Done

Today I finished my series of lectures at university: I'm happy. Happy, because I think I did quite a good work, because I learnt valuable lessons and, last but not least, because I'm going to get paid a good amount of euros. Yes, for one month I was Professor Fruitman, as some students addressed me. Good job, good life. Satisfaction.

Light

Light, light, light... can you give me a definition of light? Do you know what light is? Tell me, please. For I believe light is God, a material God, and thus feel restless.

Frío

Nos sentamos con Jorge en la placita: ya no quedaba ningún bar abierto, pero la noche no parecía querer terminar tan pronto. Quisimos tomar algo en un hotel de cinco estrellas, pero el piano bar estaba ya cerrado: pensé en el piano bar de Lost in Translation, espacio indiferente al tiempo en donde Scarlett siempre nos espera dispuesta a seducirnos con su belleza perfecta. Jorge dijo que querría ser rico para poder pedir una habitación en el hotel y vaciar el minibar a base de tragos y una borrachera tremenda.
El banco estaba muy frío. Nos sentamos, y el frío pareció freir de frío a las palabras que querríamos decirnos. Es difícil hablar con el frío tan frío. Mencionamos a Torjman y su cinemascopas, el nuestro, esa revista imposible en donde definir la crítica cinematográfica de los próximos cincuenta años. Estuvimos de acuerdo en que la línea editorial debería ser estricta: sólo los mejores textos poblarían las hojas binarias de nuestro cinemascopas. Hablamos de la edad que tenemos, sin grandes frases o pensamientos que ahora pudieran aliviar la pesadez de este escrito con toques de genialidad y suspicacia mágica, belleza pura, palpable, sentida en la palabra al instante. No, no existieron tales palabras entre nosotros en aquél momento preciso. Y volvimos otra vez a mencionar a Torjman, y a Cahiers du cinéma, y a Film Ideal y a Lamet, gran Lamet. Recuerdo que Jorge decía que Lamet decía en una entrevista: "Sí, bueno, esta película, para el espectador de la calle, es brillante, perfecta, conmovedora. Sin embargo, para el intelectual, la película es un bodrio." Y el entrevistador respondía "Lamet, es que yo admiro esta capacidad que tú tienes para ponerte en la piel de lo que llamas el espectador de la calle" Y Lamet remataba: "Bueno verás, es que yo como Lamet, cuando veo una película, puedo desdoblarme en varios Lamets: el Lamet espectador de la calle, el Lamet intelecutal. Puedo hacerlo, me desdoblo sin problemas". Y nos reímos y yo me reí, imaginándome a Lamet en Qué Grande es el Cine, desdoblado en dos Lamets, así, independientes. Tendrían que ver a Lamet y me comprenderían al instante. Qué gran hombre, Lamet, cómo voy a hecharlo de menos cuando falte. De Prada promete, pero es que Lamet no puede sustituirse. Ay nada, que todo esto empezó tan sólo por explicarles lo que más me gustó del frío de la placita. Y es que de repente, nos dimos cuenta que teníamos el culo helado, y nos levantamos muertos de frío, como si de repente fueramos verdadera(mente) conscientes del alcance verdadero del frío. Así que comenzamos a andar y Jorge dijo te acompaño a buscar el taxi, y mientras íbamos a por el taxi al lugar que Jorge sabe por experiencia que siempre hay taxis, mientras íbamos a por el taxi decía, Jorge de repente me suelta "sí, porque yo de todo lo que me he planteado que estudié en la carrera de física, hay una cosa que de verdad no entiendo para nada: y es la luz. Nos colaron la falacia esa de la onda y la partícula, pero luego con la cuántica ya es que se lío todo y yo ya no entiendo nada de la luz. Y es muy fuerte que seamos físicos y no tengamos una idea clara de lo que es la luz, ¿no?". Y bueno, otro día les cuento lo que respondí. Porque yo creo que sí sé lo que es la luz.

No pyjamas

I came back, 4:36am, and I'm writing in front of the computer on my street clothes: no pyjamas. I always write on my pyjamas before going to bed: but today I didn't bother to change clothes. The fruitman without any costumes. Just the fruitman, as straight as it sounds.

