Last fm Blog

Como parte de este proyecto, os dejo ver que música me inspira tanto que, así como dicen, lanzo a escribir algo. Hay mucha información solo disponible en una lengua u otra, especialmente en las bordes de la cultura, aunque obviamente no solo tenga valor valor dentro de su contexto cultural/lingüística. La maquina de transmisión cultural suele reservar el privilegio de ser traducido y emitido aquella información que es, por lo general, lo mas comercial o ya conocido. Aquí voy con las cartas en botellas, y por supuesto, la música internacional poca conocida en español, seguiré mas adelante,con la música del mundo hispano-hablante que también merece ser destacado.

carta abierta al chupa-sangre

hubo la boda y luego hubo una chica emborrachándose al lado de los gritones. por la mañana el sol la pegaba como el sol suele hacer cuando una acaba de perder la memoria dentro de una botella de orujo.



se echó por el sofá, dormía, soñaba, seguía andando así como fuera despierta sin entrar en la consciencia compartida de los despiertos, los aseados:
atados a su orden, su desorden, su desgracia, pero, en su línea.



hay diálogos que mantiene a través de los sueños
así como fuera otro tipo de visitación.

la vida es mas larga, en que añade matices a lo vació y demasiada
corta, en que la cotidiana siempre gana como experiencia sobre la
alucinación, y los sueños.

hace calor, que sueñes con los perdidos.
regalos que llegan sin motivo ni
dirección de remitente.




soy débil con lo de escribir. no me gusta contar, porque me sobran detalles: antes de perderlo por completo:

el cuello de la búlgara, un palo delgado apoyando la cara de muñeca pescada del contenedor, ella en silencio, mientras chillaban todos los 80 niños desinteresados del bautizo, pidiendo coca cola en el nombre de dios, fumó entre la freidora y la pila de mármol, sus uñas agudas pintadas de negro, bajo un sol blanco y matador.

Bloodletting

Podría ser
...puede describir la forma humana tan exactamente...

El puede describir una fruta con mucha precisión, y describe una figura con tanta precisión como describe la fruta.

Imagino que el texto es interesante.

carta abierta al chupa-sangre, 2

hay que arrojar los momentos mas silenciosos de los mas ruidosos

la ventana atrapa toda la luz cuando la persiana esta bajada. podría quedar así siempre, podría yacer aquí en esta cama, sigo aquí yaciendo en esa cama si me cierro los ojos en otra cama con otra persona

no habían detalles en su piso, aparte de la arquitectura, entonces es muy facil accordarlo: entrar, una sala pequeña brindada por un espejo grande, en frente, las puertas del balcon, una sala amueblada con una silla, una mesa, un cenicero cuadrado de metal, dos puertas de cristal a la habitación que contenía una cama, una estanteria y una paleta pintada de blanco con numeros indeciphrables dirigiendo una persona desconocida a un lugar desconocido en otra finca que no es donde esta colgada de momento.

uneven

Checkers is played on a board with red and black squares, closer to the red of tomatoes than the purple of cherries. It is not an
interesting game, it moves in lines


....

absolutely beautiful the letter

to let you know that I always feel a bit like reality cracks open a bit at the seams every now and then

¿no?

A young Scottish yoga professor’s Buddhist name is sudaka, which is homonym for sudaca, extremely offensive slur for South American. The flier is purple.


I want the experience of you more than I want the experience of writing you.

I’ve started wearing makeup.

met with the lawyer about the “house of the falling balcony”, wearing the strange punk cheerleader dress with two count two pairs of tights, black with cocoa fishnet, red sunglasses lipstick and went to sit in a turquoise and orange bar


the sun was out and it was raining,

The chemically extruded aioli glimmered under the fluorescent bulb of the vitrina, and the peppers to left looked as though they had been cut with a saw by the dueñas grandfather who vacantly preoccupied himself around the room.

You can tell that I’m hungry and want to take off the stockings.


Varicose veins still jumping out of my flesh, stockings still responsible for an agenda full of subtly disguised men´s names.


I wish this were typewriter, I might enjoy hearing the big key go clack at the end of a row.


When I hear myself typing sometimes I expect to turn to spot my mother looking up scratching her head and taking a drag off a cigarette while she pauses to comment. The beige nubbed cushion on the wooden chair. The blinds, and the absence of sound. The feng shui of the desk always struck me as wrong. Facing the window, if there was a window, which in most American homes one’s back is always to the door, if one is facing the window. Having his back to the door has always made my father very nervous.

