Friday, September 25, 2009

Lectures (2009-25-09)

It’s not like I have to be around him or any sort of emotional or supportive companion all of the time. It’s actually not a seldom event the one in which I am a genie among peers or associates. I guess right now I am referring to the point of solitude I manage to achieve between my several compromises. Today, I got to be. Yet I am forced to think, and to listen.

So I listened.

I could say I discovered how strongly I can be driven by inertia in the sense of running away from it. By listening I acknowledge once more how unsettled I am, and how much. I lust uncertainty, even to the point of danger. It’s probably from that where it derives my masochism, and maybe infrequent episodes of depression, accidents, helplessness, excess of happiness, and so on. My point is that, in the search of uncertainty juxtaposed with the search of stability by pretty much the rest of the world, I refuge in myself. The headache cuts the flow of self endorsement and I am forced to face the opportunism of the figure known as the other. Funny thing, because she shows up once my working memory starts to fail and I will deal with the issue of confronting a person.

It’s a hyperbolic scheme. A person in front of my eyes and it’s impossible to gain the minimal focus on myself. My only exit is to let me go into the eyes of the one in front of me. An inquiry thus becomes a quarrel for the part of my soul living in the guts of the interlocutor.

A glance, then, is an act of admiration. A kiss, is a demonstration of spiritual want. And, a sex, well, a sex is…

Lectures 1

Even thought I see him as my neurologist professor, I would not like to commence thinking of him as a pathological being of the likes of teachers and instructors. Not because he is too different from the others. This is just about a matter of approach.

I've seen him only a couple of times. I must clarify I'm an economics student and I did not choose medicine due to a thought of shortness of mind. Soon I realized how such small gap among disciplines and crowds of people belonging to those was no issue abroad. I'm still here, nevertheless.

Sadly it came a point where my so-called science became predictable and the part of my brain craving for ulterior challenges started to grieve. I noticed quickly how advances in neural science came from all sources. There was basement research coming from low income regions in East Asia that turned out to be just as relevant as the ones coming from the top universities in the Western. I really could not tell the ways and directions I'm driven into, what really drives me, but I could say there are subjects currently evolving and being considered as cutting edge: AI, TOM, Supertrings, post-dramatic theater, and Complexity Science. I follow the blanks, simply put.

I finished the Faust des Spiesz over a year and a half ago and life has not been the same ever since. Sure real events occurred since then but in general terms, «my molecular structure did not fall from stability», as my professor would say. The book from where I admit I only got sorrowful fractions is still nurturing my ideas and the world surrounding me. The professor, at my first psychiatry session in his practice, easily spotted a number of issues that stroke me badly. As if I was a huge pop or advertising frame after his eyes. What did I expect?

– Ideas are one true source of ecstasy for you. The bigger and the more invading they are, the better. I am right now, for instance, a big idea you can’t turn your eyes from.

There he was with his narcissistic speech I identify with so much. As resounding as always, as pleasurable to have his only company as the other sources of physical delight I have so successfully tasted. I especially enjoy his hands swinging along the rhythm of his explanation. I certainly did not want to look naïve or speechless at him. My equally overcoming ego would not let his casual words get such a critic tone on me. I would fight back, defeat him and feed with his shredded flesh. I would be content with that metaphorically this time.

– I know you don’t underestimate me. Ideas that are big or belong to major scopes are nothing but mere steps toward a concept of its own. And do not forget that this idea, yet to be reached, will provide me with validity.

– I can see clearly your existence depends on the idea of the integrated myth, as a rational quest. I also couldn’t help to notice how you mention your objective so human, so close to your own understanding. How can you tell from this point the distance you are from and the dimensions it would employ?

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Lectures

Friday. Passion is just wishful thinking.

Something is keeping me from returning home. I have lots of pending readings but this day I simply do not function. I should be resting but instead the illumination of my incandescent thinking sets me down by a light pole in the cold, dark, young night. I keep myself visible. I fiercely want to be seen. I made lots of colorful pictures of myself. I believe to be hearing familiar sound, one voice in particular yet I see nobody and no one real approaches me.

As I begin to develop some of my remarkable procedures alone in the dark, I realize how physically ill I’ve been feeling for a while now. It’s strange because it is not relevant but at the same time I cannot tell how a mixture of physical and emotional phenomenon inflicts pain in a way beyond my control, which diminishes my will for it to end. For a moment, I stare. I wonder how a concert would sound.

