White screen

The white screen. Again, the white screen. Simbols, experiences, lights of the day everywhere, but the screen is white. White like the end of the joint I'm smoking, the tip where my lips touch the burning paper. And I think that the white screen is like the white cigarette: as you write, as you smoke, the white starts to vanish into a mixture of black letters and grey ashes.
I put off the cigarette on the ash tray that Patrick gave me when he came back from Gottingen, where Hilbert developped the mathematical language of quantum mechanics. It was three years ago, back when I was still interested in Hilbert. I wish I had now the energy to study Hilbert again, but with what I know now.
We're always late, even when we realise we are late, it's already late. And we say "I wish I had not fallen in love for you, I wish I had known you earlier, I wish I had not sold those stocks, I wish I had studied more, I wish I had taken that job..."
Rubbish. All rubbish. I think it was Kuhn who said that "ones who are ahead of their generation are actually the only ones that understand their generation". Einstein was not ahead of his time: he produced the atomic bomb, they key element of the 20th century.
I'm high, but I must say: that I do not regret anything, but that I live to regret.

Pot, again

After some months, I am having a joint in my room, again, 100% pure, green herbs. Joaquin, from the other side of the world, is (discontinously) chatting with me. Anyway, I just got an email from a (girl) friend from school asking me to fill in a questionaire. They want to make a documentary about our generation, but first they ask some questions to prepare for it. So, I am answering the questions happily and very wity (I am known for being very good at witiness) and suddenly, this question comes: "how many times have you had sex?"
"Fuck!" I think. And then: "ok, fuck, but how many times?" So I answer "10,000".
The questionnaire ends asking for a suggestion about a topic that might define our generation. I write: "We are the generation that was going to get anything it wanted, and instead we are ending up like a bunch of mediocrity".
I feel I do not belong to this generation. But then, what?

I am spam

Kel's journal has identified me "as an open proxy (a common source of spam), so comment access is denied". So, since I cannot comment on your blog, dear kel, I will comment on here :)
1) Kel wrote about "the secretary problem":
"To our friend's spouse-seeking woes, Von Bing allegorically posed 'the Secretary problem':
Imagine you need a secretary and are interviewing candidates one by one.
You must accept or reject each candidate after the interview. That means you must decide after meeting each, whether or not you will hire them.
You cannot reverse the decision once made and you cannot go back to choosing a previous candidate.
This, Von Bing hinted, was how he found his wife.
I asked him tonight if there would be other ways of solving the problem (since he is a statistician).
He smiles and says there probably are strategies, but he wouldn't want to go back down that road.
Would you?"

2) Mr. Berkeley man commented:
"well, if you get to meet someone like anne, what's the purpose of going back down that road?
you have the yaps, you will meet piotr.
you have new flashy shabby chic clothes.
i envy you."

3) An I comment:
"well, in a market economy like ours, it's quite cheap to fire an employee... and quite easy to get a divorce. secretaries and wives are not asset-specific goods, which means that the transaction costs are low. so, problem solved. :)
(the fruitman speaking the language of economics like he knew any economics)"

Absence

It's been I while since I don't write in English. Ok, that's obvious. Anyway, forget it, and let's start:
Yesterday I went to this round-table where my father was participating. I didn't know what it was about, and to my surprise I discovered that it was a meeting of bloggers and "traditional" writers of diaries. My dad was the traditional type, of course. So I sat there, and listened to what people had to say.
I felt kind of outraged at the bloggers speaking there. In a way, they presented blogging as an "evolution" to traditional writing. They spoke about the superior "freedom" of blogging vs. traditional writing. And I am sick and tired of listening to the same old shit of how technology makes us better. I think we should all make an effort to think a bit further.
To me, blogging has nothing to do with the evolution of writing or with freedom. To me, it's a form of self-reflection about the world and myself, a self-reflection that is constructed through myself but also through communication with my readers. A vehicle to explore my thoughts and my life.
Anyway, what do you think about it?

La edad

Hoy estuve escuchando a Ana María Matute (la televisión, la buena televisión, tiene estas cosas: de repente estás cenando y aparece Ana María Matute en el comedor de tu casa). La vimos, y era una mujer mayor, la piel doblegada en pliegos que se fueron formando a lo largo de ochenta años.

Pero Ana Maria empezó a hablar, y enseguida empecé a escucharla como a una colega, como a alguien con quien me iría a tomar unos gin tonics y me la pasaría de puta madre. Ana Maria empezó a hablar, y otra vez me di cuenta de lo poco que importa la edad y lo mucho que importa tener algo interesante que contar, y saber contarlo.

La vida es cuestión de palabras. Volví a confiar en ella escuchando a Ana Maria. Y quise besar sus ochenta años a la luz del alba, como terminan todas las noches que merecen ser contadas.