My skirt looks like a Christmas tree crossed with a very cheap Venetian lamp. Marie Antoinette is in. Its all greasers and skins these days.

Unchanged. I found myself watching youtube videos on pinup hair: in part because I found them bizarre- who makes this, and why and of course, it’s audience. No, because, my lost inner child, who still conceives of sexual attraction as an external phenomenon, could not have imagined such a simulacrum for friendship. Here, now, in your home, a pretty british girl showing how to wrap neatly sectioned hair around foam, and hold it all in with bobby pins. it sucked me in.

…

Although my mother is not against staring at a wall, as long as it moves.


My mother
In my memory has dirty folded up crossword puzzles in her purse in case she gets bored.
sometimes knitting, and always several crumpled tissues.

para casandra dixit excerpt

i am weak writing. I don´t like to tell stories, because there are too many details: before I lose it all:

that girl´s neck: a slim stick supporting a doll-face fished out of a dumpster. She was silent as the baptism´s 80 disinterested children screeched and asked for coca-cola in the name of god, she smoked between the deep-fryer and the ancient marble sink, sharp black-painted nails beneath sunlight white and fatal.

satvic

excerpt from an earlier entry, translated:

Cuando pienso en el acto de comer carne, pienso en abrir la puerta una mañana fría, sóla aun en la presencia de un amante, y me encuentro con un pájaro muerto en el escalón. No quiero ni tocarlo ni moverlo porque el amor nunca quiere acercarse a la muerte, ni tan cerca como pasar el rato atrapado en el ascensor con un perro y tres días de alimentarse solo de ajo, sin bañar, porque todavía no ha pasado ningún día sin lluvia para tender las toallas y el piso es como un baño de humo y hongos, y te acostumbras.

Pero en el ascensor o por el asfalto, no hay tiempo para acostumbrarse, y entonces, os miráis, y eso es todo, los romanos y saber que hoy habrá sol y sí tuvieras hambre, podrías comer el pájaro y enfermarte como la gente en lugares pobres que tienen que comer los muertos que arrojan.

gothic design

************************

In response to the question: is there a tantra of the masochistic experience?

Yes. It is found in the insomnia of the unloved.
The dark thoughts- those which say no, it hurts, I don’t accept- invade, dampening the fibers of the mind beyond recognition. They evade dissection, because they are unique and certain in their assertions, circling about like animals recently escaped from the zoo, many prepared to bite. They saturate the dreaming mind into wakeful-ness; leave it to silent watching, calmly resentful, protecting the peaceful sleeper. I give you my lack of grace. I rewrite my love letters.

My mind writes scripts for violent films shot in the half -light of nature in which the tears answer blood and bruises rather than silence or absence.

And yes, with no insult to modesty or chastity, it’s always sexual, in the same way that eating is always shitting, always participation in the yes of decomposition, touching you is always complete, always could end in any kind of surrender.
I would suffer for you: gets longer rather than shorter as the months pass.

It’s sexual because I feel you in my body even when you haven’t touched me for years, because I feel myself slowly accepting the rhythms of your breath with my body even in your absence. And in your presence I feel nothing but you, except for the moments in which I feel nothing but pain at your eternal absence. Not only sexual: metonymic, and maternal. My appreciation for the subtlety of your body, its warm completeness and beauty: the grace of being permitted to touch even your shoulder reverberates through my nerves as if you were touching me, building on the briefest yet most intense memories of physical dissolution, of feeling bone-less.

Please wake me up.

carta a admirador secreto translation

in response to
a secret admirer

Knowing is easy
understanding is harder.
and who are you?
sociologically i view these things as positive, that´s to say, the same as putting ships in bottles.
leaving prayers in shinto temples in Japan etc.
and like any westerners of a certain post-consumist inclination,

we could say that we have more in common than many just because of the music we listen to,
and the aesthetic it supposes

we could say that it is unlikely a footballer is out there looking for the latest 12" put out by skintone; etc.

although i´m not looking for it either

i am obsessed with music, but always as a listener, as friend, girlfriend and sister; as a critic, i don´t know enough to comment, my personal world revolves around the visual realm, that of words
and the erotic

nice shoes.

and you?