a gigantic puzzle
and miraculously the jigsaw is falling into place.

Don't let the colors scare you, it's just a state of mind.

The 'independence-look', especially for Tako...

nothing falls into the mouth of a sleeping fox.

On a whim,
on your terms,
I obey.

What difference does it make?
What difference do I make,
in this world where we don't exist and we know nothing about eachother?

We express needs and indulge in mutual feelings of loss
But we don't really miss one another,
we are missing some parts of the whole and the person is substituted for feeling,
I am not a feeling, but I do feel.
Don't try to make me feel any more than that.

What you need is not me, but the sense of importance, reassurance..consolation?
I search for none of those things and I do not want to offer them to anyone.
Not even to you.

I always mistook the egocentric need of attention for misdirected affection
even now that I know better, I could easily repeat my mistake.
Being helpful, being the anchor, being a little coward.

on ne connaît que les choses que l'on apprivoise, dit le renard..


And I hope that I will always manage to think- when things feel hopeless, lonley and impossible- that there are people who make it all worth it and remember to give back as much as they give me.

Friends are the ones who share your darkest hours without trying to sweep your pain under the rug, and the ones who will always smile first when you share your good news. They challenge your opinions and they offer you new perspectives. Friends make sacrifices and they demand sacrifices in return, such is the currency of friendship.

The secret is that sacrifices between friends feels more like happiness and warmth exchanging hands.

October 20th, 2011


I don't usually quote texts by others in their entirety.
And I was even more hesitant to post the following,
precisely because it so shamelessly glorifies and romanticizes the kind of person that I am.

But, today is my birthday and I can indulge if I want to. So here it is, courtesy of Rosmarie Urquico.

"Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes.
She has problems with closet space because she has too many books.
Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.      
She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore,
the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants.                                                                
You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop?
That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street.                                                            
If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already.
Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down.                                                                              
She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted.
Ask her if she likes the book. B
uy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami.
See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship.
Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent.
Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads.
Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries.
Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings.
Let her know that you understand that words are love.
Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book.
It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her.
If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie.
Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax.
Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel.
That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not?
Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries..
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close.
When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her.
You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you.
She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet.
You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes.
She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day.
You will walk the winters of your old age together
and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it.
You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable.
If you can only give her monotony, stale hours and half-baked proposals, you’re better off alone.
If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes."


And if you want to read the chauvinistic text that provoked this response,
see Charles Warnkes blog post "Don't date a girl who reads".

Only when I close my eyes

you say Why..

...and I answer Because.
You ask me when, I ask you- now?

You weep, I dry you.
I hold you. You hold on.

I fill the slate with white words,
you scribble dots all over it,
I wipe it clean.

You are lonley, so am I.
We are apart.
here I am, you are not.
I was there, but you were gone.

you needed something, I am someone.
let's exploit each other and call it life.

The danger of counting poets among your friends

I wish there was still innocence.
That fluid state of mind when everything is mysteriously unknown and all questions are valid.
Who are you? Why are you here? Where are you going?

But here I am,
Quoting out loud the words I wish were spoken.
Reading them over and over until I can pretend they are as real as the book in my hand.

And there's a danger to reading too much. The limits are blurred.
Why do I prefer that limbo, in which reality and illusion blend?
I think of authors as friends I've known for years,
re-reading their works with a knowing smile, as if a friend was confiding a secret.

And literature is a powerful, reckless thing.
If you think metaphors are dangerous, try reading a book!
Derrida said there's nothing outside of the text, I think he might be right.
The text becomes alive and then everything is changed.
Should I acknowledge the fiction that I am?

If literature were a season it would have to be autumn.

Just what it says on the tin

Certain topics in my life have turned into black holes
when things come close enough to them they twist and turn like tornados and disappear into them.

Last week, I passed by Taco Bar, with the slogan "A little piece of Mexico".
I should have started twisting and turning right there and then,
but instead I found myself step into the bar and order.
Out of all the exotic dishes with names designed to attract, I chose Chicken Hombre without further ado.

The menu showed the tasty ingredients, but it turned out dry and disappointing.
What seemed like a good idea, in reality left a strange taste in my mouth.
Was it bitterness? Was it disguised déjà vu?

Now everything is spinning and I better stop before I fall into that hole.

secret codes and battleships

I will admit there's a pattern. One we've created ourselves.
This is why it is so hard.
all those codes and hidden meanings,
created an illusion of importance, of raw truth.

and every time I realize how false and twisted it all is, there it is.
banging on the door, ringing the bell, knocking on my heart.

and everytime I see the pathetic attempts for what they are,
I build up that copper coil of anger and I feed on it.
Feed on it until I remember starving is the answer.
And starved for attention it is easy to get hungry
haunted by ghosts it is easy to become a ghost.

Words come out in between my clinched teeth,
I weigh them againsit each other, not knowing the impact they will have.
Not knowing what I intend with them, they just pour out.
Like children to the playground.

And it is always too late to change, they can never be erased.
Silence is the cure, but I keep choosing the disease.

Meta poetry

To quote a quoting poet on poetry, surely must be the ultimate sign of my inner literature nerd.

"I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't.
It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets.
I want someone to mouth me

                                                                                                                                   - Sylvia Plath

the allure of anxiety

Looking ahead, longing.
For crowded streets, the noise of morning traffick and the smell of freshly made cappuccino.
Or for wide open fields of savannah, the occasional lion and Kilimanjaro without its cap of snow.
For catching my breath when looking out upon Macchu Picchu and trying to imagine it as it was.

But mostly I long for that point in time when I know I have found what I was longing for.
It is so easy to let the search become the engine, but where does that lead you?
If looking for the treasure is the whole point, you'll be looking your entire life.
And never ever find whatever it is that will make all the difference.

No matter if it's the savannah, a boardroom or a man in an Italian suit sipping cappuccino on piazza del Duomo.

closing that balcony door, it was getting cold.

People don't change, but circumstances do.
sometimes there just isn't enough time and space to catch up with them.
And some things just aren't meant to stay with you forever,
They are better off remembered in another light, slightly more flattering.

I recall a disagreement about the meaning of a song
- is it a dream or is it a metaphor?
Turns out it wasn't a metaphor at all . Just plain life, nothing special, no mystery.
It was indeed a dream and sooner or later we always wake up.

Not everything comes back. at all.
Sometimes when you leave a place, it also leaves you.
And there's no way both of you will find your way back to each other.

I knew it from the start.

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