Stoned

Like a rolling stoned. That's how I am now. Of course, I didn't grade the projects of my students: they waited for 8 days, they can wait one more day (shit: how i hated that late graded course project when I was a student... growing up is the story of a betrayal) Y qué bonito suena betrayal. Un torrente de agua, suena betrayal. Como Rayuela suena betrayal. Como una Rayuela modesta, tímida, nunca majestuosa. No, eso sería traicionarla. Buscar el adjetivo puro en lo impuro, la belleza incontestable en cada oración. Porque Rayuela es orar, no escribir. Y lo digo yo, que tambien suena betrayal, que no la he leído. Yo, rayuelo betrayado, que distraigo las horas (hu)(s)meando en mi cerebro con el humo del tráfico y del chocolate. Qué poco betrayal suena chocolate. Escribo en castellano en pos del inglés, de betrayal. Escribo, y debería orar: ¿cómo? Orar: el aluminio de la ventana se clava en mi pecho derecho, mirando al corazón. El corazón no siente nada, y sin embargo la lanza clavada en el otro pecho provoca dolor. ¿De dónde viene, dónde nace ese dolor si el corazón no siente? Quizá el corazón nada tenga que ver con el ese dolor. ¿No es entonces el dolor, aún, más terrible, cuando ya nada puede hacer el corazón? No sé que digo, y sin embargo siento la punzada de aluminio terrible en mi pecho derecho. Sí, ustedes tampoco tienen ahí el corazón, cerciórense tocando, ya verán. Todos tenemos el corazón a la izquierda: esa es la verdadera asimetría del mundo. Por esta razón tan simple, y a la vez tan compleja, la ciencia nunca podrá desvelar el misterio del mundo. Todos los latidos nacen del mismo lado. Y sin embargo, qué superior la sonoridad exquisita de derecha frente a izquierda. Porque la sonoridad de izquierda es absolutamente horrorosa, más aún si tenemos en cuenta lo importante que es la izquierda, el corazón a la izquierda, en este mundo: nada más y nada menos que la única asimetría verdadera. Qué jilipolleces digo y, sin embargo, cuánto me cuesta desmentirme, cuánto me cuesta parar de escribr, de orar. No puedo, no quiero. Ya te lo dije hoy, Torjman: tenemos que escribir ese libro. Te lo dije y me contestaste Rayuela, maldito betrayal. ¿Qué puede enseñarme que ya no sepa, que ya no pueda saber, no quiera? Es tarde y me dices aún que lea. ¿No ves que ya debería dormir mi sueño? ¿No ves que mañana I have lots of stuff to do? Really, I don't know. Beauty is in the shape of a tree leave, but we just can't retain it forever. One day it goes and... pluf, you never get it again. The story of a betrayal.

Grading

22:47 pm
I am about to grade my student's projects. The night is completely silent, so silent that only the breath of the computer can be heard. Absolute concentration on nothing: that's my current state of mind.

Good morning, lazyness

[current status: very high]
That's the book I bought today. The premise of the book is clear: we all hate working, most of us work only to see the size of our bank account increase at the end of each month. Thus, until today, companies have been taking advantage of us. Today, it is time to start taking advantage of companies: in other words, being as lazy as possible at work, without getting fired. The book the emerges as the perfect handbook to achieve complete lazyness without getting fired.
I don't know anything else. Specially, I don't know why it is that it is today that we should start changing our relationship with our employers. Why not ten years ago? Why today? I don't know. But I'm intringued, or I was intringued at the moment, and so that was enough for me to buy the book. And I am still intringued: yes, maybe for a different reason: I am maybe now, more intringued at why I was intringued when I decided to buy the book. Anyway, I'm too high. I go to sleep: I am going to dream a lot tonite, I can feel it.

Choche sentence

Even though he will not say, Choche is a true philosopher. And he is in Paris. And he told me that today, after I thanked him for being so nice to me:

"Since I cannot be optimistic about myself, I try to be optimistic about other people's lives"

(or, in the language of Choche: "Ya que yo no puedo ser optimista conmigo lo intento ser con los demás")

Berkeley

Bent made me think of Berkeley once more. I thought: why did I like it so much? or... did I really like it? What was so special about having a hot dog at Top Dog? About walking along Telegraph? About hiking up the hills? About eating meat with peanuts at a thai place? Nothing, really. Nothing I cannot find in Barcelona. And still, there is something about Berkeley... The past, always the past.

On the edge of madness

That's where I've been walking for the whole day, and still am... I am trying to get an hour of silence for the whole day, but it seems it's impossible. I still have to hear somebody speaking on the phone from the kitchen... fuck! Isn't it over 11pm? Do we still have to call at 11pm? Does the fact that I have not smoked for the whole day have anything to do with my madness? No, it has not.
Really, when you leave home at 8am and feel that at 11pm you cannot still feel some quiteness, something is wrong with your life. I am really stressed. I am. Yes. Plus I was rejected for this job I was really looking forward to. Fuck it.

