Priors: Prepped for life

The school itself was composed of formidable brick and stone buildings which impressed upon students and parents alike a feeling of order and stability. This is tradition, tradition shall be the future, and the future of your young is assured. Chapel was obligatory twice a week, and meals and sports and bedtimes and all the other hallmarks of a well rounded and costly education were non-negotiable. Underneath the expensive oiled leather facade lurked all sorts of sordid flotsam: hazing rituals involving anal rapes and broomsticks, the first videotaped high school sex scandals, secret abortions, etc.

One boy who I later went out with briefly in college had been molested, sandwiched naked between two matresses held together with duct tape and tossed out a 3rd story window. Another student, son of a much loved, very kind professor, had died a few years back in an incident of autoerotic asphixiation. Violations were sometimes taped to share, before the word meme even existed. While the administration generally took a hard look at disciplinary infractions involving drugs or alcohol, those involving cruelty or hazing were ignored, especially if masterminded by students with important parents.

…

With the beginning of coeducation, another problem (apart from the floodgate of hormonal pressures) cropped up, unanticipated by the administration: the stench of industrial food, served in industrial proportions, being vomitted enmasse in the women’s bathrooms. The cafeteria served the same slop it had for years, and nearly all the girls quickly found themselves locked into mealtimes, with an unappetizing array of options: eat the large portion of fried meatballs and spaghetti served up with a terrifying plastic spoon, either gaining weight or vomiting it up. Or one could live off the paltry options available in the salad bar and go hungry. The third option was to avail oneself to the tastier yet equally unhealthy options off campus, either a small pizza place that allowed minors to purchase cigarettes from the machine as long as they ate (furthering the cycle of weight gain and vomiting) and a Puerto Rican joint which served fried things. Or, like my roommate, you could claim vegetarianism and live on a sparse regimen consisting entirely of diet soda, cereal and apples. In the first half of the year I gained a bit of weight and by February, none of my clothes fit. As soon as I realized I was gaining weight (because I split my favorite pair of pants before going out for walk one Sunday) I too began to subscribe to rice crispies and apples method, which unsurprisingly, was not particularly effective, and also left one prone to depression and anger brought on by hunger.

The girls, as such, undernourished, undersexed and over examined by the male population, began to claw at each-other: fights, theft, gossip, rumours and plots. The ambiance was generally toxic.

archival recording of the silent and kind- missing e-6

Miss, en inglés, implica “perder” tanto como “echar de menos.” Esas imágenes, unas cuantas de mas que mil que saqué con una vieja camera manual durante el atardecer de la fotografía analógica mientras estuve viviendo en las afueras de Nagoya, Japón, son las que quedan, ni desaparecidas ni perdidas. Estuve lejos no sólo de lo que conocía tanto como lo que pensaba que conocí, y lo que pensaba que conocí de Japón, como muchos, imaginaba que llegaría a un país todo moderno y pulcro con la tradicional cuidadosamente expuesta en una vitrina minimal. Sacar esas fotos fue para mí acto contra la añoranza y soledad que sentí en ese momento, cogería la camera en mis ratos libres para sacar fotos no de los grandes espectáculos ni tropos japoneses ni la multitud, sino cierta realidad propia que retratara a ese ambiente pos-industrial tanto misterioso como acogedor. Con los años han convertido en un hilo que me conecta a aquella época de mi vida, precisamente, que me permite echar de menos de justamente lo que me extrañó cuando justo llegue allí: el silencio, el no-saber si un alimento fuese dulce o salado en el momento de comprarlo, la insularidad de la vida social, las fachadas apenas brindadas con ventanas, los cables de la luz como las venas de un robot bordando cada esquina del cielo, y los contrastes inquietos de una sociedad hecha de nuevo tras un crisis moderno de dimensiones inconcebibles en el occidente.

dear xxx (2)

Dear xxx,


I have been told crying causes dehydration. My investigations into the matter have proved inconclusive. Pneumonia may be caused by a broken heart, and can indeed be fatal, lest we forget that life is always fatal.

One misplaced drop of water falling upon the water surface into a row of cups placed side-by-side can overflow the set.

“Pain is a flower...”

Positive imagery dedicates itself to sale, negative imagery to detraction, charity or fear, and the enigmatic to the sale of itself.

The purple/blue flowers of the Jacaranda fall in a carpet and are replaced by spiky stinging seed pods.

Which suffering engages me most? My own, not for lack of other suffering, simply because of its proximity to me. Subjectivity is possibly the only concept I can honestly celebrate. Sometimes washing dishes takes on a metaphysical ahistoricity, sometimes it doesn't. I wait. I sweep. Which suffering engages "us" most? There begins artistic genre.

The things I love most are tenebrous and I live in memory more than I live in the world of the living.



Alone is not alone until the world stops making noise, but it may be very lonely. As many wide lives may be netted in the catch as press attention.


regards

la bribonzuela

tiene dos caras/has two faces


bribonzuela, being of course a seeringly good and evil lass of open legs

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.

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.

prueba

Good morning says the turtle. He says quietly taking off the shell. How to explain such a long gap and so much cold.
If life was a canyon, we would have fallen longer ago than our memories, but I don’t remember anything about that.


What shrines have we collecting and dissecting:
We have one drawing composed of four abstract pen lined sheets of paper sewn together tinted painted and adorned in every sense
In every technique possible at the same time
In a fiendish desire to make a story, to always look towards something finished. Sweet even.
A cell, open inside its walls.
Encapsulating, pain is a flower.
Like this one, and that one and that one.
But small, hole, and polished. Yes forget me, screaming towards rebirth.
How they come together:
There once was a ghost, half lion and half spider. He spun a web, I fell in. In a tower, in the corner. Along came the wind, witch, wicked and unsparing and swept it all away. Before it ever began, over and over again. On the beach. Morality and mortality. Nudity amongst the bathers, nipple colored glasses in the sand.
Nights of sleeping nothing in the golden light of streetlamps
And waking up once again, days later beneath a pessimistic swan, cloaked in cast off sails unsure of the year. As if every moment had been the same had always been the same for much time or rather every moment constituted its own static reality disjunct from its neighbors, just as your neighbor could be your constant companion, were you to whittle away a small hole in between the floors. A hole is far more intimate than a window. The gradual realization that one is an alien, that one, like everyone, is a complete stranger from every other, the more intense the realization, the more specialized the construction of windows and attempts, to export ones own personal little world to the world at large. Architects, for example, are not like the rest of us.