I have not yet reached a verdict on holding of myself so my system faints. I am far, resembling the truths from my professor. Of the number of things I get to speak on, however, I am yet to identify where I tell the truth.

Touch me, I'm going to scream if you don't
Inside I have the feeling that you won't
I can tell by the way you smile, I'm smiling too
I can see myself in you
I can tell by the sounds you make, when you are pleased, you see yourself in me
How many nights can a soul so full of life remain untouched?
How could a soul make the most of what is whole and what is here?
I need a human right by my side, untied, untied
http://is.gd/41nh5

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

2004 S. O.

«
I'd wish to make a narration of the present events. Yet I can't. There is an undirected rage. It is not one directed towards me, neither it is one directed towards anyone else. Not towards world at large. This is a general rage.
I will not hide a slight pleasure for this minor egocentric cataclysm.
Lord! Such a lot of assignments I endevoured fondly. They now make part of one same act of slavery and I just spurn it.
I never arbitrarily manipulated formative processes, did not misappropiate charges overcoming my very own humble dignity. I did not. My arrogance works through more sigilous mechanisms
».

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Excitement

is the feeling Christian Duque feels whenever the tides from information shakes him down under but, mostly up, way up above. Every byte of data becomes into an idea, a project, a contract. No matter if it ever comes to accomplishment, the time of realization us unbearably ecstatic. He's thankful for a mind that reenacts sensation usually better than the experience itself; imagination flies broad all over the coffee tables that lie onto reality, good think 'cause otherwise those would crash into pieces by such evil noise: The noise of vertiginous movement, fuckingly good music, souls trying endlessly to cross the human interface of skin (which explains the vast amount of accidents, wound in the back of the right hand, extreme fragility at face skin contact). Nothing soothes physical agitation that overcomes sleep and calm better than incorrectly government administrated hurricanes and natural disasters. Excitement is the name of an unmentionable strength who does whatever he wants and will only take part attending his haunting desire.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

A feeling ten times the intensity of what you humans call love.