The revenge of the mexicans

A month ago, four mexican guys rented the appartment downstairs. Today, my mother couldn't stand the noise anymore, and so, at 1am, with the rancheras playing really loud, she decided to go downstairs and ask them to turn off the music. They didn't reply when she rang the bell again and again. Instead, the turned off the music, and then sang a short song themselves, before complete silence took over. They were singing "No pasa nada": "It's alright". My mom thinks they were making fun on her. Anyway. Good thing is they didn't dare to open the door, so they can't know who was ringing their bell (unless they looked through the eye hole, which I doubt considering the amount of alcohol and pot on their blood). I've been told mexicans can be quite violent. In fact, I experienced mexican violence once. Belive me, you'd better take rancheras at 1am.

Songs are made of memories

I was finishing the lecture notes for my last lecture, and I received this email from Mr. Bonapster, with a link to the complete Songbook of The Beatles, with the lyrics and chords of all their songs to play on the guitar. Instinctively, I looked out for "While my guitar gently weeps", took out my old spanish guitar from the case of the past and started playing. I sang this:

I look, at you all, see the love, there that's sleeping,
while my guitar, gently weeps.
I look, at the floor, and I see it needs sweeping,
still my guitar, gently weeps.
I don't know why, nobody told you, how to unfold your love.
I don't know how, someone controlled you, they bought and sold you.
I look, at the world, and I notice it's turning,
while my guitar, gently weeps.
With every mistake, we must surely, be learning,
still my guitar, gently weeps

I don't know how, you were diverted, you were perverted, too.
I don't know how, you were inverted, no one alerted you.
I look, at you all, see the love, there that's sleeping,
while my guitar, gently weeps. Look at you all...
Still my guitar, gently weeps.

And then I tought, again, of Berkeley, and how I played that song on my computer hundreds of times, a version with George Harrison and Eric Clapton. Then:

Option 1) I felt nostalgic, I was sad, but I couldn't help putting the guitar away and going on with the preparation of the lecture.
Option 2) The song was too long and complicated, so I started playing a blues, got excited with a guitar solo of mine, and finally put away my guitar to go on with the preparation of the lecture.

Life is a combination of uncomplete(d) options, and songs are made of memories.

Gone with the smoke

It was there, it was there for me to grab it, to make it mine, to mould it my way... and I am still wondering how it escaped, how I do not remember at all what is it that I wanted to write two days ago that was so brilliant. Gone, gone with the smoke of the endless joint, friday night, gone... Only the memories of your faces are still alive.

Fences

"He has sat on the fence so long, the iron has entered his soul"
-- Lloyd George on Sir John Simon
(gently provided by gentle -a)

Wanting to

Yes, I really want to stay up all night writing: one of the cheapest, and yet less common pleasures in this modern world that absorbs our identity through total freedom. But see, I have to lecture tomorrow, I have to be fresh and ready to entertain my students... from 7pm to 10pm... man!
On the other side of this blog, Joaquin has taken a break from blogging: an excellent opportunity to go and (re)read his amazing path to the outer parts of the closet, and the deeper parts of himself. Good night, sweet dreams, sweet life.

Daily routine

"The activities that I find harder to get used to are the ones that I perform on a daily basis."

Googling around

Some of the last Google queries that lead to my blog:
1) Bertol Brecht Engineering
2) Fruitman of the year
3) Elizondo's Flower Shop
4) Grandma tits (this last one by msn, always so dirty...)
However, I assure you this is a serious blog.

Just a note to Joaquin

Maybe you're coming from his blog: then you know him already. Anyway, jojo man, I will change my quote on the blog when I find somewhere I belong, just as the cat in Breakfast with diamonds finally does. At least, I already have a name.

Friday evening-night

[current status: unfortunately, not high at all]
I slept from 8 to 9pm, while my mother was getting ready to go out. I thought of eating something and going to watch, all by myself, Melinda and Melinda. But finally I stayed home, and did what I have done so many times:
1) prepare a big pot of pasta with tomato, green pepper and courgette
2) eat the whole thing in front of TV
I zapped around betten two movies: Cast Away and Smoking Room. I was touched by Cast Away, the moment Tom has to let Wilson-the-soccer-ball go. I thought "why I am toched?" and yet I was touched. I couldn't help thinking of myself being Tom, how many times I've done the things Tom does in the lonely island. I've lived in many desert islands myself, that is the answer. It was 1am already, and I sat on the sofa to watch more TV: time for the light porn movies and the political debates. Ever since we started having local stations here, there's a lot of porn going on friday nights. And heavy one: seems they have to compete for the audience now.
Anyway, you see, it's 2am and still I keep the night alive. Very lightly, though. I think I am going to bed to embrace my Wilson pillow. My mother should be coming back soon. Good night.

Poem

Other, deeper lives will dry out my nostalgia,
the gift of courage will be granted to me.

Love will grow loyal and ever lasting,
unknown landscapes will preclude my sadness.

Oblivion and death, time and pain,
will stay for one night with those who were defeated.

We will turn off the lights, and a cinema
will make us alive with a short lie in the dark.

free, five minute version of "Invocacion" by Spanish poet Carlos Marzal.

Relief

I was talking to my mom how after a big intelectual effort, I do not feel hungry at all. Instead, all I want is rest in front of a movie, with pop corn, crisps and coke. And my brain just relaxes and expands again, leaving behind all the stress. Ah... happiness in relief is great.

Finished!

[status: not yet high]
Yes, I am done with the preparation of my first lecture at university. It was a pain, but it's well done I think. I wonder whether I should give the students the address to this blog... or maybe better create a new one. The blog of the perfect professor. :)

Hair-loss lotion

[current status: high]
I spend around 30 euros on hair-loss lotion every month. Last night, I thought that for 30 euros a month, you could probably feed a child or two. Inevitably, I thought whether I should stop buying the stupid hair-loss lotion and instead spend the money on the proper NGO. However, I thought, is that the way to go about global development? Of course, that was the eternal, rethorical question of all the students of human development (and I am one of them, even though I also lecture on e-business, God forgive me, I will also talk about the digital divide and what e-business can do to help erradicate it). The question is: do we first make sure we can all eat in the planet, or we go for a more balanced, global and self-sustainig development? Because if we all stop taking hair-loss lotion, then by induction, why not stop taking anything but food, helter and water? I tell you, I even thought of a whole new NGO that convinces bald people to be proud of their baldness, for they, without hair, help thousands of children eating something to survive everyday. And those with hair, yes, I know there are plenty of them out there, you readers I know you, yes, those with hair will have nothing to be proud of but a bunch of stupid hair on their heads. You know what, I think I go for the NGO. Or do I? Shit, I cannot lie. I hate meself. Or do I?

Please confirm you are a human bellow

[current status: high]
I just left a comment on a blog, and in order to confirm publishing the system asked me: "Please confirm you are a human bellow". I looked bellow, and there was an image of a strange combination of distorted characters and numbers. I was not confused because I am an experienced internet user, and so I just typed on a field underneath the combination of characters and numbers, and after clicking "publish" the comment was posted.
But then I thought: Isn't that TOO strange? I mean I am high now (sorry Joaquin I cannot send pot through email) but THIS is still TOO strange. What the hell does it mean "Please confirm you are a human bellow"? Because I tell you, I looked bellow and I couldn't tell whether it was human or not. Do they mean there's people who's not human bellow, and these are precisely the ones that are not human? Bellow what? Bellow my belly? Oh man, that's truely human.
But those characters... I mean I wished I was an expert on computer image patterns, just to devise a software who could interpret the distorted characters of the image. Shit. At least, they are quite considered, though: there's a link for the visual impaired, so they can pass an alternative, audio test instead. I wonder whether they ask you to touch bellow and type what you feel. I will have to try. Oh man, this world is getting weird. I just left a comment on what a beautiful metaphore for beauty was "Beauty smells like a heady mix of lavender and alcohol", and then they asked me to please confirm I was human. Still, beauty smells like a heady mix of lavender and alcohol.

Global Frienship [current status: high]

No, this is not a post about how nice cultural diversity and global understanding is. This is a post about the last four days I've spent preparing a presentation for my first university class as a "Professor" (on a one-month contract, though). I've been mostly in front of the computer, and so inevitably, I've talked to Joaquin about it. He's given good advice, as usual, and also a link to a 1st-day-of-class presentation by my best (and only ;) Russian friend -a. Then -a has popped out the MSN messenger, and I've asked him for a 1st-day-of-class trick to avoid shyness and stress altogether. His answer: "BE PREPARED, I wasn't".
Of course, there was also Choche. We met yesterday at his uni, and I during two long hours Choche listened at my first university class as a "Professor" (on a one-month contract, though). And Choche gave some good advice and meaningful critiques, too. On the way until today I also received an email from a japanesse friend: she will for sure overcome and repair the mental and physical mess after the terrible earthquake very soon. Another email came from southern-spanish -j and his trip to Paris, and from Hong Kong-based -g with the story of the sales person who reminded her that today was "all the saints" day.
All in all, a network of emotions, laughters, tears, advice, concern,... has been surrounding and filling me continuosly, providing the feeling of a net wisely placed under my void to prevent me from falling apart. Thanks you, and thanks me.