One must not find hilarity neither comedy in the newest piece to be premiered next Thursday, "A Children's Chorus", on Grand Rex at midnight, which is located a few blocks away from the symbolic City's Obelisk. Because although on the narrative as well as the joyful colour put on stage invite the audience into a light atmosphere, this is simply not freed from the horrendous image where human ethics is portrayed every time the mysterious starring man sordidly appears on scene. Alfredo Fish, the veteran actor that made the decision to impersonate such deceitful character, looks so convincing about the rightness of his act, that among social institutions ranging from culture office to chief police office, it is discussed whether the man must be take into custody as an accomplice on a public felony.
What could look mostly exaggerated, at the end we are talking about nothing but an artistic performance. However, according to declarations by several critics, the social tension brought about by the play has made the assistants look like witnesses, even intellectual companions. It is not surprising then that none of the one hundred and twenty people beholding the only open general essay, three weeks ago, had agreed to make declarations, adding to that the fact that a growing portion has asked for long licenses at work. At this moment, it is worth mentioning the pitiful decease of Enrique Restrepo, 26, one of the preview's assistant, due apparently to circumstantial reasons. It was expected for coming rehearsals to be opened too, but the flood occur ed on the practicing place caused the mentioned to be the last trial and meeting of the whole of the cast that will be representing the play in the Grand Rex.
It is known that the young director seems as an ambitious, enthusiast man, regarding his own work. He's been present on every aspect of the play, and has made his name into the limited circle of dramatic theatre by mere pulse. Although maybe this time the excess of self-excitement has gone beyond the limit that is commonly imposed to the artist. We must clarify now that as humans, active and conscious members of society, and journalism professionals, it has taken a superlative effort from us to deploy the present critique.
The tale of mister Dracula (Fish) is the persistent attempt to find salvation by publicly exposing each and every one of the ideas thoroughly becoming into the fatal act, and Act that was vetoed by call from the producers' office and is establish in the background as Tell-Tale Heart hidden under the floorboards. Such greedy strategy, the look for compassion, goes over several failing stages, the next being a worse bloodbath than its preceding. From the open rehearsal, the crimes that implied body mutilation might have implemented prosthetics with a denser recipe for the blood, keeping the stage not to be so broadly covered in a matter of minutes. All those crimes, to be noticed, are explicitly considered as the only chance for mister Duque to challenge the perspective of the committed acts by Dracula back in the "Tell-Tale Heart" Period.
A lot of them criticize from the play the absence of a female character, one mister Dracula could be shown involved with. In response, some apparently more insightful analysts find the missing twist at the moment the mister begins operating into the clearing dawn, where confusing dialogues take place with the feminine whispers of Aurora (Florence Mendoza). Such appreciation is based as well in the visible change in Duque's modus operandi, that could be considered as 'techier'. Please realize that the idea depicting technology as the core enemy of a society that is based in the solid grounds of bureaucracy, as it occurs in most of modern nations, is simply outrageous and wrong. Considering the enormous moral playground the play proposes. The character, that surprisingly performs a thrillingly unexpected abandon of his self, along with a drastic reduction of hours of sleep, approaches towards his maximum vulnerability, confessing at the time (or performing, a fact that cannot be verified) act where the idea of condemn looks such an empty concept. Having in account that the concept itself is the cornerstone of our current litigating systems, it is a fact that cannot be simply overlooked.
The story of Mr. Duque is the inquiry regarding the true extend of human condition. To that they are inherent hatred, intelligence, greed and all the other tools evil uses to develop. Finding live on stage an Act that escapes from all possible psychological contents, is valid to affirm now that the mentioned condition has been transgressed? If at last the gravest fact is overcome (one could think of that fact as being related to death or prohibited behavior from war conventions), what must the depth measure parameter be? What comes next, if one could possibly discuss the idea of repair, or something now unthinkable, pardon? It does not come as a shock that the trial scene, where tension provoked minor strokes among members of the audience (beign Restrepo one of the misfated victims) and more than one retirement from theater, was a silent one. Motionless, gazes forming an orchestra as melodic as it was exhausting.
And finally we wonder, when the star has finally unveiled as the enemy that was suspected during the entire plot, how could there be a happy ending? It will be then the audience members due to be entailed of the task, look up and answer, as part of the set of people Dracula or Christian Duque or whichever identity the character assumes -perhaps as a way to escape from something bigger and more abominable than his shadow at five in the afternoon- during his universal crime, can there be Redemption, after the height of the cause.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Affair with my own depression.

I dream of arriving home late from work, I escape from wives and lock myself in a dark sad room to deliver myself into lust with my own mental crisis, devotedly present year after year, submissive but with the character required to claim myself when I get around her. I have been empathetic one way or another; she's been by my side, at lest once a month, we have met extracted from people and I have given myself to her. We have promised one another not to abandon each other, ever, after all of my loved once die in tranquility I will sail to the Bahamas with her, and then to any other place in the globe. I don't deny I seek for professional or academical achievement, despite of that I have her, at the end of day I will see her the way she sees me, and I will see myself as such devious figure, and living years will be a warm breeze of Guyana.
We swim downwards, the light of sun fades in the depth, she and I, as equals, swim among the smooth noise of unknown seafood. We could have our own great reef barrier, nobody minds. I won't be any special. I'll fly. I'll do something somewhat decent and run with her, she who deserves the most of me, because every single time she delivered all of her self to me and I sweetly treated her, as more of a gentleman than is commonly expected from me.
I did not slipped pieces of gold throughout her throat, she'd have told me this is not me, love is not to be purchased and I am putting myself a price based on false assumptions. That I have no knowledge of myself, and the reason why I am so annoying is one I know of, it may be one I may not be able to admit but I know better than anything else. She never contradicts. I contradict myself all of the time. That does not concern her. She does not make things easier for me either, which I find more than lovely.
No matter she drags me by the neck and takes over me, nothing puts me lay down as the exhaustion she is capable to inject on me, almost never with for a reason. By her own choice she's giving me surprises of such beautiful fatality, for both my career and my loved ones, she is aware of her mission being to take me out, get me out of here. Release me from this line with no area or volume that crosses the buttonhole of routine and by divine hands aids to sew the shred of a sumptuous, immeasurable mat.
Until now, such relationship haven't been stood by anyone. This is how the end must be, by mere definition. At last moment. Unexpected.